Chris Wooding - The Fade

I hunker down on the wall at the far edge of the emplacement and look out across the lake while the men reorganise. There are Ehru out there, far from the shore, tentacles rising and waving and touching. They iridesce with colour, oblivious to the men dying nearby. I can't help but waste a few moments watching before I turn my attention to the troops below.

The main Eskaran force is forging along the lakeside. The enemy contests every step. Four hundred of us down there, all told. It's all to reclaim a tiny port called Korok which the Gurta took from us sixty turns ago. The Warmasters seem to think it's of critical importance, a staging point for bigger things, but I don't know about that. I just go where I'm sent. My fight is on the high ground, where the land rises to meet the cavern wall. We're meant to secure the terrain and take out the hidden guns that are butchering our forces on the shore. We're doing a pretty good job of it, so far.

I narrow my eyes and try to pick out Rynn in the chaos below. Big as he is, I can't find him. There's Vamsa, one of the Cadre of Clan Kessin, darting back and forth as she lashes the enemy with poison-tipped whips. I spot someone who can only be Jutti, the legendary Cadre dancer-fighter, identifiable by his acrobatic killing style. But no Rynn.

Our troops surge towards the Gurta earthworks, a fortified line of trenches and barriers, the last obstacle before the port. I hear the sharp pucking of shard-cannons and a swathe of tiny men fall to the ground. Two of our Blackwings fly overhead, their pilots strapped beneath the kite-like frames, propulsion systems scoring sparkling trails of energy through the darkness. They're dropping bags of explosives onto the Gurta, sending them scattering.

Our chthonomancers are hanging back, pooling their efforts, protected by a ring of heavily armoured crayl-riders. I watch a section of the earthworks heave and collapse, demolished by some invisible force, burying the enemy beneath tons of suffocating dirt. The Gurta might be formidably determined opponents, but their Elders will never match the rock-magic of our chthonomancers.

The Gurta defences begin to fail. I'm no tactician, but even I can see their cause is hopeless now. I feel myself smiling bitterly. Good. Let's see how this crushing loss squares with their insufferable sense of superiority.

Then I spot the rider on the slope, far down the lake shore, silhouetted by the dim glow of the crystal formations. Sitting erect in the saddle of one of those bat-like creatures they ride. He's holding up a spyglass.

But he's not watching the battle. He's looking out over the lake.

'Hoy! Belama! Where's your spyglass?' I call over my shoulder. The soldiers are angling the shard-cannon down at the Gurta earthworks. At this range accuracy is impossible, but at least we can stir up the defenders some. Belama slings me his spyglass, and I pluck it from the air and train it on the horizon. The cavern is colossal, like most of the caverns at this depth; I can't even see the roof, let alone the far side.

But I can see the ships. Sleek-hulled, sharp-nosed, slipping across the lake under the silent power of chthonomantic propulsion. Three of them, each capable of holding a hundred men or more. I look for the rider, but he's gone. It doesn't matter. I know what he was doing.

Waiting for his moment. Timing his attack.

And suddenly I understand what's coming. The ships will make landfall further up the shore, behind the Eskaran force, driving them towards the port and into the Gurta defenders. The rider will lead reinforcements down the slope and into our flank as we retreat.

We thought this was a lightly fortified target, of little importance to the enemy, but it's something much worse than that.

It's a trap.

The shard-cannon whirrs into life behind me, but I'm gone, sprinting down the slope towards the lake shore. I tell myself it's because I have to report what I've seen to the Warmaster; but that's not what's uppermost in my mind. I have to find Rynn.

The Gurta earthworks are being overrun as I slip and scramble towards the water. The land steepens, thick with lichen and tall-stemmed fungi. I skid dangerously in my haste, battering my way through a clump of puffballs and leaving a cloud of spores in my wake.

The ground levels out as I reach the shore. Trampled moulds lie flattened underfoot. There are dead and wounded mixed among them.

The wounded are the worst. Dead bodies don't seem like people: some essential part of them has gone, leaving bags of meat. But the wounded are still aware, alive, screaming as they wave the stumps of missing limbs.

Some are being helped by comrades. Some aren't. I've seen enough battles to know that you can't care for everyone. You can't stay sane that way. So I race past the hurt and the dying, deaf to their cries. There's only one person here that I care about, and I dodge through the chaos of running soldiers to find him.

The whole force is moving forward, and I'm swept with them. He'll be near the front, leading the charge. He's Cadre; it's what we do. The soldiers look to us to inspire them, to lead. We are the elite, the heroes.

It's ridiculous, of course. We're not heroes. We're just very, very good at killing people.

I dart through the crowd. The soldiers are yelling themselves hoarse, rallied by the prospect of victory. Weapons are thrust in the air in triumph as they run: serrated blades, billhooks, compound bows of rootwood. I want to shout at them that they're mistaken, that the enemy has outmanoeuvred them, but it would be useless. I need someone in charge. Cadre don't call tactics, as a rule; we're there on the ground, in the thick of it. That's why the soldiers admire us, more than the Warmasters or the Division Leaders or the chthonomancers. We're like them. We fight with them, take orders like them, die with them.

I clamber over the ruin of the earthworks. Gurta dead everywhere. Insectile helmets cracked, armour slick with blood. Pallid skin flecked with black dirt. Smoke rising from craters, bits of people everywhere.

The fighting has begun again, this time among the buildings of the tiny port village. Korok has been a ruin since the Gurta captured it. Gravel paths wind between shattered buildings perched on a rocky hump of land. A few jetties project out into the lake. It's one of many similar towns in the Borderlands: joyless, functional, little more than a fortified trading post. They say it's valuable because it's the only place to unload heavy cargo this side of the lake, but I think it's a point of pride. The Gurta took it from us. We're taking it back.

I'm getting to the leading edge of the battle now, where the charge has feathered and spread out among the buildings. Archers are hidden in the ruins of the inn and the shinehouse. Its glow is feeble; the Gurta haven't recharged it, so the shinestone at the top of the tower is dying. The town is steeped in twilight.

I grab a soldier roughly by the arm as he runs past me. He whirls, angry at being handled like that. Then his eyes flick to the skinmark on my bare shoulder. The symbol for Cadre, encircling the insignia of my Clan. Suddenly he knows who I am.

'Who's your superior?' I demand.

He gives me a name. I don't care.

'Find him. Tell him to pull the men out. Gurta are coming from the lake and the high ground. They'll cut us to pieces when they arrive.'

I see the fear ignite in his eyes. His confidence in victory has been replaced by alarm.

'Tell him I sent you,' I add.

He runs to fulfil his mission, and so do I. It's unforgivable that I've just passed such an important message to a common soldier instead of taking it myself, but I've got other concerns right now. In a very short time the Warmaster is going to know about the ambush anyway. I have to warn Rynn. I have to be at his side when it happens.