The Fade

There are ships on the lake. A dozen of them. Slim, black, their sails furled as they run under the power of the Elders on board. Every so often, one of them hurls a volanite ball from one of its cannons: chthonomantically-charged rock, pulsing with energy, which detonates on impact. Caralla has been scarred by the bombardment, but its core still holds strong.

Further along the lakeshore, I can see the rapid flashes of smaller shard-cannon emplacements. Over there, amid the sharp rocks and narrow, fungus-choked defiles, the foot soldiers have engaged.

Is he in there? Is my son among them?

No. I can't think that way. I need to move, to distract myself. My side of the lake seems relatively quiet, so I start to head around to the fortress, skirting the cliff-top.

As I get closer, there are signs of what has passed here. Gurta and Eskaran bodies, many stripped of their armour and weapons, lie dead and rotting. Abandoned and burned-out gun emplacements, blast-patterns from bombs. The battle here is long over, and the Gurta were driven back. Whatever assault they are making now, it's happening on the other shore.

I'm creeping through that dank, blasted world when I hear a steadily growing sound, like the dull bellow of flame, getting louder, building. I look up in time to see a blinding mass of light gathering out of nowhere in the heights of Caralla. An enormous prism, surrounded by huge mirrors, becoming bright as the suns as it's energised by a dozen chthonomancers at once.

I'm dumbstruck. They've got a pulse-lance.

A bolt of energy screams forth from the prism, with a sound that splits my head. It punches through the dim air and connects squarely with one of the Gurta ships, annihilating it in a rain of splinters and spray. Then silence falls, the light fades, and all is as it was, except for the flaming wreckage floating on the surface of the suddenly choppy waters.

For a moment I just gape. I've never seen a pulse-lance in action before. It's pretty impressive. But devastating as it is, it will be hours before the chthonomancers are rested enough to charge that thing again. The Gurta have taken a blow, but they'll keep coming. Time is short.

Further along, I identify myself to the Eskaran forces that are holding a line along the cliffs. I'm touched by the reception I receive. They break into spontaneous cheers as word spreads of who I am. I had no idea I was so popular.

'We heard you were dead, in that fucking disaster at Korok,' one of them grins. Korok: the town which took my husband's life.

'What happened? After they ambushed us, I mean?'

'It was a slaughter,' says another soldier, through gritted teeth. He spits and wipes his forehead. 'They knew every move we were making. It should have been an easy take, but they knew everything. Someone sold us out.'

A chill trickles into my blood. I look at the first soldier, a dirty-faced blond man. 'Is that true?'

'It's a rumour,' he says, with a pointed glance at his companion.

'What about the others?' someone asks. 'What about Rynn and Jutti and Vamsa? Did they make it?'

And somehow I'm steel when I say it. 'Rynn is dead.' I see the disappointment on their faces. He was a real hero to them. 'Jutti and Vamsa… I don't know.' They were Cadre, famous fighters both. Jutti with his acrobatic, flamboyant style, Vamsa with her poison whips and equally poisonous tongue. I didn't know them well.

Someone punches the questioner in the ribs, reminding him that he's talking to the dead man's widow.

'Where have you been?' another man asks.

'Away,' I reply, suddenly out of patience. 'Can someone take me to whoever's in charge?'

'Warmaster Vask,' says the blond soldier. 'Come with me.'

We head through the troops, eventually reaching a road that leads to the crest of the fortress. There is little traffic, and the sounds of combat are distant. We walk until an empty delivery cart passes us, heading our way; then we hop aboard and let the driver take us.

'What's happening here?' I ask.

'Just a lull,' he says. 'They want this place badly. We've heard there are Gurtan reinforcements on the way. Lots of them. They're just keeping us on our toes until then.'

'What about us? Anyone coming?'

'We don't know. There's talk of a big push, to break the Gurta lines once and for all, put them on the run. Nobody knows where or when.'

'You believe it?'

'There's always rumours,' he says, hands clasped between his knees. 'Good for morale. But this time… I don't know… seems more real than usual. The Warmasters are up to something.'

I nod absently, watching the road disappear behind us. 'Do you know a young officer by the name of Massima Leithka Jai?'

It takes him a moment to work it out. 'Your son?'

'He was stationed here, last I heard.'

He makes an apologetic face. 'I'm sorry. There's so many here.'

'Doesn't matter. Vask will know.'

'They say… they say you can find out anything,' he murmurs. I look back at him. 'Can you find out the truth?'

'You mean, can I find out if there's a traitor?'

He nods, unsure if he's been too presumptuous.

'I'll find out,' I say. 'Don't worry about that.'

Relief spreads across his face, and after that we travel in silence. 'Warmaster Vask!'

I fall into step alongside him as he hurries through the stone corridors of Caralla, messengers and underlings flitting around him, delivering news and taking orders.

'Who are you?' he asks, not looking at me. He's a slender man, gaunt and with black hair slicked to his skull. Hard-eyed and sharp-featured.

'Massima Leithka Orna, Cadre to Plutarch Nathka Carac-'

'Caracassa Ledo, yes,' he interrupts. 'I don't need your service history. Come to help?' He makes a sharp turn down a corridor and his entourage follow smoothly.

'I'm afraid not, Warmaster; I'm on Caracassa business.' Which is a semi-truth, since I'm trying to take Jai away from the front lines and that's Caracassa business, in a way.

'Shame. We could use you.'

'Warmaster, I need to find an officer who I believe was stationed here.'

'Who?'

'Massima Leithka Jai.'

'Your son?'

'That's right.'

He signs something thrust into his hand, barely looking at it, without breaking stride. I have no idea where we're going, but I get the impression that he has to keep moving because the moment he stops he'll be swamped.

'I can't help,' he says.

'Finding him is vital to Caracassa affairs,' I lie.

He's not taken in. 'Vital how?'

'I can't tell you.'

'Of course you can't.'

'Warmaster!' I snap at him, and my tone brings him to a halt. His entourage freeze, knowing I've overstepped my bounds. He turns on me with a cold gaze, then takes me by the arm and propels me through a door. 'In here.'

The room is somebody's office: a thin, elderly man and two clerks. Vask orders them out and they scurry, leaving us alone, shutting the door behind them. I open my mouth to speak but a volanite impact shakes the room and robs me of the words.

'Listen, Orna, I really can't,' he says, and his tone is not angry as I would have expected, but confiding. 'Army administration is in disarray. Communication has always been bad, but since they announced the upcoming offensive-'

'So it's true?'

'It's true. It'll be huge. They call it Operation Deadfall. I trust you know better than to let that information leave this room?'

'Of course.'

He sighs, sits down on the desk. Tired, harassed. 'The Plutarchs of the Turnward Claw Alliance – Ledo among them, I might add – have started classifying all kinds of records. They're keeping troop movements under wraps while they reorganise, to minimise security leaks. They're also doing it to mask the casualty rates.'

I don't like the sound of that.

'One way or another, a lot of people are going to die,' he says. 'If we do this and we fail, they can't let anyone know the scale of our losses.'