Fic: Web of Fate, Chapter 16
2026-09-06 11:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rodoTitle: Web of Fate
Fandom: Carnival Row
Author:rodo
Chapter: 16/17+E
Length: 4,288 words (77,000 in total)
Rating: 16+
Genre: Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence, Worldbuilding, Adventure
Characters: Rycroft Philostrate, Jonah Breakspear, Vignette Stonemoss, Runyan Millworthy, Darius Prowell, Absalom Breakspear
Pairing: Philo/Vignette
Warnings/Labels: war, and mentions/occasional depictions of associated atrocities; canon-typical fantasy racism
Disclaimer: Everything you recognise belongs to Amazon, of course
A/N: I started this story in August 2021, and I finished the draft in 2022, so this was all written prior to the second season. So some of the worldbuilding contradicts what was shown in season 2. Still, I had so much fun re-reading this lately that I thought I’d polish it up some more and post it anyway, in case some of you will like it as well. Since it’s an AU, the plot of the second season is not that relevant anyway.
Summary: A year after the attempted assassination of Chancellor Absalom Breakspear, The Burgue is at war, and it’s not going well. In order to break the stalemate at the front, some unlikely soldiers are recruited to fight in a place nobody expected, and Philo and Jonah find themselves caught up in it against their expectations.
Chapter 16: Operation Retribution
Two years ago
“Jonah! Where were you?”
Jonah Breakspear winced. The whining tone made his sensitive head throb even more. He’d drunk too much last night. Maybe it hadn’t been the brightest idea to let himself be goaded into a drinking game by Barthold and Charles. His only consolation was that both of them would feel just as terrible as he did.
“Out,” he answered. When he turned, he saw his mother standing at the foot of the stairs, impeccably put together in one of her burgundy gowns, not a hair out of place. Her maid must have got up extra early to pin all the curls into place.
“Where? Don’t you remember that you have lessons today? Master Symes will arrive in an hour, and what am I going to tell him then?”
Jonah rolled his eyes and immediately regretted it. The dizziness returned with a vengeance. His stomach roiled. “Tell him that I’m sick,” he said. It wasn’t too far from the truth.
“You can’t keep doing this!” his mother hissed.
“Really?” Jonah drawled. “Whyever not?”
“You’re meant for greater things. You can’t keep wasting your time with those good-for-nothings you call friends, going from bar to brothel or wherever else they drag you. You’re the Chancellor’s son. You’re better than them.”
“Careful, mother, you almost sound like you don’t believe in my greatness.”
Whatever Jonah had expected, it wasn’t the shocked look on his mother’s face. She almost looked like she’d been slapped. As if she were guilty of something, and he’d caught her out.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, but Jonah no longer believed her. If even she doubted his great destiny, maybe he really was doomed to be nothing more than a rich playboy who wasted his days on wine, women and other questionable pursuits. If last night’s memory served, it wasn’t the worst thing.
*
“Antimony,” Jonah said by way of a greeting, standing straight with his hands clasped behind his back like a general or an elder statesman from the portraits lining the corridors of Balefire Hall. His father would be proud. They were meeting in the forest about a mile from the mimasery, a concession to Antimony’s sense of independence. There were no convenient abysses around where a human might disappear – a concession to Jonah, one he hadn’t asked for.
“Breakspear.” As always, her words were dripping with irony, even if it made no sense for them to do so. “Are you ready?”
As ready as he was ever going to be. “Yes.”
Antimony raised her eyebrows as she stalked closer. She still reminded him of Sophie, even if he noticed the differences more and more the longer he knew her. There was a different slant to her shoulders. Her step was more like that of a soldier than a cat’s.
“It has to work,” she said. “We won’t get a second chance.”
“I’m well aware, or have you forgotten what my role is going to be in your little plan?”
“I’m not asking anything of you that I wouldn’t ask of any of my fighters. I would do it myself.”
“But you’re asking something of us that you can’t ask of them – or yourself.”
Antimony’s eyes narrowed. Jonah was on thin ice.
“I’m not implying anything,” he explained. “I’m only pointing out that there would be no charge without my men or me. Or The Burgue. We’ve proven ourselves reliable allies more than once. This alliance is to both our benefits.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she snarled. “In a century, when I’m old and grey, and you’re long in the grave. Until then…”
Jonah huffed and shook his head. He was lucky her lieutenants were more open to change. Antimony would slit all their throats once she didn’t need them any more, if it were up to her alone. There was no grey in her world, only black and white.
“You think you know yourself and your people, but you don’t. Even now, you’re undermining our very culture, trying to subjugate others is like breathing to your kind, whether you try to or not. It’s in your nature.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jonah said, because he really didn’t. Whatever was bothering her now had to stop. They were about to embark on the most important mission of their lives.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard what they’re saying about your sergeant.”
Oh, that was what she was talking about. Jonah shouldn’t be surprised. Things always led back to Philo, just as all roads eventually led to Ava Leone.
“I have nothing to do with that. Neither does he.” Philo was far too stubborn and noble to actually do something useful with his fame. He’d rather throw himself off a cliff than be used against his precious fae, too.
“He says the same,” Antimony said. “I’m not sure I believe either of you.”
Jonah looked at her. Really looked at her. Antimony wore her tough warrior guise the same way Sophie wore her expensive velvet dresses – as if it were an armour that would protect her. It was a good thing for a leader like her. Leaders weren’t supposed to act like normal people. But beneath the surface, she hid the same insecurities and biases as everyone else. It was a fundamentally human trait, he supposed, one shared even by the fae. But if she didn’t deal with this particular problem, it would eventually get in both their ways.
“Do you want to know what I really think?” Jonah asked her.
Antimony’s false grin was dripping with acid. “If you’ll tell me.”
“I think the mima might be right.”
Antimony scoffed. “You mean you, a faan-troigh, believe that Philo is a saint. You don’t even believe in the gods. You pray to the same one your enemy prays to.”
Jonah shrugged. “I’m not sure what I believe in. The Martyr… he’s been around all my life, but I’ve never seen his light. I’ve seen that there’s something to your fae beliefs, though. My mother loved to ask this old haruspex for advice. She used to read her family’s fortunes for generations. Philo was there when she died, and apparently her last prophecy was about him.”
Antimony still stared at Jonah with disbelief in her eyes. “I never liked haruspexy.”
“Neither did I. In fact, I think that’s something we all have in common. But from what I know about that prophecy… let’s just say Philo being a saint would fit it – or at least living a life that would make people call him one. That’s how it works in your religion, doesn’t it?”
She nodded, in deep thought. Jonah could see her working through what she’d just been told while the birds sang in the branches above their heads.
“Your people will still use it.”
“Would he be a saint if he let that happen?”
She sighed and shook her head. Then laughed. Jonah could have sworn it was the same kind of laugh he’d laughed the first time he had considered what she was considering now.
“A saint… and you’re just accepting that? He should be your man. This makes you his.”
On the inside, Jonah bristled at the insinuation. Hopefully, their paths would part before that happened. “Do I have a choice? I don’t think either of us really does.”
That sobered her up. She left the meeting with less hostility than she had brought with her, and Jonah’s heart was a little lighter. Right now, he had bigger problems than an unwilling ally, a maybe-saint and an uncertain future – he’d have to survive to see that future first.
*
There was nothing more awkward than the silence before you start a speech, Jonah found. Everybody was looking at you, waiting, hoping, wanting to be anywhere else. The men stood in a half-circle, all fifty of them. They were quiet, which was unusual but to be expected given the circumstances. Most had arrived with Jonah from home, but some had joined up in the months since, preferring his group to Antimony’s for one reason or another. They all counted on him. Whether that trust was deserved or not, they would find out soon enough.
Jonah cleared his throat, even though his teachers had taught him that it was bad form. He couldn’t help it; he was nervous. “You all know what part you have to play,” he told them, “and you’re all as prepared as any soldier going into battle can be. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for. This is the reason we’ve come to Anoun, the reason some of you joined up. The Pact sits there—” he pointed southwards, even though they were too far away to see anything “—in their citadel, cowering in fear. We’ve destroyed their supply lines, we’ve hounded their soldiers, we’ve killed their scouts. Cowering is all they can do, and it’s time to end them!”
A chorus of nods, yesses and “hear, hear” filled the air.
“Watch out for your comrades, and do me a favour and don’t try to kill me,” he said, pretending he was making a joke even though he really meant it. “I know we’re not looking like ourselves right now, but I promise, it’s still us.”
There were chuckles, and it seemed he’d succeeded in lightening the mood some. They would leave soon, he, the two marroks and Philo (of course), who was busy making moon eyes at his girl.
“Good luck,” he finished. “I hope we’ll see each other on the other side.”
Hastur would arrive soon to take command of those who could fly, while Silesius would lead the ground force. Everybody knew their role, including Jonah, who was not looking forward to infiltrating the Pact stronghold with just three others.
“That wasn’t half-bad, as speeches go,” Darius told him when they walked towards the edge of the forest.
“Could have used some more martial language. You know, blood, guts, screams,” Milton argued.
“Yeah. But at least there was some life in it, and no appeals to our patriotism,” Darius said. “I never liked those. I’m not going to die for a bloody city. Comrades, money, a full belly, and revenge, maybe. The fucking Parliament? No.”
“Noted,” Jonah said dryly. “I suppose all those lessons in oration did have some use in the end.”
Both marroks snorted. They’d reached the part of the forest where the trees became sparser and the undergrowth denser. Now they only had to wait for two things: dusk and Philo. The latter appeared soon enough. Then they whiled away the last of their wait staring at the citadel and town in the distance, taking small naps and sharpening their knives – literally – while the light around them seeped away.
“It’s time,” Jonah said when the light had become so murky that their uniforms would keep them safe until they were in striking distance. If everything went according to plan.
The town at the foot of the plateau that Caerfyd Castle sat on was eerily quiet. From the descriptions Jonah had read, it used to be a busy town, even under Pact control. Now, there were inns with dark windows, houses that had been boarded up and lonely, emaciated dogs that lurked in the shadows. Jonah’s only points of comparison for cities at night were The Burgue and Ava Leone, and the evenings in both were always full of life. Even with the Row fenced in, with a war going on and half the young men away at the front, there had still been song behind closed doors, the odd burst of laughter breaking the night’s silence, and some drunkard staggering through the alleys. This silence reeked of fear and death, and it set Jonah’s teeth on edge. Going by the way the others’ shoulders tensed as they marched through the streets at a brisk pace, he wasn’t the only one who sensed it.
“They’ll be ready,” Philo murmured. In any other town, it wouldn’t have been audible. Here, his voice seemed deafeningly loud.
“So will we,” Darius said. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonah saw his hand grip the hilt of his dagger.
Two guards. That’s what the others had said. Two guards secured the only access point to the citadel. But that had been months ago. When they approached the gate, Jonah saw four figures in the halo of the lamplight. Philo was right. They were ready. One of the men sniffed the air as if he were a hunting dog scenting for prey. They kept their pace steady. Act like you belong until it’s too late, Runyan had told him one night at the mimasery, when Jonah had asked him about spying. Or had it been back at Fort Pembroke? He’d been gone longer now than they had been working together.
They were ten paces away when one of the guards stood to attention. They were tense, but not yet alarmed. Not even the marrok – it seemed their scent wasn’t what they were expecting from an enemy.
“What company are you from?” the leader asked them.
One second. Two seconds. Three. Once they realised that no answer was coming, the Pact guards went for their guns, but they were just a fraction of a second too late. Jonah jumped the one closest to him and rammed his army knife in the man’s throat with a decisive movement that had been drilled into him in basic training. He grimaced and swallowed to conquer his gag reflex. He’d killed men before, even up close, but it had never been this… intimate. They almost embraced each other. He could smell the man’s gargled last breath, saw the whites of his eyes widen in hatred, fear and surprise. Then, the man collapsed, and there was silence. They had managed the first part of their plan without a shot being fired. When Jonah turned, he saw Milton kick the marrok’s body as if to make sure he was really dead.
“How long do you think we have?” Milton asked.
“Not as long as we’d like,” Jonah answered. Sooner or later, someone would realise that something was wrong. Until then, they had to get as far in their plan as possible. Jonah blew the faerish whistle, signalling to the ground troops that it was time to move in. Secure the town, trap the Pact. Afterwards, he hung the whistle back around his neck and nodded to the others.
They moved like the trained soldiers they were, ascending the narrow road winding its way up the rock. If there was another guard up top, they might be fucked, Jonah thought. Especially if they made too much noise. So much depended on their disabling at least some of the air defences; his thoughts couldn’t help but circle around everything that could go wrong. If there were too many guards. If someone raised the alarm about the dead sentries, if they all died…
As it turned out, more guards were guarding the other end of the road, but only two. Milton and Darius took care of them as efficiently as they had taken care of the ones at the bottom. These two they dragged down the slope into the shadows. Should anyone pass, they might just think they were lazing off somewhere else. In the meantime, Philo and Jonah took their places. Three Pact soldiers left one of the houses while they stood there, but they didn’t pay the two loitering guards any mind and just walked up the street towards the main square, if Jonah was to guess. He breathed easier when they were gone.
“Done,” Darius’s quiet voice said.
“Then let’s get this over with,” Jonah said. “I can’t wait to get out of these rags.”
He heard huffs of agreement, and Milton went first. He was supposed to sabotage the airships as best he could – he’d done such a good job with a mere distraction the last time he’d been here. Jonah nodded at him and received a tense nod in return.
“Don’t get killed,” he heard Darius say to Philo.
“You neither,” was the gruff reply, then Philo marched off as well, to the keep. His was one of the most dangerous jobs, aside from Darius’s and Jonah’s. He would kill the general if he managed to infiltrate the keep, and anyone else in command that he could find. But he’d likely get to lie low until the battle was raging and there was enough chaos to serve as a distraction so that he could get close.
When Philo was gone as well, Darius looked at Jonah expectantly.
“You know the way,” Jonah said. “Lead on.”
And he did. It didn’t take long until they reached a wooden staircase that had obviously been constructed by and for the Pact – the wood looked nowhere near as staid and aged as the beams of the buildings around them. An awkward addition to a fae fortification. Up top, on the walls, they had a perfect view across the plains and woods surrounding the castle, for miles in any direction. It was no wonder the citadel had been built in this place. Or rather, the view would have been perfect, were it not for the time of day. It was still dusk, but it wouldn’t be long until nightfall. Soon, the murky lines and muted colours would be swallowed by the darkness. They had to get a move on.
The first three guns went as smoothly as the ascent to the castle had. The guns were manned with two soldiers each – a gunner and an assistant. Darius and Jonah were enough to get the jump on them, muffling their cries as they slit their throats. Jonah should be happy, but he couldn’t get used to the closeness of this type of killing. Bile rose to the back of his throat the more he did it. Maybe he’d have to vomit soon – hopefully not in front of Darius. At least the northern side – the main approach for Antimony’s fae – was now relatively secure. They disabled each gun by denting the magazines or removing parts of the firing mechanisms.
However, as they closed in on the fourth gun, an explosion shook the entire rock to the core, followed by a mighty fireball rising up in the sky. Milton must have done his job, and if Jonah was to judge, he’d done it well. Unfortunately, the soldiers manning the fourth gun rose from their posts, and the fireball highlighted Jonah and Darius approaching at the exact wrong moment. The time for stealth was past, and a tiny part of Jonah was glad. Getting shot in battle no longer seemed that bad, compared to having to listen to people drown in their own blood.
Jonah and Darius raised their weapons as one and fired, with the two men going down at nearly the same time. Things had to move fast. The shots must have been heard. And indeed, Jonah could hear the voices rise below, whether in response to the fire or the shots, he couldn’t tell. There was no more time for subtlety. He brought down the butt of his rifle on the machine gun’s magazine once, twice, thrice, then moved on, following the line of the fortification, rifle raised. He heard Darius behind him and hoped the man covered their backs – there was no time to check.
He fired at the men around the fifth gun. The one staring in the distance at the fire went down. The other one – the one manning the gun – had been sitting at it, but the heavy barrel couldn’t turn to cover the ramparts. He fell after a third shot. The second had missed, and Jonah had cursed. Now wasn’t the time to make mistakes. One, two, three hits to the magazine, and the northeastern approach was secure. In the distance, Jonah could hear the telltale angry buzz of the faerish army approaching in full force, lit by lanterns to prevent collisions. Any closer, and it would seem like you just put your head in a burning beehive.
The gun next to him fired unexpectedly. Jonah cursed again and took cover behind the disabled machine gun before trying to figure out why. Darius was aiming in the direction they had come from and fired again. Then he cast a quick glance at Jonah, who could hear the ground troops marching up the road below them.
“Time to ditch these,” Jonah said. While Darius covered him, he quickly took off his Pact jacket. Beneath it, he wore an old waistcoat. Then he covered Darius as he did the same. Two more soldiers tried to get to them. Two more fell.
On they went, together, to the next gun. Jonah wasn’t counting any more. Fighting had that effect on him. He became hyper-aware, but couldn’t think past the immediate task at hand. Screams rose around them, from all directions. People ran, and Jonah shot at everyone in a Pact uniform. The butt of his rifle went down on more magazines. It became easier as the remaining gunners aimed for the fae, not paying attention to the ground. And then, they ran into Atherton, who must have worked his way up from the opposite direction. For a moment, Jonah stopped to take stock: the ramparts were secure, the air defences disabled. One airship was limping above the castle, but there were fae hovering around it, and it wasn’t dropping any incendiaries.
The killing wasn’t done, of course. There had been a whole garrison of Pact soldiers. Most of them were in the citadel after the surrounding outposts had been decimated. All Jonah and the others had to do was aim their rifles down, into the streets, or into the windows. Bullets flew. The chaos was unimaginable. At one point, Jonah felt a bullet graze him, but he was too intoxicated by the fighting to care. In a remote part of his brain, he remembered what Charles had told him about this once, that it was the reason he loved fighting, even though he’d end up black and blue after.
The most tenacious enemies were the marroks, to no one’s surprise. They didn’t move like people. They didn’t move like dogs either. The way they climbed and pounced reminded Jonah of lynxes he’d seen at the zoo in Ava Leone once, as a child, during a visit to his grandparents. Sometimes, it took three or four bullets to bring them down as they twisted out of the way or shrugged off direct hits. Beside him, the others cursed and screamed. But eventually, the fighting died down, until only the odd burst of gunfire or a pained groan broke the silence. By now, the moon was out, and the air was filled with smoke – gun smoke, and whatever acrid substance had burned with the airships.
Jonah sighed and lowered his rifle. Finally. Only now did he feel the blood run down his face from the graze on his head. He winced as he stood and walked down the ramparts on stiff legs. He found Antimony in front of the keep, where she stood like a conquering queen, one foot on the back of a naked corpse. There were no prisoners; there rarely were with the Pact.
When the door to the keep opened, all guns were raised again. But instead of one last enemy, it was only Philo. He was breathing heavily, and his once white shirt was drenched in blood. He walked on the steps to the courtyard one slow step at a time, deliberately, as if at least some of the blood was his own. In one hand, he held his rifle. In the other, he clutched something.
Then he stopped, and there must have been a cloud in front of the moon, because suddenly, Philo was bathed in cool light. In that moment, he threw the thing he’d held in his left hand on the ground at Antimony’s and Jonah’s feet. It was the general’s insignia. The keep was theirs. The battle was won.
A mighty cheer rose around them, so joyful and triumphant it must have moved even Antimony’s heart. They were covered in blood, had lost who knew how many friends and comrades, and yet it had been worth it. A good fourth of Anoun was theirs now. And in the middle of it all stood Philo in his soiled white shirt, in a pool of moonlight. Around them, Jonah could hear whispers. Nobody approached Philo. Not even Jonah dared to move. The moment was magical and uncanny. When Jonah cast his eyes towards Antimony, he saw that she was looking at him too. Her eyes told him that they were thinking the same thing. This moment would spread like a wildfire, as rumours often did. And with every retelling, it would grow. And maybe, just maybe, there was something to the mima’s words. The way Philo stood there, like the hero of this battle, who had faced the enemy commander on his own, certainly was in line with a saint sent by the goddesses.
Like all moments, this one ended. When he spotted Vignette, Philo stumbled into her arms, and another cloud moved in front of the moon. The rest of them returned to their tasks, securing the castle and the town, gathering the dead Pact soldiers in a pile, taking care of their own wounded and dead. But something of that moment remained for the entire night, in all their hearts, even in Jonah’s. He felt unsettled, despite having known. But maybe his heart had not. It did now. The last vestiges of doubt were fading, replaced by certainty.
Chapter 15: An Alliance of Consequence | Chapter 17: A New Dawn
Fandom: Carnival Row
Author:
rodoChapter: 16/17+E
Length: 4,288 words (77,000 in total)
Rating: 16+
Genre: Alternate Universe – Canon Divergence, Worldbuilding, Adventure
Characters: Rycroft Philostrate, Jonah Breakspear, Vignette Stonemoss, Runyan Millworthy, Darius Prowell, Absalom Breakspear
Pairing: Philo/Vignette
Warnings/Labels: war, and mentions/occasional depictions of associated atrocities; canon-typical fantasy racism
Disclaimer: Everything you recognise belongs to Amazon, of course
A/N: I started this story in August 2021, and I finished the draft in 2022, so this was all written prior to the second season. So some of the worldbuilding contradicts what was shown in season 2. Still, I had so much fun re-reading this lately that I thought I’d polish it up some more and post it anyway, in case some of you will like it as well. Since it’s an AU, the plot of the second season is not that relevant anyway.
Summary: A year after the attempted assassination of Chancellor Absalom Breakspear, The Burgue is at war, and it’s not going well. In order to break the stalemate at the front, some unlikely soldiers are recruited to fight in a place nobody expected, and Philo and Jonah find themselves caught up in it against their expectations.
Two years ago
“Jonah! Where were you?”
Jonah Breakspear winced. The whining tone made his sensitive head throb even more. He’d drunk too much last night. Maybe it hadn’t been the brightest idea to let himself be goaded into a drinking game by Barthold and Charles. His only consolation was that both of them would feel just as terrible as he did.
“Out,” he answered. When he turned, he saw his mother standing at the foot of the stairs, impeccably put together in one of her burgundy gowns, not a hair out of place. Her maid must have got up extra early to pin all the curls into place.
“Where? Don’t you remember that you have lessons today? Master Symes will arrive in an hour, and what am I going to tell him then?”
Jonah rolled his eyes and immediately regretted it. The dizziness returned with a vengeance. His stomach roiled. “Tell him that I’m sick,” he said. It wasn’t too far from the truth.
“You can’t keep doing this!” his mother hissed.
“Really?” Jonah drawled. “Whyever not?”
“You’re meant for greater things. You can’t keep wasting your time with those good-for-nothings you call friends, going from bar to brothel or wherever else they drag you. You’re the Chancellor’s son. You’re better than them.”
“Careful, mother, you almost sound like you don’t believe in my greatness.”
Whatever Jonah had expected, it wasn’t the shocked look on his mother’s face. She almost looked like she’d been slapped. As if she were guilty of something, and he’d caught her out.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, but Jonah no longer believed her. If even she doubted his great destiny, maybe he really was doomed to be nothing more than a rich playboy who wasted his days on wine, women and other questionable pursuits. If last night’s memory served, it wasn’t the worst thing.
“Antimony,” Jonah said by way of a greeting, standing straight with his hands clasped behind his back like a general or an elder statesman from the portraits lining the corridors of Balefire Hall. His father would be proud. They were meeting in the forest about a mile from the mimasery, a concession to Antimony’s sense of independence. There were no convenient abysses around where a human might disappear – a concession to Jonah, one he hadn’t asked for.
“Breakspear.” As always, her words were dripping with irony, even if it made no sense for them to do so. “Are you ready?”
As ready as he was ever going to be. “Yes.”
Antimony raised her eyebrows as she stalked closer. She still reminded him of Sophie, even if he noticed the differences more and more the longer he knew her. There was a different slant to her shoulders. Her step was more like that of a soldier than a cat’s.
“It has to work,” she said. “We won’t get a second chance.”
“I’m well aware, or have you forgotten what my role is going to be in your little plan?”
“I’m not asking anything of you that I wouldn’t ask of any of my fighters. I would do it myself.”
“But you’re asking something of us that you can’t ask of them – or yourself.”
Antimony’s eyes narrowed. Jonah was on thin ice.
“I’m not implying anything,” he explained. “I’m only pointing out that there would be no charge without my men or me. Or The Burgue. We’ve proven ourselves reliable allies more than once. This alliance is to both our benefits.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she snarled. “In a century, when I’m old and grey, and you’re long in the grave. Until then…”
Jonah huffed and shook his head. He was lucky her lieutenants were more open to change. Antimony would slit all their throats once she didn’t need them any more, if it were up to her alone. There was no grey in her world, only black and white.
“You think you know yourself and your people, but you don’t. Even now, you’re undermining our very culture, trying to subjugate others is like breathing to your kind, whether you try to or not. It’s in your nature.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jonah said, because he really didn’t. Whatever was bothering her now had to stop. They were about to embark on the most important mission of their lives.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard what they’re saying about your sergeant.”
Oh, that was what she was talking about. Jonah shouldn’t be surprised. Things always led back to Philo, just as all roads eventually led to Ava Leone.
“I have nothing to do with that. Neither does he.” Philo was far too stubborn and noble to actually do something useful with his fame. He’d rather throw himself off a cliff than be used against his precious fae, too.
“He says the same,” Antimony said. “I’m not sure I believe either of you.”
Jonah looked at her. Really looked at her. Antimony wore her tough warrior guise the same way Sophie wore her expensive velvet dresses – as if it were an armour that would protect her. It was a good thing for a leader like her. Leaders weren’t supposed to act like normal people. But beneath the surface, she hid the same insecurities and biases as everyone else. It was a fundamentally human trait, he supposed, one shared even by the fae. But if she didn’t deal with this particular problem, it would eventually get in both their ways.
“Do you want to know what I really think?” Jonah asked her.
Antimony’s false grin was dripping with acid. “If you’ll tell me.”
“I think the mima might be right.”
Antimony scoffed. “You mean you, a faan-troigh, believe that Philo is a saint. You don’t even believe in the gods. You pray to the same one your enemy prays to.”
Jonah shrugged. “I’m not sure what I believe in. The Martyr… he’s been around all my life, but I’ve never seen his light. I’ve seen that there’s something to your fae beliefs, though. My mother loved to ask this old haruspex for advice. She used to read her family’s fortunes for generations. Philo was there when she died, and apparently her last prophecy was about him.”
Antimony still stared at Jonah with disbelief in her eyes. “I never liked haruspexy.”
“Neither did I. In fact, I think that’s something we all have in common. But from what I know about that prophecy… let’s just say Philo being a saint would fit it – or at least living a life that would make people call him one. That’s how it works in your religion, doesn’t it?”
She nodded, in deep thought. Jonah could see her working through what she’d just been told while the birds sang in the branches above their heads.
“Your people will still use it.”
“Would he be a saint if he let that happen?”
She sighed and shook her head. Then laughed. Jonah could have sworn it was the same kind of laugh he’d laughed the first time he had considered what she was considering now.
“A saint… and you’re just accepting that? He should be your man. This makes you his.”
On the inside, Jonah bristled at the insinuation. Hopefully, their paths would part before that happened. “Do I have a choice? I don’t think either of us really does.”
That sobered her up. She left the meeting with less hostility than she had brought with her, and Jonah’s heart was a little lighter. Right now, he had bigger problems than an unwilling ally, a maybe-saint and an uncertain future – he’d have to survive to see that future first.
There was nothing more awkward than the silence before you start a speech, Jonah found. Everybody was looking at you, waiting, hoping, wanting to be anywhere else. The men stood in a half-circle, all fifty of them. They were quiet, which was unusual but to be expected given the circumstances. Most had arrived with Jonah from home, but some had joined up in the months since, preferring his group to Antimony’s for one reason or another. They all counted on him. Whether that trust was deserved or not, they would find out soon enough.
Jonah cleared his throat, even though his teachers had taught him that it was bad form. He couldn’t help it; he was nervous. “You all know what part you have to play,” he told them, “and you’re all as prepared as any soldier going into battle can be. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for. This is the reason we’ve come to Anoun, the reason some of you joined up. The Pact sits there—” he pointed southwards, even though they were too far away to see anything “—in their citadel, cowering in fear. We’ve destroyed their supply lines, we’ve hounded their soldiers, we’ve killed their scouts. Cowering is all they can do, and it’s time to end them!”
A chorus of nods, yesses and “hear, hear” filled the air.
“Watch out for your comrades, and do me a favour and don’t try to kill me,” he said, pretending he was making a joke even though he really meant it. “I know we’re not looking like ourselves right now, but I promise, it’s still us.”
There were chuckles, and it seemed he’d succeeded in lightening the mood some. They would leave soon, he, the two marroks and Philo (of course), who was busy making moon eyes at his girl.
“Good luck,” he finished. “I hope we’ll see each other on the other side.”
Hastur would arrive soon to take command of those who could fly, while Silesius would lead the ground force. Everybody knew their role, including Jonah, who was not looking forward to infiltrating the Pact stronghold with just three others.
“That wasn’t half-bad, as speeches go,” Darius told him when they walked towards the edge of the forest.
“Could have used some more martial language. You know, blood, guts, screams,” Milton argued.
“Yeah. But at least there was some life in it, and no appeals to our patriotism,” Darius said. “I never liked those. I’m not going to die for a bloody city. Comrades, money, a full belly, and revenge, maybe. The fucking Parliament? No.”
“Noted,” Jonah said dryly. “I suppose all those lessons in oration did have some use in the end.”
Both marroks snorted. They’d reached the part of the forest where the trees became sparser and the undergrowth denser. Now they only had to wait for two things: dusk and Philo. The latter appeared soon enough. Then they whiled away the last of their wait staring at the citadel and town in the distance, taking small naps and sharpening their knives – literally – while the light around them seeped away.
“It’s time,” Jonah said when the light had become so murky that their uniforms would keep them safe until they were in striking distance. If everything went according to plan.
The town at the foot of the plateau that Caerfyd Castle sat on was eerily quiet. From the descriptions Jonah had read, it used to be a busy town, even under Pact control. Now, there were inns with dark windows, houses that had been boarded up and lonely, emaciated dogs that lurked in the shadows. Jonah’s only points of comparison for cities at night were The Burgue and Ava Leone, and the evenings in both were always full of life. Even with the Row fenced in, with a war going on and half the young men away at the front, there had still been song behind closed doors, the odd burst of laughter breaking the night’s silence, and some drunkard staggering through the alleys. This silence reeked of fear and death, and it set Jonah’s teeth on edge. Going by the way the others’ shoulders tensed as they marched through the streets at a brisk pace, he wasn’t the only one who sensed it.
“They’ll be ready,” Philo murmured. In any other town, it wouldn’t have been audible. Here, his voice seemed deafeningly loud.
“So will we,” Darius said. Out of the corner of his eye, Jonah saw his hand grip the hilt of his dagger.
Two guards. That’s what the others had said. Two guards secured the only access point to the citadel. But that had been months ago. When they approached the gate, Jonah saw four figures in the halo of the lamplight. Philo was right. They were ready. One of the men sniffed the air as if he were a hunting dog scenting for prey. They kept their pace steady. Act like you belong until it’s too late, Runyan had told him one night at the mimasery, when Jonah had asked him about spying. Or had it been back at Fort Pembroke? He’d been gone longer now than they had been working together.
They were ten paces away when one of the guards stood to attention. They were tense, but not yet alarmed. Not even the marrok – it seemed their scent wasn’t what they were expecting from an enemy.
“What company are you from?” the leader asked them.
One second. Two seconds. Three. Once they realised that no answer was coming, the Pact guards went for their guns, but they were just a fraction of a second too late. Jonah jumped the one closest to him and rammed his army knife in the man’s throat with a decisive movement that had been drilled into him in basic training. He grimaced and swallowed to conquer his gag reflex. He’d killed men before, even up close, but it had never been this… intimate. They almost embraced each other. He could smell the man’s gargled last breath, saw the whites of his eyes widen in hatred, fear and surprise. Then, the man collapsed, and there was silence. They had managed the first part of their plan without a shot being fired. When Jonah turned, he saw Milton kick the marrok’s body as if to make sure he was really dead.
“How long do you think we have?” Milton asked.
“Not as long as we’d like,” Jonah answered. Sooner or later, someone would realise that something was wrong. Until then, they had to get as far in their plan as possible. Jonah blew the faerish whistle, signalling to the ground troops that it was time to move in. Secure the town, trap the Pact. Afterwards, he hung the whistle back around his neck and nodded to the others.
They moved like the trained soldiers they were, ascending the narrow road winding its way up the rock. If there was another guard up top, they might be fucked, Jonah thought. Especially if they made too much noise. So much depended on their disabling at least some of the air defences; his thoughts couldn’t help but circle around everything that could go wrong. If there were too many guards. If someone raised the alarm about the dead sentries, if they all died…
As it turned out, more guards were guarding the other end of the road, but only two. Milton and Darius took care of them as efficiently as they had taken care of the ones at the bottom. These two they dragged down the slope into the shadows. Should anyone pass, they might just think they were lazing off somewhere else. In the meantime, Philo and Jonah took their places. Three Pact soldiers left one of the houses while they stood there, but they didn’t pay the two loitering guards any mind and just walked up the street towards the main square, if Jonah was to guess. He breathed easier when they were gone.
“Done,” Darius’s quiet voice said.
“Then let’s get this over with,” Jonah said. “I can’t wait to get out of these rags.”
He heard huffs of agreement, and Milton went first. He was supposed to sabotage the airships as best he could – he’d done such a good job with a mere distraction the last time he’d been here. Jonah nodded at him and received a tense nod in return.
“Don’t get killed,” he heard Darius say to Philo.
“You neither,” was the gruff reply, then Philo marched off as well, to the keep. His was one of the most dangerous jobs, aside from Darius’s and Jonah’s. He would kill the general if he managed to infiltrate the keep, and anyone else in command that he could find. But he’d likely get to lie low until the battle was raging and there was enough chaos to serve as a distraction so that he could get close.
When Philo was gone as well, Darius looked at Jonah expectantly.
“You know the way,” Jonah said. “Lead on.”
And he did. It didn’t take long until they reached a wooden staircase that had obviously been constructed by and for the Pact – the wood looked nowhere near as staid and aged as the beams of the buildings around them. An awkward addition to a fae fortification. Up top, on the walls, they had a perfect view across the plains and woods surrounding the castle, for miles in any direction. It was no wonder the citadel had been built in this place. Or rather, the view would have been perfect, were it not for the time of day. It was still dusk, but it wouldn’t be long until nightfall. Soon, the murky lines and muted colours would be swallowed by the darkness. They had to get a move on.
The first three guns went as smoothly as the ascent to the castle had. The guns were manned with two soldiers each – a gunner and an assistant. Darius and Jonah were enough to get the jump on them, muffling their cries as they slit their throats. Jonah should be happy, but he couldn’t get used to the closeness of this type of killing. Bile rose to the back of his throat the more he did it. Maybe he’d have to vomit soon – hopefully not in front of Darius. At least the northern side – the main approach for Antimony’s fae – was now relatively secure. They disabled each gun by denting the magazines or removing parts of the firing mechanisms.
However, as they closed in on the fourth gun, an explosion shook the entire rock to the core, followed by a mighty fireball rising up in the sky. Milton must have done his job, and if Jonah was to judge, he’d done it well. Unfortunately, the soldiers manning the fourth gun rose from their posts, and the fireball highlighted Jonah and Darius approaching at the exact wrong moment. The time for stealth was past, and a tiny part of Jonah was glad. Getting shot in battle no longer seemed that bad, compared to having to listen to people drown in their own blood.
Jonah and Darius raised their weapons as one and fired, with the two men going down at nearly the same time. Things had to move fast. The shots must have been heard. And indeed, Jonah could hear the voices rise below, whether in response to the fire or the shots, he couldn’t tell. There was no more time for subtlety. He brought down the butt of his rifle on the machine gun’s magazine once, twice, thrice, then moved on, following the line of the fortification, rifle raised. He heard Darius behind him and hoped the man covered their backs – there was no time to check.
He fired at the men around the fifth gun. The one staring in the distance at the fire went down. The other one – the one manning the gun – had been sitting at it, but the heavy barrel couldn’t turn to cover the ramparts. He fell after a third shot. The second had missed, and Jonah had cursed. Now wasn’t the time to make mistakes. One, two, three hits to the magazine, and the northeastern approach was secure. In the distance, Jonah could hear the telltale angry buzz of the faerish army approaching in full force, lit by lanterns to prevent collisions. Any closer, and it would seem like you just put your head in a burning beehive.
The gun next to him fired unexpectedly. Jonah cursed again and took cover behind the disabled machine gun before trying to figure out why. Darius was aiming in the direction they had come from and fired again. Then he cast a quick glance at Jonah, who could hear the ground troops marching up the road below them.
“Time to ditch these,” Jonah said. While Darius covered him, he quickly took off his Pact jacket. Beneath it, he wore an old waistcoat. Then he covered Darius as he did the same. Two more soldiers tried to get to them. Two more fell.
On they went, together, to the next gun. Jonah wasn’t counting any more. Fighting had that effect on him. He became hyper-aware, but couldn’t think past the immediate task at hand. Screams rose around them, from all directions. People ran, and Jonah shot at everyone in a Pact uniform. The butt of his rifle went down on more magazines. It became easier as the remaining gunners aimed for the fae, not paying attention to the ground. And then, they ran into Atherton, who must have worked his way up from the opposite direction. For a moment, Jonah stopped to take stock: the ramparts were secure, the air defences disabled. One airship was limping above the castle, but there were fae hovering around it, and it wasn’t dropping any incendiaries.
The killing wasn’t done, of course. There had been a whole garrison of Pact soldiers. Most of them were in the citadel after the surrounding outposts had been decimated. All Jonah and the others had to do was aim their rifles down, into the streets, or into the windows. Bullets flew. The chaos was unimaginable. At one point, Jonah felt a bullet graze him, but he was too intoxicated by the fighting to care. In a remote part of his brain, he remembered what Charles had told him about this once, that it was the reason he loved fighting, even though he’d end up black and blue after.
The most tenacious enemies were the marroks, to no one’s surprise. They didn’t move like people. They didn’t move like dogs either. The way they climbed and pounced reminded Jonah of lynxes he’d seen at the zoo in Ava Leone once, as a child, during a visit to his grandparents. Sometimes, it took three or four bullets to bring them down as they twisted out of the way or shrugged off direct hits. Beside him, the others cursed and screamed. But eventually, the fighting died down, until only the odd burst of gunfire or a pained groan broke the silence. By now, the moon was out, and the air was filled with smoke – gun smoke, and whatever acrid substance had burned with the airships.
Jonah sighed and lowered his rifle. Finally. Only now did he feel the blood run down his face from the graze on his head. He winced as he stood and walked down the ramparts on stiff legs. He found Antimony in front of the keep, where she stood like a conquering queen, one foot on the back of a naked corpse. There were no prisoners; there rarely were with the Pact.
When the door to the keep opened, all guns were raised again. But instead of one last enemy, it was only Philo. He was breathing heavily, and his once white shirt was drenched in blood. He walked on the steps to the courtyard one slow step at a time, deliberately, as if at least some of the blood was his own. In one hand, he held his rifle. In the other, he clutched something.
Then he stopped, and there must have been a cloud in front of the moon, because suddenly, Philo was bathed in cool light. In that moment, he threw the thing he’d held in his left hand on the ground at Antimony’s and Jonah’s feet. It was the general’s insignia. The keep was theirs. The battle was won.
A mighty cheer rose around them, so joyful and triumphant it must have moved even Antimony’s heart. They were covered in blood, had lost who knew how many friends and comrades, and yet it had been worth it. A good fourth of Anoun was theirs now. And in the middle of it all stood Philo in his soiled white shirt, in a pool of moonlight. Around them, Jonah could hear whispers. Nobody approached Philo. Not even Jonah dared to move. The moment was magical and uncanny. When Jonah cast his eyes towards Antimony, he saw that she was looking at him too. Her eyes told him that they were thinking the same thing. This moment would spread like a wildfire, as rumours often did. And with every retelling, it would grow. And maybe, just maybe, there was something to the mima’s words. The way Philo stood there, like the hero of this battle, who had faced the enemy commander on his own, certainly was in line with a saint sent by the goddesses.
Like all moments, this one ended. When he spotted Vignette, Philo stumbled into her arms, and another cloud moved in front of the moon. The rest of them returned to their tasks, securing the castle and the town, gathering the dead Pact soldiers in a pile, taking care of their own wounded and dead. But something of that moment remained for the entire night, in all their hearts, even in Jonah’s. He felt unsettled, despite having known. But maybe his heart had not. It did now. The last vestiges of doubt were fading, replaced by certainty.
