Gwendolyn
They were going back into the Gloam.
Beneath that shroud of pallid grey that would have killed her, Roderick, and all the other kids she was responsible for. Gwendolyn still remembered how close it was; close like the walls of a bedroom, feeling like the walls of a crematorium.
She didn't want to go, stepping back into that grey death put a shake in her legs that made it hard to stand. But her fears also inspired a certain sense of revulsion, a disgust at her own feelings that had a face. And that set her blood to boil.
That face was Sergeant Ewanmourn.
Now, as if to spite her own fears, she was waiting by the pilot-light perimeter, the makeshift wall now surrounding Barleybarrel. Barely twenty feet from the Gloam, her weapon held loosely in her right hand, she took a slow breath to steady herself, and took a step towards it.
Satisfied her legs weren't about to give out under her, Gwendolyn took another step towards the Gloam, and then another. The cold hand around her heart didn't squeeze, even as she came within spitting distance to it.
Another two steps, and she stopped close enough to see the small swirls in the mist. Like the river churning as the wind swept over it, it had the gentle swirl of wavy hair, and bent a little as her breath hit it. She held out her hand, and let her fingertips touch it.
It was cool, dewy, like the fields just after the rain. And like damp air, Gwendolyn could feel it as she traced her fingers along the edges, and watched the grey twist in the air, filling the space left by her passing. She let her whole hand sink into it, disappearing as surely as if she had hidden it on the other side of a door, and then pulled it out.
Gwendolyn touched her face, and was surprised to find her hand smelled like some kind of plant, a woody sort of plant she didn't recognize.
"I don't think you'll learn much about the Gloam by poking it," someone said from behind her. Gwendolyn turned around, surprised to see someone standing just a few feet from her. A stern, taciturn looking woman, with several small scars on her face, including one that cut through the left side of her lips. She had the now familiar white scarf, black hair smattered with ash-grey strands, and was wearing a backpack quite a bit larger than the standard-issue kit. On her right shoulder, the medical specialist cross, atop three bars.
She also had a salamander in her right hand, and a torch in her left.
"Sergeant. I'm just making sure I don't fall over in a panic as soon as we step back in there," Gwendolyn admitted, poking at the Gloam one last time.
The sergeant stepped up beside Gwen, and studied her. There was something cold, calm, almost clinical in her gaze. "Of all the answers I could have heard, that might be one of the wisest," the sergeant said, and held out her hand. "Master Sergeant Min Tavash, second squad."
"Corporal Gwendolyn Aranhall," she said, and shook Min's hand. "You're a medical specialist?"
"The ranking master specialist in the Rangers. Second squad is over-specialized in medics, which is part of why we were chosen for this detail," Min explained. "I was hoping for a chance to talk to you, before we left."
"With me?" Gwendolyn asked.
"I understand you haven't been in the army long," Min said.
"Less than a day,"
"And you challenged for you medical specialty." Min's tone was strangely neutral, clinical even. "Where would you tourniquet during or after a hand amputation?"
"Above the bicep, just below the shoulder," Gwendolyn replied without thinking.
Min nodded, then surprised her with a follow-up. "Why not any lower on the arm?"
"It's the easiest spot," Gwendolyn insisted.
"Really it's the only spot, when you're in the field. Do the simple things right," Min said, and she smiled for the first time since they started speaking. It was a fleeting thing. "Consider your specialty ratified, if the captain hasn't already. Now, let's get to what I'd like to talk to you about."
Gwendolyn waited, silent, for the sergeant to continue.
"Have you heard of the concept, 'mission critical specialty'?" Min asked.
"No, I can't say I have," Gwendolyn admitted.
"I'd be surprised if you have. Not just because you've been with us less than a day," Min explained, and she glanced over her shoulder. Towards Valen. "But because he is your teacher."
"If you're about to insult my sergeant, ma'am, this might come to blows," Gwendolyn said, shouldering her salamander.
That got her another appraising look from Min. Their eyes met, her head tilted to the left, just a hair, and then she nodded as if she had an answer for an unspoken question. "There are certain lessons you need to have, as a medical specialist, that your sergeant is uniquely unsuited to provide. The one I need you to know, before we leave, is that in a squad, the mission critical specialty is to be protected above and beyond all else."
"Okay," Gwendolyn said.
"And as a medical specialist, that specialty is almost always yours. And I can tell, by the fact that you're touching the Gloam without anyone else nearby, that you don't understand the need for that yet."
Gwendolyn felt the indignation rise up in her stomach, and her thoughts began to stitch a defence together. But she held it back, deliberately, and listened without responding as Min continued. "You were a caretaker for teenagers in a remedial work camp, before you joined. You're used to being the one between others and danger. It's a good instinct for a soldier. It's also exactly where a medical specialist shouldn't be. After all, if you went down to a bite from Gloamtaken, who in your squad would patch you up? And could they manage it without you walking them through your treatment?"
Gwendolyn flinched, and nodded.
"A mission critical specialty is the whatever skill is most important to accomplishing your task. And unless the mission demands that a task be accomplished, that means you're the most important skill in your squad. Casualties might happen, but the surest way to kill a squad with a single death is to lose your medic. You need to get used to letting people stand between you and the enemy, Corporal Aranhall."
"And why is Valen so unsuited to teaching that?"
"He's a soldier, for one. We don't train soldiers to hide behind others. He's young, and earnest, which is a good combination for staying in the front. And he might be the City's best swordsman, a skill that guarantees he will stand between just about anyone else in the rangers and the Gloamtaken. Those are all good things, but he could live a hundred years and never understand the lesson that you need to learn right now."
Gwendolyn didn't respond, didn't answer, but nodded. She had heard, and as Min gave her another clinical look, she realized it would be enough.
"Everything all right?" Valen asked. Strangely, she hadn't heard him approach, and even as he drew close, his footsteps were too quiet to make out.
"She was telling me something important about my specialty, sir," Gwendolyn said.
Valen nodded. He was solemn, though he paused a moment or so as if expecting an explanation that wasn't forthcoming. He turned to Sergeant Min, and asked her, "has she taken that lesson to heart, Master Sergeant?"
"I believe she has, Master Sergeant. You chose well, for plucking someone out of the field," Min replied, before she turned and walked away, back to her own squad.
Gwendolyn watched her leave, and a strangely giddy smile slipped across her face and stuck there. Valen noticed her smile, and asked, "what is it?"
"I think I just got told that I belong here," Gwendolyn explained.
"That's good."
"Agreed. I rather like belonging here on my own merits, rather than just riding your coattails," Gwendolyn said, and she tapped her fist over her heart, twice. "I'll get back to our squad, get my boys in gear."
"Good," Valen said, and he followed her as she made her way back to where the rest of the squad was waiting. Halfway back, he asked, "do you really feel like that, Gwen? Do the others really feel like they're just riding our coattails?"
"It's a mixed opinion," Gwendolyn admitted. "Mack doesn't, but he's seen too much to be impressed by a white scarf. Cameron's too angry to care. Hendricks and Mildred do, but they feel like what they did at the last wall has earned them their keep. Fauth and Roderick definitely do, and they're right to think so."
"And Vincent?"
"Vincent's a special case. He doesn't really know the limits of his own power, both good and bad," Gwendolyn explained, surprised by her own insight. "And whatever the Golem or whatever power is behind it did to him when it bloodied his nose, it frightened him. Which is a shame right now, because it's made him too comfortable being under-utilized."
"How so?" Valen asked.
"You saw him take that craft, make it into a bird, and fly it eight miles to get a good look at the Golem. He did it without missing a beat in our conversations, and his master treated it like he was just talking and tying his shoes. We could really use that, right now," Gwendolyn explained.
"True," Valen agreed. "Though I agree with the Captain, Vincent's in the best position to rescue Barleybarrel, which is still our top priority. Best he focus on that."
"That's exactly my point. He can, but he needs to be able to convince the captain of that. Which he won't do, not after what happened on the wall. Between getting his Craft snuffed out, and seeing his mentors broken on the wall, it's a wonder he's here at all."
Valen took her worries in without response, and eventually only said, "let's get moving. I think the captain is ready to march."
He was right. Captain Dremora was now a foot away from the Gloam, with an unlit torch in his hand. He had his back to it, and the other ranger platoons were already beginning to gather. Valen strode ahead, and joined the rest of their squad just as they took positions on the captain's left.
Gwendolyn stepped in beside Hendricks, who was fidgeting restlessly on his feet. Cameron, beside him, wore a smile that would best be described as predatory. And Fauth stood with one hand resting on the butt of his Salamander, with the other fingering the cross guard of his sword.
Gwen stepped between them, and turned to Cameron. "I have an odd request, if we get a chance," she said.
Cameron looked at her without replying. "If we encounter Gloamtaken in thin numbers, one or two, I want you or Fauth to bring it down."
"You think I'm that untested? Who the burning hell do you think you are?"
"She's right, Cam," Hendricks said. "When we first encountered the Gloamtaken, I panicked. I fired a shot, couldn't reload, and didn't even think of drawing my sword until Valen yelled at me. And even then, I let one of those ash-bitten things slip by."
"Even Valen panicked, forgot to pull his sword back out of one," Gwendolyn added. "So, if we get the chance, especially if it's just one by itself, experience it for yourself. And not with a Salamander, but with a sword or a knife."
Cameron still looked as angry as he had before, but he nodded, and didn't challenge the idea. Fauth was more enthusiastic in his acceptance, even offering a quiet nod of approval. Gwendolyn wanted to smack Cameron upside the head, but decided to leave it, as Captain Dremora took his Salamnder in one hand. He pointed it up in the air, set the torch next to it so that the end was just beside the muzzle, and fired. A red lance arced into the sky like a tiny red lightning bolt, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. And all that was left in its wake, besides the lingering flash that cut across Gwendolyn's eyes, was a now lit torch in the captain's hand.
"Just in case you need a torch lit quickly," Captain Dremora said, as he holstered his weapon. "First Platoon, with me."
Fauth lit a torch on the nearby pilot lights, and followed the captain into the Gloam.