Col Buchanan - Stands a Shadow

A full chartassa of heavy infantry drilled in formation under the heat of the noonday sun, their step sergeants screeching out commands for the manoeuvres they were expertly practising. He watched as the phalanx of men halted with a stamp of their feet, and the front ranks lowered the glittering warheads of the spears they called charta, and cried out with a collective shout. Red Guards and League Volunteers strode amongst the tents. Specials lingered next to the open-sided towers that perched over the pitheads of the tunnels that ran beneath Kharnost’s Wall, where the siege engineers laboured in the dark earth, and the Specials fought when they were needed.

Over by the mess tents, a group of Greyjackets and Volunteers had stripped to their trousers and were playing a game of cross. Colonel Halahan was there, smoking his pipe as he stood in his plain grey uniform, offering the occasional bellow to the men of his brigade, all of them internationals from abroad; Nathalese, Pathian, Tilanian and beyond. Across from him, Halahan’s counterpart in the Free Volunteers appeared to be offering encouragement to his own men by way of laughing at their mistakes.

The Volunteers were fighters from Minos and the other islands of the democras. They held nothing back as they gestured and swore at their mocking officer in a manner that always surprised Bahn whenever he came across it; such informality would never have been tolerated within the rigid hierarchy of the Khosian army. Just like the Greyjackets they were competing against, these men had no superiors save for those they most respected; they could even dismiss and replace their officers by a show of hands whenever that respect was lost.

Halahan raised a hand now at the sight of Bahn, and Bahn nodded in response to the old Nathalese veteran. ‘Colonel Halahan,’ he called out in greeting. ‘You look well.’

‘You’re a bloody bad liar, Bahn,’ the old veteran shouted back, just as one of his men was knocked sprawling to the ground before him, and he was in snarling amongst them all, breaking up a fight.

Bahn was in the shadow of Kharnost’s Wall long before he reached it. The guns along the top of the battlements sat silently, but sharp-shooters were taking the odd shot up there.

It was the breach of Kharnost’s Wall that Bahn had come to inspect this afternoon, that section which had collapsed in the previous month after it had been undermined by the Imperials, and which had been hard fought over for a week until the defenders had been able to plug it with debris.

It drew Bahn to it now, a pale jumbled wedge filling a broken portion of the great rampart. A makeshift job, he could see even before he reached it. Men and zels laboured to lift blocks of cut stone into place as they built a thin sheath wall to cover the loose filler. Still, they said the rampart would be permanently weakened here.

It had been a while, Bahn realized, since he’d actually mounted Kharnost’s Wall and looked to the other side. Not often were the guns so subdued, the air so clear of flying projectiles. Bahn decided to take a look.

He could feel sweat on his forehead by the time he had hiked the long steps to the very top. It was the armour: he’d never learned the knack of carrying its weight properly. On the upper parapet he placed a hand on a crenellation and tilted his helm back to wipe at his brow. A pair of Red Guards cast him a glance then returned to their game of rash; their lieutenant paid him no notice at all, the man was occupied with eyeing the isthmus beyond.

Bahn peered over the battlements himself. He saw dark lines of earthworks, and siege guns still wrapped in their night protections of straw and oiled canvas. Here and there were movements of white, and the odd desultory puff of smoke from one of their snipers.

Behind their lines spread the vast encampment of the Imperial Fourth Army, like a smoky, sleepy city.

We should ask them if they fancy a game of cross, he thought. We could settle the entire war here and now and get on with our lives.

Below, on the Khosian side, the game of cross was just finishing. He could see Halahan limping towards the wall as though he intended to climb its steps. Bahn had little wish to talk to the man, or anyone else just then.

He moved on, unconsciously keeping low as he stepped along the parapet towards the site of the breach, feeling exposed at each wind-blown open space between the teeth of the crenellations, and the occasional gaping emptiness where a section of the battlements had fallen away entirely. No one else was walking bent over, though, nor showing the least sign of concern about the odd incoming shot. Bahn forced himself to straighten his back and to walk in a way more befitting an officer.

He stopped as the battlements dropped away altogether, the stonework ragged where the undermined wall had collapsed. Bahn gaped down at the filled-in breach.

The rubble and earth that plugged the gap was a good half-throw across in size. It had been tamped down and floored with loose planking, and a crude barricade of stone blocks had been set across it for cover, although no one was out there just now. The breach itself was no longer visible from the Mannian side of the Shield. It was faced with the same great slope of earth that fronted the rest of the wall, the only defence they had found that could withstand the constant bombardments of cannon.

Still, it was certainly visible from where he stood, and Bahn could not tear his gaze from it. He stared at the broken section of wall as though staring into the depths of himself, feeling some kind of affinity with this weakened mass of stone.

He thought of the note that had arrived from Minos intelligence the week before, suggesting the possibility of an imminent invasion of Khos. He had been bound by his duty to keep the news to himself; it was, after all, only a supposition of the enemy’s plans. Even Marlee he had kept in the dark, not wanting to cause her unnecessary worries; she had known that something was wrong with him anyway, had noticed the despondent way he carried himself these days. And then the guns on the Mannian side had fallen silent, supposedly as part of the Empire’s period of mourning. To Bahn, it had seemed more as if they were catching their breath for the onslaught to come.

Bahn removed his helmet, set it down on a surviving crenellation next to him with a scrape of metal. A cistern was built into the battlements here, filled with rainwater, and he drank a few sips from a cup fixed to it by a chain. Sated, he leaned against the stonework and gazed out over the Lansway, lost in the tumult of his thoughts.

A far thunderstorm was trailing curtains of rain across the far end of the isthmus and the crust of hills that stretched away on either side of it: the very tip of the southern continent, and the land of Pathia, now ten years fallen to Mann. His hair blew about in the breeze as birds wheeled high and aimless in the sky above.

He ducked as a shot whined off the stonework near to him. Bahn turned to look at where it had struck, and saw Halahan standing there with the foot of his bad leg propped up on the rubble of the broken battlement, a hand on his raised knee, his other holding the clay pipe in the corner of his mouth, coolly studying a breath of dust drifting from the stonework next to his boot.

The Nathalese veteran leaned and spat on the chalky bullet-strike as though putting out a flame, then spoke to Bahn without turning to him. ‘Thinking of some poke?’

Bahn blinked, not understanding his meaning.

‘You seemed lost, a moment ago. I wondered if you were thinking of some lass.’

Bahn rose from his crouch and brushed his fingers through his hair and fixed his helm back on his head. He was careful all the while to remain behind the protection of the battlements. ‘You walk quieter than a mountain lion,’ he replied to the Nathalese man, before he realized what he was saying.