Anwen

Anwen Poe hadn't used her name in so long, she was coming close to forgetting it. Her mother had given it to her, hoping she'd become a poet. Or an artist of some kind. Or at least something interesting enough to escape the harrowing tedium of a work-life examining stockpile reports for the Withering Evergreen District branch of the Bureau of Resource Distribution.

It might have been a gesture to spare Anwen her mother's way of coping; a litany of lovers, taken and tossed aside in intervals so regular railroad tracks could have been laid on it. To a degree it worked, growing up was rarely dull, or even quiet, as stranger after stranger would enter and disappear from her life.

Never quiet, even when she wished it was.

So Anwen wasn't too attached to the name, when Captain Dremora set the white scarf around her neck and offered her another one.

"Spitfire," Sergeant Cadmus Porter said, tapping her on the shoulder. Even when the man did it gently, it felt like he was jabbing her with a piece of steel. Her sergeant was strong, even though he didn't look it. Old enough for grey to speckle his hair, the Rangers' ranking swordmaster was was an easy man to listen to.

No, Anwen Poe reminded herself. No longer the Rangers' best with the sword. That honour belonged to the strange young man Captain Dremora had found. Redgrave. She wondered how he had earned that name.

"Yeah, sarge?" she asked.

"Check your gear, make sure you're ready to head out." Cadmus' finger pinged up ahead, where the captain was coming down a flight of stairs like he was about to start a fight. "He has that look to him."

"You think there's another group of people trapped in the field?" Anwen asked. "Another bunch of trapped heroes to recruit? Captain's going to have a battalion and get to promote himself to major by this time tomorrow if he keeps it up."

Cadmus chuckled at that. "We'd all be better off if the Rangers were a whole army."

"Rangers!" the captain bellowed. All conversation, all work, everything everyone wearing a white scarf was doing stopped at the sound of his voice. Anwen thought she heard something in how Captain Dremora said 'rangers', it was always different depending on the task he had in mind.

This time, it sounded like a call to war.

"The Gloamtaken are mustering at the far end of the field, in numbers that might match the entire population of Barleybarrel," the captain announced. Anwen followed her sergeant closer, and they began to form a wide circle around their leader. "Those aren't numbers we can take in a fair fight. If we didn't have a town to defend, and still had a Valkyrie, it might be an option. But Backburner blew up the only gun within twenty miles."

Anwen laughed at that, at the appalling absurdity of it. Backburner fought where her superiors had fled, and succeeded where nearly anyone else in the City would have failed. At least, that was the captain's opinion, which made it ash-bitten true. Rhavin Dremora had never uttered a less sincere rebuke.

"Barleybarrel needs two more hours. Sergeant Lorec and ST Hearthsward will have a tunnel within the hour."

Anwen frowned when she heard the title in front of Vincent's name. It took a moment to remember that ST meant Special Talent, and depending on the designation, meant he could command soldiers in an issue regarding his specialty.

"The trouble for us is the tunnel will be small, so the civilians will need an hour to get through it. But once we're all through, I've been assured we can block the tunnel behind us, which means we'll have put a wall between Barleybarrel's people and the Gloam. So we need to buy them two hours."

Two hours, against enough Gloamtaken to outnumber every soul in Barleybarrel.

"Unimpeded, they'll reach us in less than an hour," Captain Dremora continued, as if he hadn't announced they'd be facing near impossible odds. Which meant that, as far as the captain was concerned, those odds weren't impossible. "Which means we'd better get out and impede them. Second and third platoons, we're going out there. The first and the fourth will remain to guard Barleybarrel and rest, since they just got back. Volenski, brief Varnell and her sergeants on our defensive plans."

"Each battle group should carry a couple of demolition charges with you. Pack as many salamander rounds as you can. Bring water, but no food. You can leave the rest of your kit behind. Remember, our goal is to delay them. We make them trip over their own, steer them out of a straight line, and bunch them up to slow them down."

Captain Dremora stopped then, fished in his pocket, and drew out a lottery token. "Any Ranger who's count exceeds one hundred and seven by the time we're back, I'll buy you a pint."

"One hundred and seven?" Anwen whispered in disbelief.

Her sergeant, Cadmus, had a very different reaction. "That's an oddly specific number, sir."

"It's Redgrave's current count. Remember, explosive charges don't add to your tally, nor do Valkyries. Otherwise Backburner would be in the hundreds."

"What's your current count, sir?" Cadmus asked.

"Eighty-seven. And yes, you will pass the first day after the invasion sober if you don't hit that number when the last Golem falls," the captain said, and he adopted that glib bravado that usually meant he was sending them into something miserable. Anwen always got a little frightened when the captain started making jokes. "That stands for everyone in the Rangers. We're not going to wipe out that incoming mob, we didn't pack enough ammo. Our quartermaster will be disciplined accordingly."

Another joke. They would have struggled hard to get twenty thousand shots if they were in the City. Getting it in the fringes, even from Major Othwald in Wanderwisp, might have left an entire battalion destitute.

Not that many of them were likely shooting at Gloamtaken right now.

"Remember to use those irrigation trenches. The Gloamtaken aren't particularly nimble," the captain continued. "And if we get a chance, use large bunches of shrubs and brush to make a burning wall, they're almost as shy about fire as the Gloam is. Asides from that, stick with your battle groups and remember your training."

The Captain rolled his shoulders, and pointed with his thumb to the north. "One last thing. Sergeant Redgrave recommends that you kill one by knife or sword, if you catch one alone or in a small group. Treat it like any form of training: it's to make sure you remember to pull the weapon back out again, when it really matters."

Good advice, Anwen nodded to show she agreed. But whatever she and those around her showed, it wasn't reaction enough for the captain. Dremora frowned, and said, "Treat that as advice from the man with the highest kill count in the City."

"Wouldn't that be Crafter Kohl, sir?" Sergeant Porter asked.

"Well, if he were around to give us pointers on Golem kidding, I would abandon Barleybarrel to make sure all of us could hear it," Captain Dremora said. "Corporals, make sure your groups have demolition charges and as many salamander shots as you can carry. Doubly so to you, Spitfire, I know how you burn through ammunition. We leave in two minutes."

Anwen let out a wordless cry, and tapped her chest with her fist twice. She could barely hear her own voice, as every Ranger around her did the same. Once she did, she turned to face her sergeant, and said to him, "I carried two extra ammo pouches. Count's one hundred and fifty-four."

Cadmus flinched. "Don't trip on a rock while we're out there, all right? I'd rather not be remembered as the squad that blew themselves up before we even got to the fight."

Anwen grinned. "So I guess I shouldn't be the one to pack the demolition charges?"

Cadmus laughed at that. "That is one way to get yourself out of carry duty. Grab a box of torches and head to the north end of town, where the captain is. I don't want anyone leaving without one, even with the fields burning."

"Aye, sir," Anwen said, as her sergeant turned away to round up the rest of the squad. She searched for an embarrassingly long minute until she found the supply cache near the fountain, took one of the open crates, and rested it on her shoulder as she went to their muster point at the north edge of Barleybarrel.

Captain Dremora was already there. Staring out to the north, right hand at his side and the left resting on the hilt of his sword, likely in the pose his statue will take after the invasion. Anwen set the crates down at the corner of the last building, and stood beside it to wait.

"Twenty minutes," Captain Dremora said, surprised her by saying anything at all. "That mob coming at us will be here in twenty minutes if we do nothing. Best we can hope to do is double that, while we're out there."

"Is that enough time, sir?" Anwen asked.

"No. If we can, we need to buy two hours."

"That's a tall order, holding this fixed position with multiple entry points, even if our trick cutting the pipes means they can't circle from behind," Anwen said. She wasn't sure why she offered the thought, she knew the captain had already considered all of this. Captain Dremora's thoughts were halfway across the City before most people could get the thought-train on the tracks. "At some point, we'll have to start dropping the buildings to make walls out of rubble, but there's no way to guarantee that'll hold them."

"And once we close all the access points, we don't know where they'll come from," the Captain agreed, likely indulging her. "

"So if we close up all the access points, we expand the front and make it unpredictable. We might get lucky and it works."

"I'd be a bad officer if my plan was to count on good fortune," Captain Dremora said.

Very true. And there weren't better officers than Captain Rhavin Dremora. Anwen frowned, and considered what the captain had said earlier. "You said we need to survive two hours, if we can?"

"Two hours. One to finish Barleybarrel's escape route through the wall, and one to get them through it. That first hour, we absolutely must hold them off. If we fail in the second hour, Barleybarrel still has one more hope."

"Hearthsward, the apprentice Crafter?" Anwen asked. "How much power can he bring to the field? Even the ones who earn the red coats aren't in the same league. I mean, there's a Crafter, and then there's..."

Anwen trailed off, and looked to the north. Where most people would look, when they had nothing to distract them. To the breach in the wall. To where the Gloam and the creatures beneath it were now marching towards them. To where Crafter Garland Kohl brought down a Golem.

"I don't know. Vincent doesn't know, either," the captain admitted. "That's the dilemma. I don't want to test him, not while he's our way out of this mess. He's Crafter Polden's apprentice, one of the Crafters sent to fight the Golems. Which means we absolutely cannot use him until the tunnel is finished, and I'd prefer not to until he seals the tunnel behind us."

"Gloamtaken might not give you that choice," Anwen said. "Now, two hours isn't looking all that likely. But one hour? I like our odds for one hour. We turn twenty minutes into forty out there, hold for another twenty before we have to start hoping the rubble will keep them out. After that, with us, Hearthsward might make the difference."

Captain Dremora turned around, pulling his eyes away from the horizon, from the front. He turned to look at her, with a studious frown that made Anwen distinctly nervous. The captain's attention, or worse, his approval, often meant unfortunate things. Extra work, danger, or abyss take poor fools like their new Lieutenant Varnell, a promotion.

"When you're eventually dragged into higher command, Spitfire," Captain Dremora said. "Remember to run your plans by subordinates you trust. If they can't poke your plans full of holes until it's bleeding-out at your feet, you might be doing okay."

That offhanded remark left Anwen as nervous as the invasion did.