Decklan

Another hundred yards.

Decklan's muscles ached. His forearm screamed in protest when it had to grip his sword. He wasn't sure his finger had enough strength to pull the trigger on his Salamander. His legs were in such a variety of pain he could tell his muscles apart just by the sensations. His right shoulder, and both of his calves, had gone through spasms in protest.

And they had managed another hundred yards of burning brush.

The last creature lay in the dirt at his feet, his sword sticking from it with the handle pointing towards the sun. Not straight up, the way it's depicted in the Tapestries. It had been, but the thing kept flailing until Decklan pulled on the sword and widened the wound.

"There's word from down the line," Ivan said. Decklan looked up, to see the man slide down the irrigation trench, and collapse beside him. "From Varnell."

"Emily?" Decklan asked, but even the curiosity, and even hope, from hearing her name wasn't enough to pull himself up from the dirt. "What news?"

"She called it 'phase two'," Ivan said. "Basically, everyone grabs all the brush we can carry, and run for Barleybarrel, setting the rest of the fields on fire as we go."

"Yeah," Decklan agreed.

"She has a rearguard picked out. Said the cannon crew hasn't been doing as much running, so she's in the best condition to do it. You're to choose people you can trust, and light the fields towards the east, screening for the bulk of the folks here, then make for Barleybarrel."

"Okay," Decklan said, in part to get himself up off the dirt. It helped that he was lying on the side of the trench, he wasn't sure he could pick himself up if he laid down. "It's a plan. We can manage it. That firewall was stretched thin by now, anyway."

It was. Their recent action to plug a gap was proof enough. The blood still trickling down the sides of Decklan's face was proof enough.

"Gloamtaken!" someone called.

Decklan had been punched in the face before. It had hurt less than hearing that word.

"Burn me," Cassidy cursed, and impressively, a knife was already in her hand.

Decklan grimaced, and out of habit, patted his ammo pouch, even though he knew it was empty. "Right then," he said as he turned and faced north, where the creatures would be coming from. "Once more?"

"I think I have one more round in me," Beatrice said.

Decklan knew, as he looked from face to face, that this would be their last fight. Bethany had gone rather pale, and the blood dribbling down her arm had slowed. Cassidy had done little more than swear in the last few minutes, one hand over her damaged eye whenever she could. Even Ivan had his arms hanging at his sides, his head tilted forward, looking little more alive than the creatures they fought.

"One more round," Decklan said, and he could hear the pleading in his own voice, said as much to his own failing body as to the others. "Once more."

"Yeah," Ivan said, and he pulled himself up the trench.

Decklan climbed up after him, stumbling as his left leg refused to haul him all the way up, and used his Salamander as a crutch to keep his body upright. "Well, that was ash-bitten dramatic."

A hand clapped him on the back as he stood up.

And in the distant shouting, Decklan managed to pick out a word. Just a word, without any context, nearly devoid of meaning.

Rangers.

They climbed up, drew their weapons, and waited as the Gloamtaken approached.

A dozen. Clumped closely, with no way to spread them out. Three for each of them, a feat their tired bodies weren't equal to. Decklan forced his hand to squeeze his sword's grip, and raised a foot to advance.

Eight flashes of bright blue fire cut through the air, and the creatures died. All of them.

Decklan blinked, his thoughts unable to believe what his eyes had witnessed. Numb, confused, and his weariness nearly brining him to his knees, he turned around.

Eleven soldiers were marching towards them. Eerily clean, insultingly so, given what Decklan and his people had been through. And the absurd ease, bringing down a dozen Gloamtaken in barely a heartbeat, was as much galling as it was a relief.

"Who are they?" Ivan asked. The man leaned hard on Decklan's shoulder, with a smile as genuine as any he had ever seen.

Decklan knew what the white scarves meant. Knew them as the pride of the army, elites in an army that despised such things, both the ambition of every aspiring soldier and the dread of any soldier who knew what it took to join their ranks. "They're the Cadavalan Rangers," Decklan said, and relief finally won over the torrent of other emotions.

The Rangers. They were safe.

"Sergeant Saos, take a couple of torches and start following this irrigation trench east, set fire to anything you see. The more things burn, the further down the field we can see, and I want to see those ash-bitten creatures coming from so far away I get bored waiting for them," someone said. She looked like she was in charge, Decklan remembered his lieutenant would walk like she was; with his right hand pushing the handle out, so you could see the officer insignia on the pommel. The behaviour, so out of place in the madness of this battle, immediately had Decklan standing up straighter. "Remember, don't engage too close to the Gloam, just in case more of those things pop out while you're sticking one."

"Aye, ma'am," the sergeant replied, and most of the soldiers broke off.

The lieutenant walked towards them, accompanied by only two others, and spoke to Decklan first. "Corporal. I'd offer you a cot and a few days to rest if I could, but we're still deep in the Gloam. For now, take a breather, then help organize everyone for a tight march back to Barleybarrel."

And just like that, with simple words and clear orders, Decklan felt like he was actually back inside the City, rather than the Gloam-claimed world. He slid back down the trench, and managed a weak "aye, ma'am" before his head fell on the soil.

But before he could close his eyes, Decklan's rest was interrupted by another Ranger, this one carrying a large bag, and wearing a grey hat that, like everyone out here, had seen better days. She gave each of them a quick look, up and down, and grinned like they had just finished some sort of drill. "Corporal. You're looking like you've all seen the back end of the furnace."

Decklan looked up, and nodded. "That's not far from the truth."

She looked them over again, her eyes lingering on Decklan's facial wounds, and Cassidy's damaged eye. Clinically, calmly, like she was looking at a puzzle. "Where's your commanding officer? My captain wants a word."

Declan managed to sit up, and pointed to the north. "At the other end of the fire wall. But for right here, well, I guess that's me. Corporal Decklan Stroat."

The woman slid down the irrigation trench, lifted her bag, and set it beside Decklan. Her gaze, her hands, her mannerisms were iron-steady, as if the war happening around her were as old as her hat. "Gwendolyn Aranhall. Now, what gave you those scratches? You look like you rested your face in a box of nails."

Ivan laughed at that, a quick blast of noise that devolved into a cough. "Damnit, too tired to laugh," the man said. "Gloamtaken did that to him, about half an hour ago."

"And was it your bright idea to have him rub his face in dirt afterwords? If you were hoping to kill him, there are easier ways," Gwendolyn said.

"It works in the fields to stop shallow bleeding."

The woman sighed, and rubbed her temples as if they were the most irritating thing from here to Barleybarrel. She then drew a knife, grabbed Decklan by his coat, and stabbed him.

Or more precisely, his padded coat. She cut a hands' width gap into the outer shell, and reached her hand inside. "His coat holds so much linen I could make a strip of it that stretched from one wall to another. Nice, clean linen that doesn't cause gangrene or sepsis," Gwendolyn said, gesticulating with the knife towards Ivan as if she'd like nothing more than to stab him for being an idiot. "Now, that cut on your chest, what was that from?"

Decklan looked over, surprised. He hadn't noticed, but Ivan had a wound that ran from his collarbone almost all the way down to his stomach. "I got careless with some of the brush. It's just a scratch."

"I can see your collarbone, you twit," she said as she started cutting apart the inside lining of Decklan's coat. "I'll need to stitch that shut."

"You sure we have time?" Ivan asked, and he pointed to his right.

Decklan looked over and groaned. Another batch of Gloamtaken. Only five, but their promise of rest was lamentably short-lived. He started to push himself to his feet, but Gwendolyn shoved him back, and said, "don't get up. I want to clean those wounds on your face."

Gwendolyn hopped out of the trench, and aimed her Salamander. No, Decklan saw, not a Salamander. She fired once, and twisted the weapon open to reload. She fired again, and one more time after. Then she turned and looked past them, waving her arm. "Fauth, plug that hole," she shouted.

Decklan looked over to where the Gloamtaken had been charging, and saw nothing but empty field. "Burn me. Five of them, three shots?"

"I've had some practice. Been a long invasion," Gwnedolyn muttered, as she slid back down the trench and took out a bottle of water from her bag. "This will sting a little. I normally wouldn't do this, but someone thought rubbing soil into a wound was a good idea. Close your eyes."

Decklan did as she instructed, and nearly screamed as she pressed something to his face. The pain passed in just a few breaths, and he felt something press down on his face. "Tilt your head up, I need to tie this down. You can open your eyes," Gwendolyn said.

Decklan blinked, and poked at the side of his face with a free hand. "Leave it alone," Gwendolyn said, pointing at Decklan even as she looked over the wound on Ivan's chest.

"Aye, ma'am," Decklan said.

"And stop calling me ma'am," Gwendolyn added, as she stepped past Ivan to look at Cassidy's injured eye. "Not much I can do about that. Compress, and I'll borrow Cameron's knife to keep the swelling down. And I'll refer you to Sergeant Tavash, when we get the chance."

The Ranger moved to Beatrice next, and for the first time since they had first seen her, Gwendolyn's eyes widened. "Simmering shit in a cauldron full of bile."

That left Decklan feeling cold. She hadn't show that much emotion dropping Gloamtaken. "What is it?"

"That's a bite wound," Gwendolyn said. She stepped back past Decklan, and began fishing things out of her bag, including a syringe with a needle. "Toss of a token that it'll kill you without treatment. What's your name, soldier?"

"Beatrice Tolun, and I'm not a soldier."

"Funny, since you've been killing Gloamtaken like one. Now, what I'm about to give you is an injection of blue tincture. It keeps secondary infection from setting in. It's most effective if I give you another dose in four hours. If you're not going to remember, I'd rather just cut your arm off now and save a dose for someone who will remember it."

"Another dose, in four hours," Beatrice said, "I was hoping to keep the arm. I'm attached to it."

"Wouldn't feel whole without it?" her sister asked.

"Like I was missing a piece of myself. Would find tying my shoelaces mighty awkward."

Gwendolyn stuck her with the needle, pulled it out, and held a piece of Decklan's coat lining against the wound she made. "Now, one last request for the four of you."

"What is it, ma'am?" Decklan asked.

"First, stop calling me ma'am, corporal. You have seniority over me. Second, I need the four of you to stop relaxing, and look like we're still stuck miles away from safety," Gwendolyn said, and she pointed at each of them in turn. "Your people will be looking to you for how to react to having support. And even though we'll be fighting for you, I need you and all of them to keep fighting until we get back to Barleybarrel. So stand up, and look like you're ready to fight."

None of them protested. Ivan and the Tolun sisters both looked his way, but Decklan only let himself stand up straight, and salute. "Aye, ma'am. Battle readiness. Though there's no way you don't have seniority. I've only been in the army for eighteen months."

"That's eighteen months more than me," the Ranger replied, and the shock of it hit Decklan like a Golem's fist.