“Commander!”

  Damn it. Here we go.

  “Riders to the east. Shots have been exchanged. Two riders did not return—the rest are roaming the perimeter. Guns are readied. The rest are hidden. Johan has beaten the less-readied to quarter.”

  Mesk’s report was short and on point. I had not seen much of him these past days—only the edges of his work—but he had taken his duty to the spine. Led men on the parapet. Learned without asking. My higher officers had noticed. Now they were occupied elsewhere, and Mesk stood ready.

  He seemed a taller man for it.

  I allowed myself one last breath of quiet. A hand to my brow. A sigh I did not plan.

  Then the world met me again.

  “All cannons are to be readied. Don’t bother to hide them—the dirt and chaos will do the rest. Cannons in the fort fire before all else. None shall fire unless the fort commands. Do you heed?”

  “Aye, Commander!”

  His eyes held that narrow line between panic and honour. That balance would do.

  I wished him luck without saying it.

  I left the war room—sacred only because men had died for the plans drawn there—and stepped out to the parapet.

  The fort was alive now. Motion everywhere. Orders snapping. Powder moving. Men hauling, loading, bracing. And there—among the press—I saw most of my best. Dressed a touch finer. Standing a touch taller. Faces newly bared, moustaches stiff and proud, each of them wearing the ridiculous badge of unity as if it were a medal earned in blood.

  I almost laughed.

  My cuirass had never been removed. My sword and pistol were ready. The rest, I could manage.

  As I took the measure of my keep, I saw motion not born of my command. Blemmye gathering in loose knots, humming and conversing in their deep tongue, voices rolling like stone against stone.

  Women. The old. The young. All finding purpose. Lovers and elders clasped men tight before they were drawn away to the field. Some children wept openly. Others—older, sharper, already practising the lie of bravery—wrapped arms around them and whispered steadiness they did not yet possess.

  And men, of every make, found their places. Some raised pikes with shaking hands, sweat cutting lines through grime, but they held. Others—those who had known war on gentler terms—readied themselves with bitter laughter lodged deep in their chests.

  And the drums.

  They spoke before I did.

  The Kesselbruck boys—shoeless, no higher than my breast—stood ready all the same, beating the call to war.

  A rhythm that struck the heart. They had not trained enough, God bless them. But they knew the beat, even if it did not strike the same chord.

  Short. Short. Deep.

  Short. Short. Deep.

  The signal for combat. For finding one’s station—and holding it.

  Short. Short. Deep.

  As I studied their faces, I found more courage there than in many of my elders.

  They had found their post.

  And they held it.

  Their spell was broken by familiar voices.

  “Captain Edelmer!”

  Brandt met me on the stairs, grinning as if he’d heard a fine joke—though I knew better. That grin was his way of baring teeth at fate, nothing more.

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  “They come. By God, they come. Our riders met their scouts, blasted a few to hell and rode back. We don’t know what they saw—but they paid in blood.”

  “Assume they saw it all,” I said. “Ready to die. And ready to make our deaths dear. If it goes well, then God bless us. If it goes poorly, then we did our duty.”

  He nodded. The grin slipped away.

  “Come with me to the wall. The runners, drummers, and signallers are waiting for you.”

  It was always a strange comfort to know I was not truly needed—that the Sun Swords breathed without my hand on their throats. Or perhaps Jensson had been breathing for me all along.

  “Where is Jensson stationed?” I asked.

  “In the rear. He said he is coordinating the support. One voice should speak for the fort he said—not two.”

  And so I was chosen as the sole bearer of the burden. The voice to call it all. To lead all. To guide all.

  Very well.

  “Send a runner to him. Jensson will heed all trumpets and drums directed to the rear. Our needs first—his discretion second. Fort cannons will load ball. Centre cannons, ball. Outer cannon will stock grape. No songs nor shouts, not before the charge is fact.”

  Brandt straightened at that, taking my measure one last time before speaking.

  “Truly,” he said, “you are readying us to die, sir.”

  “Life and death share the same line,” I answered. “Two faces of one coin. Readiness will make the difference—will it not?”

  His grin returned then, earned and unforced.

  “Aye,” he said. “It will.”

  Together, we moved to the parapet. My finest and dearest stood ready. Vollmer was bellowing at something or other when I came into view, then caught sight of me and snapped to order. Riedel stood farther down the line, inspecting the guns along the wall; he had the courtesy to salute from a distance as I took my station.

  Kristoff was not here. He was positioned in the trenches. He had proven his command of cannon before—poorly timed, perhaps—but he would not make the same mistake twice. I trusted him to learn, or to die for it.

  “COMMANDER!”

  The hail rose in unison from the walls. Backs straightened for a heartbeat, then bent again as preparations reclaimed them. Vollmer broke from the line and came to me, report already formed.

  “All guns are readied. Villagers carry powder and shot. Gustavians man most of the trenches. Riders are hidden, prepared to support both flanks. We could not be more prepared.”

  “Dangerous words, Vollmer,” I said. “But I thank you. Let us not make our preparations hubris.”

  An officer I did not know stood among them. Blue coat. Pointed hat. Straight and taut as a drawn wire. The only thing that marked him above the rest was the gorget at his breast, bearing the sky of his Lord.

  “Commander.” His voice was level. “Jensson has seen fit to assign me as adviser on my countrymen’s advance.”

  His face was bare. Brow and eyes gave nothing away. Only a single bead of sweat betrayed him—caught at the temple, refusing to fall. Strung, like the rest of us.

  “We stand at the cusp,” I said. “What can we expect?”

  He held silence a moment. His eyes slipped from mine, measuring something inward, then returned with renewed steadiness.

  “The scouts have seen what they may,” he said. “There will be no more sent. They will not risk losing momentum.”

  A pause.

  “Guns first. Then men. Then fortifications.”

  “So if we do not crumble at once, they plan to stay.”

  The officer inclined his head. “Aye.”

  “Jensson spoke to me of your United Warplan,” I continued. “Pray tell—what fate does it reserve for this fort?”

  “The hills we once used for firing practice will be claimed for forward batteries,” he said. “If the walls do not yield swiftly, trenches will follow. Lines will be cut where they may—riders and scouts loosed to harry messengers, wagons, powder trains. Yet the mire, the river, and the lay of the land will slow such work. This ground is… reluctant.”

  “You speak as though the plan were your own,” I said.

  A pause. Then, evenly: “Every officer knows it by heart. The war was judged inevitable long before any banner was raised. Only the circumstances have changed.”

  A noise from beyond cut my reply short. A grovel at first—ragged voices shouting in unison—then closer, and closer still, until the sound struck the very edge of the fort.

  “Contact!”

  The cry went up along the wall, and at once the men changed. Movements became both hushed and hurried, backs hunching as if lead and ball had already begun their work.

  Mutterings fell away. Shouts died half-formed.

  I leaned toward my new adviser and spoke into what little silence remained—the final breath of peace we would be afforded.

  “Spread your wisdom down the line. The plan of attack is to be known by all my officers. Good luck.”

  He nodded. The bead of sweat at his brow finally broke free and ran its course.

  “Commander.”

  “Cannons are readied. The word is yours,” Vollmer whispered, already half-turned toward his post, hands restless as if they itched to feel recoil and heat.

  Beside me, Brandt stood in that crooked-sure posture of his, weight sunk unevenly into one leg, lazy eye wandering across the field as though it searched for something already lost. Smoke had not yet come, but the air had thickened all the same—heavy, expectant, pressing against the lungs.

  “We trained for nothing else,” he said at last, voice low, almost conversational. “Time to see what we trained for.”