Gwendolyn

They had been outnumbered over ten to one. Gwendolyn didn't realize it, until she started counting the bodies. A hundred Gloamtaken had burst out from the enshrouded path they followed. They were the nightmares of bedtime stories, the terror of any crew building the walls the City huddled behind.

And her squad had cut through them like fire through dry grass.

It helped that they were spearheaded by Rhavin Dremora; Captain of the storied Cadavalan Rangers, and regarded by anyone who deserved an opinion on the subject to be the City's preeminent soldier. Valen, as she had already seen, was a savant with the sword, and Mackaroy a killer so practiced he made even the other two men wary. But her own battle group — Hendricks, Cameron and Fauth — had held the captain's left, and the bodies piled at their feet outnumbered the entire platoon.

"First squad," Captain Dremora shouted. "To the fore. Second squad, rear-guard. Third squad, get some water and look over your equipment as we march."

Every drink of water Gwendolyn had taken since the Golem had first appeared, looming over a hundred foot wall like it was a picket-fence at a train station, tasted better than it had any right to. She knew it shouldn't, it was tepid and so laden with minerals it was almost acidic, but with each sip came a near-euphoric relief.

Most of what she drank, lately, was taken at the end of a fight.

She was only just screwing the cap of the glass bottle back into place when she heard Valen shout, "ammo count. And look over your swords and knives if you used them."

Gwendolyn took the chance to look over her gun. Not a Salamander, the strange weapon in her hands was still cool to the touch, despite having fired over a dozen shots. Others in the second rank — particularly Mildred, who was re-oiling the pad on her right shoulder where the barrel rested — all had seen their barrels heat up, warping the air around the barrels much as the Crafters had when they made their protective barriers.

But she knew it worked. It fired thin streams of bright blue fire, narrower and brighter than what came out of the guns her companions carried. It spat out spent shots, flicking them out of the barrel as soon as she twisted it open, as if hungry for more.

"Interesting weapon," someone said from behind Gwendolyn. She turned her head, not recognizing the voice, and not recognizing the man who spoke. White scarf, two bars, with a design between the two bars of a stylized explosion, and brown eyes as cold as the soil around a grave. The right side of his face was speckled with scars, and his right eyebrow was considerably smaller than his left.

"It works," Gwendolyn said, lacking a better response.

"It lengthens your shot out a little. It might punch a little further than a regulation Salamander, and it might be easier to twist your shots a little," the man reflected, with a frown.

He looked Gwendolyn in the eyes, and saw she didn't understand. "Salamander shot doesn't come out all at once. Most spread it out for about as long as it takes to say 'one'. Yours spreads it a bit longer. Not much, about as long as it takes to say 'three'. So if your barrel is sweeping left or right, you'll spread the shot out in a line."

"Huh. Does it still penetrate?"

"Not fully. But a regular shot can punch through three feet of flesh. You don't need all of that to bring down a Golem. Basic training doesn't teach the Salamander all that well."

"I wouldn't know. I think I've been in the army for a whole half-day now."

"We're going to have to re-think basic training once we wrap up this invasion," the man said. "Not an insult to you and yours, but none of you should be good enough to be plucked from the regular army into the Rangers. The army should be better than this. We need to change that."

"I don't think we'll get the chance," Gwendolyn said, startling herself with the thought. But even as she voiced it, half-formed as it was, she was struck by the weight of its truth. "Half the fields will still be beneath the Gloam. That's half the food we were expecting to be able to feed the City with, for months on end. Between planting anything that will grow quickly, to survive a lean bunch of years, we'll be pushing hard to rebuild, and even expand. Making the army better, that'll get pushed back for at least a decade, when we'll forget as we fall back into the grind of surviving the siege."

"That's," the man trailed off, falling silent. "Burn us all."

"Suspect it's why we're as unprepared as we are right now," Gwendolyn added. "Because it's what they went through after the Fourth."

"Ash and embers, that thought's going to haunt me," he said. He held out his hand. "Cid Thanewulf."

"Gwendolyn Aranhall," she said, and shook his hand.

"Aranhall," the man said, and smiled for the first time. Despite the coldness the man seemed to be enshrouded in, like a piece of winter surrounded him, the gesture looked surprisingly warm. "Good shooting, Ranger."

Ranger. One word, just one word. But he confirmed with the force of a writ of parliament that she belonged where she was.

Cid began to turn away, but tapped his forehead with his finger as he left. "Can't say much for your hat, though."

Gwendolyn gaped as she watched Cid walk away, unable to compose a suitable rebuttal to fling at his exposed back. That rebuttal might even have been one of Cameron's knives, if she had one on hand. "Ash-bitten little shit," she muttered. She found Cameron and Hendricks conversing a short ways away, with Fauth still counting the ammo in his pouch. "What's your count?" she asked as she approached.

"Fifty-two," Hendricks answered immediately. Cameron gave her sullen look, though Gwendolyn suspected there was a hint of embarrassment mixed into it, since he turned away to count his shots.

"You look like someone gave you a bag of lottery tokens, boss," Hendricks remarked. "What did he say to you?"

"He called me a ranger. And insulted my hat," Gwendolyn answered, taking it off to look it over.

"He won't be the last, if you keep wearing it," Hendricks said.

Gwendolyn scowled, but didn't have a chance to reply. "First Platoon, at a march," Captain Dremora bellowed. First squad started marching, and even a sudden staccato of Salamander fire barely pulled a reaction from her. She shouldered her weapon and pointed in the direction of the march. "Fauth, Hendricks, keep an eye on the left side. Cameron, the torch."

And they marched, following Captain Dremora. Lieutenant Volenski had joined the front squad, alongside the captain, already reloading her weapon. Even as the gunfire grew more frantic, the march didn't slow. Gwendolyn couldn't see how many creatures were coming from the Gloam, but the withering fire from the guns of the rangers brought them down so quickly it hardly cost them a step.

In fact, the only real proof Gwendolyn had that Gloamtaken were falling was in the bodies she had to step over.

"Spit and burning ash," Hendricks remarked. "That gunfire. That is incredible."

"You've already seen the captain at work," Cameron said.

"Sure. And none of them are a match for him, but they're all managing practically a shot a second." Hendricks' mouth hung open a little, and his eyes were wide. "Even Darius couldn't shoot that fast, and he'd spend his last hour every other day practicing his reloads."

"Rangers," Gwendolyn said.

Their guns fell silent shortly after, and a few more minutes passed in the tense calm of frightening ignorance. And in that quiet, they were suddenly able to hear more than the occasional shout of that strange, distant cannon.

There were shouts. Screams. And Salamander fire.

Suddenly, the Gloam in front of them parted like a pair of curtains. And the stage behind was already in the third act. Bonfires bloomed — orange soil over a crop of black smoke — in a long line that trailed down the field like seeing the walls from one of the watchtowers. Crowds of people were rushing about, carrying brush and bundles to add fuel to the fires. On the near side, Gloamtaken in their dozens were being fought by small clumps of people, busy falling back to keep from being overwhelmed.

"Lieutenant Volenski, take first squad to the left," Captain Dremora said. "Drop those ash-stained shits, relieve the fighters, and start torching the fields east of their fire line. Second squad, assemble here, and check the wounded. Third squad, secure the scene."

First squad answered; a single note, a wordless bellow. And the sound their fists made as they punched their chests twice was something Gwendolyn could almost feel in the ground at her feet. They didn't run, they barely increased their speed, but as they marched into the battle their shots cut through the Gloamtaken with cold precision.

A call went up among the crowds adding fuel to the fires. Shouts, turned glances, gesturing arms, and a wave of relief that rippled across their numbers like the wind rushing across a field of wheat.

"Soldiers, rangers!"

"They sent help!"

Captain Dremora was already marching towards them, his arm pointed at the wall of fire. "What the burning hell are you all gawking at? We're not out of the Gloam yet. Who's in charge here?"

In the meantime, Valen lead them to the edge of the fire wall, in the wake of first squad, who were already beginning to disperse into the fields with torches. Gwendolyn marched ahead, and picked out some of the people who had only just been relieved by first squad.

Four people, sitting on the north side of an irrigation trench. Only one of them a solider, a corporal with a comms specialist designation. Another man, hair so matted to his head it almost looked painted on, and two women who looked so similar they might be sisters.

Gwendolyn slid down the other side of the trench, and set her medical bag down. "Corporal. You're looking like you've all seen the back end of the furnace."

He looked up. Exhausted, and not just the fatigue of exercise. He looked as if a bit of who he was had been hollowed out by the last few hours. "That's not far from the truth," he admitted.

Gwendolyn looked from one to the next. The man next to the corporal was probably the best off, carrying nothing but small scrapes. The two women carried between them the kind of wounds that should have gotten them pulled off the front line of any work the City could ask of them, one looked as if she had been hit in the eye hard, and the other was bleeding from a messy looking wound that looked like someone had taken a grater to her shoulder.

"Where's your commanding officer? My captain wants a word," Gwendolyn asked.

"At the other end of the fire wall," the corporal said. "But for right here, well, I guess that's me. Decklan. Corporal Decklan Stroat."