The distant shelling continued all through the night. At one stage, unable to sleep, Aubrey slipped out of his cubicle and climbed to the roof. Ominous flashes marked the horizon and he heard heavy thumping that only increased the sense of approaching doom. The Gallian artillery sounded much more sporadic than it had been earlier – and was the barrage closer?
He shivered and went back to bed.
Breakfast was a joint effort. Sophie joined George in the kitchen and the sound of spirited arguing had Aubrey and Caroline sharing concerned looks, but what emerged was a mouth-watering blend, combining George’s hearty cooking and Sophie’s more refined Gallian approaches. They grinned as they arranged platters on the oval table and Aubrey reasoned that it was tactful not to comment on their appearances. They looked as if they’d been in a flour fight.
After breakfast, Aubrey and George cycled to the fortress to see a ragged column making its way toward them, coming from the battle front. Every lorry was damaged, and all of them were carrying wounded. The soldiers following the lorries were no longer marching – they were limping, the walking wounded. Aubrey counted more bandages than rifles.
Rumbling out of the fortress gates were some undamaged lorries and a few squads of fresh soldiers, but the reinforcements weren’t abundant. The state of affairs looked dire, but Aubrey was itching with frustration because he didn’t know what was going on. ‘Let’s find Saltin,’ he said to George. ‘He may be able to tell us where we stand.’
George frowned. ‘Aubrey. We’re at war. I don’t think a pair of foreigners can just walk into a Gallian military base like that. Not even friendly foreigners.’
Aubrey paused. ‘A reasonable point, George. So I’d say that such a thing requires a certain attitude.’
‘I’m glad we stowed the bicycles in the woods,’ George muttered as they approached the gates of the fortress. ‘They would have spoiled the whole effect.’
Aubrey nodded, not wanting to draw attention to themselves, even if the soldier on the stretcher they were carrying was far from capable of eavesdropping.
Shuffling along at the rear of the column of wounded had seemed like an innocuous enough idea at the time, especially since Aubrey’s disguise spell – drawing on the Law of Sympathy and the Law of Seeming – gave them the temporary appearance of Gallian soldiers. They’d joined the column as it made its way past the woods where the bicycles were hidden, but they were quickly roped into helping with the wounded.
The soldier on the stretcher was unconscious, and Aubrey thought he should be grateful for that, for the head wound under the rough bandage was bleeding. The way his head lolled didn’t bode well and Aubrey did his best to walk as steadily as he could to minimise jolting. The soldier’s uniform was covered with mud, as if he’d been swimming in it, and one boot was missing.
Aubrey would have been surprised if the soldier were eighteen years old.
Once inside, a quick glance at George told him that they shared the view that skulking off would be an unworthy thing to do, so for hours they worked with harassed medics and doctors, shifting the wounded, bringing food and water, mopping floors and dragging bedding to the industrial laundry, where the floor was red underfoot.
Midday was approaching before the work slackened. By then, Aubrey and George were both working stiffly, like machines, pushed into silence by what they’d seen.
This was what happened in war, Aubrey thought as one of the medics ordered them to take a break. They sat on a step in the sun, across a small courtyard from the infirmary. Someone had planted lavender nearby and the bees were happily bumbling through its purple wonder. The books go on about the glory and the triumph, but for every moment of heroism, there are a thousand poor sods who end up the operating table. Or worse.
George was resting his elbows on his knees, and he cupped his chin in his open hands. ‘D’you think,’ he said in a voice that was flat, ‘that if we brought all the leaders of all the countries together and showed them this, they’d realise what a stupid thing war is?’
‘I doubt it. They’d probably march about, congratulating all the wounded on their sacrifice and wondering where the cameras were.’
‘I thought as much. So we’d better do what we can to stop this war ourselves.’
‘My thoughts precisely.’
They found Major Saltin at the airfield. The disguising spell had lapsed, but Aubrey and George were wearing uniforms they’d found while fetching clean clothes for the soldiers who were wounded but ready to go back to the front.
Saltin quickly ushered them into the hangar and then into an office. It was spacious, with a large window overlooking the airfield, but its appointments were modest: a cheap desk, a few mismatched chairs, a cabinet that looked as if were made of cardboard. The telephone on the desk was by far the newest item in the room. ‘I did not expect you to still be here! You should leave the city now, while you still can.’
‘We’re hearing that a lot, lately,’ Aubrey said, taking a chair gratefully. He could still smell the burning cloth of uniforms singed in shell blasts. ‘I can’t say that it suggests much confidence in the Gallian military response.’
Saltin shrugged. Aubrey noticed the weariness in the dark circles under the airman’s eyes. ‘We were not ready for this.’
‘War was declared seven weeks ago and you’re not ready?’ George said. ‘I don’t think an enemy sends letters, letting you know they’re coming.’
‘But the Low Countries,’ Saltin protested. ‘Holmland and its allies were coming from that direction. No-one attacks through the Grentellier Mountains.’
‘I think it’s called strategy.’ Aubrey had to raise his voice more than he wished, because of the ornithopter work going on in the hangar. ‘Tell me, Saltin, what happens if Divodorum falls?’
Leaning against the wall, Saltin grimaced. ‘The entire Mosa valley is open to the south. Baligne, then Taine, then Remense. None of these cities is fortified. Lutetia after that.’ He hissed. ‘Gallia could fall.’
The horror of that prospect held each of them silent for a moment. Aubrey imagined Holmland troops marching up the streets of Lutetia, the people cowed, the alliance in tatters. With Gallia taken, Albion’s strongest ally on the Continent would be gone. What would stand between Albion and invasion then?
George scowled. ‘Punching through the Low Countries and through north-east Gallia at the same time is a masterstroke,’ he said.
‘I think the Marchmainers will have something to say once the Holmlanders get through the Low Countries,’ Aubrey said.
Saltin straightened at the mention of his home region. ‘They shall not pass. Marchmaine may have little love for Lutetia, but we are Gallians all the same.’
‘And what about the people of Divodorum?’ Aubrey asked.
‘It is bad,’ Saltin admitted. He pointed through the glass of the door at the battered ornithopter. ‘We have few craft available. We sent one out yesterday, in the afternoon, to see what is happening.’ He shook his head and growled with displeasure. ‘Our pilot was nearly killed. His craft was struck by magically enhanced shells.’
‘Was he badly hurt?’ Aubrey asked, and he knew he’d never be able to read an account of a battle again without wondering about the reality behind bald statements like ‘more than three thousand wounded’.
‘He won’t fly again.’ Saltin’s declaration was careful, but his face made it clear that this, to an airman, was the fate to which death was a preferred option. He sighed. ‘But he reported that our forces have halted the Holmland advance – for now. They have had heavy casualties, and desperately need reinforcements, but they have dug in and are holding.’