At some point the sun had set completely, and the site was lit by hundreds of torches and lanterns. Idrian kept digging, periodically calling out Squeaks’s name. Slowly, he became aware he was being watched. A young man stood somewhat back from the edge of the wreckage. He had white Purnian skin, and was wearing an Ossan uniform though he couldn’t have been more than seventeen with that fresh face of his. A large pack rested on his shoulder. He was staring at Idrian strangely.
“Are you going to help?” Idrian demanded.
“I … I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Move bricks.”
“You shouldn’t use your shield like that.”
Idrian paused and shot a glare at the young man, who shrank beneath the gaze. There were few people who didn’t find Idrian’s purple godglass eye disconcerting. This young man was not one of them. “This shield is a tool used to protect my battalion,” Idrian grunted as he lifted it onto his shoulder, heavy with rubble. “One of my battalion is trapped under there. The tool does the job.” He staggered through the rubble until he found a safe place to dump it off to one side, then returned. “Well?” he demanded. “Help or get out of my way. Squeaks! Squeaks, are you in there?”
The young man finally moved, depositing his pack off to one side and joining in with the calls of the Ironhorns.
The digging continued for some time, and Idrian’s stomach twisted whenever he caught sight of Fenny carefully moving across the rubble, tears streaming down her face as she called out the name of her wife. He’d completely lost track of the hour when he heard a muffled sound somewhere off to his left.
“Sir,” the young interloper called, “over here, sir! We’ve got a few live ones trapped under a support beam!”
“Mika!” Idrian shouted. “Mika, come help me!”
Idrian was soon surrounded by a dozen engineers, who carefully helped clear rubble until Idrian could get his shoulder underneath the support beam.
“Wait!” one of them called. “Wait! Hold on! Okay, lift!”
Idrian slowly leveraged the beam up from its resting place. The weight was impossible, probably over a thousand pounds, and despite the forgeglass sorcery enhancing his strength he felt like every sinew was about to pop. He listened to the engineers as they scrambled around him until one slapped him on the back of his helmet. “All clear!”
Idrian dropped the beam and staggered backward, tripping and stumbling until someone caught him and helped him right himself. Relief surged through him as he turned to find Squeaks lying in a clear spot with several others. She was a young woman, just a year or two older than Fenny, and a skilled engineer. One arm was mangled, but she was alive and alert, wrapped in Fenny’s embrace. Idrian breathed a sigh as his adrenaline finally crashed, leaving him hard of breathing and barely able to stand. He made his way out of the rubble, looking for his sword, only to find it lying on the boardwalk next to a nearby tenement. The young man who’d accosted him about his shield earlier was standing over it as if he were on guard.
To Idrian’s surprise, the young man had a yellow ram stitched to the front of his uniform jacket. “Why are you wearing an Ironhorn uniform?” Idrian asked, setting his shield on the boardwalk beside his sword and sinking down to lie next to them. He pulled off his helmet, sweat dripping off his face, and tossed it aside.
“I’m your new armorer, sir.”
Idrian lifted his head and stared at the young man. “I’ve been asking for a new armorer for six months, and now I get one? What’s your name?”
“Braileer, sir. Braileer Holdest.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“They really must be short of armorers if they sent you.”
Braileer flinched and tried to stand up straighter. “I’m trained in working steel and godglass. I can make all necessary field repairs. Give me a forge and a glass furnace and I can do anything but a total rebuild. Your armor, sword, and shield will be in good hands with me, sir.”
Idrian had his doubts. Most breacher armorers were experienced professionals in their thirties or forties. “What about my back?”
“Sir?”
“Armorers are also soldiers, kid. I see that little hammerglass buckler strapped to your back and the smallsword on your belt, but do you know how to use them? My job is to keep the Ironhorns alive. I am the sword of their vanguard and the shield of their flank. Your job is to keep me alive. Understand? You care for my armor but you also go into combat zones with me.”
Braileer’s confidence seemed to wane. “I have a few weeks’ combat training, sir.”
“Piss,” Idrian sighed. If he hadn’t done such a number on his shield moving that rubble, he might have sent the young man straight back to the Ministry of the Legion. But he was in a war now, and he needed his armor cared for. “Piss and shit. All right, follow me.” Idrian got to his feet and gestured for Braileer to carry his sword, shield, and helmet. The young man did so without complaint, though he was carrying his own pack as well. They walked around the ruined tenement and headed over the next hill, where they descended into a makeshift camp that took up two streets and three more captured Grent tenements. A fire burned in the middle of it all, next to a banner stitched with a yellow ramshead that matched the sigil on Idrian’s armor and Braileer’s uniform.
“How much do you know about the Foreign Legion?” Idrian asked.
“Um … sorry sir, but I’m trained as a craftsman. They conscripted me less than a month ago and they’ve been teaching me to shoot and stab and not much else.”
Idrian stripped off his gauntlets and ran his sweaty hands across his face. “Glassdamned Ministry just can’t get their training right. Fine. You’ve been assigned to the Ironhorns. We’re a battalion of combat engineers. We repair bridges, put up barricades, level ground for artillery batteries – whatever dirty work needs to be done, we do it and often under fire. We’ve got three hundred proper soldiers, two hundred engineers, and one breacher – that’s me. It’s not a brag to say we’re the most famous battalion in the Foreign Legion, and for good reason. We have a high success rate and a low casualty rate. Veterans think twice before engaging with us directly.” Idrian turned to Braileer. “Our motto is ‘Horns ready, hooves steady.’ Keep your weapon on hand, your feet planted, your eyes sharp, and you might just live through the war.”
Braileer was very clearly trying to keep his eyes from bugging out of his head. “Yes, sir.”
“You okay?”
“It’s a lot to take in, sir.”
“There’s a lot more. I won’t dump it on you now. What do you do for fun, Braileer?”
“I play cards. Play a little fiddle. I … train rats.”
Idrian glanced at him curiously. “Rats?”
“To do tricks. Steal coins. Little fun things.”
“Huh. Good way to catch the plague. Fiddle will make you popular. You’re a corporal, so Tadeas will let you play cards with the officers. He’s our commanding officer. He cheats, though you’d never know it. Mika and Valient are the captains of our little outfit, in charge of the engineers and soldiers, respectively. They’ve been married for longer than I’ve known either of them, and both will try to sleep with you. My advice is to tread carefully on those grounds.” Idrian scratched at the back of his neck. He was absolutely spent, ready to hang up his armor and get a good night’s sleep. He’d need it, too. The Ironhorns would be rotated back to the front before first light. “Help me get my armor off. Repair it and polish it before you hit your bunk. I took that room right there–” Idrian pointed at a tenement window on his left. “I prefer privacy when I can get it. You can sleep in the hallway outside my door.”