The Everburning City

Act 1, Part 5, Chapter 12

Valen

Standing in an open field — knowing that there were no walls for miles in any direction — had never felt so much like being held in a vice.

The Gloam was so close now that Valen could throw his Salamander into it from where he stood. It climbed the air above their heads and tried to sit above — only a small portal of blue sky hadn't been claimed. The bright daylight, and even the orange glow of the Spire had been blotted out. Asides from the glimmer of the sky, the only light left to them was cast by their own hands, desperate wisps of flame clinging to their fuel at the end of a few torches.

And that light had never looked more fragile.

"One of us will be out of the fight at all times," Captain Dremora said, speaking at the far end of their small line. The captain's voice carried as if he was bellowing to a group of recruits, not jogging in full kit. "Your job will be to watch our torches, in case whatever killed the fires out in the field happens again. If it happens, light your torch with your gun, and then start howling on your whistle. Everyone else rallies to the torch."

Valen was breathing hard, though neither the unlit torch nor the Salamander shook in his grip. Nor was it from the Gloamtaken, even as they pursued just beyond the edge of the light. If there was a prayer in the City — far from atheistic indifference, most believed that if there was a god or gods or titans or demons, they were responsible for the siege —it was hoping the fires would keep burning. The Crafters' creed, that to live is to burn, invoked the truth of life and fire breathing the same air. If the fires went out, if the Spire went dark, the City would not survive the hour.

So to be worried that fire might not burn was like feeling a chill from the inside-out.

"Cadmus, Spitfire, you're on first reserve. Drummer, on my left. Sandson, my right. If the Gloamtaken catch up to us, everyone sprints hard for the next trench. We regroup there. Until then, carry on at a jog, and keep an eye out behind you."

A dull drumbeat answered the Captain's orders. Two hard taps to the chest, barely audible, as every other Ranger around Valen gave their company's salute. Valen echoed it as well as he could with his hands full.

"Hey, sir, how do you want us to tell you we see Gloamtaken?" someone asked from beside Valen. Short woman, corporal by rank, and a demolitions specialist. The soldier Captain Dremora had addressed as 'Spitfire'. His eyes were drawn to her hands; heavily calloused like his own, thickest at the fingertips, and the nails weren't rounded, instead flat at the front.

Nails burnt flat, and skin toughened from long practice with the weapon in her hands.

"Loudly, Corporal," the captain replied. "And yes, I'll consider a Salamander shot warning enough."

"Good," Spitfire replied, rolling her shoulders.

"Redgrave, remind us of our landmarks. What do we follow to get back to Barleybarrel?" The captain asked.

The captain was trying to keep their thoughts busy. Their attention focused. In the moments he had spent shaking over this new stroke from their enemy, Captain Dremora had already churned through the implications, and was now acting on everything they could do about it.

Focused on the war, still intent on winning. It reminded him of Gwendolyn. "We have two," Valen said. "Following the Spire will always lead us towards the City. And the irrigation trenches run parallel with the walls, crossing them means we're heading towards one. Also, sir?"

"Go ahead, Redgrave."

"If anyone comes across something to set a torch to, they should. At the least, it will mark our way and show us where the Gloamtaken are."