Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

There was one conspicuous exception. Tweedy came bounding up the slope, his whiskers twitching with indignation.

“Having a comfy snooze, ‘Commander’ McDaniels?”

“I thought we were on for five o’clock,” said Max, confused.

“Correct!” chuffed Tweedy, noting something on his clipboard.

“Then why are you upset? I’m five minutes early.”

“Are you to be congratulated, then?” exclaimed the hare in his rough burr. “A battalion commander sidling up at the appointed hour like some slack-jawed delinquent. For shame! What kind of example are you setting for your troops, sir? Shall they mimic their commander and dillydally about their duties with casual indifference? Even that Swedish monoglot arrived twenty minutes early!”

“You’re right,” Max sighed, recognizing the folly of argument or explanation. “It won’t happen again. How would you like to begin?”

“Humph,” said Tweedy, simmering down and consulting his notes. “I think we should get back to basics. The troops are overly pleased with their progress of late and have taken to boasting. Unbecoming, undeserved, and un— what is it, Mr. Cochran? ” The hare whirled on the refugee boy Jack, who promptly froze midstride.

“Er … begging pardon, but some of the troops are wondering when we’re going to begin. It’s awful cold just to be standing about.”

Tweedy glared up at Max. “I rest my case!” he cried before turning upon his cringing messenger. “You tell those fidgeting miscreants that they will stand in place all morning until it pleases me to acknowledge them. You tell them—”

Max shouted a command. Instantly, the troops gave a unified reply and quickstepped into their review formations. It had taken them weeks to stop bumping into one another, but they finally seemed to have it down, Max reflected as he strode down the hill to review them. They stood at rigid attention, forty soldiers to each platoon, pikemen in front and bowmen in back, along with six troops assigned to operate a wheeled ballista that could fire enormous bolts at a rate of two or even three per minute. He stopped before a middle-aged soldier whose pockmarked face was missing an eye.

“Name?” he asked.

“Sameer,” replied the man, clearing his voice. “Pikeman, right flank.”

“What’s our turf?”

“Trench Nineteen.”

“What’s our job?”

“To hold the line,” he said fiercely. “Nothing gets past.”

“Are you the worst pikeman in your unit?”

“Hell no,” spat Sameer before recovering himself. “I mean, no, sir .”

“Who is?”

The question was met with a blank, reluctant expression. The man had no wish to inform on his fellows. When Max repeated the question, however, Sameer relented.

“It’s Richard,” he said, nodding toward a gangly, reddening youth two spots over. “Sorry, boy, but you know it’s true.”

Richard nodded glumly but kept his eyes straight ahead.

“From this day forward, you’re responsible for Richard,” said Max. “It’s your job to help him get better. Is that understood? By week’s end, Richard will lead a demonstration with Bob.”

Richard looked ill.

Max turned to Tweedy. “Have the commander of each unit submit a list ranking their troops by midday.”

Tweedy made a note and Max continued his inspection, finishing with the Rowan specialists who were not assigned to any one unit. These included his former classmates, Bob, Orion, and the centaurs, along with Umbra. The refugee girl stood apart from the rest, leaning upon her formidable spear and staring at Max.

“Umbra, I want you to focus on training the best troops from each of the commander’s lists. They’ll be responsible for working with the next four and so on. Is that understood?”

She nodded.

“Lucia and Cynthia, can you spend the morning working on a simulation for tonight? Ideally, there will be a surprise or two. I want to see if they can stay calm and maintain discipline in a crisis. Got it?”

The girls looked knowingly at one another. Lucia flashed a wicked smile.

“I take it that’s a yes,” said Max. “Unless there are questions, we’ll have Sarah and Ajax lead the conditioning.”

Max stepped aside as Sarah and the refugee leader took command and started barking orders at the troops. There was a stamp and clash, the clink of mail and the thump of boots as the units fell into single-file lines and began to jog about the field’s perimeter. Max and Umbra joined the last, trotting behind the gasping pikemen even as the enchanted terrain began to shift beneath their feet, forming deep ditches and wheeze-inducing hills.

He could not help but glance at Umbra as they ran alongside one another. The girl remained a mystery. She was often the first to the fields and the last to leave, but she rarely spoke or consorted with the other soldiers unless absolutely necessary. Even Ajax—ever haughty and irreverent—treaded carefully around her. It was not just Umbra’s skill that checked him, but her air of simmering, watchful intensity. She forever reminded Max of a viper, coiled and poised to strike.

“Where are you from?” he asked, quickening his pace at Sarah’s whistle.

“Far.”

“Ajax says you fell in with them as they came down the coast.”

She nodded, breathing easily as they climbed a steep hill.

“Where did you learn how to fight?”

“Here and there,” she muttered, shifting her spear to the other hand.

“Why’d you choose the Trench Rats?” Max wondered. “I heard the Vanguard offered you a place.”

“I’m not here for the Vanguard.”

“What are you here for, then?” asked Max with a laugh.

“You.”

A chill raced down Max’s spine. Umbra did not look at him when she said it; she stared stoically ahead, running with a doe’s effortless grace. He let her go on without him, falling back and watching the troops clamber up a hundred-foot rise while Sarah and Ajax barked encouragement.

What on earth did Umbra mean that she was here for him ? The word and its strange delivery had so many possible interpretations. Had she joined the Trench Rats because of Max’s formidable reputation? Had she enlisted because he might have something to teach her? Did the word imply some sort of threat or was it just the opposite—the awkward admission of a crush?

By midafternoon, this last possibility seemed absurd and Max reddened at his vanity. If their conversation had embarrassed Umbra, she gave no indication. While the troops rested and ate with their units, Umbra sat alone beneath a tree, sharpening her spear and glancing occasionally at Max as he collected the lieutenants’ lists. There was nothing shy, friendly, or even familiar about the way she looked at him; he simply seemed to be an object of ongoing curiosity.

Putting her out of his mind, Max was enduring another Tweedy harangue about those running the armories and storerooms (“Base thieves and charlatans!”) when he happened to pass Tam, Kat, and the other refugees who had confronted him when he’d returned to Rowan the previous fall. The group was huddled around one of the many firepits, resting before weapons training and eating hot porridge and bread. They looked absurdly young sitting there with their round faces and eager expressions as one girl regaled the group with an amusing story. Their weapons were strewn about them like discarded toys—bows, quivers, a long knife, and a dozen pikes along with Tam’s prized sword. Catching sight of Max, Tam nearly choked out her porridge and stood at attention.

“At ease,” said Max, motioning for her to be seated. “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

Reddening, the girl wiped porridge from her chin and nodded. “Pretty good,” she said. “The running’s hard and we’re nervous ’bout tonight’s simulation, but no complaints. You ain’t giving out any hints, are you?”