Henry Neff - The Maelstrom

Fortunately, the battalion was not merely willing but eager to put in the additional work. They seemed to take a perverse delight in the fact that Max not only survived assassination, but also showed no trace of the attack. The more superstitious troops considered this a magnificent omen; their commander was apparently invulnerable and naturally they must be, too. When they also learned that YaYa would be joining their ranks and that Zenuvian iron had been procured for arrows and pike tips, confidence spiraled up to the stratosphere. Now, instead of naming their battalion with an apologetic shrug, many were sporting homespun patches with sinful pride. While no two were exactly alike and some of the “rats” were not readily recognizable as such, they still had the intended effect. A black rat—or blob—on an ivory background signaled that its wearer was a member of the Trench Rats. And this had become a very good thing.

Fortune could be fickle, however. Max knew that if they failed this review, the Trench Rats’ station and spirits would sink very low indeed. It would be humiliating to be reassigned. If this occurred, the troops would no doubt find themselves inside the citadel, protecting a building in Old College or perhaps joining civilian patrols about Rowan Township. Necessary work, but the Director would undoubtedly put someone else in charge and redeploy the battalion’s prized and unique assets to more critical functions at the front.

Something caught Max’s eye. A bannerman was waving his standard to signal that the commander could rejoin the group. YaYa descended the hill at a slow, heavy walk. It was an adjustment getting used to her; the ki-rin was far more massive than the biggest destriers and moved with an entirely different gait. And she was a truly ancient creature. Max would never have voiced his misgivings (her offer to serve him was a tremendous honor) but privately he worried if YaYa was really up to this task. Her body was powerful, but it was also arthritic. She grew tired easily and he had yet to urge her beyond the meager trot with which she covered the last fifty yards to where the Director was waiting.

“So, Commander McDaniels,” said Ms. Richter amiably, “shall we see a few demonstrations?”

Max nodded and wheeled the ki-rin around to face his troops. When he blew his horn, the entire company broke apart like the pieces of a machine, each company and platoon jogging to their assigned positions in the practice trench while the ballistae were wheeled into place behind them. They faced a broad field where numbered targets had been set up at various distances and intervals.

“All archers,” said Ms. Richter. “Their nearest target.”

The signal was relayed to the company commanders and lieutenants. Seconds later, six hundred bowstrings were drawn in unison and held until Sarah gave the command to fire. They did so in a single whistling volley that thudded into their targets with a truly satisfying sound. A few had missed, but the vast majority struck their mark.

“Company two, target eleven,” said Ms. Richer calmly.

Ajax relayed the order to his company and gave the command. Within ten seconds, arrows were nocked, bows raised high, and a volley arced toward a target some hundred yards away. About half hit their mark at such a distance: decent if not outstanding. One of Ms. Richter’s aides jotted down the result.

“Company four is under attack by vyes,” said the Director. “They are to fire two arrows apiece as fast as they can. Starting … now.”

The ensuing arrows flew with considerably less uniformity and precision than previous volleys. Max was less concerned with the speed than he was with target selection and accuracy. The Director was clearly probing to see if the archers knew the proper distances at which to fire at a charging vye. One had to take into account the creature’s speed, and conventional wisdom held that even an expert bowman would only be able to get off two shots on a closing vye before it was upon them. The optimal distances were at one hundred yards and twenty-five yards. Gazing out, Max exhaled as most fired at the proper targets. Some missed, some plunged into the wrong haystacks, but the general performance was respectable.

For the next hour, the Trench Rats’ bows, ballistae, and pikemen were put through their paces. The results were mixed, but there had been no gross embarrassments.

That could change in a heartbeat, thought Max, gazing uneasily out at the wood.

“Very good,” said Ms. Richter. “Let’s see a live demonstration of an ogre charge with Company Three, Platoon Six.”

Inwardly, Max groaned. The Director had chosen the worst pike unit in the entire battalion. He doubted this was an accident. Max could practically see the boy named Richard droop when the unit had been named. Swapping out their weapons for padded training pikes, the unit assumed a proper wedge and faced the woods.

Bob emerged. Hefting his cudgel, the ogre wore a steel breastplate and a horned helm whose fearsome grating obscured his kindly face. He looked nothing like his typical self, and it was unnerving to see him standing there some hundred yards away. When the ogre broke into a trot and then an all-out clanking sprint, it was downright terrifying.

As Bob charged, Max watched the soldiers closely. Thus far they were maintaining a tight formation and digging in their heels. A few pikes were trembling, but no one simply threw down their weapon and fled as had happened on several occasions. Everything depended on timing, on the unit’s ability to stand firm and deliver a single, concentrated blow. Should they fail, they would not have another opportunity. If an ogre managed to invade a trench, all nearby could expect a sudden and savage death. Each group of pikemen had to hold their ground; a single weak link could mean ruin.

The earth shook. Lowering his head and giving a hoarse roar, Bob crashed into the formation at full speed. The impact was tremendous. One of the pikes shattered outright and its owner was thrown back. But the rest held, striking Bob’s breastplate as one and jolting him upright so that he staggered backward and toppled onto his behind. The pikemen were ecstatic, flinging their weapons into the air and rushing to help Bob up. Climbing wearily to his feet, the ogre removed his helmet and caught his breath.

“I think you must pass them, Director,” he croaked, wiping sweat from his knobby forehead. “Bob not do that again.…”

An hour later, Max was feeling almost giddy as he strode down the dormitory hallway toward his room. The corridor was fairly crowded with Fifth and Sixth Year boys, leaning against the walls in their academic robes and chatting before they would all head down to supper. Max nodded hello as he swept by, highly conscious of his ring but oblivious to the mud he was tracking with each long stride.

Max stopped, however, when he saw Omar Mustaf. The boy was technically Tweedy’s steward, which Tweedy interpreted to mean that he had been granted legal authority to function as Omar’s official guardian, tutor, and scold. While other students were off playing with their charges in the Sanctuary, Omar was forced to endure Tweedy’s heavily advertised, sparsely attended lectures on everything from Greek architecture to the exhaustive works of David Hume. Omar had not merely approved Max’s request to speak with his charge about serving as aide-de-camp; he had given his enthusiastic blessing.

“How did it go?” inquired Omar cautiously.

Laughing with pleasure, Max lifted the boy three feet off the ground.

“We passed!” he exclaimed, spinning Omar about. “The Director has ‘every confidence’ that we’re the group to hold Trench Nineteen. Tweedy’s brilliant!”

“He’ll be the first to tell you,” said Omar, grinning as Max set him down. “But I’m glad—Tweedy’s been such a nervous wreck.”