Vincent

Vincent ran to the sounds of battle, miles away from the Walls their enemy had claimed.

As he ran, he held out his hand and willed a small Craft into existence. Another bird, he tried to make each one he made different. It helped, he found, to shape the fire into a familiar shape, distinct from him. It served as a reminder that he wasn't the flame, no matter how the lure of his power might pull at him.

His craft took wing, and his sight rose over the heads of the thickening crowd even as he pushed his way through it. His will flew over where the crowd turned into a solid wall of bodies, and into the space they walled over.

Seeing through the Craft was one of the most addictive aspects of wielding the flame. Through a candle, a Crafter could see in every direction that their will cast light. That sight was magnified and enhanced, as it could see light that the eyes couldn't, and saw in focus and breadth far beyond sight.

Vincent could see, for instance, the speckles of blood spattered across the stone, even from a dozen yards above. So the blood on Hendricks' sword was as easy to read as a banner, even as he cleaned it with a rag. Three soldiers sat on a distant table, with medics treating their wounds. A tourniquet was being tied to an arm that ended rather abruptly at the wrist.

In the distance, someone carried a bundle of rags, dyed red on one end.

Corporal Redgrave was speaking to the Rangers' Lieutenant Volenski, and the conversation appeared to be an unhappy one. Vincent reluctantly let go of his Craft, and his world narrowed to the pinpricks of light that his dull, gelatinous eyes could see. He pushed his way forward and through the wall of people.

Hendricks and the shadow, Cameron, were deep in a quiet conversation. "You weren't wrong to do it," Cameron said, clapping a hand on Hendricks' shoulder.

"They got what they deserved."

"Valen shouldn't have told you to disarm. That nearly got you bludgeoned," Cameron insisted. "You don't disarm in front of an enemy like that."

"Those were soldiers. They aren't the enemy," Hendricks replied, in a timid voice barely above a whisper. "I've seen our enemy."

"Killed our enemy, from what I've heard. Which is more than those fools who attacked you can say," Cameron insisted. "And a lot more than nearly anyone in the City can say."

"Hendricks, what happened?" Vincent asked.

"Some MP's tried to take me home. They attacked me when I refused," Hendricks said bitterly, and he spat on the ground as if to accentuate his disgust. "I won't let my parents tell me I'm useless anymore. I'm in this fight. I've killed Gloamtaken, more than most people in the City right now."

Cameron looked over at Vincent, and scowled. "Would have expected you to be riding your master's coattails back to the City by now."

"Funny, I was about to say the same thing," Vincent replied, the words slipping out so quickly it surprised him. But there was something about the idea of leaving, of being dismissed as useless and cowardly after everything he had witnessed, that brought up a cold rage he didn't know he possessed. "Having to keep a knife to my Master's back would be a quick way to get you back home to your bedsheets, if you need a place to hide."

"Don't talk like you're not eager to go home," Cameron said.

Vincent wanted to say something in response, something suitably biting. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw the horizon, and how dark it had become. There were two walls beneath the Gloam now, twenty miles of farmland lost to the siege.

"I don't want to, shadow," Vincent replied eventually. "But I don't think I'll be allowed to stay."

"Because you're an apprentice. Convenient."

Vincent had no rebuttal. Cameron scoffer, and turned back to Hendricks. Vincent stepped away  and spotted Lieutenant Volenski just beginning a conversation with Valen. He recalled that his master had stormed off after Valen and Gwendolyn, and suspected they might know where Olivia Polden was.

He waved to Gwendolyn, and jogged to intercept her. She stopped in front of him with a wave, and paused to catch her breath.

"If I had known the end of the world would involve so much running," she panted, and shook her head.

"Have you seen Crafter Polden?" Vincent asked.

"Yeah. She stayed behind after we had an impromptu disciplinary hearing. Valen was punished rather severely," Gwendolyn replied solemnly, as she caught her breath. Though she wore a grin so wide the corner of her mouth hid behind the hair falling over her cheek. "He's been raised to Master Sergeant, and we've been reassigned to the Cadavalan Rangers."

Vincent frowned. "That doesn't sound much like a punishment."

"We're also leaving, and it sounds like we're heading into a fight. The captain ordered the company to stockpile ammo and explosives. Valen's telling Lieutenant Volenski now," Gwendolyn said. "Not sure where we're headed to."

"Rangers!" Lieutenant Volenski bellowed, and silence fell across the impromptu mess hall. The white-scarved rangers stood, and even some bystanders in the dispersing crowd stopped to wait.

Gwendolyn leaned over and tilted her head closer to Vincent. "Think I'm about to find out," she added.

"We're heading to Barleybarrel! All hands, collect demolition charges, ammo, and food! Muster point is platform twelve. Valen, you may inform your squad about their new assignment before you assist."

Vincent followed Gwendolyn, who followed Valen back to his squad. The corporal looked different, it was something in how he moved and in his posture, but it looked to Vincent as if Valen Redgrave had just been allowed to put a burden down.

Valen's group gathered round in a tight circle, though strangely Roderick and Gwendolyn left room between them, and Gwen gestured for Vincent to join them. "So," Valen said, hesitantly. "I have bad news for the lot of us. We've been reassigned."

"You mean we're being shuffled off into other companies, sir?" Mildred asked.

"No. We've been reassigned as a squad-"

"Group, sir. You need to be a sergeant to command a squad," Hendricks cut in.

"I didn't misspeak," Valen replied. "We are now a squad, serving Captain Rhavin Dremora. First Army, First Battalion, First Company."

"The oldest company," Mildred whispered, and she looked back at the departing soldiers in white scarves. "We're joining the Rangers?"

"We are," Valen conformed. "And we're probably heading back into battle. If any of you want out, I'll do everything I can to make sure you're transferred back into a different company. Being a ranger is an honour, but it's a guarantee that we'll be on the front lines as long as there's a front line."

"A ranger?" Hendricks asked.

"That's right," someone else said, nearby. Vincent turned to see a soldier. And it was startling to see a man Vincent recognized as a soldier first, above and beyond any other quality. His padded coat looked like dirt had never touched it, the belt buckles holding two salamanders and a sword were so well oiled they made no sound as he walked, and he stepped into the circle as if the idea that he wouldn't be heard or obeyed had never occurred to him.

His master, Crafter Polden, was standing beside him. When their eyes met, she gave him an encouraging smile, but didn't speak.

"I am Captain Rhavin Dremora, first company. As Valen said, I will offer you all one and only one chance to choose your fates. Being a Ranger is burning hard under normal circumstances, and this is the Fifth."

Rhavin Dremora looked at each of them in turn, going clockwise around the circle. His gaze lingered for a full second on each of them, and on his turn Vincent felt that scrutiny like a a weight, pressing down on his shoulders. But he held that gaze until the captain moved on.

"And the fact that every one of you understands what it means to be fighting during the Fifth is the only burning reason you're being allowed to join," Captain Dremora said, and he tapped his sword with a finger. "First, you are now third squad, first platoon. Valen has been raised to Sergeant with a Master Specialist designation in comms. First platoon is commanded by Lieutenant Volenski, but for the moment you'll be under my direct supervision. You're exempt from current duties because you all need to be properly kitted. I'll summon the company quartermaster to see to that."

Rhavin looked at each of them again, before continuing. "Most importantly, make sure you're comfortable with your gear. The odds are extremely good that we're heading into a fight. We're heading to a fringe town called Barleybarrel, which seems to have been forgotten in the rush to ferry everyone into the City proper. It is currently surrounded by the Gloam, and I have no assurances that we can get trains in there before Gloamtaken reach them. So make sure your coats fit, specialist you're to find a new sleeve or a new coat. Sergeant Redgrave, I leave the allocation of groups to you, and will review your promotion recommendations on the train."

Vincent barely heard the captain's last words, only following enough to know when he stopped. As soon as he had, he turned to Crafter Polden and asked, "Master, are we going with them?"

In what perhaps should not have been a surprise, it was Captan Dremora who answered first. "Crafters are under orders to return to the City. That command comes from the Lord Captain, and will not be disobeyed."

"It's a pity," someone said behind Vincent, and a hand clapped him on the shoulder. Mackaroy appeared beside him, and joined the circle. "Barleybarrel could have used you, Polly."

"Agreed. But the orders are clear," Crafter Polden said with a small shrug. "I must return."

Vincent watched his master for a moment, surprised by how accepting she acted over abandoning Barleybarrel. An order, even from the Lord Captain, was a convenient train to board, an easy way to put interpose walls and the City's armies. But the more Vincent considered where he was, and where he wanted to be, the more the thought of what Sally Carathal told him came flooding back.

The more he thought, the more he wished he had stood, as Garland Kohl had. As Breckan Howel had. As his master had.

"Crafters are ordered to return?" Vincent asked. "In that case, Captain Dremora, I'd like to help. If you'll have me."

"I'm not taking civilians," Captain Dremora replied, but he was smiling for the first time. "If you're coming along, Mister Hearthsward, you're doing it as a soldier."

Vincent mouth fell open, hearing his last name being used by a man who should have no reason to know it. He turned to face his master, who looked rather pleased with herself. "You told him I'd do this," Vincent accused.

"I told him to expect the possibility," his master admitted.

"Sir, I don't think I am allowed to join," Vincent admitted. "It's the First Law of Reconciliation."

"A Crafter shall hold no public office, nor wield any authority over another. But as we just ever so cleverly established, Mister Hearthsward, you are not a Crafter. If you were, you'd be going back to the City, as your lawful orders demand," Rhavin said, and for the first time, anger rippled across his face for a moment. But only for a moment. "But you will be a soldier, a ranger, for as long as this operation requires. You will wear an army coat, you will start learning how to salute, and you will follow the orders of your superiors. And since Valen's squad seems to be made entirely of collected misfits, you'll be attached to his squadron."

"Very well," Vincent said.

"And you'll need to get used to saying 'sir, yes sir', kid," Mackaroy added quickly. "Officers get petulant if a conversation isn't stroking their ego."

"You're a shadow?" Rhavin asked Mackaroy.

"I am."

"Then you'll also be attached to Valen's squad."

"The boy isn't my assignment."

Rhavin stepped into the circle, and stopped a few feet away from Mackaroy. Vincent was surprised at how similar the two men seemed, despite the vast difference in lives and backgrounds. Both of them were hard men, made that way by experiences Vincent had only begun to appreciate, and they now judged one another in a silent conversation that no one else, apart perhaps from Valen, knew how to speak.

Eventually, Mackaroy nodded. "Kid's going into danger, his master's on her way back to the City. Reckon I'd be more useful with you and yours. Have another shadow with me, Cameron Aster. He was on the wall, when they fought the Golem."

"Very well," Rhavin said. The captain whistled, waved his hand in the air, then pointed his finger towards his feet. Vincent turned to see another soldier already running towards them.

"This is Sergeant Francine Olverstil, company quartermaster," Captain Dremora said, by way of introduction. He took out a small pad of paper and a charcoal stick, and starting writing as he talked, "Francine, this is the newly instated third squad, of first platoon. Master Sergeant Valen Redgrave will inform you of all appropriate rank and specialist designations, with one exception. Vincent Hearthsward has enlisted under the rank of 'special talent', designation four. He is not to be given orders related to his talent except by a commissioned officer, or someone designated by myself."

"Which talent, sir?" The quartermaster asked.

"The Craft."