Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

The illusions dissipated and Max groaned. Had the exercise been real, his battalion would have been utterly overwhelmed. When one considered that the units would be spread far thinner over the actual ground they were to defend, the outcome was even more depressing. Shaking his head, Max summoned the officers to his tent.

They crowded inside, sweaty and stinking as they pushed wet hair from their eyes and exchanged glances that spanned the spectrum from angry to sheepish. More than a few glared at Lucia and Cynthia.

“So,” said Max, scanning the group, “what did we learn?”

“That a pair of witches get their jollies by humiliating us,” seethed one hotheaded lieutenant.

“I’m a Mystic, you idiot,” retorted Lucia proudly.

“What’s the difference?” muttered the man darkly. “You should all be strung up.”

“That’s enough,” said Max sharply. “Lucia and Cynthia are here to help us. The exercise tonight was difficult, but not unrealistic. There’s no point to mastering easy simulations—they’ll only get people killed. So, let me ask again. What did you learn?”

“We’ve got to save the special arrows for the true demons,” said Ajax. “Can’t be wasting them on those crows when a regular one will do the job.”

“Good,” said Max. “What else?”

“When that demon came screaming out of the woods, I didn’t know what to do,” confessed a lean, gray-haired woman. “I ordered my archers to fire at it, but maybe they should have kept at the ogres.”

“Same thing with my infantry,” said another. “Pikes pointing every which way and I’d say half were about to flee, illusion or no illusion.”

“Which is why you should be thanking these two,” said Max, gesturing toward Cynthia and Lucia. “If and when the Enemy comes, your soldiers won’t be seeing these things for the first time. Our job is to hold the line, and the only way we’ll do that is if we keep our heads.…”

For the next hour, Max discussed tactics and how to prioritize their targets and subdivide responsibilities among their units should they face intense and varied opposition. Sarah was particularly helpful, drawing diagrams on large sheets of paper and soliciting input from each so that even the surliest lieutenants were soon volunteering their mistakes and voicing suggestions for improvement. Only Umbra remained silent, keeping to the rear where she listened and watched.

“We won’t do it all in a day,” Max said, ignoring Umbra’s implacable stare and rising to dismiss the rest. “Tomorrow we’ll match the soldiers with their new training partners based on your rankings. The simulation will emphasize using Zenuvian arrows on the proper targets. If we’re all very nice, perhaps Lucia won’t send another rakshasa.”

“I make no promises,” she replied, eliciting a general laugh.

“All right,” said Max. “See that your troops are fed and get a good night’s rest. We’ll reconvene tomorrow morning. Dismissed.”

They filed out, but Max’s friends remained. They sat on three of the many cushions piled about the tent. Lucia retrieved Kettlemouth, who had been lounging in his little cage covered by a silk kerchief. She let him climb out, and he settled sleepily on her lap.

“That was quite a simulation,” said Max, pouring himself lukewarm coffee. “Next time, warn me if there’s going to be anything like a rakshasa.”

Lucia gave an indifferent shrug. “You said you didn’t want to know.”

“Did the arrows work properly?” asked Cynthia. “I was concentrating on the illusion.” It was Cynthia who had devised the spell that allowed the soldiers’ ordinary weapons to shoot the tracer bolts of light, an ingenious mixture of enchanted phosphoroil that was dabbed on the front of each bow before the simulations. Other battalions had already borrowed the recipe and incorporated it into their own training.

“They were perfect,” said Max.

“We’re going to need more Zenuvian arrows,” said Sarah pointedly. “Three per archer just aren’t enough.”

“I take it that’s my cue,” muttered Tweedy grumpily. Giving Max a halfhearted salute, he hopped out of the tent.

“We’re also going to need more Mystics,” Sarah added, looking puzzled at the hare’s sudden departure. “I know we’ll have these two, but we have a mile of trench to cover. Sarah and Lucia won’t even be within hailing distance of one another.”

“Mystics are in high demand these days,” said Max. “We’re lucky we have these two.”

“You should ask David to enlist with us,” said Lucia.

Max laughed. “Don’t you think every battalion would love to have David Menlo?”

“I’m sure they would,” said Sarah. “But we have Cynthia. If she asks him …”

Cynthia’s broad, pale face flushed red as a tomato. “I—I have asked,” she confessed. “He’s busy studying that creepy-crawly thing. And besides, the Director’s asked him to be our navy.”

“How is David going to be our navy?” asked Sarah.

“By destroying every Enemy ship that approaches these shores,” said Cynthia proudly. “And don’t you think he can’t. My David can do anything.”

“ Your David?” Max clarified.

“Yes,” said Cynthia, steadfastly ignoring Lucia’s giggles. “He wrote me a poem that told me how he felt. He’s absolutely wonderful and we’re now a steady item.”

“A steady item,” repeated Max, blinking.

“Yes,” she said, lifting her chin. “Don’t look so astonished.”

“I’m not,” he said. “Scratch that—I am. Not that he’s with you, of course, but I … I didn’t know David wrote poetry!”

“He doesn’t, but the smee helped,” explained Cynthia. “I don’t mind. David said that smee was very helpful at getting him to sort through and acknowledge his special feelings.”

Max’s mouth fell open.

“That’s a winning look,” she remarked. “And if you …” Cynthia trailed off, her attention drifting to the tent’s opening where Julie Teller was poised, looking awkward and hesitant. Julie was dressed for travel, wearing a gray overcoat and a white cap that showed her auburn hair to great advantage.

“I was wondering if you had a moment,” she said, looking at Max.

He nodded, ignoring his friends as their eyebrows lifted in unison. Easing up from their cushions, they slipped discreetly out of the tent. Only Lucia paused at the exit.

“Should we send for the smee?” she inquired innocently.

Max glared at her.

Even when they had gone, Julie hovered at the tent’s entrance, gazing about at the maps and diagrams, battered shields, and muddy pelts strewn upon the floor.

“Do you want to come in?” he asked.

“I—I shouldn’t,” she stuttered. “People will gossip. Maybe we could take a walk instead?”

Grabbing a lantern, he followed her outside into the crisp night, pulling his cloak about him and inhaling the wood smoke that drifted across the campus. The Euclidean Fields were smooth once again, the trenches having been leveled so that the whole field looked like an enormous slab of damp clay that gleamed beneath the moon. The bonfires were still burning, however, and many of the Trench Rats still lingered by them, roasting sausages, gambling, or singing along as one of them played a fife.

Staring at the scene, Julie shook her head with mild disbelief. “So much has changed,” she said wistfully. “I watched you play soccer here on All Hallow’s Eve when you were just a First Year. You beat the Second Years almost single-handedly. Do you remember?”

Max smiled and nodded.

“And now I hardly recognize this place,” she said, gazing about. “It’s all been swallowed up by mud and blood and everything else. No one plays soccer anymore.”