Chapter 10
For all the tales Rook had traded in dusty roadside taverns, none could have prepared him for the size of Duskweld. It appeared to go on for miles, stretching up and out and maybe into the mountain as well. The city was designed to withstand a siege, despite the Sylphar never venturing this far south. Seven concentric walls rose above the city, each layer taller and thicker than the one below. Guard posts and murder-holes broke every level, and bright banners waved so colorfully they hurt your eyes to look at them. The gate into the second wall was taller than any building he’d seen before, and Rook craned his neck so far back he almost toppled over.
“By the dust on Jac’s balls,” Rook muttered. “That’s a proper wall. Looks like it could keep out the gods themselves. And they just get bigger than this further in?”
“You should see Luminarch City,” Theron said, voice flat but deep in memory.
Sval squinted at him. “The capital is bigger than this? My pop used to say the walls are so clean you can use them as a mirror, and the rooftops catch the sunrise so fiercely it looks like the whole place is on fire.”
Theron grunted. “Not far off. The walls are also three times the height of these, and every one of them lined with Brightwardens who can shoot a sparrow at two hundred paces. And then there’s the Promenade. A road so wide that twelve wagons can ride side-by-side, and the banners are as tall as trees.”
“Bet they have good food and entertainment too,” Rook said with a hopeful smile.
Theron didn’t answer. He was watching the nearest guard post, where a pair of blue-helmed soldiers scrutinized the incoming recruits with a gaze that promised no mercy for laggards. No one seemed to notice or care about any of the recruits as individuals, as they were just more bodies to be processed, sorted, and converted into numbers for the next round of conscription quotas.
Their column came to a halt before the gate, and the soldiers began splitting them into groups of twenty to more easily scrutinize each man as they walked through. The ones who hesitated received prods with the butt end of spears. Rook shuffled forward, boots scraping on the packed clay, and tried to keep his head down, the barest tightening around his eyes betraying any anxiety. Theron marched at his elbow in grim silence.
They herded the recruits through the gate and into a holding yard the size of a farmer’s field. A dozen officers stood there, every one of them wearing Dominion blue. The air smelled of smoke, sweat, and horse manure, a permanent perfume that settled into their noses.
An officer approached, checked names against a piece of parchment he held, then waved them through. “Third ring, Barrack Seventeen,” he called. “Keep to the left, follow the banners. And no stragglers!”
Again, they were led away, up a street into the city. Buildings crowded close on either side, rising three and four stories high with walls of stone or brick. Windows were barred, and doors were reinforced with bands of black iron. Laundry hung between the upper floors on long lines, every cloth dyed blue, gold, or white. No other colors were seen. Shops flanked the narrow streets and sold only what the army valued, such as food, boots, and weapons.
“It is like a giant circular beehive,” Rook whispered. “How can so many people live in one place?”
Sval let out a snort behind him. “They stack themselves like firewood and pretend it’s normal.”
Rook stared up at the packed balconies and narrow bridges between buildings. “There must be thousands here. What do they even do all day?”
A Brightwarden marching a few paces to their right turned his head slightly. “Most labor for the war. Blacksmiths, leatherworkers, masons, scribes. Every hand serves the Dominion in some fashion.”
A man in the line behind them spoke up. “I heard that the mountain behind the city is hollow. They say the Dominion keeps prisoners in its belly.”
Rook shivered theatrically. “Wonderful. Nothing settles the nerves like knowing we are walking toward a giant stone stomach that eats people.”
Theron kept his eyes forward. “A city like this exists for a single purpose. Everything here bends toward the war.”
The Brightwarden nodded. “The Dominion shapes all things toward victory. You’ll all understand that soon enough.”
The barracks themselves were a fortress within a fortress. Their building was three stories tall with arched windows and a double row of spikes above the entrance. Inside, the air was warm and smelled of old food, and they were led to a room with over a hundred cots, each with a wool blanket and a wooden trunk at the foot.
The back door swung open, and a sergeant in blue livery stomped inside. He looked carved from old timber, with a nose like a hammer and hands that could bend horseshoes for fun.
He planted himself between two bunks and barked, “Listen up. We have rules here.”
Someone in the back groaned. The sergeant’s eyes snapped toward the sound.
“Rule one,” he said. “No fighting in the barracks. You want to break someone’s jaw, you do it on the training grounds where we can watch and laugh.”
A few recruits chuckled. The sergeant did not.
“Rule two. No stealing. I catch you lifting anything that is not yours, and I will have you digging latrines until your soul leaves your body.”
He paced down the row, boots thudding.
“Rule three. No talking after lights out. I want silence so complete that the rats can hear themselves think.”
Rook raised a hand. “Sergeant, what if the rats talk first?”
The sergeant stared at him long enough that several men shifted on their feet.
“Then you tell the rats to shut up,” he said. “Rule four. No food in the beds. You sleep with bread crumbs, you wake up with a rat chewing your toes. And I will not help you.”
He paused, then added, “There are more rules, but those are the ones you will break first. So remember them.”
“If you need to relieve yourselves,” he added, “use the latrines in the courtyard. If you piss on my floor, I’ll make you lick it up with your tongue and then piss on you myself. Questions?”
Nobody had any questions.
The rest of the evening passed in a fog. Next to their bunk room, they ate salted pork and mashed barley in the dining chamber, and they washed it all down with some watery beer. Then came the distribution of gear. Sets of real boots, heavier coats, gloves, and for each man, a clean and new sword. Rook scraped his thumb across the edge of his new blade and grinned. “She’s sharp, at least. That’s more than I can say for the last ones we got.”
Theron accepted his sword with a nod and selected his trunk at the end of the row. He stowed his gear, then sat on the edge of his cot, looking at nothing. Even with the noise and light of a hundred men unpacking, settling in, he felt the strange hush that always came with being somewhere wholly new.
Sval took the cot beside him, while Rook claimed the one across the aisle from Theron’s bed with a merchant’s sense for prime real estate. “Wake me if I start to snore,” Rook said. “My old caravan pals used to say it sounded like a dying badger. I always told them it was better to have a dying badger than an angry one.”
Sval chuckled and said, “No one will hear your badger snoring over my bear snoring, I’m afraid.”
Carpen took his place two cots over, wrapped in fresh bandages and simmering with a quiet, poisonous anger. His gaze wandered from wall to wall, never settling, never calm. Theron frowned as he watched the rise and fall of his shoulders, the tension there, the restless energy, and the rage that was clearly still not over within his mind.
After all the men settled, Captain Houlis appeared in the doorway, with his hands clasped behind his back. His uniform was immaculate, his boots clean, not a hair out of place. He scanned the room, then called out, “Theron!”
A hush dropped over the barracks. Theron stood, ignoring the sideways glances.
Houlis beckoned him forward. “Walk with me,” he said, his voice low and cold.
They stepped out into the corridor, and the noise of the barracks dropped away behind them. Houlis led Theron to a narrow stairway and then up and out onto a rampart that overlooked the city. The wind cut through the air with a sharp bite, but the view was clear. Duskweld sprawled all around them with every wall and spire lit by the last red smear of sunset.
Houlis leaned on the stone, not looking at Theron. “You know why I called you up here?”
“No, sir,” Theron replied.
“Because you’re not like the others.” Houlis’s voice was almost a whisper. “I’ve been watching you the entire march up here. You’re smarter. You don’t talk, but you listen. I want to know why a man like you would throw himself to the wolves for a village that never cared if you lived or died. It’s been driving me mad the whole march up to this gods-forsaken city.”
Theron stared out at the city and didn’t answer.
Houlis snorted. “Yeah, fine. Be that way. I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m telling you this because I used to be like you. And in a place like this, men like us either get used or get broken. That’s it. No third option.” He turned to face Theron, eyes glinting in the dusk. “When the time comes, and it will, you’ll do what you’re told. If you don’t, you die. Understand?”
Theron nodded. “I understand, sir. I’m not here to make trouble.”
“Good.” Houlis looked at the city again. “Go get some sleep. You have a long day tomorrow.”
Back in the barracks, the noise had dulled. Men drifted off to sleep, the long day finally catching up to them. Rook was already snoring, the sound barely muffled by the arm he’d flung over his face.
Theron lay down and closed his eyes. He listened to the city breathe with the hum of distant forges, the clack of boots on stone, and the muted cries of men being shaped into something new. He thought about what Houlis had said about being used or broken.
Slowly, he felt a genuine smile come over him.
He would be neither of those things, and Houlis would soon know it.
The first week in Duskweld stripped away whatever illusions the recruits had left about military life. Every morning began in darkness, with a horn’s shriek and the immediate threat of ice-cold water if you so much as twitched too slowly. They drilled all day long until their bones ached, ran laps around the lower wall until their lungs burned, and spent hours on the parade ground mastering the art of moving as one massive, hungry beast.
Theron watched as the boys and men of his barrack were ground down and built back up, some bending, others breaking. He was never the fastest, nor the loudest, but that was mostly intentional. His body adapted to the new routine, however, as muscles thickened, and his mind sharpened with the consistency of good food and exhaustion. He looked less like a scarecrow and more like a man, though his eyes remained just as hollow.
Rook adapted in his own way. He remained the mouth of the group, always with a line, a joke, or a story to fill any silence. Some hated him for it, while others lived for his running commentary on the absurdities of army life. He had a knack for sniffing out humor even in the most miserable of situations.
The two became an unlikely pair. Rook had a joke for every bruise and a knife tucked into each boot, while Theron moved quieter, kept his focus tight, and somehow always ended up at Rook’s side. They trained together in sparring, usually competed together, and on the rare nights when the men were permitted into the city streets, they drank and wandered with the small group of recruits who had begun to gather around them. Sval, Hrengar, Carpen, and a few others fell into the pattern of friendship.
On their first night off, the squad found itself at a tavern called The Warden’s Regret, a squat stone building filled with smoke, sweat, and the sound of cheap music. Soldiers filled the room, mostly recruits like them, but also regulars such as blacksmiths, teamsters, and city guards. The tables were sticky with spilled ale, and the air smelled of roasted meat and bitter hops.
Rook slammed his mug on the table and shouted, “To surviving another day in the Dominion’s finest rat-cage!” The rest of the squad cheered, the sound barely audible above the noise.
Hrengar, already deep in his cups, tried pointing at Theron with a greasy finger. “Who are you, Theron? Don’t think I haven’t seen the way you move. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”
Theron shrugged, but Rook answered for him: “He’s a natural. Born in a pit, raised by wolves, taught to read by a group of Sylphar.”
That got a laugh, even from Theron. He sipped his ale, letting the warmth spread through his chest. Around them, the crowd grew louder. A group of city guards at the next table started a drinking contest, and the sound of fists hitting wood echoed through the room.
The drinks kept coming, and the stories flowed. Carpen, who had been sulking all night, finally spoke up. “I don’t get it,” he said. “They feed us, they clothe us, treat us like we matter. But then you hear them talk about the front lines, and it’s all just numbers and quotas. You ever wonder if we’re just meat to them?”
Hrengar laughed. “Of course we are. But at least the meat gets to drink, yeah?” He raised his mug. “To meat!”
“To meat!” the others roared.
Rook turned to Theron, eyes shining. “What about you, Theron? What do you think we are?”
Theron looked down at his hands. They were stronger now, the knuckles calloused and scarred, and they no longer shook. “I think we’re all already dead,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “Some of us just take longer to fall over.”
That silenced the table for a moment, but then Rook clapped him on the back. “That’s the spirit! Now let’s see if we can kill the rest of tonight before it kills us.”
Laughter from the others, and then they were all drinking loudly.
Night changed the city into something almost alive. Forges spat fire that painted the sky a dull orange, as if the stars were drowning behind smoke. Heat rolled through the streets in heavy breaths. Vendors pushed carts along the cobbles and shouted over one another while they sold skewers of meat or cups of thick, spiced broth. Off-duty soldiers crowded into alleys to smoke, drink, or lose their pay on quick games of chance. Every clang of hammer on metal reminded the recruits why Duskweld existed at all.
Weapons came from here. Armor came from here. Most of the Dominion’s fresh soldiers marched out of these same streets. Everything in Duskweld served the Endless War, and the war kept the entire city awake long after midnight.
Sval fell into step beside Theron as they made their way back toward the barrack. He rubbed at his jaw and let out a low grunt that might have been a laugh.
“Never thought my life would drag me to a place like this,” he said. “Stinks of smoke and iron. Feels like the whole city is chewing rocks and spitting out soldiers.”
Theron kept his eyes on the road ahead. “Could be worse. At least the roofs keep out the weather.”
Sval snorted. “Worse? Yeah, you say that now. Give it a month. This place grinds men down. Makes them into whatever shape the Dominion wants.”
They passed a pair of lantern posts, their light warped through the cold air. Somewhere deeper in the district, a forge hammer crashed down again and again, steady as a heartbeat.
Sval shook his head. “Still strange though. All my life I figured I’d die in a ditch near home, not marching through a city built to feed a war that never ends.”
Theron said nothing. The silence stretched between them, but neither man seemed bothered by it. They walked on, boots scuffing the frost, the city breathing around them like a great, unseen animal.
Finally, Theron shrugged. “No one seems to end up where they think they will.”
Sval laughed, but it sounded more like a sob. “Ain’t that the truth.”
He drifted away to join the others, leaving Theron alone with only Rook’s company, who had caught up to join them.
Rook yawned, then casually said, “You know, for a man who hates talking, you sure draw people to you.” He glanced over, face uncharacteristically serious. “You got something up your sleeve.” Not a question.
Theron half-smiled and shook his head. “Nah, just along for the ride.”
“Oh, yeah?” Rook asked, then grinned. “Well, if you ever get tired of the ride and simply just surviving, let me know. Maybe we can live, too.”
Theron mused on that as they journeyed back. He’d spent as long as he could remember trying to simply survive. What did it mean now to live for more?
The next day, the training was harder. The officers noticed who had returned sober and who hadn’t. There were more fights, more drills, and more men sent to the medics. A sergeant casually pointed to Theron and said, “You, you’re now squad leader.”
Theron merely shrugged and then led his squad through obstacle courses, sword and shield training, and drew praise from trainers. Soon enough, life seemed to settle into a routine.
The coming weeks were tough, but some of the happiest Theron could recall. His men had drawn together, each of them improving. Rook remained as happy as ever, constantly joking and lifting spirits. The furious Carpen had even started to laugh, albeit just a little bit, and Hrengar had lost some of his roughness. The time passed in a blur of sweat, pain, laughter, and the clatter of swords and spears.
One night, after a grueling day of training, Theron found himself alone on the wall of the third ring, staring out at the city. The walls glowed in the darkness, and beyond them, the world stretched on forever.
Rook appeared beside him, holding a stolen flask of something strong, no doubt, in one hand. “Saw you walk out, and I was bored, so I followed ya. Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked.
Theron shook his head. “No, not tonight.”
Rook sat down, offering the flask. “You ever miss it? The quiet?”
Theron took a sip and then handed it back. “All the time. I don’t want to forget it, so I come out here and look out at it all and remember how it felt.”
They sat in silence, gazing out over the city.
“Listen,” Rook said after a while. “I don’t want to get all emotional, and don’t you dare say anything to the others. But I’ve never had a friend who didn’t try to kill me at least once. Most of them did it for sport. You...” He hesitated, looking for the right word, but then he gave up. “You’re different.”
Theron looked over at him and clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re not falling in love with me, are you?”
Rook burst out laughing. “Nah, I ain’t. I prefer a… more feminine touch.”
Theron chuckled. “Me too, so don’t get any ideas.” But then his eyes grew somber, and a look of profound grief washed over him.
Rook noticed the shift and stood, gently changing the subject. “Tomorrow’s another day,” he said. “Let’s try and get some sleep.”
Theron stood up and followed with a small smile. A friend. Besides Talla, he hadn’t had a friend in a very, very long time.