Valen

"Redgrave," Captain Dremora said softly, pointing to a small table in the corner of the car. There were a few papers arrayed on the table, an inkwell, and a metal box. "Have a seat."

Valen sat down, and folded his hands on the table.

It was a mark to how much the night had changed him, that his hands didn't shake under the scrutiny of a legend of the City's armies. And so, for the first time since he had joined the army, he just waited, patient and calm, for his captain to speak.

Which didn't happen right away. Rhavin Dremora didn't seem to be a man who needed to fill silence. He picked through a few papers, set a blank one on the top, and started writing. After several lines of notes, he eventually stopped, and set his quill aside. "I heard it mentioned that you lost a soldier under your command."

Recalling his friend and companion felt like a blow. Valen grimaced, and let himself accept the pain for a moment, before he responded. "Private Darius Tulwar. He fell to a mob of Gloamtaken on Causeway 5-8, escorting the youth in a remedial work camp to the next wall."

Captain Dremora nodded, and folded his hands under his chin. "A succinct report. Adequate for a report to a Colonel. But I'm your captain, Redgrave. Tell me the story."

And surprisingly, Valen did. He began with Darius' comfort accompanying Valen into the field, continued with sharing Darius standing at the vanguard during their trek in the Gloam. He only hesitated during his decision to send them on their own, without him, as he sent his messages and lured the Gloamtaken his way. And despite the shame that stabbed at his stomach as he recounted his failure to reach them in time, he spoke of Darius's salamander work in the face of their enemy.

"He managed two shots for every one from Mildred or Hendricks. That kind of speed doesn't come from shaking hands or looking over your shoulder to see if you could run away. He fought, until he couldn't," Valen finished.

In his silence, he could finally hear the quiet scratch of the captain's quill. A few seconds passed, before Rhavin Dremora looked up again. "Well said. As I took your battle group into the Rangers, his name will be posthumously added to the rolls. When his body is retrieved, Private Darius Tulwar is to be either buried or cremated with the scarf. And you have my gratitude, for ensuring a member of the Rangers will not rise to fight us."

The Captain's gesture to Darius' sacrifice, the quiet honour given as simply as if Darius had always been in the roster of the Rangers, was more profound to Valen than if he had been offered a medal. "Thank you, sir." Was all Valen could manage.

"Think nothing of it. He acquitted himself heroically. But you seem troubled by his death."

That took Valen aback. "Shouldn't I be, sir?"

"On the surface, no," Captain Dremora said. He paused, closed the inkwell, and set his report aside. "But I'd like to know who you blame for his death."

The wariness returned. For a moment, Valen was back on the wall, surrounded by fellow soldiers with their hands on their swords, as Sergeant Ewanmourn and Lieutenant Rodstrom tried to condemn him to death to cover up their own crimes. But a look at his new captain, still with his hands beneath his chin, quiet and patient, helped soothe his sudden fear. "I'd like to say I blame by old sergeant. Or my lieutenant. It would be easy to."

"You'd have cause to," Captain Dremora said quietly.

"I, yes. I'd have cause to. But I blame myself, sir. I, he got killed doing what I asked him to do. It doesn't sit well," Valen admitted.

"Nor should it. But here, away from the soldiers under your command, you have the luxury of second-guessing your decisions. Do you think you failed Darius, Sergeant Redgrave?"

"I, yes sir. I do think I failed him. He's dead."

"As sure a metric as any," Captain Dremora agreed, with a quiet nod as he stared at the table for a moment. "But did you give him poor orders, sending him with the rest of your battle group while you stayed behind to light the fields?"

"I, I don't know. Sir," Valen said solemnly.

"Let me tell you what I think of your actions. And if you find my judgement harsh, remember that I judge you as a master sergeant of the Cadavalan Rangers. Not as a corporal on the watch," Captain Dremora said, and his voice rose in volume and tenor. "Your contribution to Private Tulwar's death was in not contacting your superiors immediately. Admittedly, with two links in the chain of command severed, I can understand why you didn't think of that as an option. But not contacting the captain guaranteed that no relief would be coming, and contributed to Darius being in the position of standing with just two others against that mob. It is an excusable failing, considering the position you put yourself in, but it is still a failure. One I hope you will take stock of."

"I," Valen paused, and he found he was as much relieved as he was ashamed.

"Your strategic decisions were sound. You could not light the fields without evacuating the work camp. I'd have had you put to a firing squad if you had allowed it to happen. Your use of the trenches to make it to the causeway ensured you were not lost at any point. And putting yourself and Hendricks towards where the Gloamtaken were likely to emerge — given your skills with the sword — was clever. Drawing them towards you when you split off from the others was a savvy choice, which served to both thin their numbers and space them out, giving the others the best chance you could give them. Asides from what I already mentioned, you did your duty and did it well."

Captain Dremora sighed, and tapped the table with his finger. "Darius died because he stood in harms way, willingly. You will not demean his death by pretending it wasn't his choice to fight, Sergeant Redgrave."

"There is one more thing, sir," Valen said. "I almost forgot in the rush of events, but Darius Tulwar, he was from Barleybarrel."

"It's a small City," Captain Dremora mused, with a wistful smile. "Then I want you to make finding his relations a priority, as soon we we arrive. Take everyone who was there during his death with you. Vincent will need to remain attached to Sergeant Nasim Lorec. Discuss with Corporal Mackaroy if you need to attach a shadow to them. But get it done quickly, I don't know how long Barleybarrel have until the Gloamtaken reach it. My last reports were that Barelybarrel has been surrounded by the Gloam for hours."

"Aye sir," Valen said. He stood up and saluted, remembering in time to add the second tap to his chest. The captain returned it, then looked down to his papers. Valen, relieved to have some clarity to his troubled heart, turned to depart.

"Oh, and Valen?"

His first name. It was strange to Valen, being addressed that way by the captain. "Yes, sir?"

"What's your count?"

Valen shook his head, trying and failing to understand the question.

"Your count. How many Gloamtaken have you brought down?" Rhavin Dremora asked.

It was strange, but the number came to him immediately. He remembered each one, and the move it had taken to bring each down, as clearly as if he had written each in a ledger. "Forty-six, sir."

"That's a brutal deficit to climb out of, but the invasion's young." Captain Dremora dipped his fingers into his pocket, and pulled out a small piece of metal. He slid it across the table towards Valen. "If my final tally surpasses yours by the end of the war, you'll buy me a drink with that."

Valen picked it up, to see the army's insignia of a wall with a sword rising behind it. On the other side, the stamp of Parliament, authorizing the coin as a single lottery token. "And if I remain ahead?"

"Then I buy yours. And don't you dare let me win out of pity, or hoping for a promotion. It will be to the everlasting shame of the Rangers if someone outside the company exceeds our counts."

Valen put the coin in his pouch, and nodded. "My count isn't highest, captain."

"No one else has come in serious, sustained contact with the Gloamtaken yet, Redgrave. As far as I know, you have a commanding lead."

"Crafter Garland Kohl, sir."

Captain Dremora's eyes widened a little, and he paused in the middle of a breath. Slowly, solemly, he nodded and turned his gaze to the window. "A Golem only counts as one."

The laugh felt like an explosion in Valen's stomach, and burst out of his mouth so hard he might as well have coughed it out. He laughed, bent over, and put his hands on his knees to support himself.

Captain Dremora snickered, and lasted only a moment longer than Valen before he leaned over the desk, roaring with laughter.

"Oh, could you imagine telling that to a Crafter?" Rhavin asked. "A hundred and fifty feet of stone dropping at your feet, and some jackass army captain just scoffs and says 'that still isn't getting you a spot on the tapestry'? Pretty sure we'd be hot ash, and we'd deserve it."

Valen remembered the thunder of the Golem's stride as it crossed the miles. He remembered the cacophony and the shaking wall as it charged the wall to strike down Crafter Howel. And he remembered how the wall crumbled beneath its fists. "We would deserve it, sir."

"I forget that you've actually seen one," Captain Dremora said as he sat back up. "Go find something useful to do until we arrive. Perhaps make sure your shadows know how to use a Salamander. I suspect their knife work is already competent enough."

"Aye, sir," Valen said, though the silly grin didn't leave his face.