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."
"Well said, Ranger." Captain Dremora ran ahead, and caught up with Valen. "Redgrave, do you have a flint on you?"
"I do, sir."
"Good."
Valen thought it was a strange question. After all, lighting a torch with a Salamander was far quicker. But the Captain did nothing lightly; there was a purpose to even his wisecracks or moments of levity. And after a moment, Valen realized something. He tucked his torch under an arm, opened his gun's breach, and pulled the cartridge out an inch. Just far enough that the orange glow from the shot peeked through and illumined his fingers.
"Worried that whatever put out the fires might have tried for your ammunition?" the captain asked, as he imitated Valen's inspection. He went a step further, and lifted the flap of his ammo pouch. Even from where he stood, Valen could see the firelight coming from inside.
"Ammo check," the Captain shouted. "Check the fit on your loaded shot, then your pouch."
There was a rumble at Valen's back, like the churning of some distant, massive machine. Just as most of the Rangers had their weapons open, or their eyes were turned to the pouches at their sides, the Gloamtaken poured through the grey shroud.
Strange how solid the Gloam looked at the edge of the torches, until something came through it.
Valen's right hand was reaching for his sword and he pivoted into a stance, even before recalling his current duty, or the fact that his Salamander was in it. As fire flashed ahead, as Captain Dremora started cutting into them, as the other Rangers drew weapons and cut down the nearest, Valen cursed and squeezed the torch in his hand. And waited.
"Drummer," Captain Dremora shouted, and cut down a pair of creatures closing with him. "Run straight south," he said, and it was all he managed to say before he fired again, and turn around. "Sandson," and he punctuated his call with another shot. "Do the same."
Even as the two Rangers broke free and ran past Valen, torches waving in their wake, he held and waited.
"Cadmus, Poe, break now!"
And only then, as the rest of them ran towards him, did Valen turn and run. The edge of the Gloam was close, as the torchbearer was behind him. So close he could have reached out a hand a skimmed the mist, and so close that the nearly didn't see the trench in time.
He scrambled, threw himself into a blind leap, and very nearly put himself into the Gloam before he landed on the far side.
The other Rangers were only seconds behind, and the Gloamtaken heartbeats behind them.
Valen aimed his Salamander at the oncoming mob, just as the captain leapt over the trench. But before he could fire, a hand hit the barrel and pointed it into the sky. "Focus, Valen. Captain gave you a job."
The hand on Valen's weapon belonged to Fredrick Sandson. The man held his torch in the air in a pose strangely reminiscent of the memorial statues in the gardens of High Central. Behind him a trail of burning shrubs stretched in a long line near the edge of the trench.
And like the captain, Lieutenant Sandson appeared to all the world as if he was unsurprised and untroubled by their circumstances. "Yes, sir," Valen said, and he moved his finger off the Salamander's trigger.
The lieutenant nodded, let go of Valen's gun, and patted him on the shoulder.
"Finish that ammo check," Captain Dremora ordered. "Sandson, Drummer, back to the wings and see if you can keep those fire trails going as we head south. Even if they only buy us half a minute worth of breathing room, it might be enough to keep them off us until we reach the town."
The other Rangers shouted numbers in response, and returned to their steady jog. Sergeant Cadmus Porter took the lead, with Valen following, and Spitfire accompanying the captain as their rearguard.
Chancing a glance over his shoulder, Valen saw the pursing mob stalled at the trench, unwilling to cross even the small line of fire they had set. And in the time it took them to begin going around, looking for a way past, they had run so far the Gloam would normally have swallowed the space between. But Sandson and Drummer set long trails of fire in their wake. There were gaps in the line, and some of the patches burnt out in moments, but it was enough to hold the Gloam at bay again.
"Who are we?" Captain Dremora asked, startling Valen with the question.
"We are the walls," Lieutenant Sandson answered, before the captain's question had finished reverberating in the air.
"We are the torches against the dark night," Spitfire added.
Hearing the call was a comfort to Valen, and he fell into his steady jog with such a sense of relief it felt like every breath he let out was blowing out stress like smoke out of an engine. And so relaxed, he wasn't staring at the Gloam with the same intensity he had been a few moments ago, watching for the Gloamtaken.
Because of that, he actually noticed how still the Gloam had become.
The mists had stopped churning; settling like water in a still, windless day. It had settled into a solid looking mass almost like the facade of one of the levee walls in the City; a solid sheet of grey from the ground to where it ended well above their heads.
"Burn me," Valen said, and he looked over to the nearest torch.
"What is it?" Captain Dremora asked. Valen began to answer, when the torch in the captain's hand winked out, and the Gloam rushed in. Lieutenant Sandson disappeared behind the grey in the blink of an eye.
Valen pressed his torch against the barrel of his Salamander and pulled the trigger. The hammer of his weapon slammed down on the shell.
And did nothing.