The ram kept hammering down – wham-wham-wham. Even through the ear protection, the thundering noise was uncomfortable to the present cadets, who were all standing next to the giant machine, easily two grown men in height, and watching the armorer at work. Cillian could feel the concrete floor tremble with each pound, despite a layer of timber blocks underneath the behemoth. The steam, periodically coming out of an outlet at the top with a hiss, wasn’t helping visibility either.

  Still, there was something fascinating about the heavy ram’s rhythmic dance up and down, the anvil’s utter refusal to budge no matter the onslaught, and the man’s peaceful demeanor in the face of it all – he kept calmly holding a red-hot slice of steel between the ferocious combatants and periodically pressing and letting go of the pedal, shaped like a metal frame snaking around the anvil, with his booted foot.

  They weren’t allowed to use the machine or, in fact, any heavy equipment, and wouldn’t be for some time. Right now they were being walked through the steps of making a backplate for an orgeshi – one of the typical companions.

  It was their second class. During the first, the man had demonstrated a hydraulic shear in action. It looked like a guillotine, but wide instead of tall and made for chopping metal plates rather than heads, and was powered by an aether motor.

  Overall, there was an interesting mix of technologies in the workshop and the academy in general – Cillian recalled the limelight projectors in several classrooms and a mechanical calculator (residing in the kitchens, of all places), which used cogwheels and a gear system to count whole numbers and required you to turn dials to enter input parameters.

  The instructor finished hammering down the edge to draw it out on one side of the piece, carried the abused yoke to the coal forge – strongly resembling a simple fireplace, only made from cast iron and raised above the deck about a meter – heated up the opposite edge until it grew fiery hot, and returned to the steam-powered monstrosity to continue the good, if graceless, work.

  Last time, he’d first split a big steel sheet in two with the hydraulic shear, cut out the precise shape using a combination of a manual shear and a cold chisel with a hammer – the students had practiced the techniques on various scraps after – then ground down the edges with an aether-powered belt sander, and now was tapering the said edges.

  Wham-wham-wham.

  Even though plenty of windows, not to mention the numerous fans and ventilation pipes, circulated the air constantly, it was still almost unbearably hot. The forge, the boiler, and the steam from the hammer all heating up the place saw to that. Their heavy aprons, gloves, and protective goggles and earmuffs also weren’t helping.

  Realistically, as instructor Pfenning himself had told them, it was unlikely they would need to perform any complex metalworking on their own during their careers – Foerstner’s armorers would handle everything – but it was still paramount, he’d insisted, they knew everything that went into creating a companion. Besides, it was unwise to leave dents in the armor for long if there was equipment available to hammer them out by yourself without waiting for an armorer, on account of something he’d called “companion imprinting”.

  It hadn’t been the first time Cillian heard the “i” word being thrown around, but, as ever, no explanation had followed.

  The man had only said that they would receive a proper lecture on the subject during their “Companion theory” classes, which wouldn’t even begin until the second half of the year. Additionally, he’d revealed that the armor’s primary purpose wasn’t actually for protection and left it at that.

  Cillian wasn’t the only one to have noticed that the academy was quite stringent in what information regarding companions they divulged to the students, even though all of them had been chosen and signed the contracts.

  Wham-wham-wham.

  Eventually, instructor Pfenning disengaged from the hammer, examined his work closely, then, satisfied, led them to one of the many metal tables with an anvil welded to it and some kind of bowl welded on top of the anvil in turn. He looked up at them and said, “Now I’m going to dish it. Because the edges are thinned out, a lot of it can be done cold; only the thick part needs heating up. I need an assistant to hold the piece.”

  Before the man even finished speaking, Cillian stepped forward. There weren’t many of his counterparts he had to contend with since the metalworking classes were staggered – only eight students took part at any given one. Of the relatively well-known faces only Teagan accompanied him.

  “Take those black jaw tongs, both of them,” instructor Pfenning told him, gesturing toward the nearby wall. A rake-load of tools were neatly arranged there – the aforementioned tongs of various shapes and sizes, a myriad of hammers, saws, chisels, dollies, and many more instruments Cillian didn’t even know the names of. He fished out the two pairs and returned.

  “Hold them wide and parallel to each other. We’ll start with the outer edges and slowly work our way in. Your task is to hold the piece steady and move it along. Also, on my command, you will release and resume gripping, understand? Parts of it I’ll do holding by myself, other parts we’ll do together. Questions?”

  “What are we aiming for?”

  “Our goal is to curve the piece so it’ll be easier to work with on a ball stake later, where the actual shaping will be done. Just pay close attention to what I’m doing and you’ll understand; there’s a pattern to it. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  At that, Cillian’s life turned into vibration and metal filings, flying everywhere, for several long minutes. Bang-bang-bang – the sound was quieter and more hollow somehow. He quickly realized that the man wasn’t even striking that hard; there was no need to tense up his shoulders so much. He could hold the piece with his arms alone and let them shudder on impact.

  He released the hold when ordered and watched the instructor position the plate over the flat part of the anvil, letting one side drop on it while supporting the other in the air, and keep striking again and again. They were going for a gentle C-shape, Cillian realized, and, once directed to grip again, he started to move the piece between the strikes with more confidence.

  Strike. Move to the left a wee. Another strike. Move left once more. Then hold in place. Bang-bang-bang.

  It was difficult to tell how long he’d been doing this, but after nudging the piece to the side and slightly forward one more time, another precise hit landed, and the man paused their work. “Alright, good job! Give someone else a turn.”

  Cillian yielded the place and the tongs to another boy, who received the honor of holding the steel plate vertically while instructor Pfenning operated another piece of machinery. He could guess its purpose by just looking at it – a freshly ignited oil lamp on a low shelf; a big, lemon-shaped canister above the flame on four legs; and an elastic pipe traveling from the side of the canister to point directly at the flame.

  A turn of the valve later, the apparatus whistled to life and a jet of steam blew the flame in a long thin line to the side.

  The armorer issued instructions, and the boy slowly moved the plate, tracing small but expanding circles, heating up the middle part. The task accomplished, the pair returned to the dishing table and proceeded to hammer the future backplate down yet again.

  Cillian usually liked such orderly, meticulous activities, but the heat and the noise made him wish for the class to conclude. Maybe the main purpose here was to make them appreciate the amount of effort that went into making armor, or, in other words, how much they owed the company.

  Bang-bang-bang.

  He sighed. It was going to be a long day.

  It wasn’t.

  An emergency pulled most of the instructors away. What kind of emergency? Aether only knew as nobody saw fit to apprise them of the details. It had to be something serious though, since it also affected their schedule the following day. The two morning classes turned out to be their only classes.

  The recreation room was brimming with relaxing students taking advantage of the unexpected break in the grueling routine that was their life in the academy. The end of the indigo surge had crept up without notice – they’d been enjoying the place’s hospitality for seven weeks and some change by this point. Seven weeks full of lectures, physical exercises, and occasional monster dates (”We meet them and get to know them and then never hear from them again, you dig?” was how Eamon had justified the name).

  “Raise,” the boy said and placed a small rock in the middle of the table.

  Cillian glanced at him. Ordinarily, it wasn’t difficult to tell when Eamon was bluffing, but this time he was making an effort to remain stoic. The expression looked wrong on his face.

  “I see your one and give you two.” Nuala added a couple of her own rocks to the pool. The girl, on the contrary, could bluff with the best of them. Cillian caught Eamon grimace, then it was his turn.

  “Call.” Two more pebbles into the pile.

  They were playing for real money, but nobody wanted to bet bracts, let alone scions, and nobody had brought any berries to the academy either. Not to mention that all of their money was currently locked up somewhere. So they had to improvise – a piece of paper to keep track and rocks collected from all over the grounds – each representing 10 berries – to give betting some much-needed tactile sensation.

  Patrick was playing with them – the fella Cillian had met on day one but hadn’t interacted with since – and he folded. Eamon though “called” and stayed in the game. They completed the round with two follow-up “checks”. After the starting bets, then a round when everyone had abstained, and now this one, the riches at stake equaled exactly 100 berries – one whole bract.

  Cathal, their dealer, set the top card aside, and, shortly, a figure wearing a royal mantle and carrying a scepter with a heart-shaped finial reinforced the line on the table. The card’s dominant color was more burgundy than pure red, and the heart sported barely perceptible veins as if it were a leaf and not just a simple geometric shape. Suspicious.

  Eamon grimaced again and “checked”; Cillian inwardly laughed. The boy was too easy.

  Nuala raised by one; he raised by two. Eamon folded; Nuala “called”.

  The final colorful illustration didn’t improve Cillian’s odds – he’d hoped for a “full house” but had to settle for a “two pair”. Also, he didn’t like the satisfied smile on the face of his one remaining opponent. Discerning if she was bluffing or genuinely happy at a good hand was beyond him.

  Nuala turned the mound into a mesa by adding two more rocks. Cillian felt in his bones he was making a mistake but “called” anyway. The mesa crumbled.

  He should’ve listened to his intuition.

  Quad. The cailin had a niss-damned four of a kind.

  “Thank you for your generous donation, Mr. Shea,” Nuala laughed.

  Cillian shook his head self-deprecatingly. “I don’t think I’ve had a single quad my entire life.”

  “This just means you fold too early.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’ll deal this time,” Eamon said sourly. “Can’t afford to lose me any more.”

  They played again. During the game, Nuala nudged Eamon to share his impressions about his second metalworking class – all four of their group had finally had it. A good move, Cillian mused, seeing the boy perk up.

  The other day, Eamon had raved about the principle behind hydraulic systems – something that Cillian hadn’t been taught back in school. Apparently, if you had a U-shaped tube with a narrow piston plugging it on one side and a wider piston, say, twice the area – on the other, then whatever pressure you applied to the narrow piston would be transferred undiminished through the fluid and push on the wider one from below at all points equally, therefore multiplying the exerted force by two.

  And they said humans couldn’t do magic.

  This time, the boy began gushing about the steam hammer.

  “It ain’t the latest model but still a double-acting one. Get this: in a single-acting hammer, the ram is raised by the pressure of the steam injected into the lower part of the cylinder, and it drops when the pressure is released, so the force of the blow is limited by the weight of the yoke. In this one though, the steam alternates between raising the ram and pushing it down, enhancing the blow.”

  They all made appreciative little noises like it was the most interesting thing they’d heard all day.

  “So it’s like,” Cathal pointed up vaguely, “state of the art?”

  “Nah,” Eamon snorted, “not even close. There are double-frame hammers that look like an arch instead of a half. But, more importantly, me oul fella has a compressed air power hammer at work; they are much better than the steam ones. Safer, too.”

  “It seems like the academy doesn’t bother replacing the tech with newer one if it still does the job,” Cillian noted.

  “They really should replace the blowtorch though,” Eamon said. “Portable models are not that new. The one here looks like someone made it from scrap.”

  “Wait, were you there when Emer burned her hand?” Patrick asked, tearing his gaze away from the cards on the table.

  “Burned her hand? With the blowtorch?” Eamon shook his head. “Nah, it must’ve been a different group.”

  “Aye, she had to go to the infirmary. I don’t think it was too bad, but with the constant archery and gym classes, it could be a real blow.”

  And didn’t Cillian know it. Thankfully, he hadn’t suffered any new injuries despite the instructors’ sadistic enthusiasm in throwing them around – his and Nuala’s fitness levels had been proclaimed satisfactory a week before and since then they’d been learning the basics of unarmed combat.

  “Did she take off her gloves?” “Who’s Emer?” Cathal and Cillian asked at the same time.

  “I don’t know,” Patrick replied. “I’ve shared all I heard. And Emer is a fiery redhead.”

  Cillian tried to recall the girl but couldn’t, and it must’ve shown on his face. Nuala enlightened him, “She was in our group during the initial tour, asked a lot of questions.” When it didn’t help, she rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Cillian, it’s been eight weeks, and you still don’t know the names of our classmates.”

  “Seven weeks. And I know plenty.”

  “Is that so? Yesterday, you spent an entire minute describing the guy who had to leave the workshop because he felt ill, instead of simply saying it was Riordan. You remember my name, don’t you?” she teased.

  “I don’t have problems with my memory, Niamh, I’d simply never heard about Riordan before.”

  Nuala smiled, then, fluttering her eyelashes innocently at him, said nonchalantly, “I understand. And now that I think about it, it’s not surprising you don’t know many others since you’ve been spending so much time in the company of a certain brunette recently.”

  “Cathal’s blond.”

  “Don’t play dumb.” Her smile turned predatory. “You think we haven’t noticed you and Sorcha being awfully friendly toward each other?”

  “Don’t worry, Nora, you’re still number one in my heart.”

  Eamon snorted, “He ain’t going to tell you nothing. I’ve tried.”

  Cillian sighed, “You’re seeing things that don’t exist. It’s your fault anyway – that we often join their group.”

  “And you, of course, hate it,” Nuala nodded sagely.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Eamon coughed loudly, tapped Cillian’s knee, and indicated for him to look up at the door, “Speaking of the niss…”

  Sorcha was there, casting about. After spotting the sitting group, she headed for their little alcove.

  Everyone at the table went quiet and watched her purposeful stride. Once close, the girl glanced over their faces, arched an eyebrow, and asked, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Nothing,” Nuala grinned. “Just discussing Cillian’s tendency to ignore things around him when his attention is preoccupied with… something else.”

  “Don’t you have an assignment?” Cillian cut in, not ruffled in the slightest.

  “We do, but Aoife’s bullied us into accepting a last-minute change of plans–”

  “She doesn’t bully people.”

  “–which is pretty infuriating, but is of no great surprise to me. She discovered that not a single first or second-ringer was selected for this assignment and foolishly decided to take it upon herself – take it upon ourselves – to rectify the situation. And then, adding to the insult, she sent me on an errand to collect some repellent low-ringer to join our team.”

  Cillian blinked. “Err, what are you saying, exactly?”

  She sighed. “I’m saying that we’ve booted out one of our former schoolfellows to make room for someone else.”

  The girl was looking at him while saying that, but he still felt the need to clarify, “Me?”

  “No, I’m talking about that boy over there,” she pointed at the opposite corner of the room without looking.

  Cillian glanced that way but instead caught sight of Nuala giving him mirthful eyes. Stupid cailin. He turned back. “Sure. When do we leave?”

  “You have 30 minutes. Swing by the arsenal first – they allow us to take bows – then meet us outside.”

  “Huh? But that’s great!” He jumped to his feet, now very eager all of a sudden, and waved his friends goodbye, “See you guys later.”

  He was already three steps away when Eamon caught up to his abrupt departure, “Hey, we ain’t finished the game, Kil!”

  Shit. Cillian looked down at the cards that were still in his hands. He whirled back, leaped to the table, and dropped them. “I fold.”

  “Someone’s eager,” Nuala commented.

  “Bye-bye.”

  While he was hastily walking away again, Cillian heard his friends laughing but didn’t pay it any mind.

  Take a bow? After just four weeks of training? That was out of the murk.

  He smiled in anticipation. Can’t frackin’ wait.

  The man in the arsenal was very stern. He informed Cillian that a record had been made of the state of the bow and the number of arrows issued and also gave several warnings about treating the situation seriously and only using the bow if given permission.

  It didn’t dampen Cillian’s excitement one bit, and, after quickly dropping by his room to don the now well-familiar pine-green gambeson and grab the compass and the goggles, he was striding toward the side gate, where the others were already gathered, carrying a black canvas bag, its elongated and slightly curving shape at the ends betraying the contents.

  “Cillian!” Aoife beckoned him over. He approached and greeted the people in their little group – the four usual faces and… Desmond, was it? One of the fellow second-ringers. Good for him.

  “Did you decide to take a nap on the way?” Sorcha asked. “You’re almost late.”

  “Came as fast as I could. Had to listen to a lecture on ‘proper conduct’,“ Cillian waved her away. ”Anyway, we’re recharging the relays, aye?”

  “Only a couple,” Aoife said. “There’s a good number of them, hence so many winners. Even still, I don’t think it would be enough.”

  Teagan shook his head, “They probably don’t all run out at the same time, likely even deliberately staggered.”

  “Do we know how far we’re going?” Cillian asked, looking at Aoife. The assignment was meant for three people, so he assumed he would be together with her and Sorcha.

  “Not yet, but we’re about to find out,” she nodded at instructor Haertel.

  The woman climbed atop a crate, whistled, and addressed them, “Your task is to replace the spent tanks and bring them back to the academy. Protection will be handled by the escorts and the onsite security. Do not use your bows unless explicitly permitted, understand? We allow you to bring them for a different reason. Believe me, we don’t require help from newbies to kill beasts. Any questions?”

  “Why do you even need us then?” someone asked.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  “We don’t. But it’s a learning opportunity for you, so we bring you along. Anything else?”

  “What about the emergency? Has it been handled?” the question came from Maeve, a girl from Shauna’s team.

  “It’s ongoing and unrelated. Any relevant questions?” No more came. “Get moving then. Follow your keepers.”

  Instructor Schwenke turned out to be theirs. It was the second time meeting the man in the last few hours, since they’d suffere– sat through his “Aether” class earlier. He led Cillian, Sorcha, and Aoife into the vehicle hangar. A row of identical ten-wheeled trucks featuring two pairs of double wheels at the back – the same model that had greeted them on the initial arrival to the settlement – awaited their riders.

  They climbed into the cargo bed of their choosing, already loaded with eight haggard-looking cylindrical tanks, tightly strapped to the floor, and made themselves as comfortable as was feasible.

  Not at all, in other words.

  Death machines, Cillian thought, pulling a face. Not because of the machine gun rising above the passenger side on some kind of ring-shaped mounting apparatus, but because of the so-called seats. Bags filled with soil? His arse soon concurred with the visual assessment. At least, there was a makeshift handle – a taut rope winded around the perimeter.

  “I see we move up in the world,” he told the girls once everyone dropped down. “Last time they carried us in tombs.”

  Instructor Schwenke heard him and said, “The paths to the lighthouses and the areas around them are potentially much more dangerous. The relays are manned around the clock – beasts come, beasts die – so the road should be relatively clear.”

  “All of them are manned all the time?” Aoife asked.

  The man shook his head, “No. But enough so the crews could quickly respond to hostilities in the neighboring ones.”

  They took off – first drove Rimwise parallel to the wall and the trees, then until the looming trunks gave way to the open air, turned left, and spat exhaust at the settlement in farewell. A long line of trucks stretched ahead, and a few smaller, boxy-looking vehicles with big wheels and no roof rode parallel to the column on both sides.

  This was quite an expedition.

  One hand gripping the rope, another – on top of the bag in his lap, hopping up and down and shaking side to side, there wasn’t an opportunity for any long, coherent discussion, so Cillian busied himself with eyeing the surroundings. Still in range of the skywalker, the visibility was good, but the view wasn’t offering them anything spectacular.

  A dirt road, coughing up dust in their passing. Sweeping fields of tall bracken, some patches deep green, absorbing most of the light, others – dull yellow, shining merrily. A forest – the same one they’d competed in – and another – further away on the opposite side. Curiously, no cables in sight. Cillian knew there had to be some. Were they buried? The massive water pipe keeping apace with the road was unmissable though.

  With the wind in his face, he had to shout to be heard, “Are the cables underground?”

  Aoife answered, “Here – yes! But it largely depends on the area.”

  “Is it because of the birds? Do they nibble on the cables or something? I haven’t seen many here!”

  “No! It’s because of the mountains and the large open grasslands. The wind is–” They bounced, “–the wind could be quite merciless! And the cables are well insulated!”

  “Leakages still happen, Ms. Lafrentz,” instructor Schwenke informed her, half shouting himself. He was sitting with his back to the cabin, his flat cap somehow remaining in place. “In the air or underground, insulated or not, there’s no stopping beasts from chewing on the cables once in a while. As for the birds–” a particularly large bump interrupted him; they all jumped again. “Later!”

  Sorcha was sitting peacefully with her eyes closed. Surely, she couldn’t be sleeping.

  They soon rode past the first relay; no one stopped for it. Contrary to Cillian’s expectations, it wasn’t tall, but, beyond that, the details were hard to distinguish – the structure stood some ways off the road.

  Absent anything else to occupy his noggin, he thought of what was expected of them. Agitated aether. They were carrying agitated aether. After the most recent series of lectures, he’d finally understood how something they’d been told was non-physical could be contained and used as fuel. Father had actually explained it to him before, Cillian recalled, but back in those days, right after the incident, when he’d accompanied his oul fella to work for two weeks straight, he hadn’t been in the best of mental states. Neither of them had been.

  Ahem. Anyway.

  Elusive aether – aethereal – was non-physical and ever-present. However, once drawn into an elanroot – or a magical plant’s root – while most of it transformed into the tainted state, a portion of it spilled. Like a parched man gulping too much water at once and, consequently, hacking some of it back out. Unlike the water though, the spilled aether – which materialized in what was believed to be an intermediate state between the elusive and tainted – didn’t go to waste. It escaped the elanroot semi-physical and vibrant – agitated – bouncing off other agitated and elusive aether particles and bleeding out its energy, which inevitably led to a breakdown into the elusive state once again.

  Those were the words of the man sitting with them right now. He’d emphasized that a lot of it wasn’t proven, but the model worked in practice, which made it good enough for Foerstner Group.

  And good enough to change the world.

  A blaring of a horn unceremoniously shuttered Cillian’s ruminations: three blasts – short, long, short. He perked up. What was that?

  Straight away, a couple of boxy vehicles riding to the side of the column – Cillian decided to call them “knuckles” – veered to the left and started putting distance between themselves and the trucks, their hopping headlights confronting the murk. He jumped to the opposite wall to get a better look, lightly smacking Sorcha with his bag in the process. She grumbled.

  200 meters away from the main body, the knuckles resumed driving parallel to the convoy, the lead vehicle accelerating, separating. Two more knuckles headed that way, but, halfway between the trucks and the runaways, they, too, thought better of it and turned right, now “tailing” the first pair.

  “This is the danger of having so many aether-powered vehicles in one place. A routine occurrence, nothing to worry about,” instructor Schwenke commented out loud before finishing almost to himself, “So close to the settlement though… someone’s been slacking off.”

  Unhinged cackling was their first clue as to the nature of the threat.

  Cillian eyed his bag uneasily but made no move to retrieve the bow. Both girls were now watching intently as well.

  All four outriders ignited their mounted floodlights, bathing the strip in warmth, and he spotted them immediately. To be fair, at that distance he could only see shapes, but the characteristic shrieks mixed with crazed laughter let him know exactly who it was.

  Nargacugas. Red-and-black hyena-like creatures. Notoriously long-lived, therefore, potentially very powerful, but they weren’t much of a danger when young, and Cillian doubted there were any old specimens skulking around. But they could still rip you apart and laugh at your suffering if you were complacent. At least, the sounds they made ensured you would recognize them anywhere, darkness or not.

  Cursing, Cillian remembered the goggles that were literally on top of his head, pulled them down, and adjusted the magnification just in time to see the beasts galloping at the knuckles, only a handful. But then the lead transport stole his attention again as it suddenly wheeled left and rushed at the nargacugas almost headlong, only a smidge to the side. The creatures ignored it, kept running forward, not a one changing course. What the hell?! They appeared determined to attack the vehicle pair that was further away from them. Why? The rest of the detached motorwagens hit the brakes and briefly vanished behind the raised haze, but the convoy kept moving, albeit slowly.

  The vanguard opened fire.

  Cillian instinctively ducked at the rattling staccato but kept his eyes above the wall. Not to be outdone, the vanguard’s partner joined at once, the pounding on his ears doubling in intensity, and he saw the beasts die to the crisscrossing fire, their hysterical laughter, if anything, growing louder. One was hit at the flank so hard it careened sideways. Another – got its legs shot under it and crashed to the ground head first, flipping over and over. More bullets hit the body; red blood gushed out as if lava. He watched enraptured, wishing the truck would stop leaving the scene.

  The fire ceased after mere seconds, and, showing no hesitation, both knuckles turned and fled, now racing to reunite with the convoy.

  Only three beasts remained. One was on its last legs, limping forward, but the other two looked completely unharmed, clearly not even thinking of stopping, uncaring of the fallen siblings. Through the onslaught, they’d kept running at the rearguard, who were still not engaging – the collision felt imminent! Then, something changed. The beasts slammed on their own metaphorical brakes. Only 50 meters away from their prey, both of them pivoted and, all of a sudden, attempted to take off in another direction – after the retreating motorwagens – and that’s what the rear gunners had been waiting for. The killing resumed – muzzle flashes and shrieks, audible even through the merciless cracking, announced the remaining creatures’ demise.

  When the dust settled, there were no more laughs. Only the knuckles converging to finish the job, and the horn – letting everyone know the danger had passed.

  “Resume your places,” instructor Schwenke said calmly. “Fun’s over.”

  Once they did, the man eyed them and asked, “Do you understand what’s just happened? Ms. Vogt?”

  Sorcha answered, contemplative, “They must have some potent burning devices, to manipulate the beasts. They turn them on and off.”

  “Correct. And what are the drawbacks, Mr. Shea?”

  Cillian’s goggles returned to the higher and hairier ground. “Attracting beasts from all over and not just those you want to?” He nodded to himself, gaining confidence. “Motorwagens burn aether too, so to redirect the monsters’ attention, you’d need to use a very potent root, which means a large fallout radius.”

  Instructor Schwenke agreed, “True. Anything else? Ms. Lafrentz?”

  “It’s unreliable. Not all beasts rush at the source of the burning. Yes, it irritates them – or, perhaps, ‘irritates’ is not a strong enough word – but many run away or become cautious or do something else entirely. Anything but what you want them to do.”

  “Indeed. It generally works well with young and dumb beasts, which is often the same.”

  “What elanroots do these trucks use?” Cillian asked, only just noticing that at some point their own gunner had taken position inside the ring and was now climbing down.

  “A combination of several, actually. You’ll learn about it later in my class.”

  The trip continued. From there, it proved uneventful. After the convoy crossed the bridge spanning the only river in the area worthy of the designation, more and more trucks began peeling away – to head to their assigned targets. Cillian and his partners had to await their turn until only three teams remained, the outriders’ numbers dwindling as well. When their personal death machine finally deflected off the well-trodden path and began closing in on the relay, the headlights gave him a first good look at the structure.

  It was a plain, concrete building, one floor and a flat roof housing a multiple-barrel rotary gun emplacement. More notably, two rings of wide trenches surrounded the building, which, together with the narrow windows currently locked behind metal shutters, gave an impression of a casemate or an entrance to a bunker.

  Two people were waiting for them, and they’d rolled out a carpet – wooden platforms bridging the trenches. Nice of them.

  Instructor Schwenke jumped out, approached the man in charge, and shook his hand, “Sean, was it? Situation?”

  “Greetings, sir. All quiet, no problems since Monday.”

  “Not even sightings? That’s unfortunate.” Their chaperone addressed the loitering trio. “Unload four tanks. And be careful with them.”

  No one moved to provide assistance. Cillian and the girls exchanged glances.

  “I guess we should estimate the weight. If it’s fine, then you can roll them to the edge and I’ll pick them up.”

  “Big strong man, are you?” Sorcha teased.

  “You can take the heavy duty, be my guest.”

  “No, I’m fine with the arrangement. You should work to justify the afforded privilege.”

  They climbed in again and Cillian tried to lift a tank. Doable, no more than 30 kilograms. He felt a liquid sloshing inside. Huh. Wasn’t it supposed to be gaseous?

  “You don’t need to help me,” Sorcha told Aoife. “Go give Cillian a hand so he doesn’t drop it.”

  One by one, they unloaded the tanks into the cart that someone had helpfully wheeled near the truck.

  “I’ve got it; you go hold the platforms, just in case,” Cillian said.

  When he at last pushed his way through the low entrance into the building, he discovered that it was indeed a bunker, stretching two floors below the ground. He also saw more machine guns on heavy weapon mounts overlooking the windows. More importantly at the moment though, there was a simple pulley lift system; they didn’t have to carry the load downstairs. Instructor Schwenke shadowed them but offered no comments, other than revealing that their destination lay at the bottom.

  The said destination turned out to be a very basic room, like everything else about the building. Its single prominent feature stood at the center – a big steel cube with a smaller reddish-brown pyramid on top. A rake-load of flexible pipes ran all over the quare contraption. The cube’s walls weren’t solid; Cillian could see the tanks secreted within through the intricately carved patterns. Separately, each shape meant nothing, but, together, they formed a shamrock.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but instructor Schwenke nipped his question in the bud, “Don’t. You wouldn’t yet understand the mechanism behind it, and I’m not interested in rushing your education.”

  That wasn’t what he’d been planning to ask, but whatever.

  “All four panels are easily removable. First, tighten the knob at the top of the spent tank, see? Counterclockwise. Then unscrew the regulator, disconnect the pipe, remove the tank, put a fresh one in place, tighten the regulator again, and open the knob. Simple.”

  It was simple, and, while they worked, Cillian contemplated. How did relays function? He knew they received and resent binary-encoded messages and used powerful elanroots to do it. He also knew that, while inside Lua more and more cables appeared overhead each year, communication between settlements was still a rarity. Relays required constant protection and resupply, and, judging by their journey here, had to be placed every couple of kilometers. But he had no idea about their internal workings.

  What had been his train of thought before the attack? Right. Agitated aether. A semi-physical substance that interacted with some materials, proven by the very fact he was holding a container full of the stuff right now. The set of “magical insulators” included all non-magical trees – the ones with normal roots – and several metals. The fascinating part was that bones, skin, hair, blood – basically everything – from non-magical creatures, including humans, also counted among the number.

  It was like some parts of the world really didn’t like magic, which many considered to be another point in favor of the “we are not from here” group of origin theories.

  Supposing the pyramid housed an elanroot, then what? How did it help transmit a message almost instantly over a long distance? Agitated aether was the key, that much was obvious. They’d learned to capture it, learned how to prevent it from returning to the elusive state, learned to use it. The obvious thing to do when you had an elanroot and a tank full of aether was to feed the latter to the former, but elanroots drew elusive aether in, not agitated. And even if you could do it, what would it accomplish exactly?

  Cillian shook his head to clear it. Instructor Schwenke was right. He didn’t have enough knowledge yet.

  They finished the job, collected the not-so-empty tanks – they didn’t seem to weigh any less than the fresh ones – returned outside, and loaded them into the truck. Their chaperone pronounced they could take a breather and explore while he talked to the personnel. Cillian looked around skeptically – a whole lot of nothing saluted him. Except for the Everstorm, shining bright far to the Heaven.

  He realized it was the clearest he’d seen the phenomena so far. The Everstorm was such a constant in his life, in everyone’s lives, that he rarely paid it much mind. Usually though, its visibility was either obstructed by buildings or trees or diluted by light from all over. Or both. But here and now, nothing was hiding it, and, for some reason, the sight made Cillian think of home.

  “You alright, Cillian?” Aoife asked from his right. “You seem down. Not happy with the assignment?”

  “M? Oh no, just thinking of father.” After briefly glancing at her, he felt compelled to elaborate, “It’s… fascinating to me that, even as far as he is right now, we both can see the Everstorm. I don’t know… probably doesn’t make a lick of sense, but it’s like,” he gestured around vaguely, “usually, when two people can see the same object at the same time, it means they’re relatively close to each other. You both see a tower? Just make the right turns and you’ll meet soon enough. So I’m just thinking that, in a way, even when I’ll be away doing aether-knows-what aether-knows-where as a chevalier, when I look up, I’d be able to see the Everstorm and know that my oul man and home are not that far off.” He stole another peek at the blonde. “Sounds quare, I know.”

  Aoife hummed, “Never thought about it like that, but I understand what you’re saying.” She searched his face and seemed to hesitate before asking, “And… what about your mother?”

  He looked away. “Dead. Acromantulae attack a few years back.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry about that.” It was such an empty platitude, but he thought she meant it. “So much protection and it still fails.”

  “Aye.” Cillian cleared his throat and scrambled to change the subject, “By the way, I’ve never thanked you for inviting me, so – thank you.”

  “Sorcha invited you.”

  “I know, and I should thank her too, but it was your idea to invite some poor low-ringers to share the booty, so to speak.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ve never liked the system.”

  “Where’s the grump anyway?”

  “Very funny.” Sorcha popped up on Aoife’s right.

  “Aether, woman!” Cillian barely refrained from shouting. “How are you–? Are you walking under a ‘dome of silence’?”

  She gave him scathing eyes, “Have you just compared me to an acromantula?”

  “I had a blackmera in mind, actually. They got sharp tongues, you know.”

  “This is what I get for inviting an idiot along,” she sighed. ”Haven’t you been planning on thanking me, not insulting?”

  “Right, sorry. Thank you, Ms. Vogt, for allowing this lowly barbarian to partake in such a glorious venture. However, I must point out that without me you’d have to carry the tanks by yourself.”

  “No. Without you, Lorcan would have carried the tanks. To be fair, he is an idiot, too. So now I’m thinking it would’ve been better to invite Nuala and share the burden between us.”

  Cillian smiled. He didn’t know why he enjoyed needling her so much. It was a new feeling. “You have cables for arms. Aoife and Nuala would’ve been forced to do all the work.”

  “I’m stronger than Aoife.”

  He looked them over; their arms were hidden below the unflattering gambesons. “There’s no way. Can’t see it now, but I know from the gym and archery classes she actually has meat on her arms. You – don’t.”

  “Spend a lot of time watching us, do you?”

  He shrugged, “Kind of. You two, Oscar, and another guy – Oisin, I think? – are the best shooters. I’m trying to figure out what you do differently. Instructor Gehler says I have good form, but my shots with a heavier bow are inconsistent.”

  “Oscar has likely been training for years. As for me, I’m just more talented than you, there’s no mystery.”

  “Could be. And Aoife?”

  Sorcha made a face. “Ugh, that girl,” she said as if Aoife wasn’t there, “is good at everything. It’s disgusting.”

  Aoife patted her friend on the head, “Shh, everything will be alright, little one.”

  Sorcha gave Cillian a long-suffering look as if to say, “See what I have to put up with every day?”

  “Everything, really?”

  “She’s exaggerating,” Aoife replied. “Greatly.”

  “She sings and plays three musical instruments.”

  “Huh. Aren’t there creatures you could lure to sleep with music?”

  “Yes. I keep telling her she can become the first chevalier-bard and should embrace the theme, not shy away from it.”

  Aoife sighed, “Mother insisted I learn to play music. I… I don’t hate it but don’t really love it either.”

  “Carrying an instrument with you seems impractical anyway.”

  “That’s what the companion’s for; she could just use it as a pack mule.”

  Instructor Schwenke chose this moment to interrupt their conversation, “Break’s over; we should go.”

  With no goodbyes and little ceremony, they all piled into the truck and set off on their way.

  The trip to the next target didn’t take long – not the neighbor, but the neighbor’s neighbor. The structure looked identical, other than the windows, which were open, and a man on the roof. Expecting trouble?

  “Problem?” instructor Schwenke dismounted and asked the lead man among the welcoming party. “You are…?”

  “Braden Conran, sir. Nothing serious, just nargacugas acting up.”

  “Hmm… we’ve been attacked by a small pack of them close to the settlement, too. Interesting.”

  Cillian and the girls were already unloading the cargo. The mood was tense, not overwhelmingly so, but they still hastened to repeat their actions from earlier – go down, replace the tanks, come back up. When they were about to exit the building, two men entered and took positions at the guns along the far wall. Instructor Schwenke exchanged some words with them, then addressed his charges, “Wait here, and don’t come out until I call you.” He went outside; the heavy door cut them off from the rest of the world with a slam that brooked no arguments.

  “You’d want to cover your ears, youngsters, and give us space,” one fella, himself looking scarcely 25, told them cheerfully.

  Sorcha scoffed, “You’re barely older than us.”

  “It’s the experience that matters, sugar,” he winked at her. She rewarded him with such a loathsome face Cillian felt the urge to apologize on behalf of men. They still followed his advice, and not too soon, as gunshots erupted prompting them to hunker down. Not from the gunners inside or the one on the roof but somewhere further away. He couldn’t see anything from his place behind the guards but thought he heard cackles. It might’ve been his imagination.

  The assault ended quickly – one lengthy barrage followed by two brief bursts.

  Silence.

  Even still, it took five more minutes of sitting on their haunches for instructor Schwenke to collect them.

  “Come,” he said and gestured outside, “I’ve got a surprise for you. Get the bows and rejoin me. We don’t have much time.”

  Curious, the trio went to comply, and on the way to the trucks Cillian heard wheezing laughter intermingled with hacking and gurgling. It was a terrible sound but a weak one. Dying. No source was in sight.

  They fetched the bows and moved to link with the chevalier, who in the meantime had gone further off and was now being illuminated by the roof’s spotlight like an actor on stage. 60 meters away from the relay, four twitching bodies, accompanied by two unmoving ones, lay. As he neared, Cillian winced at the raw sounds and the sickeningly sweet metallic aroma.

  “Step no closer,” instructor Schwenke commanded, then nodded at the truck and their escorting knuckle, “You can thank the good men over there for providing you with this opportunity. Precision shooting.” Cillian copped on to what was coming. “Finish them.”

  Right. Should’ve guessed earlier.

  It wasn’t about improving their archery skills or accustoming them to danger. It was about taking a life.

  But what if we haven’t met any beasts?

  “Ms. Lafrentz, you go first.”

  Aoife’s expression was troubled. “Umm… these are young ones. Wouldn’t they succumb on their own very soon?” The quivering creatures were indeed the size of an ordinary dog. It was a trick of his mind, Cillian knew, but now that he’d seen the trembling bodies covered in blood, he perceived their cries as pitiful rather than terrible.

  “Ms. Lafrentz–” the man began, but Aoife made a ‘halt’ sign, bit the inside of her cheek – Cute – and said, “Sorry. It’s foolish, I know.” She then bounced on her toes twice, took a deep breath, nocked an arrow, raised the bow, and released – all in five seconds.

  With a quare gnashing sound comparable to grinding one’s teeth very hard, the arrow buried itself right below the nargacuga’s left eye. It slumped, and the wheezes and jeers of the remaining beasts briefly intensified as though they could feel their fallen comrade’s final agony.

  “Good shot. Mr. Shea?”

  Cillian glanced at Aoife, who stood frozen, her bow arm still raised. “Are you–?” The girl closed her eyes, slowly let the air vent, and snapped out of it.

  Satisfied she was okay, he turned his attention to the remaining creatures. Nothing personal, fellas. With this thought, he drew the bow and took aim – only to promptly discover that was a lie.

  A sudden surge of ugly joy shot up his body and made him shiver.

  What in the aether?!

  He narrowly avoided gasping and wavered, not liking the rush one bit. But the training, brief as it’d been, came to the rescue – he twitched his right pinky toe and let the string go. His aim wasn’t great – the arrow missed the head and instead pierced the neck of his chosen prey. The ensuing gurgling didn’t help his rising confusion.

  Cillian lowered his arms and stood dazed, only vaguely aware of Sorcha calmly taking her shot. His pounding heart and rapidly pulsating lungs were attempting to break out of their bony confinements.

  Did I frackin’ revel in it? The boy puzzled over his inner state. It was more than a little concerning. He hadn’t experienced anything remotely similar back at the lighthouse or when Mairead Gehler set the blackmera on fire right in front of his face. What was different this time?

  The answer was obvious.

  Me. I am the one doing the killing – that’s what.

  Cillian had thought that he’d made peace with his mother’s death – beasts come, they kill and destroy (because that’s what they do), and blaming them was akin to blaming a groundquake. Frankly, for a long time he’d been angrier at the city guards and Foerstner rather than at the monstrous spiders.

  But apparently not.

  He rubbed his suddenly clammy forehead in a vain attempt to entice the clarity to come back. Deriving some sort of sick pleasure from a baby nargacuga’s death because acromantula had taken a parent from him years prior made as much sense as stomping on the ground in raging delirium because its tremors had dared to lay waste to your house. Stupid and served no purpose.

  I should treat it like cleaning. Unpleasant but satisfying once the job’s done. Nothing more.

  Something to keep an eye on in the future.

  He returned to the present right when the last of the survivors went quiet – instructor Schwenke had attended to it.

  “Good job, everyone.” He waved at the gunner from their truck, who was idling nearby, a great hammer in his hands. “Faolán, if you’d do the honors…”

  The man came closer. Cillian braced himself.

  Wham-wham-wham-wham. Where the armorer struck with precision and finesse, this was simple brute force.

  “Get used to it, cadets. It’s your life now.”

  The splattering gore punctuated the statement.

  Pronunciation: