Valen

The brakes made their muffled squeal, as the train turned off the Causeway and down the ramp along the side of the wall. At the bottom of the ramp, lingering just dozens of feet from the wall's pilot lights, the pallid Gloam waited. The siege had already reached three walls into the City.

The train plunged into the Gloam, and rode the tracks through it like a creature swimming through the water.

Strangely, it wasn't the siege that made Valen's palms sweat. "What do I say to them?" he asked, as much to himself as anyone else.

There were only two people close enough that they might have heard him. To his left, Gwendolyn Aranhall stood so still stone might have envied her poise. Her hat was tilted forward on her head, her medical bag strapped tightly over her shoulder, and rested under her left arm. At the sound of his voice she tilted her hat up slightly, and patted him on the shoulder.

It wasn't reassurance. But it was reassuring.

To his right, Mackaroy O'Fallow was adjusting the collar of his padded coat, trying to accomodate the closely tied sheathes of a couple of his knives. "Haven't the foggiest idea. Only perk of being a shadow is you don't have to go apologize to the families afterwards."

The train whistled into the gloom, and was answered by a similar wail, barley more than an echo. The train rumbled as the brakes clamped on, passed a line of torches, and arrived in Barleybarrel.

The Gloam encircled the entire town, lingering at the edge of the pilot lights and towering above the mist. The mist rose like a wall at the edge of the light, rising as high as four storeys. Only the single warehouse, the grain tower, and Barleybarrel's apartment towers rose above it.

Barelybarrel was, thankfully, large enough that the Gloam couldn't form a canopy above it. The sky wasn't quite black anymore; kissed by just a hint of sunlight in the earliest morning, it bore just a hint of blue. "That's one night done," Valen said to himself.

Beside him, Gwnedolyn laughed. "Burn me, you're right. This madness is just a single night old. I feel like I've lived a year."

The train passed behind the warehouse at the back of the town, and drew close to a platform set near the grain tower. Up ahead, a large crowd of people had already gathered, with hundreds or perhaps a thousand people squeezed together in a space meant for dozens.

"Simmering ash stain," Mackaroy cursed. "That mob is going to want on this train, and is going to hate us when we tell them 'no'."

Boots clicked hard against the car floor, to clear to be an accident. Valen turned in time to see Lieutenant Volenski pass behind Mackaroy and set a hand on his shoulder. "You've seen a lot of people at their worst," she said, slow and calm.

"Not sure I'd call it 'at their worst'." Mackaroy gestured towards the crowd, a knife somehow appearing in his hand. "Always thought of it as at someone's most honest."

"Then you might be pleasantly surprised," the lieutenant replied. "Sergeant Redgrave, I understand you need to have a fallen soldier to honour here?"

"I do, ma'am," Sergeant Redgrave said.

"You should attend to it as soon as any issues on the train platform are settled. It shouldn't take long," Niveah Volenski said, and there was a happy smile on her stern and weathered face.

"I have two lottery tokens from Oversight that says this will turn ugly," Mackaroy said, holding two small coins between fingers in his right hand, where the knife had been a heartbeat before.

"I'll see your bet," Lieutenant Volenski said. "The only real mystery is when I'll be able to spend your hard-earned winnings, Corporal." There was a confidence in the lieutenant's voice, as if she was making a bet about sunrise. And it only took Valen a few moments to see why.

There were people on the rooftops of the apartment buildings, at the outermost edges of the town. In pairs, every one faced out at the besieging Gloam. A crowd, easily the match of the one at the train platform, was gathered in the small fountain that served as the town square. Open boxes lined the side of the nearby warehouse, full of small foods like bread and vegetables. And the crowd at the platform, more women than men, more elderly than young, and nearly ever person carried one or two small children among them.

"They're prepared," Valen said. "They've picked the people who should be evacuated first. The elderly, small children, anyone who can't handle a long walk. Rather doubt any of them will fight when they see soldiers coming to help defend their loved ones."

As the train hissed, and came to a crawling stop at the platform, Mackaroy extended his arm, and handed Lieutenant Volenski the coins.

"First platoon, asides from the sergeants, hold position. We lead with authority and confidence, not numbers. Once we're sure the crowd is cooperative, empty the train," Lieutenant Volenski called out. "Take our supplies to the north side of the platform. Everything else, chuck out the far side of the car. We want to make as much space as we can, standing room only."

"Aye, ma'am," came from Valen' left, and he echoed it crisply. The lieutenant nodded, and opened the door. Valen and the other sergeants followed, while the rest of the platoon waited.

Valen couldn't remember a crowd so quiet. Even with the hundreds of children — even infants — in the crowd, all Valen could hear was the quiet huff of the train's engine. The hundreds of residents held in their wide circle without advancing, leaving just three people standing alone, waiting.

The trio waiting on the platform looked remarkably similar, despite not being similar at all. They were a wide-eyed corporal too young to shave more than his upper lip, a pudgy woman with gnarled hands who leaned heavily on her cane, and a reed-thin man with sunken eyes and skin as rough as burlap. But all three of them had heavy bags under their eyes, disheveled hair, and the grim expressions of people worn numb by trauma.

And as if they were the same person, all three looked ready to cheer when Captain Dremora stepped off the train. The captain grinned as he sauntered to them, his left hand resting lazily on the hilt of his sword. "If the three of you are in charge, my compliments. Under the circumstances, Barleybarrel is in an excellent situation."

The corporal snapped to attention, and saluted, hand to chest. Captain Dremora returned it, tapping his fist to his chest twice. The older two looked at each other for a moment, mouths open and brows furrowed. "An excellent situation?" the weathered old man asked. "We're besieged by the Gloam, we have monsters coming from the mist, and we have no promise of rescue."

"If you think you have it bad, sir," Captain Dremora replied. His voice was quiet, so much that even Valen had to hold his breath to hear. "Then you don't know what's been happening anywhere else in the City."

The older man's face turned pale, and he hung his head. Captain Dremora stepped up to the woman in the middle, and offered his hand. "You have set a watch. The town is organized, you have a barrier of fire set, and the most vulnerable are ready to be evacuated first. You are the quiet heroism that keeps the City burning. I am relieved to see it, and I am grateful."

"Are you here to help us evacuate them?" the woman with the cane asked.

"No," Captain Dremora said softly, as he took her hand and shook it. He then set his hand on her shoulder, and raised his voice to a shout. "We are here to defend Barleybarrel. I will be, from this moment, the last person to leave. Everyone who can fit on this train will take it to safety."

The old woman surprised Valen, when she threw her arms out and hugged the captain. "Thank you, sir. Thank you."

"Rangers!" Lieutenant Volenski cried out. She turned, and pointed at the open car. "A cheer for Barleybarrel!"

Valen shouted into the twilight and the gloom, and raised his fist into the air. He could barley hear his own voice, for a cacophony behind him. When it died down, the lieutenant pointed to the end of the platform. "All right, empty the train."

Valen started to move back to the train, intent on helping unload, but a firm hand gripped his shoulder and stopped him. He turned, to see his lieutenant pointing with her other hand towards where Captain Dremora was still speaking to the local leaders. "Senior officers should hear discussions that pertain to strategy."

Valen nodded, and followed Lieutenant Volenski as she joined the group now forming around the local trio. "I trust at least some of the more reliable farmhands have been picked out, and are being used as a sort of auxiliary militia?" Captain Dremora asked.

"Yes, sir. They haven't really been an auxiliary force, though," the young corporal said, his words coming out so quickly it was hard to separate them. "It was just me and the two comms specialists. Mister Barrowright here is the lead hand, he's been organizing the locals. And Mrs Irvel is the town's mayor, as well as head of the local hospice chapter."

"Where's the rest of your company?" Captain Dremora asked.

"Transferred back to the City. Only my platoon was left behind. My lieutenant was left to escort the Crafter strike team that brought down the Golem. They were out at the next wall last I heard, but the whole wall went dark a few hours ago," the corporal said.

"I see. And how far is the nearest access point to the next wall?" Lieutenant Volenski asked.

"Six miles northeast. The other option is more than seven miles southwest, the train ramp you took to get here," Mister Barrowright said.

"Any other ways up the wall?" Lieutenant Volenski asked.

"There's a service lift, but it can only carry three people at a time."

"Redgrave," Captain Dremora said, turning to him. Every other eye in the group followed. "You escorted just shy of a hundred people through the Gloam. What are we likely to encounter if we tried to walk most of Barleybarrel out?"

Valen frowned, pushing aside the surprise of being allied to answer, and forced himself to consider the question. "They've already encountered Gloamtaken, which means more could be close. And even being able to follow the wall, so that we could only be ambushed from one side, we'd be spread extremely thin. And there's no telling how many would be in that ambush. It could be a handful. It could be hundreds."

"How many people are here?" Lieutenant Volenski asked.

"Fourteen thousand," Mrs Irvel said.

"Even packed together, we'd be spread out for a mile," Valen said. "And the Gloam isn't as predictable as it was. It clung close to the wall before the Golem came. We couldn't rely on the pilot lights to provide much space, so we'd have to stretch the ourselves thin to use the wall."

"So walking is a bad idea. It doesn't mean we won't try it, but I want better options," Captain Dremora said. He turned to one of the sergeants, a wiry man with tightly-packed, curly hair, and unique among any rank Valen had ever seen, two specialist designations above his corporal bar. A Master Sergeant of two specialties. "Master Sergeant Lorec, do we have enough explosive to blast our way through the wall?"

Mrs Irvel gaped, her eyes wide, and very nearly fell over. And her reaction was hardly more dramatic than anyone else's in the group. Except for the Master Sergeant, who only gave the wall a quick glance and frowned with his fingers rubbing against his chin. "No. But tell me I can use our special talent, and I'll tell you we don't need any of it to cut our way through the wall."

Captain Dremora gaped, his mouth hanging open for a moment. "You're serious?"

"He is," Valen agreed quietly. "I have seen other crafters do as much."

"Tricky part isn't breaking the wall," Nasim said. Instinctively, Valen looked back at the fortification behind them. At the hundred feet of stone that loomed over his head. "It's getting us through without leaving the wall open."

"It's a wall, not a door. If we can get the people of Barleybarrel through without breaking the ceramic pipes, it will still hold the Gloam back. And a single, narrow breach is a much better defensive position than being strung across a mile of open field," Captain Dremora said.

"True. But Vincent and I have been talking. The Craft is an amazingly utilitarian skill. With him, I think I can set up a way to breach the wall so we can get through, and then drop it down after."

"Burn me," Lieutenant Volenski said.

Captain Dremora was smiling like a man who had just won the lottery. "Nasim, if this works, I will steal enough lottery tokens from the Bureau of Agriculture to buy you a barrel of ale. Go get Mister Hearthsward and get on that service lift. I expect to hear good news soon."

Nasim Lorec saluted, and dashed off.

"All right. Worst case scenario is the sergeant's ambitions don't pan out, and we are left with a small breach in the wall to defend. That still puts a wall between the people here and the Gloam, which makes it the best plan we're likely to get. So the rest of us need to make sure Nasim has all the time he needs. Which means we need to make Barleybarrel more defensible," Captain Dremora said, his voice rising in volume from a quiet conversation to a roar.

Captain Dremora pointed to the young solider first. "Corporal, get back to the comms and have your squad harass the comptroller for an answer about our evacuation. I need something more specific than 'help is coming', even if it means we have to walk all the way back to the City."

The corporal saluted, spun on his heel, and dashed away. The captain turned to the weather-worn man next. "Mister Barrowright, I need a map of the town. Find one if one exists, draw me one if it doesn't. I want a decent understanding of the town's infrastructure, with a mind on making choke points to block or at least funnel crowds. I also want food and water kept at a convenient and accessible location, a spot that will serve as a good muster point. The fountain in the middle of town seemed ideal."

The weathered farmer nodded, and turned to leave. But Valen darted around his lieutenant, and dashed over to follow him. "Mrs Irvel, I'm trusting the evacuation of our most vulnerable to you. Anyone who can't handle a full day's march should get on board. That includes you," the captain continued, in the same powerful tone.

Valen gestured towards town, and followed as Mister Barrowright marched on. "Sorry, Mister Barrowright, a quick question. Do you know anyone by the last name Tulwar?"

"The Tulwars are a big family here. Four generations. And they're friends, sergeant."

"I'm looking for the parents of Darius Tulwar."

"Beverly and Michael. They're part of the watch, on the rooftop of the tall building on the north end," Mister Barrowright explained. He stopped, and fixed Valen with a hard stare."And I take it you don't have good news about their son."

Mister Barrowright's gaze might have given Valen pause, once. The hard stare from a man used to giving orders, who was used to getting his way from other hard folk, wasn't an easy man to stand up to. But it was a small challenge, compared to everything else he had been through since the night had begun. Valen met that gaze, and like rain washing against one of the walls, it was the old farmer who turned away. "I have news they ought to hear first," Valen replied, softly.

"Yeah. I understand. Sorry, sergeant."

Valen shook his head and smiled. "You've done too much good for this place to be apologizing. But I shouldn't keep you. We need that map almost as badly as we need a train. Burn brightly, Mister Barrowright."

"You too, sergeant."

Valen turned back to the train, passing an expectant mother who was holding a little girl by the hand. The girl shied away and hid behind her mother, hiding her face. Valen stopped, on a strange impulse, and crouched down in front of the little girl.

"I trust you're looking out for your mother?" Valen asked. He smiled, and pointed over at the train. "Get the front car. There are a few chairs bolted to the walls, your mother will love you to pieces if you get her a place to sit."

The little girl nodded, her face stern and her gaze hard. Her mother was beaming at him, with a smile as warm as a summer sunrise.

Valen saluted, and counted it a small victory.