Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

“I don’t know what it will be myself,” said Max. “But if you stick to your training, you should be able to handle it. What should you do if it’s vyes?”

“Assume a spread formation to protect our archers.”

“What about ogres?”

“Wedge formation to resist a charge, and the archers should use fire arrows.”

“And what about demons or deathknights?”

“Zenuvian iron treated with Blood Petals,” she replied. “But each archer only has three of those.”

“Then I guess they’d better hit the mark,” said Max.

The girl nodded and picked absently at a scab. “You really think we got a chance when Prusias comes?” she asked, cocking her head.

“I heard his army’s huge,” put in Kat. “I heard he’s got a secret weapon!”

“His army is big,” conceded Max, “but don’t assume he’s going to send the whole thing. It’s not easy to move an army, and Prusias’s kingdom is all the way across the sea. And don’t forget that his weapons aren’t so secret anymore. We’ve got some very smart people studying them right now, not to mention a hundred other battalions that are training just as hard as we are. Everyone at Rowan these days has chosen to be here, chosen to fight. I like our odds.”

The girl grinned and Max left them on that hopeful note, continuing to his command tent, a roomy pavilion where he could consult with his officers, plan exercises, and review Tweedy’s innumerable reports. Stepping inside, he splashed some water on his face and fairly collapsed into a pelt-covered chair. Tweedy hopped in after, directing Jack to deposit a heap of documents on a small writing desk. When the boy had departed, the hare hopped onto the opposite chair.

“Did you really mean that?”

“Did I mean what?” replied Max wearily, rubbing his eyes. He found the responsibilities of command—the endless decisions, the posturing, the need to project constant optimism—to be absolutely exhausting.

“That bit about liking our odds,” Tweedy clarified. “Do you believe that?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You don’t need to put on a brave show for me, son,” said the hare. “Prusias can send a mere fraction of his forces and outnumber us ten to one. If he leverages—”

Max cut him off. “It’s not your job to worry about Prusias,” he snapped. “It’s your job to supply twelve hundred troops who are assigned one mile of trench between the outer walls and Old College. You should be worrying about the fact that my archers have only three Zenuvian arrows.”

“And they should be grateful for even that meager allotment,” retorted the hare. “Some shipments have gone missing and the iron’s being rationed out on a miser’s scales. Most has been allocated to the archers on the outer walls.”

“Where there’s war, there’s black markets,” Max reflected. “I’d bet the lutins know where to find some. Sniff around Cloubert’s and see if you can turn anything up.”

Tweedy was appalled. “You want me to descend down into that godforsaken den of vice? I won’t—”

“—let your battalion down,” Max interjected. “If you need help stealing some, get Ajax to help you. I’m guessing he has plenty of …”

“Plenty of what ?” grumbled Tweedy, jotting down the order.

Max sat up abruptly. “Madam Petra!” he exclaimed. “If she hasn’t already laid her hands on some, she’ll know where to get it. Do you know who she is?”

“A woman whose striking appearance corrupts our young gentlemen by mere proximity?” the hare said disapprovingly. “Yes, I believe I do. And how shall we pay for these illicit goods—assuming she can acquire them on our behalf?”

“I’ll pay for them out of my own wages,” said Max.

“Very generous of you. But I don’t believe your wages could buy more than a wee ingot or two. Even without a smuggler’s rapacious markups, the stuff’s more valuable than gold.”

Max frowned. “Just make the inquiry,” he sighed. “We’ll figure out how to pay later.”

“Very well,” replied Tweedy, “but I should not think the lady will extend you any credit. For one, black markets are a cash business. For another, it’s my understanding that you already owe the lady an estate on Piter’s Folly.”

“How did you hear about that?” asked Max, reddening.

“A certain smee,” remarked the hare with an amused twitch of his whiskers. “And now, with your permission, we shall turn to the lists.…”

This they did, reading through the lieutenants’ rankings and strategizing how best to train the troops in the least amount of time. Max did not delude himself that they had much to spare; there were already reports that Prusias’s forces were massing near Blyssian harbors and that its shipyards were working at a feverish pace. At best, Max guessed that they had two months, maybe three, until they came under attack. Whether that would be the main assault or merely feints to assess Rowan’s strength remained to be seen. In any case, he wanted his troops to be prepared.

The best gauge of the battalion’s readiness was the combat simulation at the end of each day. It was nearly five o’clock when Max and Tweedy emerged from the tent, rounding the fields and climbing to the top of their observation hill.

“I wonder what the young ladies have concocted,” mused Tweedy, looking down upon the trenches where the units were settling into position.

“Something devious, I hope,” said Max, breathing deep and letting the crisp air fill his lungs. It was a fine evening, the moon a slim crescent in a darkening sky. In the distance, Max heard Old Tom and the faint clamor of another battalion—one of the shoreguard, no doubt—engaged in an exercise of their own. Gazing at a neighboring hill, Max saw Cynthia and Lucia conspiring beneath an oak, making their final preparations.

The attack began with a convoy of Stygian crows. Once Max signaled for the simulation to begin, the demonic horrors came flapping from the southern treetops to swoop down at the entrenched battalion. There were hundreds of them, their screeches filling the air as they wheeled and dove at the troops, leaving bright trails of smoke and flame.

The attackers were met with volley after volley of virtual arrows, slender shafts of green or red light that issued a golden burst whenever they scored a hit. The green shafts represented a normal arrow while red represented those tipped with Zenuvian iron and Blood Petals. While Max was pleased at the flurry of gold flashes, the troops were using far too many of their special arrows. They might well need them for—

The field began to tremble and shake as though an earthquake were occurring. Even as the Stygian crows were dissipating, a hundred ogres came barreling out of the woods. The phantasms were terrifyingly lifelike, bearing down upon the troops at terrific speed with maces and clubs that could crush bone to powder.

But even as archers redirected their fire and the pikemen hurried into formation, another threat appeared. From the woods, a rakshasa emerged—a tusked, tiger-headed demon—wreathed in flames and leading a troop of mounted deathknights. The archers wavered, uncertain whether to direct their fire at the ogres or the hellish cavalry. All semblance of order disappeared; arrows were fired at will with many targeting the fearsome rakshasa. Even worse, most had spent their special arrows on the Stygian crows and thus those that struck the rakshasa and deathknights had little effect. When it appeared that the enemy cavalry would reach the trench before the ogres, the pikemen panicked and broke formation, realizing only too late they had been tricked. At the last moment, the rakshasa and his knights parted ranks and wheeled away from the trench, letting the ogres come roaring through the gap like runaway trains. There were no massed pikes to meet them, only individual weapons at ineffectual angles. The hulking attackers crashed right through the battalion’s line, hardly breaking stride as they stormed through the trenches.