The Everburning City

Act 1, Part 3, Chapter 6

Valen

He was a Master Sergeant now.

That weight of that fact had not fully settled on his shoulders until this moment, when he looked at the eight people who somehow now fell under his direct command. A band of misfits, as his new captain had called them. Five whose tenure in the army was less than a day old, four who had never fired a Salamander before, three who didn't even have a sword.

But as Valen looked from face to face, another realization followed. In Gwnedolyn he could see the resolve that had brushed off being surrounded by the Gloam. Mildred, who after Valen might have more Gloamtaken to her name than anyone in the Cadavalan Rangers. Hendricks, whose few months of sword training had congealed into a surprisingly lethal skill in the field. Fauth, the only wiling volunteer to stand at the wall. Cameron, dangerous enough to be assigned to one of the most powerful Crafters in the City. Mackaroy, whose nerves were as sharp and hard as his knives. And Vincent, apprenticed to one of those same dangerous Crafters, and trusted enough to be brought to the battle.

His realization was that his squad might be the most battle-hardened group of soldiers in the City. And his realization was not a comforting one.

"Third squad," Sergeant Francine Overstil said. "The armoury is the small warehouse building just past that the mess table. Take what you need freely. If your coats are at all damaged, replace them. I'll be along in a minute to apply insignias."

"Rank," Gwendolyn muttered. Strangely, Valen caught her looking over at Crafter Polden, who nodded and gestured towards Captain Dremora. Gwendolyn stepped forward, and said, "Captain, I would like to challenge for my Medical Specialist status."

If Captain Dremora was surprised, he hid it well. "What is the blue tincture?" he asked in turn.

"A distillation made from bread mould, it nearly eliminates the possibility of secondary infection."

"Lacking it, what would you use for wound dressing?"

"Certain soaps standard in medical kits, applied beneath the dressing. The one dyed orange."

"Good. When do we amputate a Gloamtaken bite?"

"If secondary infection sets in."

"What's the worst wound you've ever treated?"

"Boy had his foot run over by a supply cart. Bad fracture, he won't ever be able to walk properly."

"But he still has his foot?" Captian Dremora asked. When Gwnedolyn nodded, the Captain grinned. "Then I concede your challenge, and grant your promotion to specialist. Sergeant Redgrave, you'll need to divide your squad into two groups, and raise a corporal for each. I'll review your decisions on the train. Sergeant Overstil, walk with me, I have some special orders for you before we leave."

"Aye, captain," the quartermaster said, jogging to catch up to Captain Dremora. Valen nodded slowly, turned around, and looked at his soldiers.

"A battle group," Valen said. "Two to four solders, some colonels want to call them fire teams. They're the core of the Army, looking out for the soldiers you're paired with is the most sacred duty you'll have. When I was raise to Corporal, I was told that every promotion past this point was a dilution, in a way, of the terrible responsibility of giving orders that could get someone else killed."

Valen chuckled, and looked from face to face. "Captain Othelli called it a dilution because the pull of camaraderie is never stronger than when you're a corporal. Make a mistake and you cut yourself deeper for it than you would at any other point in the chain of command. Now who am I putting through that?"