When Silver Burned: Chapter 36-38 (Patreon)

36 - Calm Days

Time, by virtue of it being time, spins on the same axis for everyone and everywhere under the sky. From the magnificent Southern towers of Két Raining, to the isolated half-island of Shepard's Field in the north, and to the undiscovered beyonds of The Corner, no material thing remains untouched by the cure—or poison—that is the tick of the clock. Warmlight turned, turned over and again with Blindlight chasing on its tail, and the dual suns eventually nudged Nagy of Summer to give way to Kis of Autumn in the tumultuous year of 785. 

Days around the Eastern Expanse have gotten wetter and just a touch colder, though soldiers stationed in the Outer Line of Defense would've hardly noticed as they were soaked enough, often enough, courtesy of their rigorous physical labor. There was always something to find and help out doing around the Old; gathering shell fragments with sieves from thin fractures and grinding it to paste, maintaining the buildings and filling the cracks with wattle and daub, hoarding provisions from one place to another, and so on. It was easy to fall into a routine and forget about the ever looming danger lurking beyond the earthwork.

The newest batch of recruits that had arrived more than a week ago still hadn't seen combat, but with experienced older boys coming and going around them—sometimes poking, sometimes teaching—they soaked up a great deal of knowledge. Get stronger, get smarter, they'd been instructed. Rest easy and don't hold your breath. Expect long and boring days, but always be prepared for the worst, they'd been told. 

Sleeping on the fringes of what was essentially an active frontline and wearing partial armor from morning to evening was difficult in theory. In practice, it was even more so. And it was thrice as difficult for a certain silver-eyed individual who kept looking over his shoulder, shuddering at every unexpected movement at the edge of his vision.

Kalsin had not come across a single hint of his would-be killer since the evening with the poisoned thorns, and it wasn't for the lack of looking. He swept his sleeping quarters each night and kept his sword close to his chest during his shallow slumbers. He braced his back against solid walls when alone so nobody would sneak up on him. He took his meals from the communal cauldron, never put his bowl down or left it alone, and even then he waited several minutes after the first tentative bite to see if poison would twist his guts.

It was exhausting. The first day, Shutter woke during the middle of the night and Kalsin startled, barely stopping himself from thrusting his concealed blade beneath his blanket through the thin sheet. But Shutter didn't come to him. He walked out of the building, then came back to bed a minute later after having relieved himself, and Kalsin was left with a thudding, guilty heart as his sweat-soaked hand gripped his sword hilt. He felt like scum, but maybe it was for the better, because from that point forward Kalsin realized he simply didn't have the mental fortitude to suspect his closest companions. Shutter, Fals, Littleguy, Crawl, and Pike... they had plenty of opportunities to take him out. It made no sense to suspect them. He also ruled out Cyanfish, who had given him countless servings of food and Kalsin never got as much as a stomach ache. Eventually he came to the conclusion that the poisoner probably wasn't Dweller, Ringrail, Joe, or any of the others who'd been training with him from the start.

No, it would've taken time for the Civil House to receive the news that Kalsin would be given safe harbor in the army. It would’ve taken time to hire a spy, give them information about their mission, supply them with the necessary tools, and dispatch them. The mole would have arrived days, maybe weeks after Kalsin started his training under Brownweather's command. Which still left the potential pool of spies at nearly a dozen—and none of whom Kalsin was familiar with.

Much as he kept his eyes open, he couldn't keep the regularity of the place from lulling him in a vestige of peace, the tension of his shoulders easing up day after busy day. 

The recruits spent much of their time under the roof of their long row of huts. The buildings were solid and warm from the inside, but they'd been neglected and so it was their job to get them fixed. And the huts needed fixing if the residents wanted to avoid a midnight shower dumped in their neck, a likely scenario with how common storms were. It surprised Kalsin to see how far the winds tended to blow the rain inland from the distant sea. He didn't mind, though. He'd never been partial to the heat of sunlight. Rainy, grim and overcast was infinitely more to his taste.

Kalsin had taken up arms training again when his fingers finally healed enough to be useful. The thin, fresh layer of skin at his fingertips tingled when having to deflect an especially rough pommeling by some of his larger mates, but it was an inconvenience buried under the weight of the adrenaline-stirring rush of the fight. He avoided curling his fingers into a fist, though, as the digits digging inside the middle of his palm still responded with a spike of pain—which he found out too late, right after having delivered a solid blow to Fals' side. She'd shrugged the hit off in twenty seconds flat. He'd cradled his hand for the rest of that day.

Regardless, Kalsin was glad to be able to practice again. 

He stood in the training boundary gouged in the rustic earth with Shutter by his side, shield held high as he faced off against Wardoll and Yesfellow. The blonde was breathing hard and kept adjusting her grip as if her sword was a piece of chicken-thigh to roast from all sides over the flames. Yesfellow had a vein throb near his narrow forehead every time he shifted his weight. Like Kalsin and Shutter, they kept the edges of their shields overlapping in the standard formation that had been drilled into them. A stationary scenario—no detachment, circling, or otherwise any sideways movement allowed. They even had a knee-high plank jutting out at their feet between the two groups, slanted and slightly closer to the defenders, a miniature representation of the earth wall.

"Out," Shutter said, and Kalsin moved his shield just enough to let his companion's sword sneak out from between the two metal barriers to deliver a ringing strike against their opposition. Shutter quickly drew his arm back, and the gap disappeared as they shifted back in position. 

The small opening in the shield wall was necessary for two reasons; they'd have to be striking downward during defense and reaching over their shields would greatly hamper their range against the Veiled advancing from below. And the vast majority of recruits had the same dominant hand—right—so if the person on the left wanted to attack, the one on the right would have to make some room first.

Hold the barrier. Brace and wait for an opportunity. Open, poke out, close. That would be the dance of the older boy. And that last part of closing the shield gap, it needed to be quick, quick as a scorpion's tail because for every moment your body is exposed in a battle is a moment you're inviting sparks on an oil keg.

Yesfellow gave his partner a small nod and they pushed forward, but by the time it took for the two of them to communicate their plan, Kalsin had already suspected it. He moved a foot forward on top of the plank, then planted his right forearm horizontally against the inside of his shield, sword sticking up, and leaned forward with most of his body weight. Shutter followed his example almost instantly, bracing himself just in time.

Four sheets of metal collided with a thunderous crash, and they held against their opponents who bounced slightly back but didn't relent. Kalsin saw Yesfellow's eyes squint in exertion above the rim of their shields. Kalsin pulled his shield up and his head down, metal grinding, to avoid a strike from overhead. He saw that Shutter had positioned his sword to protect his ribs instead of upwards, which was a good thing because it stopped the jab from Wardoll as she struck from the side.

They had to end it quick. "Up," Kalsin said, and they rose in tandem to stand on the plank. Hits below the belt line were not allowed—during defense, only their upper bodies would be exposed against the Veiled—and Kalsin had every intention to make use of their height advantage. 

His muscles aided by the pull of the earth while the attackers were being hampered by it, Kalsin could afford to free his right hand and swing his blade around the shield in front of him from the side, much like how Wardoll had done.

Yesfellow let out a strangled yelp as Kalsin's dulled practice sword scored a hit. Feeling the pressure against his shield lessen, Kalsin used the opportunity to wrench forward and down with his shield. A second later Yesfellow was sprawled on his back, and Wardoll hastily stepped back and out of the training ground to avoid the same fate.

She backed up a few more steps for good measure, fallen sword kicking up a plume of dirt by her feet. "Good! Whew, that was good. You got us, alright? Fair is fair, and— Shutter, for Gods' sake, take that hunk of metal out of my nostrils."

Shutter, for his part, stopped at the edge of the gouged line and scowled down at Wardoll's discarded sword. He hesitated a moment as if the drifting cloud above the weapon was a string of insults quickly evaporating in the air, then turned on his heel to help Yesfellow stand among the standing.

Kalsin dabbed at his dirty cheek and noticed the group that had been playing dice a few minutes ago now stood nearby, watching their sparring session. Cyanfish gave Kalsin a grin, flanked by Leather and Dweller, the latter thoughtfully chewing on a blue pear that grew in abundance toward the southern shores of the gulf. Ringtail rounded out the ensemble of onlookers, running a finger along her belted sword with a cocky smirk on her face that Kalsin already dreaded. 

But thankfully before she could butt in, Shoreline strolled up to the whole lot of them. "Ey, Radolf! Brownweather wants a word with you."

"What for?" Yesfellow asked.

Shoreline shrugged. "Plowed if I know. He didn't have a nagged look about him, but then again, when does he ever." Her half-lidded eyes naturally gave her a lazy visage as she surveyed her fellow recruits. A proper bedhead would have completed the look of someone who just crawled out of dreamlands not a moment ago.

"Well, I'm beat anyway," Wardoll said as Yesfellow walked off. She discarded her shield and massaged the red lines the straps left on her arm.

Kalsin couldn't blame her. Heavy, unwieldy things, shields were. He and Shutter followed her example, though Kalsin wasn't as careless with his sword, even if it was just for training. He wiped the blunted blade against the cloth of his forearm, then turned it over and repeated the motion. 

"One-on-one, Ghost?" Shutter asked.

"Don't think so. Not for today." Kalsin said after a short pause. He would've enjoyed a good spar if it was only him and Shutter, but the present company seeped some of the color out of his mood. Maybe a sketch or two would bring it back. "But I’m sure 'Tail here is more than ready to go a round in my stead." Kalsin nodded toward the sword-brandishing Ringtail.

Her smirk wilted a touch. "I could, I could. Buuut it's been a long time since I had the opportunity to pummel a certain hauntling into the ground."

"Not false," Kalsin said. He was still rusty after his long recovery. He could've said so, but then Ringtail could've taken that as an offhand insult, which then could've deteriorated into a shouting match that Kalsin really didn't have the energy to weather. "Not today, though, I’m afraid. How about we count it as your win for now?"

"Naw, you can have it. The scoreboard is already tilted in my favor."

"Right. Are you just saying that, or are you actually keeping score?"

Ringtail ignored his question. "And now that I've granted you a free win, selfless as I am, there's a Ghost caught in my debt. I'm collecting immediately."

Kalsin was not amused. He took a deep breath, but before something unseemly had a chance to leap from his tongue, Ringtail spoke. 

"Heeey. Easy. I just need help setting up some fishing lines. Needed it done yesterday, actually, but... yeah." She looked to the side while speaking, rubbing one arm, as if asking for his help took a monumental amount of effort.

Kalsin went to speak again, but she continued with a frantic pace. "And it’s not, like, I was delaying it or anything. I just can't fucking stand the monotony and there's no way I'll be sitting there, fiddling with a pile of strings and hooks under the sun all day."

"You done?"

"Yes. Not with the work, but, uh. Yes." She paused. "So?"

"Fine." Kalsin said. Maybe some monotony was what he needed right then. "But this will erase any and all imaginary debt I have, and will have in the future." He took a glance toward Shutter, who immediately turned and pretended to find the time of his life rearranging a basket full of training swords. "Anyone else feeling helpful? I'm willing to offer twenty-five percent of my weekly salary."

"We don't get a weekly salary," Dweller said.

"No, but I also wouldn't give you twenty-five percent of it, so there's no reason not to offer."

Shoreline, who's been watching Dweller's pear slowly disappear in her gullet, glanced toward Ringtail and Kalsin. "Any of you happen to know how to set those fishing lines up?"

Ringtail scowled at her, folding her arms but otherwise not debating. Kalsin stared with a blank face.

"You got extra help, then, because I, for one, like my underwater delicacies on a plate, rather than swimming merrily and uncaught in the deep."

And that was the beginning of a long row of events that Kalsin would replay many times in his head, and wonder if it would've mattered at all.

37 - Maybe You’re Not That Bad

The fracture that Shoreline chose as an ideal fishing spot was a good distance away from their company, maybe two or three miles down along the wall. Kalsin and Ringtail stopped at the fracture as wide as his forearm, and listened to Shoreline meticulously going through the tools of the trade. Angling, she had explained, had several techniques that consisted of this and that, all of which quickly escaped Kalsin's head as soon as they marched through his earholes. He got the important bits; tie the knots with the gorge buried in the bait—the gorge being some sort of hook—then anchor the whole thing, and finally cast the line in the water.

The lines had to be more than fifteen feet in length to reach the edge of what people called 'deep-fracture', home of underwater life forms that blossomed in the sunless depths of the abyss. Back in the Republic proper, fractures were wide enough for men to dive in and use nets, mine minerals, collect corals and whatever else riches the abyss held beneath. But not out here. Fishing from above was the way of things in the east.

As Ringtail had predicted, it was monotone work. Eventually, Shoreline moved farther down the fracture after enough of her knowledge rubbed off on Kalsin and Ringtail, both of whom knelt at the opposite sides of the thin stream, hunched over, hands busy. Or in Kalsin's case, hands fumbling and trying to avoid using his fingertips, which had quickly turned tingly and irritated.

"Is that the quickest you can go?" Ringtail said, breaking the blessed quiet that had descended over them.

Kalsin didn't look up. "That's right."

"Well, try to speed up. I'm doing double the work over here."

"I'll try."

They worked in silence for another minute.

"Caught anything yet?" Ringtail asked.

Kalsin looked across the row of fishing lines they had already set up. "Nope."

"Hmph."

The whistle of a slight breeze. People talking in the distance. Grass rustling.

Kalsin held back his frustration when the string slipped from between his awkwardly pinched fingers again. He saw that Ringtail had already filled her part of the fracture and was ready to move farther down. But instead, she just sat there with that perpetual frown of hers, fingers rapping against the ground, clearly wound up about something.

"What?" Kalsin asked.

Ringtail's expression cleared for a moment. "Hmm? What do you mean 'what'?"

"Nothing. I just thought you wanted to say something. You looked like you were going to."

"And you look like you're a seventy-summer pa who can't even tie a knot," she snapped.

Kalsin decided to focus on the work instead. He finally maneuvered a string to its proper place when he heard her mutter something. He could've asked again, but learned experience and all that. So he kept his mouth shut instead.

"I said I'm sorry."

Kalsin didn't pause in his work. "I'm sure you are."

He nearly jumped when a splash broke the quiet as Ringtail hurled something in the water. "Damn it! I’m— Please just stop deflecting for a moment and listen to me!"

Kalsin made a show of setting down his half-baked contraption. He sat back, hands resting on his knees, and looked her in the eye. "Okay. I'm listening."

Ringtail's voice caught in her throat. She blinked at Kalsin once, twice, then as if getting over some invisible hurdle, finally spoke. "I’m sorry for what I just said and also for snitching on you to Brownweather and what happened to your hands and it was never my intention for you to get hurt, and I’m sorry for being a self-absorbed and overly competitive pain in the ass sometimes who can’t stomach even the smallest idea of losing." Her words rolled over each other like an earthquake-shaken mound of oiled corn, a flush of color blooming on her cheeks that could've been from embarrassment, or anger, or both. "I’m an idiot and I don’t know how to— Like, damn it Kalsin. I’m so sorry for your hands. I just wasn’t thinking, I never do, and it fucking killed me watching you have to suffer all these past days. My stupid pride never let me apologize and all this was ultimately my fault, even if you sometimes make things hard by being so... so fucking... infuriatingly you."

Kalsin couldn't hold her gaze for the whole thing, and he didn't know how to respond when she ran out of breath. There was a lot to unpack in her words, and her being uncomfortable made him uncomfortable, which left his feelings in a confused mess and his tongue heavy. He suddenly felt like that shy kid back from Parlest, hanging onto his mother’s skirts.

"Uh. You're not that bad."

She probably was that bad, but he was off balance and just said something for the sake of saying something.

Or maybe, for the first time in a very long stretch, he let his walls down enough for a rare glimpse of honesty to slip out.

As for Ringtail, with the burning confession out of her system and no longer fueling her, she surveyed a rock on the ground as an awkward silence crept in. Tap, tap, tap, her hand kept poking the ground.

Kalsin, with some effort, continued. "And I owe you an apology as well. I should not have evaded you as I did. There's been lots of things going on lately and sometimes it's easier to delay issues, skirt around them, rather than confront them. Say a word and mean another, you know? Never a good idea, but always easier. And lately I've said a lot of words to you that I shouldn't have."

Ringtail’s tapping had stilled. She stayed quiet for a while, but slowly the air grew lighter. From the edge of his vision, Kalsin saw her watch him with a slightly tilted head. "You meant part of it, though, didn't you?"

"Part of what?"

"When you got upset about me covering my scar."

Kalsin couldn't help but let loose a rueful laugh. "Upset? That's one way to call a near psychotic outburst. I lost it over absolutely nothing."

A small smirk tugged at Ringtail's lips. "Neh, upset and psychotic, same thing. I’m just dampening the blow, you know, since I'm such an accomplished diplomat. But really, tell me. I'm curious. Why is covering my scar such a big deal for you?"

"I grew up in Araz." 

"Oh. Oh."

Kalsin didn't feel sharp having to admit it, but he said it anyway. "I can't hide behind the excuse, I'm aware, but a residue of upbringing remained with me even against my best efforts. I still find it... strange. Upsetting, even. When I meet folk, my eyes instinctively seek out their scars, and having found none, part of me files them off as Clenn. Then I realize the logic doesn't apply in most parts of the Republic, and then I blame the person rather than myself to make me feel better.” He took a low breath. “And I guess I'm jealous too, because, I mean… look at me." The last part slipped out without intention.

Ringtail's eyes quickly slipped down to his jaw, taking in his scars, then back. "Eh. It's not that bad."

"Cheap, using my own lines against me."

"Seriously. I’m not squeamish about scars. They can look intimidating, actually. Combined with your silver eyes, it’s kind of stunni—” She bit off her words, turning away with a cough. “Uuuuh, I mean. It’s, you know. It’s alright." 

Kalsin shook his head, exasperated. "Look, we can agree to disagree, but—"

The sound of a horn pierced through Kalsin's voice, coming from their group's lookout that was now a good distance to the south of them, having moved away to the fracture. They stood, both of them tensing, both hoping it was just a Veiled sighting and nothing more. Kalsin turned in the direction Shoreline had gone and saw her hurry back toward them. "We should head back, now!" she yelled. 

She said more, but they couldn't hear as a second horn swept across the plains. The Veiled were coming.

 But before the distant lookout near their company could finish its second horn, the one now closer to them also blew a signal, then another quickly after. Multiple locations were going to be attacked, all at once.

Men Kalsin didn't recognize ran like denizens of a roughed up anthill, some rushing for their weapons, others already armed and taking up position at the walls. People shouted, hoarded shields to those who had none at hand, and kicked out flames underneath brewing tin pots. Everyone carried swords at all times, and so Kalsin quickly found himself having drawn his blade and holding a shield someone had shoved in his left.

Two horns from two different lookouts next to one another. Maybe more, down toward the south and too far away for him to hear. The Veiled were attacking multiple positions at once; and Kalsin was at the wrong one.

Him, Ringtail, and Shoreline would not have time to return to their fellow recruits. They'd have to face the Veiled, for the first time, with strangers by their sides.

38 - War

The earth, where it wasn't covered by the red-and-yellow grass, was rough like a mountainside hammered and flattened on Hadúr's godly anvil. Fractures wrinkled the ground, some flowing together to form tiny gullies that sneaked in and out of grassy patches, completely disappearing toward the lush east. No winds blew above the plains. The only movement was the slow herd of clouds drifting across the sky, edges lit up by the halo of Warmlight hiding behind them.

Kalsin crouched atop the earthen wall, throat dry and eyes roving the horizon. To his left crouched a man who'd introduced himself as Rolce; thin hair, good smile, a little jumpy. To Kalsin’s right was Ringtail, with Shoreline to her right. The base point of their shield rested in front of them like an extension of the barricade they perched upon, jutting out above the ground. Defenders stood as far as the eye could see, but the wall was left unattended at several spots like gaps in a row of neglected teeth, and it was for the first time Kalsin had truly realized how much the Old lacked in numbers.

"Shit," Ringtail said, doing the same calculations.

"There's no chance we can prevent a breach," Kalsin said.

"It's a matter of when, rather than a matter of if," Rolce said. Like everyone else around them, he was an older boy proper. When he heard the three of them were recruits caught away from their group, he just shrugged and said it was no big deal. People moved about the Old, and they defended where they could. Happened all the time. "I remember my first time, I remember well, and they're lying if anyone says they don't. Was caught apart from my mates, too. But I won't bore you with the minutiae. I suggest you leave your expectations in the dust. There's no guarantees when it comes to fighting these cannibals. You gotta have eyes front, sides, and back." His lips twitched as he paused. "That, and don't mind the birds. Just cut the ropes."

And so they waited, eyes in the distance, breaths loud and some hitched with nerves. Kalsin's sweaty clothes stuck to his skin under his chainmail, and there was an itch below his vambrace that he couldn't scratch no matter how much he squirmed. He'd gotten used to wearing light armor most of the day, but now, in the face of mounting tension, all these little annoyances assaulted him at once. He checked his forearm again. The straps of his shield were drawn tight. 

Then he looked up—and saw the lonely herald not a hundred paces away.

She stood still and alone like a bloodied willow tree, her red curtain of hair stirred softly by a breeze that didn't exist. Her arms hung limp at her sides, body angled toward the east, but her head watched him as surely as the hard earth beneath his feet. The patterns of her dress couldn't be discerned from such a distance, but Kalsin knew what they depicted anyways.

Kalsin knew the others couldn't see her. He knew he was crazy—but maybe it was a useful kind of insanity. Somehow, some way, the red girl had a purpose that he simply couldn’t afford to ignore anymore. 

She was a herald of death. 

She had only appeared to him when standing before a life-threatening crossroads. In Atlas’ office before his sentencing to become a soldier. At his poisoned bedroll. And now—a calm sentinel prophesying the slaughter at hand.

Kalsin waited, watching the red girl standing in the lonely tundras. The defenders waited, too, and they didn't need a ghost to know that things of savagery were on their way.

It was a man, voice scratchy as he called out, who first spotted them. Kalsin squinted in the distance and saw nothing, but as he focused on the reddish expanse in front of him, there was an almost invisible impression of movement. It was subtle—tiny spots of grass bowing and bending as if isolated streaks of wind were rushing toward the west. With the air standing completely still, however, that would have been impossible.

The movement reached the edges of the red sea where grass had been cut to leave patches of dark earth, and the shapes that had blended in with their surroundings now gained human form.

Wild strands of red-and-yellow robes rippled behind them as the Veiled poured from the east in the dozens, running in a low stride that supplied more endurance than speed. Though it covered them from head to toe, the red cloth worn close to their skin didn't appear baggy or cumbersome; instead it was fastened to their bodies with hardened leather straps dyed a color of scorched mahogany, most of which looped around in doubles from shoulder to waist, like empty belts. The material around their head was lighter in texture, tightly woven around the neck, face, and forehead, only leaving the eyes open to the wind.

At first Kalsin thought they came unarmed. But closer now, he spotted the glint of metal around their hands. 

Claws. Hooked, wicked looking claws peaked from between their curled fingers, with a pair of rings at the base to secure the weapon reminiscent of brass knuckles. A blade as big as his forearms was attached to the lower end of the weapon. With the two parts combined, the thing looked like a gods-forsaken brigand's dagger poised for a deadly downward motion, with a hilt that, if used for punches, would tear through meat and muscle.

Most of the Veiled also carried a tiny sack around their waist, and as their approach reached close enough for Kalsin to make out the sound of their thudding footsteps, they reached down as one and yanked the sacks off to reveal—birds. 

Small and with long beaks shaped like a screw, the winged creatures took flight and sped toward the defenders, each dragging a narrow line of rope tied to their feet. Kalsin pulled his neck down on reflex as the birds sailed over them. Seconds later the ropes went taut, and Kalsin looked behind to watch in astonishment as the birds dived toward the ground like dropped anvils. They spun and burrowed down into the earth, only leaving tiny holes behind—and a large number of anchored ropes now stretching above and across the earthen wall.

"Cut!" Rolce shouted, already in the middle of swiping a blade against the lines near him.

Kalsin, Ringtail and Shoreline quickly followed the example of the older boys around them, and the next minute was a blur of tempered steel tearing against woven strings. 

Heft, swish, sever. 

The ropes were weak, but what they lacked in durability they made up in numbers and the sheer frustration they caused. The lines that went taut were easy to cut, but several the Veiled kept slack on purpose as they ran, which forced the defenders into the laborious work of slowly sawing away at them.

The fight had not ever started yet, Kalsin's breaths were already deep, hacking at ropes. Part of him was occupied by an internal debate—going over the rights and wrongs of leaving the ropes to let them give a small advantage to the climbers, or sever them as they came and exhaust himself before the battle could even begin. 

More birds landed. Strings crossed and tangled across their shoulders, not enough to become a serious issue, but enough to fray against their nerves. Few of the defenders cursed as wayward birds tried landing on them, pecking out a clump of hair or bruising a shoulder before sliding off. The occasional arrow flew out toward the invaders, courtesy of the two archers the defenders had, coming slow and with precision due to the low amount of munition they had. All the while—the Veiled advanced, the ropes came, and the older boys cut.

"Iron headers!" someone shouted. For a moment Kalsin thought it was some elaborate curse, but then he saw the slowly lumbering figures among the Veiled. 

Instead of robes, they were fitted in sets of rustic full-plate armor, and instead of the claw-like weapons, they carried sturdy looking hooks in their gauntleted hands. From the waist below, their armor appeared lighter, but their iron boots had sharp spikes sticking forward. Their most notable feature, however, was the wide and circular plate attached to the top of their helmets, discs bobbing as they moved like an always-present shield braced for a hail of arrows.

The Veiled only had a handful of iron headers among them, though Kalsin didn't have time to count. The first wave of the invaders was about to hit.

Kalsin's vision tunneled in on the pair of robed figures directly ahead. They didn't slow down like he expected, but quickened their loping gaits as they approached. They let momentum carry them, bracing their feet and launching from the base of the vertical wall to immediately clear most of the barricade.

Kalsin barely had enough time to yank his shield up in a slanted, backward position and take the murderous lunge on its surface. Metal scraped on his shield like nail on a chalkboard. He shoved forward instantly, but the Veiled had found a handhold on the wall—facing off against Kalsin from a hanging position—and hooked his claws behind the frame of his shield with his other hand.

Kalsin pulled his mind from the terrified sludge it had fallen prey to, and acted, not allowing the invader to have the initiative. In one smooth symphony, Kalsin moved his claw-hooked shield to the side, slammed the tip down into the earth-wall to anchor it, and thrust his sword through the fresh gap. He felt more than saw the blade find its mark. An increased resistance as steel went from slicing air to biting skin and meat, then slipped on bone, bit some more, and finally stopped to rest with dead weight pulling it down. Kalsin drew his sword back. It came with a wet squelch and red droplets splattered on his hand.

The Veiled didn’t fall. Limp, dead eyes staring at Kalsin in accusation, he remained hanging from the wall, his claws keeping him anchored like a gruesome painting slanted on a crooked nail. 

A rope nearby tensed, and the crimson sash of another Veiled rose into Kalsin's vision. He angled his shield toward the invader and pushed. He felt the clung, metal connecting with skull, making the invader disappear below, but another took its place almost instantly. Kalsin remained still as he felt Ringtail vie for an opening, her shield sliding over his to borrow room for a strike she directed at the invader scaling the wall at her front.

Kalsin lurched forward, his shield suddenly a multitude times heavier as two sets of iron claws had been wedged over the rim of his shield and pulled his strapped arm with the strength of a mule. Only Ringtail’s hand on his shoulder managed to keep his position before he would dive headfirst over the edge. His shield’s pointy bottom dug a furrow into the wall before he could stop it. Kalsin grunted, maybe screamed while he struggled, and reared up to hack his sword blindly above and over his shield. 

Slash, tug, thrust. All sounds were molded into a singular, continuous, indistinguishable mass of chaos.

All the while, between the gaps of their shields, the hanged carcass of the first Veiled he’d killed watched the slaughter with unseeing eyes.

Kalsin's world shrank to a blur of red and black, the sound of clashing metal and ragged breathing. Weights pulled and pressed against his shield, flesh caught on his steel when he sliced forward, his body attuning to the rhythm of mindless bloodshed. The Veiled continued to climb and attack, their claws digging furrows in both the earthen blockade and the minds of the defenders. Morale bolstering hive-surge wafted in and out like a stray gust within the landscape of their minds, a bubble of hope flaring up and away like liquid resolve.

Gasping, Kalsin gained a moment of calm just in time to see the iron headers arrive at the wall's base, their hooked arms latching onto the lip and pulling themselves up with gruesome ease. They moved like an unstoppable landslide, securing their positions with their spiked boots, the defenders’ blows deflected by the wide brim of their disc-helmets.

Further down the line, he saw multiple spots getting overwhelmed, small gaps opening up as older boys fell back or got hooked out of position, falling headfirst into the Veiled with screams.

"Back! Back and defend," the hoarse calls rose above the battle, and Kalsin saw the defenders start pulling back from the wall, retreating with their shields up.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, making him snarl and his sword-arm jerk violently before he realized it was his mates tugging him backward. He inched back on the sloped footing under his boots, keeping a steady line with the others until he felt the ground even out below him.

A blessed reprieve descended upon them as they retreated from the wall, the attackers quickly pulling themselves up the earthen barricade. He felt Ringtail by his side, with a new face—a stocky middle-aged woman—having replaced Rolce at some point on the other.

But that was all the time they got. Despite the orderly line with which their section had retreated, a chaotic melee was breaking out all over the battlefield. Isolated fights were spreading out, and those standing at the sides of the formation had no choice but to turn and latch off toward the flanking enemy, each man fighting for their own survival.

Kalsin felt a hand grip his arm. 

“We fight together, Ghost,” said Ringtail, yanking him closer with fire in her eyes. He had to lean down until their foreheads pressed together.  “Come on. Let’s give those fuckers a bloody theatre.”

“Together,” Kalsin said, feeling her breath on his face before separating with some effort. He turned and planted his feet next to an equally unmovable Ringtail in the midst of a raging maelstrom.

Any and all order from the defenders was gone. From this point forward, they could only rely on themselves.