Fortress Walls

Chapter III, Part 1

One Year and Nine Months Earlier

The streets of Toragon were lit with a million stars sparkling on the fresh snow, paper lanterns strung overhead lighting up the night, music and laughter and the smell of roasted nuts floating through the alleys and backstreets. It was the height of the Yuletide festival. Rich and poor mingled in the plaza, enjoying the outdoor feast the king threw for his people every year. Class differences, worries, sorrows were all forgotten for just one sweet night. Their grief from the recent war, barely a year past, was fading in the glow of holiday spirit held like a warm light in the people’s joined hands.

A middle-aged man in a soldier’s uniform walked down a side street near the edge of the city, smiling as he warmed his hands around a mug of hot spiced wine. He was just below the outer city wall; he could see the torches burning against the crisp stars up above him, though the street below was dark. He mounted the stairs up to the walltop, watching his footing. The snow had been shoveled off the steps, but they were still slippery, and a fall onto the cobbled street below could be fatal.

Up top, it was a bit safer—torches lit the broad walkway and glimmered on any hidden patches of ice. The walltop seemed to be deserted. Most of the soldiers who kept the night watch had slipped down to the party. He didn’t blame them. It was Yuletide. He’d planned to come up here every so often to check on things, look for any sign of incident. Let the young men have their fun.

He liked the quiet up here, anyway. The only sound besides the crackle of the nearest torch was faint music, an occasional echo of a laugh. Otherwise, the night was so silent he could almost hear the stars. He leaned against a battlement and sipped his wine, feeling as warm inside as the winter night was cold.

It was a while before he realized he wasn’t alone.

He happened to notice, a little down the walkway, the figure perched atop the wall, outlined against the stars. It had been so still he’d mistaken it for a battlement before. He walked toward the figure, scraping his boots against the stone walkway so as not to startle it. Whoever it was sat rather precariously.

He got close enough to realize it was another of his soldiers, one he hadn’t yet met but knew by sight—a short, slight boy with a sulky face, cheap earrings, and spiky bleached-blonde hair, a boy who held his own in sparring sessions but walked with a limp.

He leaned on a battlement near the boy and said, “Happy Yuletide.”

“Happy Yuletide, sir,” said the boy, but he didn’t smile.

The man hoped he could have a real conversation with the boy, get to know him. He was wearing an unranked uniform—he hoped the boy wouldn’t recognize him as the newly appointed general. He didn’t want to intimidate him. As a matter of fact, the boy had noticed, but he wasn’t the type to either kiss up to authority or be intimidated. He was merely respectful.

“I don’t think we’ve met. What’s your name?”

“Tariq.”

“Tariq? Good to meet you.”

Tariq didn’t smile, but his eyes shone approvingly. Most people would have asked awkward questions like is that it? Tariq who? Do you have a surname? What do you mean, not a real one?

“You as well, sir.”

“Why aren’t you down at the festival?”

“I’m keeping watch.” The momentary approval was gone.

“You don’t have to. I’m up here to check on things. Everyone else went down. It’s Yule, after all. You boys deserve a break.”

“It’s better if someone stays, sir,” Tariq said stiffly, and he added, “I don’t care for parties, anyway.”

“Have you eaten supper?”

“No.”

“How long does your shift run?”

“Till midnight, sir.” The boy stared out across the village plots skirting the south side of the city, dark and blue under the layer of smooth snow bathed in quiet starlight. A few tiny windows shone warmly down below.

The general shook his head in dismay. “The feast will be over by then!”

“I’ll mooch something. Someone’s sure to bring home leftovers.” He shrugged. “If not, there’s always breakfast in the morning.”

“I’ll watch while you get something to eat.”

“No, thank you, sir.”

“I’ll bring you something.”

“I’m not allowed to eat on watch, sir.” The boy was adamant.

The general pursed his lips, downed the rest of his mulled wine, and set off back toward the stairs.

The boy looked out at the stars, alone on the walltop again.

Even in his padded tunic and with his worn, much-loved scarf wound around his neck, he was beginning to be cold. Midnight was far away. He inched closer to a torch, hugging his knees to his chest, watching his breath blow out in a puff of white.

Some time passed.

He pulled a fold of his scarf up over his nose and ears, hunching down a little further.

He heard footsteps on the walltop again. The new general was back, puffing and blowing, with a big smile on his pink face. He had a new mug in one hand and a heaping plate in the other. He seemed proud of himself. Tariq was almost amused, though clearly he was just trying to win the loyalty of his new underlings. Tariq thought he would’ve chosen someone more popular, if he wanted to influence a broader range.

“This is for you,” said the general, proudly holding out the mug and plate.

“Thank you, sir, but I told you I can’t eat on watch. You eat it. It shouldn’t go to waste.”

“No, I’m here to watch while you eat.” He held forth the food relentlessly.

Tariq’s stomach convinced him to give in. He smiled a little and took the plate. “Thank you, sir.”

He sat down below the rampart with his back to the wall and was about to dig in when the general insisted, “The mug, too. You look cold.”

“Sir, the food’s enough, I really can’t drink—”

“You silly, I know that. It’s chocolate. Not a drop of alcohol in it, I promise.”

The boy nodded and took the mug. The general handed him a fork and knife and leaned against the wall, watching him. The boy ate with a feverish energy, the way people do who have often gone hungry, not wasting a crumb.

“Pardon me for asking,” the general said when the boy had begun to slow down, “but how old are you? You don’t look eighteen.”

“Cause I’m not. I’m sixteen. I’ll be seventeen in the spring.”

The general opened his mouth in confusion, then shut it. It all made sense suddenly. The haunted eyes, the way he ate, the cautious reserve.

“You’re one of those child soldiers,” he said softly. It was an infamous, brutal blunder, the one that had gotten his predecessor fired and nearly executed.

“Why didn’t you leave? You could’ve left.”

The boy poked at his potatoes and took a few bites before he answered.

“I decided not to,” he said finally, with as much dignity as he could muster around a mouthful of food.

He wasn’t about to tell this over-friendly man that it was only that he’d had nowhere else to go.

He shoveled in the last of the food under the general’s sad, searching gaze, and licked his fingers.

“Thank you for the food, sir,” he said. He stood up and handed the plate back to the man.

“Of course. You must have been hungry.”

The boy had resumed his spot up on the battlement. The general stood there a bit awkwardly, holding the plate and mug. He wasn’t sure, now, how to talk to this boy, who was decades younger than he, but probably had decades more weight on his shoulders.

“Tariq…”

“Sir?”

“Happy Yuletide.”

The boy looked around at him and smiled a bit.

“Happy Yuletide, general, sir.”

~

The new general—everyone still thought of him that way, though it had been a couple years now—had always been strange like that. After that first meeting, Tariq had tried to respectfully explain to him that he wouldn’t gain anything by befriending him. He’d laughed and told Tariq not to be silly. Tariq had let the matter drop.

Present.

“At ease!”

Tariq and his sparring partner relaxed, letting the blunt points of their wooden practice swords drop. Tariq wiped sweat off his forehead with his free hand. It wasn’t a particularly hot day, but the sun was bright. He squinted across the sandy area to where Captain Thierry was standing—where he’d stood the past few days. The other soldiers were beginning to drift over there. He and his partner followed. It seemed there was going to be an announcement.

General Zarael was there, grinning as usual, his hands clasped behind his back. He turned to the battalion commander.

“Is everyone here? Good.”

The soldiers waited, fidgeting restlessly. The general was smiling, so it couldn’t be bad news. But then, he was always smiling.

“I’d like your attention,” Zarael said, “and this won’t take long. Most of you know Captain Thierry. He and I recently decided to re-form the Elite Stealth and Intelligence Corps, and he’s been watching you all train for the past few days. Twenty of you from this battalion have been selected for testing and possibly ESAIC training. I’ll read off the names now. If you’re called, report to the indoor training hall after drills.”

He and Thierry conferred briefly while the men waited. A couple excited murmurs rose, then fell silent as the general faced them again.

“Seamus Landry. Ariel Lu. Evren Fokas. Augustine Shaw. Koda Auclair. David Laurier. Amos Braniff. Owen Ender. Kostini Miller. Horatio Miller. Gareth Baughan. Torrin Lafayette.”

Tariq’s sparring partner grinned, clenching his fists in excitement. He’d been called, and was clearly pleased.

“Javier Kolar. Kaye Wallace. Felix Andino. Levi Teahan. Corbin Stoll. Tajiro Edris. Tariq Wahidan. Ian Allard.”

There was a moment of silence. Torrin reached over and clapped Tariq on the back in congratulation.

“Again, if your name was called, report to the training gym after morning drills. Congratulations to those who were picked—I look forward to seeing you in action. Thanks for your attention. You may return to your drills.”

As he finished, a babble of conversation rose again from the gathered men. Only Tariq stood silent, the shock still driving into his bones.

He’d been chosen. Him. The cripple, the one-legged wonder. Him, the worthless child soldier recruited as cannon fodder, him, the lonely, solitary one with no friends, him, the soldier who drifted through his busy day without speech or emotion, like an apparition. Him, who’d never attracted nor wanted anyone’s attention. He’d been chosen.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he grew. He didn’t want to be noticed, because nothing good could ever come of that. It had been bad enough with that new general trying to get on his good side, but this was terrible. Not only had Captain Thierry noticed him, but other important people might now, too. That was dangerous.

Their battalion commander roared for quiet and the men began heading back to drills. Tariq kicked with his left, false leg at a loose brick in passing in brief frustration.

Torrin, his sparring partner, caught him by the shoulder. They weren’t friends—at least, Tariq didn’t consider them friends—but Torrin was a joyful soul and of course he would be excited.

“Tariq! We’re both chosen!”

“Yes.” Tariq shrugged off his hand coldly.

“You look pissed about that! Why aren’t you happy?”

“I just don’t see the point.” Tariq sighed. It was a waste of time to test him; he wouldn’t pass any challenging physical tests. It was a fluke he was in the army at all, the result of a faulty system.

Torrin opened his mouth to object, but just then, the battalion commander came prowling past and snarled, “Get to work, slugs!”

Relieved, Tariq raised his practice sword into a ready stance and began drilling without a word. Torrin obeyed more reluctantly.

~

Funny story—I write a few chapters ahead from where I post, so the fact that the Christmas chapter got published on Christmas Eve was a total coincidence! Merry Christmas, and as always thanks for reading and feel free to leave a comment with feedback and constructive criticism! :)