McClellan Brian

Hope’s End

Captain Verundish contemplated killing herself.

The pistol sat in her lap, the muzzle loaded, the flint cocked and the pan primed.

It would be a simple thing to put the barrel in her mouth, angle it upward to her brain, and pull the trigger. Some poor infantryman would have to clean the blood and bits of bone off the back of her tent—or maybe they’d just take it down and burn it. Her body would be sent back to Adro, where…

Well, why concern herself with the details? None of it would matter to her.

She wrapped her fingers around the butt of the pistol that had belonged to her grandfather, the grip worn and smooth to the touch, and she was glad that she had so little family left behind to mourn her. Would they mourn her after she took the coward’s way out?

Would Genevie remember her mother?

A letter lay on the table beside her cot. The sender was a man who legally called himself her husband, but had no further claim to that position beyond the letter of the law. Verundish wanted to burn the letter and erase everything it said.

A familiar voice called out a greeting to someone else outside her tent. Verundish shoved the pistol beneath her pillow and brushed flecks of gunpowder off her lap just as a man threw the tent flap aside.

Captain Constaire ducked inside, removing his hat with a flourish. He was a tall man, willow-thin with long brown hair tied back over one shoulder and the playful eyes of a prankster. He wore thick mutton chops that touched the corners of his lips and his uniform hung loosely from his wiry frame.

He stepped over to her and bent low, kissing her on the mouth, smothering her protestations. She found herself kissing back after a moment, and far too soon Constaire pulled away, a grin on his face. “Love,” he said, “I’m just stopping by on my way to see General Tamas.”

Verundish raised her eyebrows. “The promotion?”

“I think so,” Constaire said. He drew up to his full height, his head pushing up the top of her tent, and mimed as if he were throwing a cape over his arm. “The next time we meet, I shall be Major Constaire.”

Verundish leaned back on her cot and regarded the man. “You’re a fool.”

“But you love me anyways.”

“I’m not a smart woman.”

He paused, as if he sensed something amiss. “Verie?”

She gave a slight shake of her head to warn him off asking. He ignored her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me. Was it another letter?” his eyes went to the envelope on the table beside her cot. “That bloody bastard! What does he want this time? Is Genevie all right?”

“It’s nothing,” Verundish said quietly. Constaire was not making this easy. Better if she had no lover, no one to worry over her death. It would make things simple. She took a deep breath and reminded herself that this was only a soldier’s love. Eventually, the campaign would end and they’d both return home. Constaire would find a younger woman, and Verundish would go back to a cold house with a hateful husband.

Well. She wouldn’t have to go back if she killed herself.

Constaire threw himself to one knee. “Divorce him,” he said. “Marry me. I’m about to be made major. We could return to Adopest and take Genevie away from that monster.”

Oh, this fool. He only twisted the knife. “You’re not serious.”

“I am. Deadly so.”

If only it were so easy. But life, as her mother had always told her, was never easy. “He wants a divorce even more than I do,” Verundish said.

“Perfect! Apply for a divorce and marry me.”

“You know who my father is?”

Constaire seemed taken aback. “He’s a priest, I think you said.”

“Yes. He’s the priest who married us, and he’d have to sign the papers to authorize my divorce.”

Constaire’s face fell and he rocked back from his knees into a sitting position on the floor of her tent. “And he doesn’t believe in divorce. Is that it?”

“He thinks it’s a sin against Kresimir. He thinks it is better I weather this marriage of mine, with a husband who cheats and steals and lies and threatens to beat my daughter, than go through with a divorce.”

“I’m sorry to say it, my love, but your father is a fool.”

“I know. I’ve told him that to his face. Now you’ll be late to see the general. You better go.” She leaned forward and touched his knees, then ran a thumb across his cheek. “Come back when you’re finished and we’ll celebrate.”

Constaire left the tent with the spry step of a young man whose world was covered in gold. Verundish kept the smile on her face until he was gone, and then let it slide away like a weathered mask.

She picked up the letter and read the last paragraph.

Your father will still not grant us a divorce. I intend to wed my mistress by the end of the year. Either ensure our divorce or kill yourself. If I’m not rid of you within three months I will sell the girl to a Starlish slaver.

She had no idea how much time had passed, but Verundish was still staring at the letter when she heard Constaire’s voice call her name from outside the tent. She stirred, and registered the distant thump of Adran artillery as it pounded the Gurlish stronghold of Darjah. She could hear the clamoring of her fellow soldiers as they prepared the evening meal.

She had meant to be wearing considerably less when Constaire returned. She struggled to bring a smile to her face. It was the least she could do.

Wait. Something was wrong. Constaire never called her by her full name. He was the only one in the army with the gall to call her ‘Verie.’ He was the only man in the army she would allow to do so. And she couldn’t remember the last time he had asked before entering her tent.

“Come,” she said.

Constaire lacked his normal smile, and his eyes were sightless and haunted as he slipped inside. Verundish had seen a similar look on men who had lost a limb to cannon fire or watched a friend gunned down beside them.

“What’s wrong?” she said, tucking her own troubles into the back of her mind. Time enough to shoot herself later tonight, after Constaire had left.

“May I sit?” he asked. His eyes didn’t meet hers.

Verundish remembered all of the times he had swept into her tent and taken her in his arms, throwing them both down onto the cot in a fit of laughter. Her concern deepened. “Of course.” She straightened the blankets, and as she did she slid the loaded pistol beneath her pillow to a better hiding spot under her cot.

Constaire lowered himself onto the cot beside her. She took his hand, noting the way his tender white skin contrasted so deeply with the black roughness of her fingers. Constaire had never worked a day in his life, but Verundish did not hold it against him. It was his carefree attitude that had attracted her in the first place.

“They’ve chosen me to lead the Hope’s End against Darjah,” Constaire said.

Verundish’s breath caught in her throat. “No. I thought you were being considered for promotion!”

“If I survive, I’ll be a major.” The ghost of a smile crossed his lips and disappeared. He bent his head forward as if to pray.

Hope’s End. The leading charge against an enemy’s stronghold. The first through the breach—facing fixed bayonets, cannons, and sorcery. Members of the Hope’s End rarely survived the first volley, let alone the capture of the fortress itself.

“There’s nothing you can do?” Verundish asked.

Constaire shook his head. “The order came directly from General Tamas. I think,” his eye twitched, “that he does not like that my father bought me this commission.”

General Tamas was infamous for his belief that rank should be earned, not bought. He often put nobles in a place of danger in order to test their mettle. His stance had benefited the commoners beneath his command, and the men loved him for it. But this was going too far. Constaire would die.

“Why a Hope’s End? Why now?”

Constaire examined his boots. “Field Marshal Beravich has ordered the city taken immediately. I can’t imagine what threats he holds over General Tamas’ head.”

“When will it be?” Verundish asked.

“Three days from now. We’ll redouble our artillery until then. The Privileged say that they’ve found a weakness in the wall and will exploit it with sorcery the night of the attack. It will form a breach just large enough for us to enter the fortress.”

Verundish leaned back on her cot. The Privileged sorcerers, with their powerful elemental magic, might indeed be able to finally cause a breach in the wall. Yet a Hope’s End was a common enough tactic. The Gurlish would be ready.

“I should run,” Constaire said.

“They’ll brand you a coward.”

“I’d rather be a living coward than a dead hero.”

Verundish squeezed his hand. “You won’t get far. You know how General Tamas feels about deserters. He’ll catch you and hang you, and you’ll be both dead and a coward.”

“I can get away,” Constaire said. “I have friends…” he trailed off, as if considering his course of action.

“Don’t do it,” Verundish said.

A flicker of doubt crossed Constaire’s face.

“Spend the night,” Verundish said. “And promise me that you won’t do anything rash until tomorrow.”

She took Constaire in her arms, thinking she might have a solution for both of their problems.

General Tamas was not a man to cross.

The son of an apothecary, he was the first commoner to ever achieve the rank of general in the Adran army. The people adored him, and the king respected him. He was both a tactician and a fighter, and the only powder mage in the all the Nine to hold such a lofty position.

It was said that even the king’s cabal of Privileged sorcerers feared him.

They were right to do so. Powder mages could imbibe common gunpowder to make themselves stronger and faster than normal men. They could use their sorcery to float a bullet across an entire battlefield, killing their target at a mile or more. They were some of the most efficient and capable killers in the army.

It was the morning after Constaire had come to Verundish. She stood at attention in the corner of Tamas’ command tent with her hands at her sides, legs together, and back straight. The general bent over a large table with a map of the Gurlish terrain smoothed flat beneath his hands. His eyes scanned the yellowed paper for several minutes, his lips moving slightly as he did figures in his head.

“This map,” he said, breaking the silence of over fifteen minutes, “is almost two hundred years old.”

“Sir?” Verundish said.

“Two hundred years old, captain. We have the greatest army in the entire world, and we can’t get an updated map of the bloody area. Is there something you needed, captain?”

Verundish opened her mouth to speak, only for Tamas to cut her off.

“Darjah is one of the oldest fortresses in all of Gurla. The walls are laced with protective sorcery, the ground around the foot of the fortress thick with wards that could kill a man to step on them.” Tamas pushed himself away from the table and began to pace one end of the tent.

“Field Marshal Beravich has given me just half a brigade and only four Privileged sorcerers. A hundred men could hold Darjah against us, and the shah hiding back there has over a thousand. And seven Privileged. Seven!”

Tamas dropped into a chair at one end of the tent and cocked his head at Verundish. “Beravich loves watching me fail. Doubly so because it happens so infrequently. He doesn’t care how many men have to die in order for that to happen. Now, what did you want to see me about?”

Why would Tamas tell her all of this? Most officers would find it unprofessional to speak so candidly to one of lesser rank. Verundish cleared her throat.

Tamas held up a finger, cutting her off again. “I should tell you that I’ve had soldiers come through here all morning petitioning me to rescind my order that Captain Constaire lead the Hope’s End. I know you’re his lover. I don’t care how popular the man is, he’s leading the charge. Everyone around here has to put their life on the line sometime. Now is that what you came here about? To waste my time?”

The last thing Verundish wanted to do was exacerbate Tamas’ already foul mood. She fought down the urge to fight with him.

“Not at all, sir. I’ve come to offer myself as Constaire’s replacement.”

The chair creaked as Tamas leaned back, stroking his black mustache thoughtfully. For a moment Verundish thought she could see his thoughts turning behind his stern brown eyes as he reevaluated her.

“Intriguing,” he said, getting to his feet. “You’re a smart, brave young officer. You’ll likely advance through the ranks over the coming years as you prove your worth. Constaire, on the other hand, is a fop. He has no value to me. Why the pit would I let you die in his place?”

Young, he’d called her, though as a man in his forties, Tamas couldn’t be more than a decade her senior.

“Because I volunteered,” Verundish said, “And you know that a volunteer will more effectively lead the charge.”

“Is that a challenge I hear in your tone, captain?” Tamas asked. “No, don’t answer that. I always hated it when a superior officer made me choose between dishonesty and my pride. I won’t do it to you.” He paused to clean bits of black powder from beneath his nails. “Perhaps I have orders from my superiors that Constaire lead the charge.”

Verundish felt her heart beat a little faster. An order like that would only come from Field Marshal Beravich or from the king himself. Was Constaire involved in some kind of plot? Or had he been made a pawn in some nobleman’s maneuverings?

“I don’t, of course,” Tamas said, waving away the thought with a small smile. “Can I ask why, beyond some misguided sense of affection for that fool, you would sacrifice your life for Constaire?”

“Sometimes, sir, the attack succeeds. If it does, I’ll be up for immediate promotion. I’ll be a hero, sir.”

“That’s awfully optimistic,” Tamas muttered. He stood up, indicating that the meeting was over, and said, “I’ll take it under advisement, captain. You’ll have your answer by this evening.”

Verundish went through the rest of the day in a fog.

She had a way out. In two days she would lead a Hope’s End through the breach and into the face of musket fire and Privileged sorcery where she would be killed almost instantly. She would die a hero’s death and be given a hero’s burial, and Genevie could take pride in the mother she barely knew.

Her hated husband would release Genevie into the care of Verundish’s father and mother, and she would receive Verundish’s ample pension for the rest of her life.

If General Tamas gave her leave to lead the charge.

She was walking through the camp, reviewing her company, when Constaire found her.

He took her firmly by the arm, not saying a word, and steered her behind the relative privacy of a colonel’s pavilion tent.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, shaking off his grip.

“No,” he hissed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Constaire’s face was red with anger. In four years of campaigning together, she had never seen him so furious. “I’ve just been informed by General Tamas that you volunteered to take my place at Hope’s End. I won’t allow it!”

“There’s nothing you can’t allow me to do,” she said.

“You think me a coward?” Constaire stamped his foot. It was a terribly childish thing to do, and Verundish wondered if perhaps he needed practice being angry. “You think that I can’t do it? Why would you do something like this?”

She thought of all the reasons she could give him and put her finger to his lips. He was a coward, but that wasn’t the right thing to say at this moment.

“I don’t think you’re a coward,” she said. “But I know that this isn’t something you can do.”

“You would die in my place?”

His face was so raw in that moment that Verundish wondered if he had really meant it when he offered to marry her. She had assumed it was brash declaration, with nothing of substance to back it up. Soldiers didn’t marry each other. The chance that one of them would die was just too great.

“I would,” she said. She didn’t tell him that she would surely die by her own hand if not at the weapons of the Gurlish.

“No. I can’t have that. I may be a coward, Verie, but not enough to let you take my place.”

“You have no choice. The general has made his decision, it seems.” She was surprised that Constaire heard of it before she had.

Constaire straightened his uniform. “I will go to the general right now and demand that he let me lead the charge. It’s my right!”

“No one demands anything of Tamas,” she said.

“I will!”

She took him by the arm and put a hand on his chest. “Don’t, you fool. You’ll receive nothing but a reprimand from the general.” She lifted a finger back to his lips. “Now I have to put my affairs in order. Come see me tonight. If I’m to die in two days… well, I want to enjoy that time.”

The morning before the attack, Verundish was summoned to see General Tamas once more.

A fear gripped her as she approached his tent that he’d decided not to honor her request. That Constaire would still have to lead the charge, and that she’d have to put a bullet in her head to save Genevie.

When she arrived the two guards outside the general’s tent looked pensive and tight-lipped. One of them announced her, and then she was nodded through.

She ducked inside, the protest on her lips dying as she surveyed the room.

The general’s desk had been overturned, the floor and wall of the tent covered in ink, papers, and scattered gunpowder. The mighty oak table that had held his two-hundred year old map was cracked down the middle and an iron candelabra that had been perched on his desk was a snake of twisted metal.

General Tamas sat on a chair in the corner—the only unbroken piece of furniture in the tent—with his legs crossed, surveying the destruction with a sour look.

“Sir?” Verundish asked.

He looked up for a moment, then back to his desk. That desk was huge. It took four men to carry it, no doubt, and at least two to turn it over. Yet Tamas was alone.

The general stood up, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Captain,” he said. “Thank you for coming. I’ve just finished a conversation with Privileged Zakary, the royal cabal’s new beadle.”

It was no secret that the royal cabal and Tamas were kept from each other’s throats only by the king himself, but Zakary’s visit didn’t explain the broken table.

“Did he do this, sir?” Verundish said. She felt anger at the indignity of it. No one came to Tamas’ tent and disrespected him like this. He was a general. Her general!

“What?” Tamas seemed genuinely puzzled for a moment, following her gaze to the mess. “Oh. No, that was after he left. Someone will come and clean it up soon. Zakary stopped by to let me know that no Privileged would participate in the Hope’s End during the attack on Darjah tonight. They’ll provide distant support only.”

Verundish felt her breath catch in her throat. No Privileged? None at all? A Hope’s End was always accompanied by a Privileged—usually someone young and stupid, or incredibly ambitious—but a Privileged nonetheless. Without a Privileged of their own, the Hope’s End would have no counter to the Gurlish sorcery that would be flung at them from atop the walls.

Verundish forced a ragged breath in and out. She was going to die tonight. No question about it. This was what she wanted. But to know so baldly that her death would be in vain…

“Furthermore,” Tamas continued, “Field Marshal Beravich has forbidden me from taking part in the attack. I usually sit back about a mile, with the artillery, and shoot the enemy Privileged when they show themselves against the Hope’s End. But it seems I’m being denied even that.”

Tamas’ nostrils flared, and his voice rose as he spoke. “Bloody idiots just want to see me flounder. They throw away lives—good lives—just to spite me! The damned dogs. If I could kill every Privileged in Adro, I’d do it this instant.”

Verundish’s heart beat faster and she felt fear. Not for herself. No, her life was forfeit. But General Tamas was one of the few officers in the army that genuinely seemed to care for his men. He commanded loyalty from every rank, and he had seen to it that soldiers in his command could rise through the ranks by merit.

If the royal cabal ever heard him speak like this they would kill him in an instant, even if he did have the king’s favor.

She waited for a few moments for him to continue. “Sir?”

Tamas shook his head. “Captain, the point of a Hope’s End is to capture a fortress by surprise. It doesn’t work often, but it has worked. But not without a Privileged. Without a Privileged I’ll just be sending a company of men to their deaths. Guaranteed failure. But I have my orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you’re all right with that?”

“I’ll follow orders, sir.”

“I’m giving you a chance to back out, captain.”

“I’ll lead the charge, sir.”

Tamas’ eyes narrowed at her. “Why?”

Because if the Gurlish don’t kill me, I’ll have to do it myself. “I’d rather not say, sir.”

“Even if I order you?”

Verundish stiffened. “You’ve always respected the privacy of your men, sir.”

“Yes. I have.” Tamas turned to survey the mess that used to be his desk and map table and gave a long sigh. “You’re dismissed, captain. The Hope’s End will gather at dusk and attack at midnight. If you have not yet put your affairs in order, do so now.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Verundish paused in the tent opening and turned back to General Tamas.

“Sir?”

“Hmm?”

“Could you grant me a request, sir?”

“If it’s within reason.”

“Make sure my husband doesn’t get my pension. Make sure it goes to my daughter.”

Tamas considered this a moment, then nodded. “Sign a letter to that end, and leave it with my secretary. I’ll be sure it’s done.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The company that would make up the Hope’s End gathered as the sun set over the western edge of the desert.

It was a sad group. Half of them were malcontents—men and women who might end up on the gallows or spend years in prison if they hadn’t volunteered. The other half were ambitious young soldiers, stupid or desperate enough to hope that they might survive the night and see a promotion upon capture of the fortress.

Verundish wondered whether any of them had received the same chance at reprieve that she had.

General Tamas was there when they gathered. He watched them all with hands clasped behind his back, small sword at his side and pistol at his belt. His face was stony and unreadable, but when Privileged Zakary passed by not long after, the torchlight revealed the open hostility with which Tamas regarded the Privileged.

Two hours before midnight, a Kresim priest prayed for the group’s success, and the men were allowed to say goodbye to their friends and comrades.

Constaire found Verundish among the crowd. He wore his full uniform and carried a musket in one hand, with his sword buckled to his belt.

“Where the pit do you think you’re going?” Verundish asked.

“There’s still time,” Constaire replied. “Say the word now, and I will lead the charge.”

“No.”

Constaire shook his head. “Please, Verie. Don’t do it.”

“I have to.”

“No,” Constaire said. “You don’t.” He held something up for her to see. It was the letter she’d received from her husband three days ago.

“Give me that,” she hissed, snatching for it. “You have no right to read my private letters.”

He pulled it away from her grasp. “I had to know why you would do this. I know you don’t love me back, Verie. I knew there had to be a reason for this suicide.”

She slapped him. She hadn’t meant to, but a moment later he clutched at his cheek and stared at her like a hurt puppy.

She rubbed her hand. “I’m sorry.”

“I deserved that.”

Yes, he did. “It will be all right,” she said. “I have to do this.”

“I’ll challenge your husband to a duel.”

“He’d slaughter you.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“He would. He’s a skilled swordsman. It would take someone like… like General Tamas to defeat him.”

Constaire fell silent, and Verundish felt compelled to step forward, pulling him into her arms. “Why the pit am I comforting you, idiot?” she asked, feeling his tears on the back of her hands. “I’m the one going to my death.”

“I’m the one who has to live without you.”

Verundish shook her head. “Go back to your tent.”

“No. I’ve volunteered to lead the second wave. If you succeed in taking the breach, I’ll be right behind you. We’ll fight our way through the fortress together.”

“Pit. You really are a fool.”

A whisper went through the ranks for the Hope’s End to prepare. Verundish pressed her lips to Constaire’s and then headed toward the front line without looking back.

General Tamas waited for them by the artillery that would herald their attack. Behind him stood four Privileged, their white gloves etched with crimson runes that caught the dim torchlight. They regarded the Hope’s End with skepticism.

When the Hope’s End had fallen into ranks, Tamas addressed them.

“There,” he said, pointing to the fortress a mile behind him, “is our enemy. They sit assured in their towers, drinking to another day of our failure and thanking their heathen god that we don’t have the stomach to set ladders to their walls.”

“That ends tonight. Tonight, we will open a breach. We will swarm their fortress and put their shah and their Privileged to the sword.”

The Privileged behind Tamas shifted uncomfortably at the mention of killing their Gurlish counterparts.

“The fall of Darjah will destroy Gurlish confidence, and we will be one step closer to ending this damned war. And then, my friends, we will all go home.” Tamas seemed weary suddenly, and far older than his forty years. He smiled. “I’m done with this damned dusty land. I’m ready to go home and bounce my boy on my knee, and then take my wife upstairs where I can bounce her on my knee.”

There was a chuckle among the group.

“End this siege, lads,” Tamas said. “Get in there and break them once and for all and every one of you, living or dead, will be a hero in the morning.”

A quiet cheer went up among the company, and Tamas raised his hands for silence. “I’d be there with you if the king allowed me. By Kresimir, I would.”

That might have been a lie from any other general, but Verundish knew it for truth.

Tamas continued, “Captain Verundish will take you in. Follow her like you’d follow me.” He stepped away then, and gestured to Verundish.

Verundish raised her saber above her head. “No lights. Not a word. We move in darkness up below the walls, and wait for the thunder. When the wall falls, charge.” She waited for the nods, then lowered her arm. “Let’s go.”

Verundish moved across the rugged terrain between the Adran camp and the fortress of Darjah.

Her path was guided only by a sliver of moonlight, and the stars above her that glittered like the campfires of an army stretched across the sky.

They had been camped there for months, exchanging artillery fire with the fortress and mounting two assaults and, but for those attacks, the land had been left untouched. Jackals hunted in the long desert grass where hares and foxes had made their homes to hide from Adran soldiers.

A desert owl hooted somewhere nearby.

She led her company across several small gullies and then into a ditch that went right up to the base of the fortress wall. She had been told the ditch was a runoff from the fortress wells, a place where the Gurlish bathhouses empties into the desert.

They hadn’t mentioned that it also carried away human waste.

One man stopped to retch loudly from the smell, causing the whole company to squat down in the squalor in fear of an alarm. Atop the wall, torches outlined the shape of Gurlish guardsmen. None of them called the alarm and in a low whisper, Verundish ordered her company forward.

They reached the base of the wall and settled down to wait. Verundish unbuttoned the front of her uniform to get comfortable. No one out here would write her up for lack of discipline.

She guessed they had about fifteen minutes until it started.

It wasn’t long until Verundish heard one of her men squirming up the line toward her. She squinted into the blackness of the night, trying to determine who it was.

“Sir,” he whispered, putting his face near hers. The scent of onions on his breath and the sound of his voice told her that it was Grenatio, a soldier who had been given the option of the Hope’s End or a firing squad after stealing from a local family.

“What?”

“Sir, when you said that we wait for the thunder…?”

“The artillery.”

“Oh.” There was a pause. “That makes sense.” Grenatio wasn’t the brightest, it seemed. “Sir?”

Verundish suppressed a sigh. “Yes?”

“I’m afraid.”

“That’s natural.”

“Will it go away?”

“It will.” When a Privileged scours your bones clean with sorcerous fire.

There were a few minutes of silence, and Verundish looked up at the top of the wall. Still no alarm. That was a good sign.

“When will it start, sir?”

“Soon.”

“How soon?”

Bloody pit… “Any minute. Get to your position.”

The soldier moved his way back down the line, making enough noise to wake Adran soldiers back in their camp.

And still there was no alarm.

Verundish looked up at the black stone of the fortress walls and wondered if they would really be able to create a breach. Those walls were ten feet thick, reinforced by Privileged sorcery hundreds of years old. The Adran cannon had been firing on them for months without making so much as a crack.

The Adran Privileged said they could break the walls tonight. What would happen if they did not fall?

She heard a low whistle and had turned to shush her men when the first cannonball slammed into the side of the fortress wall above them. The impact made her stumble and she caught herself with one hand against the side of the gully.

It had begun.

Cannonballs and artillery shells rocked the fortress and shook the ground, causing the walls of the gully in which the Hope’s End crouched to shiver and slide.

The physical bombardment was soon joined by the crash of sorcery. Fire lit the night sky, and slivers of ice the size of a carriage blasted into the wall, weakening it further with alternating heat and freezing cold.

Verundish shielded her face behind the lapel of her jacket against pieces of rock, ice, and iron that ricocheted into their hiding spot.

Gurlish screams told her that the enemy had sounded the alarm. Men rushed about on top of the wall, waving torches and yelling above the cacophony. One of them leaned over and tossed a torch over the wall, watching it fall to the ground below. It landed not far from the gulley that held the Hope’s End.

The Gurlish were trying to discover where the attack would come from.

Verundish knew it wouldn’t take them long to figure it out. When they did, a few dozen musketmen would be able to pick off Verundish’s men with little effort.

She prayed for the wall to fall.

She looked back on her men. One of them raised his musket and pointed it toward the men on the wall.

“Down, fool,” she hissed.

The report of artillery sounded close by. Verundish cursed their luck, and watched helplessly as a rocket soared into the air above the fortress and burst, lighting the desert as if it were day.

Her men were outlined by the light, their faces turned grimly upward. Back down the gully to where it widened into the desert floor, she could see a hundred yards off where the second wave—three whole companies—crouched at the ready in case the Hope’s End was successful.

They were all revealed by the light of the Gurlish flare. And now all would be lost.

A mighty noise suddenly shook the ground; a groaning as if the very bowels of the pit had opened to release its demons. To Verundish’s surprise, the wall gave way beneath the withering bombardment, bursting inward and scattering Gurlish soldiers.

“Climb, you bastards!” Verundish screamed, leaping to her feet.

She scrambled up the gulley and toward the base of the wall, where a mountain of rubble gave her purchase to haul her way up into the breach.

Cannonballs and sorcery shrieked around her, smashing the breach wider and wider with every strike.

Cut the bombardment, damn it! Verundish imagined charging into the breach only to be slaughtered by artillery and sorcery from her own camp.

All at once, the world fell silent. The focused bombardment ceased as the artillerymen adjusted their aim, and then suddenly continued at another point along the wall.

The breach was clear.

Verundish tripped, sprawling in the rubble that used to be the fortress wall. Adran soldiers rushed around her and suddenly she was hauled to her feet by her belt, her saber shoved back into her hand.

She didn’t have time to be embarrassed.

Gurlish soldiers appeared in the breach, and the first Adrans rushed them with fixed bayonets, the two sides tearing into each other with furious cries.

“Push!” Verundish cried. They had to secure the breach. They had to create a gap through which the second wave could pour. If they didn’t succeed in that, this would all be for nothing.

A Gurlish soldier leapt at her, swinging the butt of his musket like a club. She caught the swing with her saber and punched the man in the face, then followed by slicing viciously across his throat.

The Gurlish had not fixed bayonets. They hadn’t been ready for this attack. As impossible as it seemed, the Hope’s End suddenly had an advantage.

“Cut through them, boys!” Verundish urged, crossing blades with a Gurlish officer. The man was quicker than she by far. She managed to parry twice before he was past her guard, slicing down her left arm.

The man sputtered and fell, an Adran bayonet scrambling his bowels. Verundish pushed the corpse away, unable to mutter a thanks before Grenatio moved on. The onion-breathed man turned to shout over his shoulder.

“You’re right, captain! The fright is gone!”

They were inside the wall now, fighting for the courtyard. Without fixed bayonets, the Gurlish fell beneath the Adran soldiers like lambs before at the slaughter. Verundish paused to tie off the wound climbing her left arm, trying to wipe away the blood.

They could win. They really could win. The second wave would follow them through the breach and help secure the courtyard, and then General Tamas would bring the rest of the brigade through.

Suddenly, Verundish didn’t want to die.

A flash of light blinded Verundish. She stumbled back, blinking to clear her vision, and watched as Grenatio ran toward her with his body aflame, immolated by Privileged fire. His screams echoed in her head.

Verundish sought the source of the sorcery. A single Privilege could do in their whole company. Maybe even the second wave, too. It was madness trying to kill him, but it was the only chance she had.

Fire leapt through her men, setting their uniforms aflame and sowing chaos. There, where the courtyard gave way to a street: a Privileged stood in the opening, his gloved hands alight, fingers flickering as he dealt death to the Adran soldiers.

Her men scattered, screaming. None of them could face a Privileged. No one could. Nothing to do but run from a Privileged.

Verundish cursed the blood running down her arm, making her sword-hand slick, and switched her saber to the other hand. She threw herself to one side of the courtyard.

She got her back to a wall and crept, as quickly as she dared, toward the Privileged. She had one loaded pistol in her belt. One chance to fire, and she would need to get close enough for a sure shot.

The Privileged continued to lay about himself with fire. He wasn’t a strong one—no good at multitasking, otherwise he would have burnt the whole company at once. Verundish leaned her sword against the wall and drew her pistol.

The shot took the Privileged in the side. He jerked, falling to one knee, a startled look on his face. Then he turned his eyes toward Verundish.

She snatched up her saber and rushed him. He raised one hand toward her. The heat of sorcery licked at her face, and Verundish felt a twisting pain along her thigh as fire like molten glass hit her hard enough to spin her around. She stumbled forward.

Her saber took three fingers off the Privileged’s right hand. The Privileged screamed, and she slashed with all her might. The blade caught in the Privileged’s shoulder, knocking him over with the force of the blow. She wrenched the blade free and then stabbed it through his heart.

She stumbled again, nearly losing her feet. The pain at her thigh was unbearable. In her mind’s eye she saw the skin boiled and charred, the flesh warped. She dare not look at the wound, else she lose her nerve for the battle.

Looking back, she saw Constaire appear in the breach. Behind him the second wave swarmed inside with bayonets fixed, rushing past the dead and wounded to secure the courtyard and fight their way into the street.

Constaire caught her just as she fell. He stared at her, and then at the corpse at her feet.

“You killed a Privileged!”

“I…” Verundish didn’t know what to say. It seemed she had failed in her quest to die. She knew she didn’t want to die any more, but how could she save her little girl?

She looked up, seeing movement in the corner of her vision. On the walls above them, to either side of the breach, the Gurlish had returned. They had the high ground, and as she watched they began to fire into the Adran second wave.

“Get down!” she said to Constaire.

“We’ll fight them off. To the stairs, men!” He stepped away from her, drawing his sword.

Bloody fool. You’ll be dead before you reach the stairs.

There was a flicker of light up on the wall, alerting Verundish to the presence of another Privileged. Verundish coughed out a laugh. The futility of it all. The damned sorcerer would clear out the entire Hope’s End and the second wave.

The Privileged raised her gloved hands.

Her head exploded in a shower of blood. Verundish flinched at the violence of it, though it happened some thirty paces away. The Privileged’s body slumped, and a cry of dismay went up amongst the Gurlish on the wall.

A figure broke from the ranks of the Adran soldiers, smoking pistol in one hand. Barely even slowing from a run, the figure scaled the rubble that led up to the top of the wall. Small sword flashing, it fell amongst the Gurlish soldiers with inhuman speed.

Verundish couldn’t believe her eyes. Was this a demon from the pit? An angel sent by Kresimir?

The figure gestured with one hand and the powder horns of a dozen Gurlish infantry suddenly exploded, killing their owners.

She choked at the sudden realization. That was no angel or demon.

That was a powder mage.

General Tamas, ignoring his orders, had joined the fray.

Verundish let her head fall against the cool flag stones of the court yard as the pain finally overwhelmed her.

Verundish awoke in a strange room.

Nothing was familiar. The walls were cracked plaster and light came in through a high window. The room was not much larger than a prison cell and she wondered if perhaps it was a cell.

Had the Hope’s End ultimately failed? Had the second wave been slaughtered and pushed back? She remembered thinking she saw General Tamas join the fight. Perhaps he had been killed. There were, after all, five more Privileged inside the fortress. Was she now imprisoned within Darjah?

Surely the Gurlish would have just killed her.

Verundish wondered how much time had passed since the attack. She remembered screaming until her throat was raw and doctors forcing a mala pipe between her lips, blowing the smoke into her mouth. The pain had receded slowly, and the surgeons had gone to work on her thigh with their knives, and stitched the bloody cut up her arm.

She tried to turn her head with only marginal success, letting out an involuntary whimper at the pain it caused.

Why did everything hurt so badly? She felt like every bone in her body was broken.

The door to her room creaked open and a female voice said, “Ah. Colonel, you’re awake. Wonderful news. The field marshal will want to see you.”

Colonel? Surely, they must have mistaken her for someone else. A panic gripped her, and she struggled to move.

“Go get the field marshal,” the voice called out into the hall. Memories of her fevered surgery recognized this voice. One of the doctors. The doctor said, “Now, now. Don’t worry about moving. Your body is stiff, the muscles weak from disuse. You’ve been in and out for a long time.”

“How…” Verundish’s voice cracked, and a doctor moved into view. It was an older woman in an Adran uniform covered by a white smock. She bent over Verundish and brought water to her lips.

Verundish sputtered and choked, but managed to swallow a mouthful. When the doctor stepped away, she said, “How long?”

The doctor put a hand gently on Verundish’s shoulder. “The attack on Darjah was four weeks ago.”

“Four weeks?” She couldn’t help the urgency in her voice. The letter from her husband, before the Hope’s End, had already been five weeks old. In less than a month, Genevie would be sold to slavers. Verundish struggled to get up, her body shaking.

The doctor pressed her back down to her bed. “Wait, colonel. Please calm down.”

“I have to get up.”

“The field marshal will be here any moment, colonel.”

Field Marshal Beravich was coming to see her? What could he possibly want to see her for? “Verundish. I’m Captain Verundish.”

“I’m afraid not,” a male voice said from the doorway. “Doctor, please give us a moment.”

The doctor nodded and left Verundish’s side, only to be replaced with General Tamas. “Good morning, colonel.” Tamas said, sitting beside her bed.

“Sir?” she asked weakly.

“You’re a lieutenant colonel now, Verundish. The necessary paperwork was finished three weeks ago, though I’m waiting until you recovered to assign you to a battalion.”

That wasn’t possible. She couldn’t believe it. She had advanced two whole ranks. Surely she didn’t deserve that, not even after leading a Hope’s End. “I… thank you, sir.”

Tamas waved it away with one hand.

“Sir, was I really out for four weeks?”

“You’ve been in a mala stupor for much of that, in order to kill the pain. Getting seared the way you did by Privileged fire causes great physical and mental trauma on a regular person.”

“I see.”

Tamas nodded, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“Field Marshal Beravich?”

The corner of Tamas’ mouth twitched upward. “What of him?”

“Was he coming here?”

“I’m afraid Beravich is dead. Two days after we took Darjah his own forces were overrun by Gurlish partisans. He’s been avenged, I assure you.”

“Oh.” It took Verundish a few moments to process the information and grasp the implication. “Congratulations, sir.”

Field Marshal Tamas inclined his head in a modest gesture. He stood, stretching, and looking up toward the slash of light coming in through the window above them. “Now that you’re coherent, we’ll get you a proper room. They have to wean you off the mala. I’m told it will be several months until you’re fit for command.”

Verundish struggled to sit up and failed, the effort exhausting her. Several months? She had to return to Adro now. She had to get back before her hated husband could make good on his threat. Even the fastest of ships might not take her home in time.

Tamas cocked an eyebrow at her struggles. “Going somewhere, colonel?”

“Sir,” Verundish said, trying not to sound desperate. “I need to return to Adro. To attend to personal matters.”

“I’m afraid I can’t allow that,” Tamas said. “You’re needed. I intend to finish this bloody war by winter, and then we’ll all get to go home.”

Genevie wouldn’t be there by then. She’d be gone, sold into slavery and used like a… Verundish squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hold back to tears.

“Colonel?”

“Sir?”

“Is there anything you’d like to tell me, colonel?”

“No, sir.”

There was several moments of silence, and Tamas remained facing away from her, looking up at the window. “Pride,” he said, “is a strange thing.”

“Sir?”

“We allow ourselves and our loved ones to suffer so much just to appease this feeling in our gut. Sometimes I envy those men who don’t let pride cloud their judgment.”

Verundish didn’t trust herself to speak.

Tamas continued, “The Arch Diocel of Adro owes me a favor. The paperwork for your divorce should go through” —he paused, as if considering the date— “within a week or two. Your daughter will be in your parents’ custody until you return. If I were in Adro I would challenge your husband to a duel and kill him myself. Children, I think, should be exempt from the petty bickering of adults.”

Verundish felt the tension in her body melting away and could no longer hold back the tears. “I agree, sir. Thank you.”

Tamas took a deep breath. “I don’t normally interfere in this way, but as you might know I have my own son, barely two years old. I take this kind of thing… personally.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, sir, how did you find out?”

“Do you really have to ask?”

Constaire. Of course. A man with no pride. The silly fool had just saved her life. Something stirred in Verundish.

“Oh,” Tamas added as he opened the door to go. “Major Constaire has asked me to marry the two of you. If you feel the same way, it could be done as soon as we have word of your divorce.”

Major Constaire. He had gotten his promotion for leading the second wave against Darjah.

Verundish couldn’t help the smile on her face. “It would be an honor.”

“Good.” A smile flitted across Tamas’ serious face, and then he was gone.

Acknowledgements

Michele McClellan - editor

Sunny Morton - copy editor

Isaac Stewart - cover artist

Martin Hodo - beta reader

David Wohlreich - beta reader

Megan O’Keefe - beta reader

Josh Vogt - beta reader

Mark Lindberg - beta reader

Jesse Koepke - beta reader

Doug Smith - beta reader

Gavin Pugh - book maker

Content

McClellan Brian Hope’s End

Acknowledgements