Half an hour of a hard march set by Poole, who had his horse at a trot at the spearhead, brought the sounds of combat into focus. Chimi braced herself again. It was going to be difficult, but she was ready to go on the attack.
Scouts arrived on horseback at the head of both platoons that marched side by side. Poole and Harvey discussed something quietly while she kept her eyes trained. The awkward feelings inside her armour didn't feel too extreme anymore; it was tolerable. The sound of boots on the ground, the crunch of snow, clanks of shields and weapons with their kits had faded a little.
The trampled roots and leaves were a nice comfort; Dad's training wasn't too special, but those times he made her breathe awkwardly and had mages give her thin oxygen to survive for hours while she ran had come to good bloody use. Other recs around her had started to huff and puff here and there. She felt a sense of pride in her chest. Marched on.
"RUCK MARCH!" Poole bellowed.
Another hour passed by with their speed at a ruck. Chimi felt the faint strain of hunger from all the energy she had expended. Real marching in the outdoors after combat was only a bit harder.
"Chimi," one of the veterans said from behind, "Has your platoon sergeant given you an opportunity or suggested that you have them change your armour yet?"
"No." she had hoped to avoid the topic.
Mutters came from the veteran unit until the man spoke again, "You must do it. You march with me now." He pulled up behind Dante, who muttered a curse when he was forced to march between the veterans and recruits.
"I am Gibson," he said.
"Where did you get that scar?"
He blinked in confusion, "You're not looking at my face."
"I can see it in my peripheral vision," she said.
"We'll come find you after the next battle." Gibson said, "That's a gift."
"What is?" she whispered.
"Nobody has that kind of wide vision, child," he had a small chuckle. "March on."
They marched hard for another twenty minutes before they were brought to a halt. In the distance, Chimi could hear sounds of battle. Hollow shrieks of Faes, men and explosions.
"Form up, Rookies play support, Veterans in the front!" Poole bellowed.
The soldiers formed up, she ended up toward the back, pushed by her fellows and veterans who gave her a side-eye of distrust. Gibson grabbed her arm.
He raised his spear, "Captain, Gibson here, I request a word!"
"Come, now!" he rode to the side where they could walk to him in a straight line. Despite her resistance, Gibson dragged her along with him.
"Is something wrong, Gibson?" The man's eyes narrowed.
"Yeah," he said, "She can see like a bloody owl without movin' her bleedin' head." he said, "We could use her on horseback tellin' us what she sees."
"She's a rook," Poole said.
"And she was taught by the man himself," he said, "At least let 'er razzle wi' me and my unit can make use of her."
Poole gave it a thought, then snapped his fingers, "What's your plan?"
"If she's got anythin to do with the prophecy, we'll be alright with the added luck," he gave a dastardly smile.
"Awfully quiet for someone being given a privilege, missy," Poole said.
"I'm honoured, sirs, but I do not know what is going on," Chimi said humbly. "If you wish to use me to win this skirmish, then I am happy to comply."
"Phalanx formation," Gibson said.
"Formation that uses long weapons and shields to push, cover or hold ground. By far the most successful in combination with mages against forces that originate from Reis."
Poole arched an eyebrow, "Ineffective against?"
"Banshees, Changlings and Crom Cruach. Banshees use anti-groups, Crom Cruach can reforge themselves, and Changelings simply flee."
"He taught you everything he knows?" Gibson asked.
"Yes. From Lines to Mixed orders."
Poole and Gibson nodded, then shook gauntleted hands. She realised only a few men wore gauntlets on their shield arms, and not many veterans either.
He gave her shoulder a squeeze, not affectionate, but the sibling kinship that would form between soldiers. "Come on, bird, let me tell you about my idea..."
They ascended the hill down to the small flats that led up to the towering tree of Shimmerrain, where three platoons were locked in combat with Reis that had newly formed. Black lands of cursed soil, blighted by fell fae forces, a tar that oozed like it had been bled out of the soil.
Arrows flew, spells shattered the constant sounds of man to fell creature combat to rip roles in Leshii trees. Lesniks, trees that carved spells into themselves to animate themselves, responded in kind with woodland spirit summons and corruption of local creation to attack back; they furthered the Reis malediction with every breath.
Vileroots pulsed behind them, masses of shadow that bundled atop one another to eventually forge the misanthropic evil that they fought to prevent. Chimi's first thought went back to Eleanor, as she was certain that woman had spells prepared-A woman with red hair on the far left side watched with her father. Their eyes met, and she was certain Eleanor had a smile at seeing her.
Chimi shifted in her boots as her heart thundered with anticipation. The empty eyes of the creatures that sought to consume all human life gave rise to a fear that took off in her chest like a locust. The knowledge that these things are more akin to mankind's curses and darker nature toward one another than a natural predator.
She'd have to confront her bad feelings in this field, they said what killed new soldiers is the reflection and what killed old soldiers was finally looking into their eyes. Emmerlaine's doctrine enforced the mirror, but sometimes that wasn't enough for people. She hoped it was enough for her. She swallowed her fear with the dregs of saliva in her dry mouth and took a modest gulp from her water pack.
"The glory," she whispered, "The glory."
"The glory," Gibson said with a fat grin across his bearded face.
The line of veterans at the front drew up and held round shields that were swapped with kite shields. Gibson and others, who included a few recs from her platoon, all being men, took up javelins bound to the three mages she didn't know in her platoon.
"HOLD." Poole raised an arm behind the battery of men.
She turned to observe the battlefield, the Reis itself probably extended for what looked like a mile, blobs of contorted nature festered slightly larger. She estimated they had an hour before the first Vileroot came to 'life,' before it did, they had to perform a full extermination. She looked to Eleanor again to find that she had gathered in a circle with other mages.
"RELEASE!" Poole shouted.
Javelins hurtled through the air down into the mass of Reis, Leshii and Lesniks. Now, taking note of them, the javelins struck, and small fires erupted in their number. Another crack of flame tore through the Reis ranks. They flailed and whipped roots that were too short to be noticed by most people as battlelines pushed the front line of Leshii back with methodical stabs and blocks. Arrows and spells hailed periodically between these cycles with their veterans and very best. Roots were chopped, salted axes thrown into the bark.
The Vileroot was seared with salt. Focused fire blasts from bindings seared withering wood. The corpses were dismantled methodically, front line stabbed, broadswords cut, and icing salt was dropped in. Trunks shrivelled, branches withered and snapped. Boots trampled on.
"Gibson squad!" Poole called.
This was it. She tugged her helmet down and filtered out behind Gibson and a few other veterans. Curses were muttered as she passed by veterans and boxies who were disgusted at her presence. She didn't attend training, but her father's reputation for ruthlessness when it came to newcomers was irrelevant to them.
All they saw was the girl who was supposed to be a boy by birth, rite, covenant and prophecy. And now, their lands were plunged into division and infection by Faes.
She clutched her spear and her shield. She was out today to prove she was worth something, that there was a reason for her to exist. She slid her arm into the shield brace and tugged her helmet down, eyes ahead. Though she couldn't help but see the icy looks in her peripheral vision as if she stared them dead in the face.
The troupe that was in Gibson's charge was composed of fifteen men and three women. She froze when they fixed her with hard stares but relented when Gibson welcomed her in.
"This is Chimi, she's the reason we're able to form up." he said.
"Commanderbaby's got privilege?"
"I wouldn't insult my father like that." She nearly regretted her retort, but Gibson spoke.
"And I've half a mind to tell him you said that, did you ever inquire as to why the mages' tower is made unavailable to us for a week each month?"
"No, why?" one of the women asked.
"Her dear father decided she needed to learn how to breathe in mountain oxygen and through deprivation and drown circumstances."
"Respect," one of the men said, "I'm Lloyd."
She nodded, "Chimi."
He jutted his head upwards.
The show of respect gave her some comfort.
"Blades of Emmerlaine!" Gibson shouted and raised his spear toward the heavens.
"Blades of Emmerlaine!" She copied the gesture with everyone else.