The Fade

30

His knee breaks sideways beneath my foot, but I've clutched his head and cracked his neck before he really registers the pain. I let him fall and I'm gone as he folds to the ground, an emptied sack. Sometimes they give me a problem – an unexpected twist here, a swift parry there – but mostly it's just like disassembling dolls.

In the fighting-trance, I am separated. Oil on water. One part of me cold, clinical, governed by mantras and techniques familiar as breath. The other part is my terror, my anger, my bitterness, all mixed together into one nameless emotion that burns like the brightest fuel. The Cadre don't deny our passions; we harness them, and unleash them on those who would oppose our masters' will.

Around me is the noise: the roar of battle. We crash down the slope like a wave, two dozen of us. We wash around glittering crystal formations; we pass beneath arches of petrified sap. Blades of mineral grass crush like spun sugar beneath the soles of my shoes. I dodge past translucent protrusions sharp enough to open me like a bloody purse. Momentum pushes our charge to a reckless speed.

The air fills with the clatter of a shard-cannon. A man to my right is stitched across the chest and lifted from his feet, torn backwards as though pulled by elastic vines. The crystal forest erupts into puffs of glittering dust as it's punched by gunfire. I hold my breath. Inhaling that stuff would tear up my lungs pretty bad.

We'd hoped they wouldn't have time to traverse their gun. We'd gained the high ground and flanked them, and we thought the element of surprise would be enough. I feel sick as the forest is shredded around me and Eskaran soldiers are cut to meat by needles of stone.

Three heartbeats and we're on them. More Gurta are running up the hill to meet us, teeth bared, knives gleaming. The shard-cannon crew are firing through their own soldiers. The enemy are being cut down from behind, but they're still coming.

One of them singles me out, seeing I'm Cadre, seeing I'm small and slender and mistakenly thinking that makes me less deadly than someone like Rynn. I feint left and then launch off that foot, using the slope to get the height I need. He gets halfway through a swing before my foot connects with his jaw. I hear bone splinter. I touch down on his far side and keep running. I don't think I killed him but I don't care; someone else can do it. I'm after that gun. I hate guns.

Two heartbeats.

I glimpse the lake through the trees now. The water's bright, illuminated by phosphorescent plankton. Its light melds with the glow of the crystal forest. Patches of lichen glitter in the darkness far overhead, streaking the cavern roof.

One.

And suddenly the forest is smashing around me, the air crazy with the insectile whine of projectiles and the sound of breaking glass. The gun has been turned on me, and I'm coming out of the forest, right into its muzzle.

I break right and keep low, every new instant a miracle. Needles slice past, too fast to see. For a small eternity, I'm cupped in the hands of chance, life and death determined by the bucking of the shard-cannon, by obstructions and ricochets. Then there are no more crystal formations. The petrified white world of the forest peels back, and I've made it.

There's only six of them. Two manning the gun, four waiting, knives ready for the onslaught. They're yelling at each other in that foul dialect, everyone shouting orders, discipline crumbling. Just the sound of their fluting, trilling consonants makes something knot in my stomach. The old fear, the shame, the pain. I gather it and use it.

I'm first out of the forest, emerging a little way right of the gun. The pitiful wall of rocks they've built to hide behind doesn't slow me at all. I use it as a springboard, leaping over and among them. The gunners are my targets. I slash one across the throat, slicing through muscle and gristle with my shortblade. It's chthonomantically-treated obsidian: cuts through flesh like it was warm butter.

The rest of my assault force reach the emplacement moments later, by which time I've blinded the second gunner and broken his pelvis with my knee. The other Gurta can't touch me. Their strikes are slow, bodies declaring their intentions well in advance. I'm three moves ahead of everyone here.

The gun has fallen silent, its rotating barrel spinning to a stop. I get out of the way of the Eskaran soldiers as they come charging in. The Gurta put up a fight, but it's futile. They're taken down in moments.

When it's done, we count our losses. Three dead, one wounded, the rest covered in small wounds from flying splinters. I got off lightly with a few dozen scratches, nothing too serious. Could have been worse.

I hunker down on the wall at the far edge of the emplacement and look out across the lake while the men reorganise. There are Ehru out there, far from the shore, tentacles rising and waving and touching. They iridesce with colour, oblivious to the men dying nearby. I can't help but waste a few moments watching before I turn my attention to the troops below.

The main Eskaran force is forging along the lakeside. The enemy contests every step. Four hundred of us down there, all told. It's all to reclaim a tiny port called Korok which the Gurta took from us sixty turns ago. The Warmasters seem to think it's of critical importance, a staging point for bigger things, but I don't know about that. I just go where I'm sent. My fight is on the high ground, where the land rises to meet the cavern wall. We're meant to secure the terrain and take out the hidden guns that are butchering our forces on the shore. We're doing a pretty good job of it, so far.

I narrow my eyes and try to pick out Rynn in the chaos below. Big as he is, I can't find him. There's Vamsa, one of the Cadre of Clan Kessin, darting back and forth as she lashes the enemy with poison-tipped whips. I spot someone who can only be Jutti, the legendary Cadre dancer-fighter, identifiable by his acrobatic killing style. But no Rynn.

Our troops surge towards the Gurta earthworks, a fortified line of trenches and barriers, the last obstacle before the port. I hear the sharp pucking of shard-cannons and a swathe of tiny men fall to the ground. Two of our Blackwings fly overhead, their pilots strapped beneath the kite-like frames, propulsion systems scoring sparkling trails of energy through the darkness. They're dropping bags of explosives onto the Gurta, sending them scattering.

Our chthonomancers are hanging back, pooling their efforts, protected by a ring of heavily armoured crayl-riders. I watch a section of the earthworks heave and collapse, demolished by some invisible force, burying the enemy beneath tons of suffocating dirt. The Gurta might be formidably determined opponents, but their Elders will never match the rock-magic of our chthonomancers.

The Gurta defences begin to fail. I'm no tactician, but even I can see their cause is hopeless now. I feel myself smiling bitterly. Good. Let's see how this crushing loss squares with their insufferable sense of superiority.

Then I spot the rider on the slope, far down the lake shore, silhouetted by the dim glow of the crystal formations. Sitting erect in the saddle of one of those bat-like creatures they ride. He's holding up a spyglass.

But he's not watching the battle. He's looking out over the lake.

'Hoy! Belama! Where's your spyglass?' I call over my shoulder. The soldiers are angling the shard-cannon down at the Gurta earthworks. At this range accuracy is impossible, but at least we can stir up the defenders some. Belama slings me his spyglass, and I pluck it from the air and train it on the horizon. The cavern is colossal, like most of the caverns at this depth; I can't even see the roof, let alone the far side.

But I can see the ships. Sleek-hulled, sharp-nosed, slipping across the lake under the silent power of chthonomantic propulsion. Three of them, each capable of holding a hundred men or more. I look for the rider, but he's gone. It doesn't matter. I know what he was doing.

Waiting for his moment. Timing his attack.

And suddenly I understand what's coming. The ships will make landfall further up the shore, behind the Eskaran force, driving them towards the port and into the Gurta defenders. The rider will lead reinforcements down the slope and into our flank as we retreat.

We thought this was a lightly fortified target, of little importance to the enemy, but it's something much worse than that.

It's a trap.

The shard-cannon whirrs into life behind me, but I'm gone, sprinting down the slope towards the lake shore. I tell myself it's because I have to report what I've seen to the Warmaster; but that's not what's uppermost in my mind. I have to find Rynn.

The Gurta earthworks are being overrun as I slip and scramble towards the water. The land steepens, thick with lichen and tall-stemmed fungi. I skid dangerously in my haste, battering my way through a clump of puffballs and leaving a cloud of spores in my wake.

The ground levels out as I reach the shore. Trampled moulds lie flattened underfoot. There are dead and wounded mixed among them.

The wounded are the worst. Dead bodies don't seem like people: some essential part of them has gone, leaving bags of meat. But the wounded are still aware, alive, screaming as they wave the stumps of missing limbs.

Some are being helped by comrades. Some aren't. I've seen enough battles to know that you can't care for everyone. You can't stay sane that way. So I race past the hurt and the dying, deaf to their cries. There's only one person here that I care about, and I dodge through the chaos of running soldiers to find him.

The whole force is moving forward, and I'm swept with them. He'll be near the front, leading the charge. He's Cadre; it's what we do. The soldiers look to us to inspire them, to lead. We are the elite, the heroes.

It's ridiculous, of course. We're not heroes. We're just very, very good at killing people.

I dart through the crowd. The soldiers are yelling themselves hoarse, rallied by the prospect of victory. Weapons are thrust in the air in triumph as they run: serrated blades, billhooks, compound bows of rootwood. I want to shout at them that they're mistaken, that the enemy has outmanoeuvred them, but it would be useless. I need someone in charge. Cadre don't call tactics, as a rule; we're there on the ground, in the thick of it. That's why the soldiers admire us, more than the Warmasters or the Division Leaders or the chthonomancers. We're like them. We fight with them, take orders like them, die with them.

I clamber over the ruin of the earthworks. Gurta dead everywhere. Insectile helmets cracked, armour slick with blood. Pallid skin flecked with black dirt. Smoke rising from craters, bits of people everywhere.

The fighting has begun again, this time among the buildings of the tiny port village. Korok has been a ruin since the Gurta captured it. Gravel paths wind between shattered buildings perched on a rocky hump of land. A few jetties project out into the lake. It's one of many similar towns in the Borderlands: joyless, functional, little more than a fortified trading post. They say it's valuable because it's the only place to unload heavy cargo this side of the lake, but I think it's a point of pride. The Gurta took it from us. We're taking it back.

I'm getting to the leading edge of the battle now, where the charge has feathered and spread out among the buildings. Archers are hidden in the ruins of the inn and the shinehouse. Its glow is feeble; the Gurta haven't recharged it, so the shinestone at the top of the tower is dying. The town is steeped in twilight.

I grab a soldier roughly by the arm as he runs past me. He whirls, angry at being handled like that. Then his eyes flick to the skinmark on my bare shoulder. The symbol for Cadre, encircling the insignia of my Clan. Suddenly he knows who I am.

'Who's your superior?' I demand.

He gives me a name. I don't care.

'Find him. Tell him to pull the men out. Gurta are coming from the lake and the high ground. They'll cut us to pieces when they arrive.'

I see the fear ignite in his eyes. His confidence in victory has been replaced by alarm.

'Tell him I sent you,' I add.

He runs to fulfil his mission, and so do I. It's unforgivable that I've just passed such an important message to a common soldier instead of taking it myself, but I've got other concerns right now. In a very short time the Warmaster is going to know about the ambush anyway. I have to warn Rynn. I have to be at his side when it happens.

I can't shake the terrible feeling I have about this. Like something huge and dark and infinitely, chokingly empty is rushing towards me.

I can't shake it, and I'm scared.

The buildings are made from dark stone and wood, low and ugly. They were put together with whatever was to hand: a shambolic longhouse; a grim inn; soulless administration buildings and warehouses. All shattered by the previous Gurta assault.

I skirt close to the walls; enemy archers would pick off anyone gung-ho enough to be running out in the open. As I watch, a soldier takes a shaft square in the chest. It punches right through him and halfway out of his back. I try not to think about the amount of force that must have taken. Gurta bows are legendarily deadly.

'Where's Rynn?' I ask a soldier who I find crouching in a doorway. He jumps out of his skin and tries to stab me, but I catch his wrist and shake my head, and he realises who I am. I repeat myself. He tells me. Everyone knows Rynn. He's hard to miss.

The thick of the fighting is in a yard between several of the largest buildings, just turnward of the docks. The Gurta have made their stand there, behind a barricade of rubble. Seems a stupid idea, to try and defend a position that's open on all sides, but a lot of things the Gurta do are incomprehensible. Even to me, and I know them better than most.

It's almost over when I arrive. The archers in the surrounding buildings have been taken out and the Eskaran swordsmen have gone in. Rynn towers over them, his enormous presence a rallying point for the troops. An axe in each hand, swinging left and right. He's not the fastest of the Cadre by a long shot, but there's something in his fighting style that makes him seem untouchable. He takes his swings with all the time in the world and still nobody gets close. The man's like a landslide.

It brings a smile to see him, just for a moment. Then I remember why I'm here, and the smile fades.

I go in. There's hardly anyone left for me to fight. The barricade has been all but overwhelmed. The Gurta are naturally small anyway, but Rynn dwarfs them, and they're afraid to engage him. I dart through the press of Eskaran soldiers and I've almost reached him when he spots me. A grin spreads, white teeth amid the bristling black of his beard- -the next thing I know I'm on the ground and my ears are singing with a high, pure note. Sheer disorientation prevents me from doing anything more than blinking. I'm caked with something damp. Faculties shuffle themselves gradually into order and I remember a sensation like being slapped by a giant's hand. An instant of chaos, of flailing limbs and a bright light.

I raise my head. It feels like my neck muscles have been replaced by wood. Everything is stiff, everything aches at once, so much that I can't tell if I'm hurt or not. There's someone lying on top of me, his face on my chest. What's left of his face, anyway.

Suddenly my only desire is to stop that yawning, jawless thing from touching me. To get out from beneath the blank gaze of those dead eyes, which stare up, pleading, as if I could reverse what has happened. I push at the soldier, frantic with disgust. Scramble away backwards, bump into something else. I know it's a corpse, so I don't look. The shrill whine in my ears is making everything seem very far away and disconnected.

I get my knees under me and raise myself a little. The buildings are gone. The ground is strewn with corpses. One or two, like me, are stirring; but otherwise everything is still. At first, I'm not sure if I'm even in the same place as I was before the explosion and it falls into place in one cruel tumble. Why the Gurta were defending the yard rather than retreating. They booby-trapped the buildings. They crammed as many of us in as possible and then decimated us with explosives.

I can see our forces in the distance, falling into disarray. They daren't enter the town now, for fear of more bombs, and they can't retreat. Gurta reinforcements are charging down the slope towards them. The enemy ships are clearly visible now, powering towards the shore.

We've been outclassed. It's going to be a massacre.

And with that thought I remember why I'm here and not still up on the high ground. Fear drives me to my feet, and I stagger through the tangled carpet of limbs and bodies until I see him.

He's lying on his back, eyes sightless, his massive bulk emptied of that burning vitality that I've known ever since I was an adolescent. I can't even see a wound. But he's dead.

I have no strength in my body. Something is dragging me down and it's too insistent to resist. I sink on top of him, my head on his chest, but the heartbeat I know like my own isn't there. My eyes are fluttering closed, and I realise I'm hurt worse than I thought. I think I'm dying too. But that's alright. I don't want to be alive any more.

Rynn.

He's dead.

My husband.