The Invasion of the Tearling

“They’re coming again,” Bermond muttered. “Put your helmet on. See if you can push them down toward the muddy part of the bank. Their footwork isn’t nearly as fearsome as their steel, and they’ll have trouble on soft ground.”


Hall signaled to the men behind him to get ready. A detachment of Mort had emerged from the camp, spreading out along the north bank of the Caddell. Time and time again they had pushed the Tear back with flanking maneuvers, an easy business with overwhelmingly superior numbers. This would be no different. Hall spared a final glance for the refugee camp behind him, the antlike frenzy of the final stages of the evacuation.

One more day, he thought, then drew his sword and led his men down the knoll toward the river. Bermond remained on the hilltop; his limp didn’t allow him to engage in close combat anymore. Hall’s men caught him up as he ran, surrounding him on both sides, Blaser right beside him. Blaser had taken a nasty wound to the collarbone on the shores of the Crithe, but the medics had stitched it up, and now Blaser was bellowing as they reached the bottom of the hill and ran into the Mort line. Hall felt the impact of an iron sword against his, all the way down his arm, but the pain was muted, as it always was in dreams. He regarded the assailant across from him, slightly bewildered, wondering for a moment what they were actually fighting about. But muscle memory was a powerful thing; Hall heaved the soldier away and sliced downward, finding the join between wrist and glove. The man shrieked as his hand was nearly severed.

“Hawks! Hawks!”

The shout had gone up behind Hall, on the knoll. He looked up and found at least ten hawks speeding over his head. Not sentries, these; they cruised the sky, spread equidistant, flying westward in silent formation. Specially trained, but for what?

There was no time to ponder it. Another Mort soldier came at him, this one left-handed, and Hall forgot about the hawks as he fought the man off. His helmet fell backward again, off his head, and Hall cursed as he threw it to the ground. Fighting without a helmet was a good way to die, but even death seemed like an acceptable outcome at this point. At least there would be sleep waiting there. Hall jabbed at the Mort, felt his sword clang harmlessly off the man’s iron breastplate. The damned Mort armor! A scream came from behind him, but Hall could not turn around, not even when warmth soaked the back of his neck.

Someone launched into the Mort from the side, knocking him to the ground. Blaser, grappling with the soldier for a moment before clubbing him across the face. When the man lay still, Blaser got up and grabbed Hall’s arm, pulling him back toward the Tear line.

“What is it? A retreat?”

“Come, sir! The general!”

They pushed their way back through, knocking aside several Mort along the way. Hall moved along in a dream. Everything seemed muted somehow: the sunlight, the sounds of battle, the stench, even the screams of the dying. But the waters of the Caddell were clear and sharp, a bright and sparkling red.

Atop the knoll ahead, a group of soldiers were clustered, their faces grave. Something about this tableau shook Hall awake for the first time in days, and he began to run, Blaser at his side, heedless of the battle at the bottom of the hill.

Bermond lay facedown in a heap. No one had dared touch him, so Hall squatted down and rolled him over. A collective groan went up from the assembled men; Bermond’s throat had been torn out, leaving only shreds of flesh that dangled on either side of his neck. His chest had been protected by his armor, but all four of his limbs had been shredded to pieces. His left arm was barely attached at the shoulder. His eyes gazed blankly at the sky from a face wet with blood.

A few feet away, in the grass, Hall spotted Bermond’s helmet with its ridiculous blue plume. A silly affectation, that helmet, but Bermond had loved it, loved riding the Tearling with the plume waving jauntily in the breeze. A general for peace, not wartime, and Hall felt his throat tighten as he closed Bermond’s eyes.

“Sir! We’re losing ground!”

Hall straightened and saw that the Tear line was indeed weakening. At several points, the Mort had pushed the Tear neatly inward, like a pin in a cushion. Hall stared at the men around him—Blaser and Caffrey, Colonel Griffin, a young major whose name he didn’t know, several infantry—feeling at a loss. Promotion of a general required a formal procedure, approval by the Queen, a ceremony. Hall had stood right beside Bermond, years ago, when Queen Elyssa had invested him with command. At this moment the Queen was miles away, but when Hall looked around, he saw that all of them, even Griffin, were looking to him, waiting for orders. Queen or no, he was the general now.

“Caffrey. Fall back to the next knoll.”

Major Caffrey took off in a dead sprint down the hill.

“You, Griffin. Pull the remainder of your battalion back and head for New London. Take the leftover material from the deserted areas of the refugee camp and barricade the bridge.”