ESKER VIII

  At first Esker’s squad had been thrown into the fire, then they were shaped by their encounter the Jotman and the subsequent trial. Finally, injecting the elements of trust and mutual support into their group dynamics had allowed them to solidify in something stronger than their individual parts.

  Stibnite’s modified fire balm devices presented unique opportunities for application. She had collaborated with Spar to incorporate various types of ignition. The former cricket rancher proved to be surprisingly adept at manipulating fuses, which aided the surly forge worker in creating munitions that were time delayed. Together they invented a wire pull cord that generated enough friction to ignite a small fuse within a munition. This was a significant leap forward from Magnate Citrine’s schematics and the squad agreed to keep these innovations private. The motivation to preserve this secret was not resentment for being deployed as expendable fodder, it was survival. Of the original fire balm squads conscripted from convicts and cripples, they were the only one left.

  Mishaps and the volatility of fire balm claimed many lives, but the true culler of life was command. Any unit that demonstrated signs of competence was assigned missions on the frontlines of the war against the surface dwellers. This required a steady stream of new conscripts and given their draw from unsavory sources, that proved to be no obstacle.

  Esker was beginning to recognize a fatal flaw in Tengu leadership: since competitive excellence and putting the need of the many over the individual were expected qualities, even the most basic subterfuge was exceedingly effective.

  The squad had collectively agreed that they would bear the shame of being considered weak and incapable, since the reward was significantly more freedom and mission deployment in less pivotal areas. Currently, they were tasked with clearing tunnels in the abandoned mine.

  “Target that far pile,” Esker instructed, loud enough to be heard over the fungal cloth stuffed in their ears.

  Gabbro pivoted without a word, pulled the wire at the base of the oblong-shaped device and lofted the handheld explosive across the cavern. It wobbled unevenly through the air and landed shy of the pile of rubble.

  She took his hand and braced herself. The ensuing blast rattled the cave.

  Stibnite jotted down several notes.

  Esker approached her and Spar. Gabbro waited idly where she left him. “The shape fits our hands better, but the balance is top-heavy,” she explained to her squad members.

  Stibnite angrily tapped the drying ink of her notes. “Already logged. I witnessed the same phenomenon.” Her taciturn nature had not wholly cooled.

  Esker took a moment to prevent herself from reacting to the provocation. “Each version is getting more impressive, I meant no offense and mention the obvious in an effort to be thorough.”

  Spar’s eyes crinkled. “She is especially sore because I said the same thing in the workshop. Do not take it to heart.”

  “Do you think you could compensate with a higher arc?” Stibnite asked.

  Esker realized that the offer was as close to an apology as she would get from her squad member. She studied the height of the mine and the distance to the blocked passageway. “I will try,” she answered.

  Stibnite offered another device and gave her a nod as she took it. She returned to Gabbro’s side and urged him to take a few steps back. Esker readied herself in a runner’s stance, lifted the tube shaped base of the explosive and took the dangling wire in her teeth. This adaption was another iteration that demonstrated Stibnite’s engineering excellence and allowed Esker to throw one-handed.

  She ripped the cord with a yank of her head and took two quick steps. The fuse sizzled within as she cocked the device back to her ear. At the peak of her momentum, she whipped the explosive forward, taking Stibnite’s advice and making the trajectory peak closer to the ceiling.

  Esker’s breath caught, fearing that she had thrown it too high. If the device ricocheted downward, she would not have long to worry, or to live. The throw was true, remarkably so. After a few wobbling rotations, it righted itself and whirled through the air, landing in the midst of the rubble.

  Time always dilated for her prior to an explosion: the urge to question whether the fuse failed was impossible to avoid. The instinct to check on the device was critical to resist.

  A sharp crack sent debris and shrapnel flying. Esker ducked and covered her head to avoid shards of stone. She swallowed to clear the ringing in her ears. Spar was beaming and Stibnite showed an uncustomary amount of emotion: her resting scowl almost reached a neutral expression. Gabbro stood where she had left him. A bit of rock from the explosion had cut his cheek, blood trickled from the gash. His commitment to the act was total. Esker used a bit of cloth from the squad’s medicine kit to staunch the bleeding.

  “I will adjust the balance of weight for the next batch,” Stibnite offered. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

  Esker was stunned by the forge workers magnanimity. “You have already adjusted the handle and altered the pull cord so that I can operate it. Thank you for the consideration.” She wanted to reinforce this interpersonal dynamic, not exploit it. Her words appeared to have the desired effect.

  “Can I try throwing one?” Spar asked. His enthusiasm was magnetic.

  The rest of the exercise was rote. For this squad, safely clearing mine passageways of blockage was routine. Their next assignment was not.

  ———

  “Ready the charges!” Spar yelled over the din of battle. Fuses sizzled.

  Esker handed a molten bomb to Gabbro and instructed him to drop it off of the ledge, onto the Jotman forces far below. As he did, she hurried to lift the munition’s twin with delicate precision.

  The site of the battle had been chosen with consideration to the enemy’s strategic strengths. Esker’s squad operated from a position that was well out of reach of conventional weaponry and the abundance of Tengu forces attacking from below was likely to occupy the attention of the Jotman mages. She shuddered at the sight of the grasping tendrils emanating from one of the nuns.

  Both molten bombs plummeted end over end, the glowing fuses made ever tighter loops as they shortened. Spar had estimated the appropriate length by the distance. If the fuses were too long, there was a chance the Jotman could sever them before the charges ignited; were they too short, the payload would detonate prematurely and inflict minimal damage.

  These munitions had been specifically chosen for their impact upon the battlefield, even in failure, they could be triggered by nearby flames. The length of their fuses had been chosen well, their effect was devastating. Twin pools of liquid fire burst above the heads of the Jotman warriors, raining down searing death that could not be extinguished by rudimentary means.

  It was harrowing to watch immolated people writhe in agony, even from a distance that abstracted the immediacy. Stibnite and Spar celebrated the success of their bombardment; Esker felt like she would be unable to stomach further destruction of this nature. Taking a life in combat was not an accounting that she relished. Whatever this was, she wanted no part of it.

  The Jotman formations loosened in an effort to escape the fire raging in their midst. Simultaneously, the Tengu attacked. War beetles, their durable carapaces further augmented with plating of light alloys, waded into the press. Curved blades had been affixed to their many limbs, carving bloody swathes through the invaders.

  Underground, the Jotman were not able to utilize one of their most effective battle tactics, mounted combat. The creatures they rode, horses, which Esker had first encountered in the battle prior to the journey to the High King’s seat, were not amenable to the claustrophobic dark. Even had the Jotman fielded their knights, she suspected that they would fare poorly against the much larger war beetles.

  It was difficult to comprehend what compelled the Jotman to brave the depths of the mines. Esker suspected that their religion may provide a role in that motivation: by a twist of fate, the devils that Liadan’s Broken Man warned his followers of, closely resembled Tengu.

  An arm shook her shoulder. “Esk, do you have rocks in your ears?” Spar teased. The early indications of concern painted the corners of his expression. In his other hand he held another fire balm device, this one emitted a concussive blast.

  “Prepare the second volley.” Stibnite instructed Gabbro.

  “This feels wrong,” Esker answered bluntly. “Dropping death upon an enemy that does not even know that we are here.”

  Spar was unprepared for such a response. “This is war. Our squad was trained to do this.”

  “That does not make it right,” she said softly enough that only Spar could hear.

  He took a look at the mayhem below. “I estimated the fuse incorrectly, allow me to fix it.” Spar cradled the device between his knees, drew his knife and sheared two finger lengths from the fuse. “This should better suit you,” he said as he handed it to her.

  Esker nodded and allowed Spar to ignite the munition. She lofted it slightly up, justified in that it would be disastrous if it did not clear the lip of the overhang. She did not wish to witness the detonation, yet recognized that it would draw the wrong kind of attention if she did not.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The fire balm charge whistled through the air, a burning trail traced from the fuse. Gabbro threw down his charge to join hers.

  Much like when they were clearing rubble in the mines, moments stretched into eons. The Jotman below resembled a single organism from her vantage point, individuals were lost in the press. Her jaw clenched as she waited.

  The sharp blast occurred too early, well above the heads of the enemy. Unlike the prior munition, these were intended to shatter armor, making them ineffective at a distance. Gabbro’s charge landed in the press. When it detonated, bodies were torn apart and flung in a rippling circumference.

  “I apologize for failing to install the correct fuse,” Spar said as he bowed to Esker.

  “My delivery could have been more precise,” she answered politely, enjoying the gift that her squad member had granted her.

  “Now they are too fucking close to our forces,” Stibnite groused. It would be too dangerous to release further devices, the risk of collateral damage was high. “Spar, join me in returning the excess fire balm to the quartermaster. Esker, can you and Gabbro gather our supplies here?”

  She nodded.

  “We shall meet you back at camp, I pray that our misfire escaped notice from command.” The punishment for wasting fire balm was dire.

  Other fire balm squads that had been positioned in more favorable vantage points continued their horrifying bombardment.

  The battle below had become a rout of the invaders. Inky tendrils emanating from two of the Jotman nuns coalesced around one rampaging war beetle, spilling its riders as the massive insect collapsed in agony. Whatever pride was won by that pyrrhic victory had been paid for in blood thirtyfold. A general retreat by the Jotman soon followed.

  Esker studied Gabbro. With the rest of their squad absent and the din of the conflict absorbing all other eyes and ears, the moment felt right to confront him. “Will you tell the rest of our squad your truth?”

  Gabbro did not drop his stupefied facade.

  “We are alone, it is safe to talk.”

  “The Keiretsu are always watching and listening,” he muttered barely moving his mouth. He did not turn to face her.

  She took his hand and drew him away from the edge. “You fear them to the point of paranoia.”

  “No, you are the one who should be afraid.” He locked his eyes onto hers. “I will not risk the lives of my comrades because you misplace your trust.”

  “I know you recognize what is building between us as a squad,” she insisted. “I thought you would welcome Spar and Stibnite’s expertise into your resistance efforts.”

  Gabbro huffed with impatience. “Of course their knowledge would be invaluable! The problem is where their allegiance lies.”

  “Spar placed my needs above those of our people today. You witnessed how he altered his fuse to avoid bloodshed.”

  “And Stibnite? You believe that she will fight against her own people?” he hissed. “She worships the magnate.”

  Esker did have her doubts about the forge worker, she was difficult to read. “I think her loyalty is with the squad.”

  “Would you wager your life on that gamble?”

  “Yes.”

  “So be it. When the time comes, you will bear the responsibility of this decision,” his voice trailed off, finishing in a whisper. He cocked his head, then softened his gaze and slackened his jaw.

  Esker looked about, but saw nothing. A loose pebble skittered off the edge of the overhang in the near distance. She touched the stone by her hand, reaching out with her senses. Someone or something was close, clinging to the sheer side of the cavern, out of sight.

  “Come, Gabbro,” she instructed. “Aid me in gathering the rest of our supplies, we should not delay our squad members.” She made the effort to perform these basic tasks as naturally as possible, fighting the urge to take furtive glances at her surroundings.

  Gabbro followed her directions with the exacting precision of one who does not have a mind of his own.

  ———

  All of the fire balm squads were assembled before military command. At the center, Magnate Citrine stood, regally adorned in her crisp military uniform. She was in no rush to begin the proceedings.

  Esker sat on her knees, joined by the rest of her squad, along the back wall of the audience chamber. It was not a position of honor.

  “Great success was achieved in the last battle, fire balm has proven its effectiveness against the enemy.” The practiced timbre of Magnate Citrine’s voice carried throughout the room. “This division has been awarded with proper funding and personnel. All auxiliary units are vestigial, they will be disbanded or dispersed into proper regiments.” There was surprise and confusion at this announcement, yet none dared vocalize any reservations and tried to mask their reactions.

  This was unexpected news, since every conscripted squad was classified as an auxiliary unit. A few exemplary members might be chosen to continue their service; the fate of the rest was impossible to know. This dramatically accelerated the timeline for Esker to identify or create the means to escape to the surface.

  “The enemy has been broken by our ingenuity and forced to retreat like cowards,” the magnate continued. She spoke collectively, but Esker could sense the roiling pride within Citrine. Fire balm was her creation and she wanted the world to know of her contribution. “Had heavy calvary waited for the proper signal to unleash their slagging war beetles and had our bombardment been executed flawlessly.” She sent a withering glance toward the back of the chamber, dwelling upon Esker’s squad. Stibnite clenched her fists in agitation. “Our glory would be complete and all of you would have been inducted into official military service.”

  Magnate Citrine strode through the ranks, favoring those seated at the front. “Our ingenuity will join the rich annals of history! When the fight is taken beyond our mines and into the invader’s caverns, by using fire balm, our victory will be absolute.”

  Esker was shocked to hear that command was planning to pursue the fight to the surface and worried how ill-prepared her people were for such an alien world. As innovative as the engineers could be, leadership suffered from myopic and inflexible stratagems. She had seen the Jotman fight in their preferred terrain, they were not to be underestimated. In addition, so little was understood about the capabilities of their champions and mages.

  “This is a time for celebration as well as change,” Citrine announced. “Our capable agents have located and detained a great threat to civilization and progress! One who sought to corrupt our youth with forbidden teachings and childish claims of geomancy has been stopped.” The stoic and somber nature of the meeting broke with that announcement, polite cheers rippled through those assembled.

  A stone sunk in Esker’s stomach, she prayed to the many gods of the earth that the magnate was not speaking of Rhyolite. If he had been captured, what of the fate of Eógan and Liadan?

  ———

  The order for the squad to attend private audience with Magnate Citrine was unnerving: Stibnite already being present made the skin on the back of Esker’s neck crawl. She was not alone in this reservation. Gabbro’s littlest finger twitched ever so slightly as he trailed her into the room and Spar’s trepidation was clear. Stibnite knelt with her back ramrod straight in front of the magnate’s dais. She would not meet any of their furtive glances.

  Spar joined Stibnite’s side as Esker led Gabbro to their kneeling positions.

  Magnate Citrine reclined upon her plush seat. She fingered a few of the tassels that marked her position of command. “I had my doubts concerning this squad’s capabilities. I figured that you might be a blot on my fire balm division’s honor, much like the inept fools who failed at the simple task of destroying a temple.”

  Esker’s throat constricted, tightening around the stone that made it difficult to swallow. She feared news of her companions’ demise.

  “Your failure during the battle resulted in significant lost face for me and cast the fate of each of you into what I presumed was an indelible mold.” The magnate leaned forward with these words, projecting intense malice. “Imagine my surprise when your industrious engineer sought my audience.” She inclined her head the barest of degrees towards Stibnite. “She confessed to your deception, all of it.” Magnate Citrine stood and took a step forward.

  Esker slid her arm down her side, so that she could touch the bare stone between her legs with a finger tip. She would not walk willingly into an executioner’s embrace.

  “Such honesty did much to soothe the sting of betrayal.” The magnate turned her back and strode to a side table, opening a small lacquered box. “Now I understand why such secrecy was prudent,” she said as she retrieved an object within. “This, this changes everything!” Turning, she presented one of the handheld explosives that Stibnite and Spar had crafted. “Carry this,” she snapped to an attendant, who scrambled to oblige.

  Magnate Citrine clapped her hands together in a mockery of prayer. “I believe a demonstration is in order. Follow me to the courtyard.”

  ———

  The Jotman prisoners had not been well received, they had been severely beaten and showed indications of torture. Five of them were manacled and under heavy guard at the far end of the expansive courtyard. Magnate Citrine strode toward them with her attendants in tow, bearing several more lacquered boxes.

  “What did you do?” Spar hissed the moment the squad had separation from their chaperones.

  Stibnite kept her nose high and her head forward. “What is best for us all,” she insisted.

  Or what is best for her, Esker thought to herself as she reevaluated her opinion of the squad’s engineer. She gripped Gabbro’s hand as they hurried to keep pace with Magnate Citrine’s long stride.

  By the time they had caught up, the magnate had stopped well short of the prisoners and was ordering her attendants to organize their parcels. “Guards,” she called out, “leave two of the enemy where they sit and bring the rest over there.” She gestured her head to the opposite wall of the courtyard, a good thirty paces away.

  The guards obliged, dragging three of the Jotman away. Of the two that remained, one bowed his head in prayer and muttered softly to himself. The other began screaming abuse towards the magnate.

  When a guard stepped forward to silence the outburst, she stopped him. “Let the barbarian howl.” She turned her back on the prisoners and summoned the attendant who carried the box that had been opened in her audience chamber. “You,” she said in a rude address to Esker, “prove to me what your engineer claimed. That even a cripple can use her altered devices.”

  The attendant stepped forward, offering the munition with both hands.

  Esker hesitated.

  Gabbro pinched the inside of her hand, while maintaining his slack-jawed and glassy eyed expression.

  Everything about this situation was wrong. Esker weighed her options. If she sacrificed herself, she could rid the world of the magnate. There was no conceivable way to escape the military compound alive.

  Esker grasped the weapon, the fuse dangled from within the hollow handle.

  A part of her cursed the responsibility that Lady Galdr had placed upon her shoulders. What kind of a person would she be to obey these orders? This was not war, it was an execution. Another facet of her mind weighed upon how her decision would save or doom her squad members. She held Stibnite in contempt, but Spar had shown her kindness, and perhaps Gabbro would be able to generate change for her people when reunited with his resistance.

  She lifted her arm and clenched the end of the fuse between her teeth, the small attachment at the end held as she pulled it taut. In an act of small defiance, she raised her eyes and met those of Magnate Citrine as she yanked her arm to ignite the fuse. While it sizzled, she saw terror bloom across the leader’s face.

  Esker pivoted and lofted the fire balm device between the two prisoners. The one bellowing a litany of presumably profane statements became silent. They scrambled, hampered by their shackles, unable to move far enough away.

  The munition detonated, both Jotman were torn apart in an explosion of showering gore. Bits of limbs were discernible amongst the liquidated remains. Esker refused to look away, committed to etching this horrible scene in her mind. Unwilling to forget the responsibility she bore for this irredeemable act.

  “Excellent, most excellent,” Magnate Citrines yelled to be heard over the ringing in everyone’s ears. Her face glowed with ambition. “Again,” she commanded, “but with moving targets.”

  The guards unshackled the legs of two of the prisoners. An attendant presented an additional charge to Esker.

  The first Jotman ran back and forth with a stumbling gait, the other refused to partake in this farce and walked slowly towards her.

  The disgust Esker felt ignited along with the fuse of the device in her hand. This stain upon her soul would be purged only when those responsible faced justice, herself included.