The Year of Our War

To Brian

Unnatural vices are fathered by our heroism.

—T. S. Eliot

A
s soon as I arrived in Lowespass I bought a newspaper and read it in the shadow of the fortress wall—

I knew my own words, however badly reported, so I flicked to page five, where there was a cartoon with a surprising likeness of Lightning. The cartoon grasped desperately at a beautiful girl who was carrying a guitar. Her figure dissolved like a ghost into little woodcut hearts. The caption underneath read:
Swallow? In your dreams
.

Giggling, I folded the newspaper and shoved it into the back of my belt. I strode away from the fortress wall toward the cliff, hearing the river torrent below. Two strides, and I started running. I forced at the ground, accelerating, faster and faster to the edge of the cliff. Three, two, one. I spread my wings and kicked over the edge as the ground fell away. I turned in a long calm arc down toward the camp.

B
y day the Lowespass outpost filled the river valley with sound and splendor. Tents covered the ground completely, colored like scales on a butterfly’s wing. Troops patrolled the Insect Wall, covered wagons drawn by exhausted horses rolled in along the rutted road. They unloaded at the fortress, took the wounded away. From the air, carts were the size of matchboxes, parked in a line. Shouts carried from the soldiers at training; those at rest sat in groups on the grass, or in the canvas city, under awnings, around fires. Pennants, which marked fyrd divisions, twisted like vivid tongues on the blunted mountain breeze. They were blue with white eagles for the country of Awia, a scallop shell for Summerday manor, a clenched fist for Hacilith city, stars, plows, and ships for the Plainslands manors. The Castle’s flag was set in the center of the camp, a red and gold sun-in-splendor. Our symbol of permanence now shines on land reclaimed from the Insects, and soldiers passing beneath it glance up, smiling.

I
flew in at midnight, practically blind, trying to remember how deep the valley was. I hurtled down it, balancing on long wings. The river looked like a strand of silver mirror behind the slashed black hillside, and not too far distant I could see the Wall.

Too fast. I’m going too fast.

Good.

Dividing the valley, Lowespass Fortress on its rocky crag soared above me as I dropped. The dark ground was spotted with red, the campfires of the fyrd. Closer still, I could see pale faces surrounding them, but no more. I felt unnerved that Lowespass was populated with silent soldiers. I slowed, flared my wings, and landed neatly on a patch of ground not two meters from a cluster of sleeping bags, which yelped.

I made my way on the damp ground between bivouacs and tent pegs to the Castle’s pavilion. Lamplight shone in a thin beam from the slit entrance. I stood for a while hearing the chatter coming from within, before remembering that those who listen outside tents rarely hear any good about themselves.

“Welcome back, Comet,” said Dunlin.

“You can call me Jant,” I said. As my eyes got used to the light I saw three men sitting around a thin table, playing cards. The pavilion was so large that the edges were in shadow; the central pole was wound with red and yellow ribbons. I bowed to King Dunlin Rachiswater, and to his brother Staniel, and I said hi to Lightning, the Castle’s Archer.

Lightning nodded curtly at me. He was sorting his cards. “What’s the news?”

“Diw won two-nil against Hacilith.”

He gaped. “Can’t you
ever
be serious?”

Dunlin leaned forward. “Have you been successful?”

“Of course. Your Majesty, there are five thousand soldiers on their way from the coast. They’ll take a week to ride here. In addition to that, I went to the Castle and spoke with the Emperor, and he greatly favors what we’ve achieved and backs all the plans you asked me to report—”

“Wait, wait. Didn’t we say eight, not five?”

“I can pull another three thousand from Awia if you give me time.” I was slightly ashamed that I had spent the last few days at the Castle visiting my wife rather than working. King Dunlin Rachiswater is the only man I know who has enough stamina to remain at the front for weeks on end without feeling the need for a night with a woman.

He shook his head. “It has to be the Plainslands. Not Awia. Who’ll feed us?”

“My lord, there are few soldiers left at the coast, and most of them are too young. There’s no outcry as yet, but I think it’s wrong to take so many.”

“If my country of Awia gives all it can, then the Plainslands can too.”

I said, “If I may venture a criticism, it’s your campaign to push the Insects out of land where they’re well established which is costing so many lives.”

“So you’d rather remain in a stalemate for another two thousand years?”

I sighed. “The Castle aims to protect Zascai from the Insects. There’s never a shortage of Insects. If you use up the fighting force of one generation, for how long can we guarantee that protection?”

“Immortals are so frustrating sometimes,” he remarked to his brother. “We can beat the Insects. With eight thousand, we can control their movements. We can support each other!”

I told him, “I’ve seen a lot of action, and I think a hotheaded approach is wrong.”

Rachiswater prepared to contest this but Lightning said, “Your Majesty, don’t argue with Comet.”

“Sorry, Jant.”

“No, no. It’s my fault. I’ve flown a long way. I’m a bit tired.”

They fetched a chair for me to sit down at the table, and poured some red wine from a crystal decanter. The drink wasn’t good on an empty stomach, and I began to feel very light-headed as the others continued with their card game.

“You look tired,” Lightning said, tone dripping with suspicion. The Micawater manor insignia on his shoulder caught the lamplight, a similar diamond design on the quiver full of red-flighted arrows dangling from the back of his chair. The arrows were hanging with a little state-of-the-art composite bow: gold-banded horn and polished strips of wood, curved back like pincers. This meant he must have been showing off because in battle he usually uses a longbow. He was a little taller than Dunlin, much broader than Staniel, and more muscular than me.

There was a resemblance between Dunlin and Staniel, but in it Dunlin had taken all the darkness and strength, whereas his younger brother was like a yellow reed.

Dunlin growled, “I want us to keep our minds on the
campaign
. Especially tomorrow, because it is going to be challenging. Archer, your command is vital.” Lightning didn’t say anything.

“And Messenger? Jant…?”

“At your service,” said I. Dunlin filled his glass, raised it, drank a toast to the Emperor. I clinked my glass to his, set it down after the briefest sip. I didn’t want him to see my unsteady hand.

Dunlin’s expression became thoughtful. “Out of the immortals apart from your good selves, Tornado, Mist, and Ata will join us. Rayne will stay in Lowespass Fortress. There hasn’t been such a powerful showing of the Circle for…how long?”

“Just a hundred years,” I said.

Staniel’s pale eyes were starry with inward enthusiasm. His skinny hand stroked his little blond goatee. No doubt he planned to write about it later: Staniel Rachiswater fighting fearlessly against the Insects with the aid of the immortals.

In the Awian language immortals are called Eszai. Staniel’s poetry portrayed us Eszai as divine, and his sturdy brother as a heroic fighter, and so his image shone with a little of our reflected light, but I had never seen him pick up a sword. His responsibility had been to make sure any wounded and food-poisoned returned to the fortress, and that fyrd on their way back to their manors did not linger and become highwaymen. He had delegated those tasks to me at the outset and now remained in the camp, scribbling in his notebook with a fountain pen.

“I have a straight flush in hearts,” said Lightning. “Gentlemen? Oh dear. Pity. So—I acquire the Rachiswater amphitheater, and Staniel’s library.” He dealt, the red-backed cards pliant in his big hands. “I stake Micawater Bridge, which as you know is one of the seven wonders of the world, so please treat it kindly. Jant, are you playing?”

“You daft bloody Awians,” I muttered unhappily.

“It’s just a bit of fun. I’ll let you have your manor back in the morning.”

I declined; I don’t see any point in card games. My reactions are faster than the Awians’; if I wanted to win I could cheat by sleight of hand. If I played without cheating, then Dunlin would beat me because he is a better, poker-faced strategist, and Lightning would beat him because Lightning has played cards for fifteen hundred years and can see through any strategy without trying. My thoughts strayed hard to something else. I was beginning to feel shaky, and in case my associates had noticed, I blamed it on fatigue. I stood up, pushing the chair back into damp grass. “Give me leave to leave?”

“See you at first light,” said the King.

“Sweet dreams,” remarked Lightning.

I
found the gentle breeze revitalizing. It was the extreme feather’s end of the mountains, and, with a little imagination, I could smell the high summits—glaciers and pine behind the reek of campfire cooking and unwashed soldiers. It was only fancy, but knowing that the breeze in Lowespass gusts down from the mountains made me feel nostalgic. I remembered bitterly that nostalgia is another symptom of withdrawal.

I don’t have or need my own tent, so I hurried to Lightning Saker’s pavilion where a bundle of chamois-skin blankets just inside the entrance marked my bed. He hadn’t touched my maps and clothes which were still piled as I had left them, though now damp with dew. I managed to light a candle, gathered together my works, and took a shot. I soon went to sleep, curled up, racked with hallucinations.

Until golden dawn kicked me awake with big boots.

I yawned and stretched, decongealing. I lay cradled in the blankets, comfortably warm and very relaxed, looking out down Lowespass valley toward the Wall. The vale was filled with blue-gray wood smoke from a thousand campfires, hanging in horizontal stripes and softening the sunlight. Groups of soldiers were gathering, heading toward the main source of the smoke, where breakfast was being dished out. Food at the front was surprisingly good—it had to be because very few of the General Fyrd wanted to be there and it was better for Castle to tempt them than force them. I watched soldiers striking low green tents, which billowed down and were lashed to carrying poles. I drifted for a while, observing the scene, pleasantly unfocused; and then I thought about how good it would be to take another fix. My needle was lying on an unfolded map. I reached out and as my hand closed round it a boot descended on my wrist.

“No, you don’t,” said Lightning. He shoved a couple of folds of crimson scarf over one shoulder, bent down, and retrieved spoon, syringe, twist of paper. “I’ll look after these.”

“Oh, no. Honestly. Come on, Saker! Not
again
.”

“Dunlin is calling for us. I need you to talk to Tornado. Up you get.”

I should have found Lightning’s demeanor inspiring. He wore armor—brass scale lorica made to look like covert feathers—over his chest and down strong arms to the elbow. He had leather trousers laced up the sides, and a Wrought sword at his hip. His scarf, embellished with the Castle insignia, stuck to his wings—which were longer than the modern average—and ruffled the feathers. Other people would have been impressed with such beautiful armor; I simply wondered how much the Wrought craftsmen were making from it, and whether I would see any of the profit.

Feeling rather diminished and dirty, I followed the embroidered sun on his mantle out of the pavilion and through the camp. Faces looked up from turfing ashy fires or pulling backpack cords tight, buckling cuirasses or blowing on hot coffee. The soldiers we met stood up, so that we went in a little wave of startled men standing, then settling down after we passed.