COURAGE AT THE CROSSROADS

Season 2: Here Dead We Lie

By Matt Goetz
The blond youth ran over the muddy soil, sliding down one side of a
wet crater and clambering up the opposite side. When he emerged, he
darted from the soot-black trunk of one tree to the next in short, erratic
sprints. The trencher helmet he wore was too big, and jostled on his
head so much he was forced to hold it in place with a free hand.
Holden kept his rifle trained on the boy, just above the heavy
bouncing pack he wore. The occasional lump of coal spilled out of
the packs top when he hurdled a stone or fallen tree.
Come on, Holden whispered.
The boy, Planter, wove toward the inert form of a Sentinel warjack.
Planter was within fifteen yards of the warjacks steel and brass body
when the Khadorans took their first shot. It hit just ahead of the
running boy, pelting him with charred bark and splinters.
Run, kid, Brinn said, intense but not loud enough for Planter
to hear. The older, heavier man clenched his rifle to his chest and
repeated himself, this time with a voice like a quiet prayer. Holden
swiveled his rifle toward the report but couldnt spot the shooter
through the rain and the haze of blasting-powder smoke and mist
drifting over the battlefield.
Another shot rang out, hitting behind the running coal porter. It
showered him with wet dirt, and he threw himself down. Coal spilled
from the pack over the boys head, and his helmet went spinning. He
lay there, panting, while Holden whipped his rifle back and forth
looking for a target, finding nothing.
Get up. Youre almost there, Brinn urged. Holden glanced to the
fallen boy and saw him rise to run a dead sprint for the warjack. He
had only a few yards to go.

The haze drifted, and Holden spotted the shooter. A woman amid the
trees on the Khadoran side of the battlefield pointed her scoped rifle
at Planters running form.
I see her, Holden said.
Shoot! Hes almost there!
Holden was aiming when something emerged from the rolling
clouds. It looked like a soldier in a disheveled uniform, but its
face was wrong. Its skin was papery and grey, its eyes and mouth
three black and withered holes. It lurched forward like a drunken
puppeteers marionette. Despite its lack of eyes, it fixed Holden with
those black pits, and with one hand it made an entreating gesture to
him.
Somewhere, a crow cawed.
Holden tried to shoot the grey man, but the shifting white clouds
swallowed it. When the clouds blew on it was gone, vanished, as if it
had never been there. He didnt know if it ever had.
The woman fired, and Planter pitched over. Blood soaked through his
pale hair. The woman vanished behind the tree, likely pulling back
toward the Khadoran line after killing the boy. She left only a plume
of fresh gun smoke.
Holdens eyes were wide, and he barely gripped his rifle as he sank
to the wooden duckboards of the trench. He shook and stared down
with unfocused eyes. After a moment of silence, Brinn crouched next
to him and put a hand on his trembling shoulder.
Its okay. You tried.
The beautiful woman walked forward, the heels of her boots knocking out
a steady rhythm on the ships deck. She leaned close, smelling of leather,

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rum, and blood. Next to her, Planters grinning corpse stood at the head of
a gaggle of rotting men. He held out a curved dagger for her. She took the
proffered blade with a casual ease.
Please, Holden begged as she brought the blade to his face. Please dont
do this.
Only you can stop it, she said.
Join us and it all stops, Planters corpse chimed in.
Join us and we can make it end, the dead men crowed.
Then the knife began to do its work, and he screamed.
I heard theyre sending a warcaster to our position, Holden
muttered as he looked down the barrel of his rifle. The rain that
started the night before hadnt stopped, so he had wrapped the rifle
in an oiled cloth to protect it from moisture.
What? Who told you that? Brinn said around a mouthful of tinned
meat. As he spoke, Brinn shot a glance over his shoulder to where
other soldiers were emerging from their dugouts to get their own
breakfast in order. He and Holden had taken the first leg of the
morning watch.
One of the new recruits from Northguard. Fowler, I think.
Do you think itll be Maddox? Does Sergeant Rogers know?
Holden shrugged, keeping his gaze over his rifle as he played it over
the line of the Khadoran trenches. Dunno. Just what I heard.

Maybe, he said, counting the dead men in his head. The platoons
last push to take the high ground four days prior had almost made it
to the line of dead trees that defined the hilly perimeter, but a rain of
Khadoran shells and rockets had driven them back after killing many
where they stood. The squad sergeant died leading that advance,
leaving Holden and Brinns friend Rogers to fill the role. Holden
shrugged. I doubt the Khadorans will wait until she shows up. If
shes coming.
Go to hell, you pessimist, Brinn replied. With one hand he steadied
the spyglass and dug out a wet handkerchief with the other. Swiping at
the lens, he examined the enemy across the cratered battlefield. Reds
are moving to the trench line. Handful of em. Wait, what the hell?
What?
Before Brinn could explain, acting-sergeant Rogers approached them,
a tin cup of coffee in one hand. Despite the wet and cold, despite the
bullets that had left scars on his armor and the exhaustion creasing
his face, Rogers maintained a wry grin.
See something fun, Brinn? Rogers asked as he clambered up to
their position. He shared his watery coffee with them.
No, sir. Brinn didnt sound convinced as he handed over the
spyglass. Reds are mustering for a push. Just thought I saw
something else.
Stuff the sir. What did you see?
Not sure. It looked a bit like a soldier in no-mans-land. In the fog.

Brinn moved to Holdens right and lay down in the sandbag-rimmed

fire bay, pulling out a spyglass. I damn well hope so. We could do
with a warcaster.

Holdens head snapped to Brinn, fighting to keep his expression

neutral. Did he look strange?

Brinn swiveled the glass over the field north of the trench. He
hesitated on the inert Sentinel. He didnt mention Planter or comment
on the three other dead coal porters lying at the warjacks feet. It had
been days since Planter died, but no one had dared to venture out to
rescue the bodies.

Rogers looked through the spyglass, a small smile on his face.

Youre sure?

I think Patriot might still work, if we could get him fired up again.
With a warcaster guiding him
Warcasters have their own jacks. Besides, Patriots not worth much
anymore. Holden couldnt bring himself to look in that direction.
He kept his gaze fixed on where hed seen the thing in the smoke in
case it decided to reappear.
The Khadorans made sure the platoon couldnt get its jack working
again, despite its best effort. Even before the jacks heartfire burned
out, Patriot had been in rough shape. Holes perforated its heavy
shield and hull, and a slash through half its face had destroyed one
eye. Patriot stood there for weeks in the rain, still as stone after its
boiler had burned cold and its nearly four-ton weight had settled
down into the mud.
Well, a warcaster might draw some of their attention, Brinn
continued as he squinted at their Khadoran counterparts across the
churned and muddy field. At least give us the chance to take the
east hills.
The hills were a strategically important position, a patch of
high ground staking the east side of the battlefield. They held
a commanding view of both the field and potential Khadoran
reinforcement routes to the northeast. Through the cold morning fog,
Holden could make out the bodies of a dozen trenchers still laying on
the southern edge of those hills.

Couldnt tell. Barely caught sight of him.

Dead sure.
Rogers swept the glass back and forth for a few moments. Satisfied,
he handed it back.
Lets hope hes on our side. At least youre right about the reds.
Theres a bunch of the bastards on the west line ready to come up
and over. Rogers shrugged. Anyway, get some rest if you can.
Both of you look like hell, and I need you fresh if the northerners are
mustering for another push.
Brinn nodded acknowledgment and slid back down, grabbing his tin
of food and shoveling the rest into his mouth.
Holden, wait up. Rogers said as Holden started to move. Brinn
told me about Planter.
Holden swallowed. Im sorry, Rogers. Its my fault.
Stow that. Lieutenant Landry let you keep that old rifle because you
dead-eyed ten out of ten on the range, so we both know you could
have made the shot. I need you to tell me if theres something else
going on.
I ... I dont think so. Smoke came up before I could fire.
Rogers frowned at the younger soldiers answer. Well, rest up.
Weve got Khadorans to kill.
Hours later, Holden pressed against the berm of the trench and
peered over the stacked sandbags. Brinn and Rogers waited on either

COURAGE AT THE CROSSROADS

77

side. A dozen more trenchers stretched beyond them to the left and
right, cold rain pattering off their brass helmets as they readied their
rifles and affixed bayonets.
How long until the suns down? Rogers asked.
A few minutes, Brinn replied, holding his hand up to the horizon to
measure the finger spans between the sun and it. Itll fall behind the
left side. Be ready for them to move from that flank first.
Rogers nodded, tipping a shower of rain off his helmet. Right. Our
job is to hold position. Brinn, be ready to fall back to the medical tents
if I so order. Holden, shoot any red that looks inclined to kill your
beloved sergeant.
Both men agreed. Turning from them, Rogers moved through the
press of soldiers to the chain gun team on the west flank of the trench.
Privates Copley and Thatcher were checking the heavy weapon,
ready to sling it up onto the trench rim at Rogers order. Holden
primed his own rifle and set the worn wooden stock to his cheek,
trying to predict where the enemy might emerge.
Whistles, one of the trenchers said. Idle chatter in the trench died,
letting Holden make the sound out a moment later. It was the shrill
whistles of Khadoran sergeants readying their soldiers to attack.
Moments later, plumes of white smoke erupted far behind the enemy
trench line. The thud of three Khadoran mortars echoed across the
battlefield just after. Rogers shouted to take cover, sending men
diving for the trenchs dugouts. The small holes dug in the earth
barely accommodated four men. Holden made for the closest,
hauling himself into the dark with a grenadier named Carter close
behind. Shells whistled through the air to detonate atop the trenches.
The pressure of the explosions punched the wind out of his lungs.
Dirt rained on top of him as one of the thick wooden beams holding
up the ceiling cracked.
Over the scream and roar of artillery, Rogers shouted for the
trenchers to hold steady. The barrage slowed, with the last few shells
detonating in front of and behind their lines. Clods of wet dirt still
pattered down as Holden scrabbled out and readied for combat.
Other trenchers did the same. Through the rain of earth and clouds
of blasting-powder smoke, the silhouettes of Winter Guard charged
across the cratered no-mans-land.
Drive them back! shouted Rogers, and the other trenchers
responded with incoherent cries. They stood up from the trench and
opened fire on the running men. Bullets punched through the front
rank. To Holdens left, the chain gunners hauled their weapon up and
opened fire. The steady thump of the chain gun added to the erratic
popping of military rifles as it mowed down the closest Khadorans.
Brighton and Simons, two fresh Northguard recruits, kept up a steady
rhythm of gunfire. One fired as the other reloaded. They traded back
and forth, shooting the closest Winter Guard on the left flank. Carter
and Lewis, the grenadiers, kept back in the trench and fired rifle
grenades up and over their comrades heads. The explosions ripped
through the reds, dropping a half-dozen men between them.
A few Winter Guard reached the trench line and opened fire.
Whitfield and Nauls dropped from blunderbuss shots. Gunser fell
with a gushing wound in his leg. An instant later, a wild axe swing
split Aberwalls helmet, even as a chain gunner fell back into the
trench with a hole in his throat.
The skirmish was bloody but swift. Even without Patriot, the
trenchers managed to gun down most of the Winter Guard before
they made the trench line. The rest put up little resistance. They

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finished off the last few enemy wounded with quick bayonet strokes.
Trenchers, report! Rogers croaked, nearly breathless. Blood spattered
his face, but the steady rain was already washing it away. Voices cried
back to report the losses. The number was mercifully low.
Medics incoming, someone called. Behind Holden, medical
personnel climbed down into the Cygnaran trench from the rear
line carrying folded stretchers between them. Their uniforms
showed white instead of Cygnaran blue, and they bore the symbol
of Ascendant Solovin on their helmets and pauldrons. Under the
direction of a Morrowan chaplain, the medics hauled the wounded
from the trenches. They would bring them back to the battlefield
hospital, a modest thing about a thousand yards south of the front
lines next to an equally modest rail line.
The medics left the bodies of the dead behind. They would be seen to
later, if time allowed.
He shot his rifle, catching the fleeing father in the back. The man fell to
splash in the flowing blood of the villages other dead. With an angry snarl,
Holden rammed another cartridge into his weapon and tracked down his
next target as he stalked between the burning homes of his victims.
Ahead of him a giant of a man swung his axe through others, mowing them
down like wheat. Bodies and pieces of bodies went sailing, and Holden threw
back his head and howled with delight. Hed been afraid at first, but now he
reveled in following this butcher.
Wake up, Holden, Rogers said.
Holden jolted up, nearly hitting his head on the ceiling of the dugout.
Next to him Brinn grumbled in his sleep and rolled over, pulling his
sodden woolen blanket up over his head.
Holden crawled out into the cold night air of the trench, trying not to
look at the stack of fresh bodies. What is it?
Holden, youre a wreck. Other men can hear the things you say
when you sleep.
Im not
Shut up and listen. We know you blame yourself for Planter, and
Collins, and the others. Rogers dug into a pocket while he spoke,
searching for something. I saw you during the fight yesterday. You
froze up. Didnt fire a shot. Youre the best marksman in this unit, and
I need that talent on our side. Ah, here it is.
He held out an old golden crown, warn smooth at the edges.
Whats this for? Holden took the coin and turned it over in his
hand. It was well worn and so old he didnt recognize the king
stamped on its face.
Holden, you cant control everything, but you blame yourself as if
its your fault. You second-guess and end up doing nothing. If you
dont know what to do, if youre at a crossroad and dont know
which way to go, just flip this coin. Its how I decided to enlist. Hell,
its why I helped you get on the train.
This is old, Rogers. Might be worth something.
Dont worry about it. Ill get another one. Now grab your gear and
help me wake up the others. Im sick of waiting for the Khadorans to
attack us again.
The two of them went down the trench and roused the rest of the
unit, most of them reluctant to be woken after only a short sleep.

A few hours before sunrise, the trenchers gathered around Sergeant

Rogers, a few grumbling about the early muster as they shoveled
tinned rations into their mouths. Once the sergeant began speaking,
even they quieted.
I talked with Lieutenant Landry late last night. We expect a heavy
fog through midday, giving us concealment from sharpshooters and
spotters. Landrys going to use the opportunity to make a push on
the east hills today, and were going to give him the chance to get
there. A platoon of the Seven-One-Five is joining us to support this
offensive. Two squads are joining our attack.
That earned a few murmured comments. Brinn called for quiet.
Rogers continued. While the reds are busy defending the hills,
we attack on the main front. When they attacked yesterday we hit
them hard, and Landry and I doubt theyll have moved in reserves
to replace the wounded yet. When we clear the trenches, we move
to support the main offensive and hit them on two fronts. While we
attack, I want Chambers and Colhoun to get my damned warjack up
and running. Those two men nodded and made for the supply bay
to get tools and a fresh pack of coal.
Rogers sketched out the plan of the attack. The trenchers would split
into two groups, one led by himself and the other by Brinn. The two
extra squads would support them on the approach and help them
take the nearest Khadoran position. Brinn did a quick inventory of
their supply of ammunition and smoke grenades, divvying them up
among the gathered men.
The trenchers rushed forward over the broken ground, their rifles
held tight to their chests. Some slammed into the precious cover of
the trees, snapping off wild shots into the haze. In front of Holden
there was a metallic ring, and the head of Private Thatcher snapped
back as he pitched forward into the mud. Holden and Rogers hurdled
Thatchers twitching body and dashed for the charred cover of a
fallen tree.
To Holdens right, a squad of trenchers fired a volley from cover.
A whistling Khadoran shell detonated among them, throwing up
a geyser of earth. A trencher was hurled by the blast, his limp and
broken body bashing off the trunk of a limbless pine.
Forward! screamed Rogers. The sergeants of the 715s squads
echoed his cry. The crackling of rifle fire on both sides, the thump of
explosions, and the cries of the wounded made their voices indistinct.
Holden snapped off another shot with his grandmothers rifle,
jammed a fresh cartridge into the breech, and vaulted the fallen tree.
Bullets and blunderbuss shot rippled the air around him, splintering
the blackened trees and exposing the pale, dead wood within.

Fire high. If you dont hit them they might go for cover. Holden,
give us smoke for the advance.
As Carter fixed his rifle with a fresh grenade, Holden readied a
smoke canister. Rogers counted down from five, pointing at Holden.
He reached one and closed his fist. Holden rose, hurling his grenade
before dropping back. Carter pulled the trigger and sent his projectile
sailing up to arc down on the enemy trench.
Now! Bayonets up! Rogers cried. Carter and Holden followed him.
Carter held his rifle like a spear and Holden drew his trench knife.
They burst from the smoke on the Khadoran trench. Carters grenade
had dropped three Winter Guard with shrapnel and caused the
others to dive for cover. Screaming, Rogers and Carter leapt down
among the scattered men. Down the trench line, other blue-armored
soldiers poured in toward the panicked Khadorans.
Rogers landed between two men. He stabbed the first with a thrust
and cracked the skull of another with his rifles stock. Carter landed
on a third. He fell to his knees atop the man, stabbing him in the
heart. Holden fired as he hit the rim of the trench, catching his target
in the chest. The man he shot fell, firing his blunderbuss uselessly
into the ground.
The other three Winter Guard went for their axes, but Rogers
and Carter had the advantage of reach. The Khadorans had to
lunge forward to try to get to them with clumsy slashes, opening
themselves up for the thrusts of bayonets. The last of the reds died
trying to escape the trench.
When the fighting was done, Rogers called for a headcount. Other
than the few whod died on the approach, the trenchers had reached
this first line of enemy trenches without injury. There were other
trench lines to the north, other Khadoran soldiers to battle, but for the
first time since reaching the battlefront, the Cygnarans had a moment
of relief.
They were clearing the trench to make sure the last of the Winter
Guard were dead or had fled. The distant noise of combat to the east
still echoed over the battlefield from the hills, but in the trench all
was quiet.
I think theyre all gone, Holden said as he emerged from a
Khadoran dugout and brushed mud off his grubby knees.
Good riddance. Brinn, lets be ready to support Landry on the hill.
The unit began to move east down the trench when a shrill noise
froze them. Holden looked toward the sound.

The trenchers reached the twisted barbed wire south of the Khadoran
lines, some catching rifle fire and pitching over to hang in metal webs
of thorny wire. Holden saw the silhouettes of Winter Guard ahead in
their trenches.

From the haze north of their position, a neat wall of men jogged
forward. They wore heavier armor and had carbines braced on top
of their large square shields. Another row marched behind the front
rank. There were more than Holden could count. Behind the ranked
men a towering form emerged from the fog, over ten feet tall and
wielding axes over six feet long: a Khadoran warjack.

Rogers veered for a crater in front of the Khadoran trenches,

signaling for Holden and the others to follow. Holden shot on the run
and pitched himself into cover an instant ahead of another withering
volley. The bodies of Brighton and Simons tumbled after him. Only
the grenadier Carter remained, sliding down the craters rim behind.

Holden didnt wait for Rogers to give them an order. He clawed free of
the Khadoran trench and sprinted back toward Cygnaran lines, running
past the bodies of Brighton and Simons. He ducked between the trees
and passed the grisly remains of the trenchers from the 715, breaking
into a sprint when he hit the pockmarked mud of no-mans-land.

Call what you saw! Rogers shouted over the sound of battle.

Holdens companions wavered and broke before the Khadoran

advance. Their flight from the trench wasnt an organized retreat. It
was a rout. As they ran another man died, shot in the back by the
oncoming kommandos. The warjack screamed a piercing whistle

Ten guard, tight formation in a fire bay, Holden responded while

reloading. Rogers nodded and pointed at Carter.

COURAGE AT THE CROSSROADS

79

and surged forward, bowling through two of its own soldiers as it

did. Its heavy tread shuddered the earth. Carter turned and fired a
grenade from the hip to detonate on the warjacks faceplate. Enraged,
it barreled on, snapping Carters bones with the impact and crushing
his body into the mud.
Holden weaved through the trees until he saw a plume of coal smoke
up ahead. The shape of Patriot was visible in the fog, and he could
hear Colhoun shouting, asking what was going on. Holden screamed
for Colhoun and Chambers to get to cover as he leapt down into the
familiar Cygnaran trench line.
Already extra soldiers from the 715 were filling their old position.
They were mostly trenchers, though there were a few sword knights
in battered armor as well.
The nearest sergeant tried to get Holden to explain the situation, but
was interrupted when the last few survivors emerged from the fog
and trees. Brinn and Rogers led the retreat, shooting over the heads
of their own soldiers at the rampaging warjack. Holden screamed
and fired round after round, but most caromed off of its armored hull
leaving nothing but dents.
Swatting aside narrow trees with its axes, the jack screamed steam
once more and rushed toward the tiny forms of its fleeing prey,
whipping its weapons behind them. Holden braced his rifle and
breathed, then shot a round through one of the warjacks glowing
eyes. It paused for a moment, shaking back and forth like a wounded
bear. It gave the fleeing trenchers another few yards of distance, but
the wrathful warjack was only slowed, not truly injured. Shaking its
head, it looked at the trenchers with one baleful eye and sprinted,
slashing with its axes.
The thud of chain-gun fire echoed through the trees, and a shower
of sparks fell off the Khadoran jack. Battered, limping Patriot
emerged from the trees, his gun barrels glowing and smoking. The
light Cygnaran jack squared its shoulders and set its shield, issuing
a train-whistle noise as a challenge.
One whistle means go to hell, Holden hissed.
The Khadoran warjack veered off for this new foe, giving Brinn,
Rogers, and the other grenadier, Lewis, the time they needed to make
the trench. Patriot received the charge with its shield, its feet sliding
back in the slick mud from the impact. As the Khadoran jack swung
an axe up and over the shield, Patriot buried its chain gun in the other
jacks guts and fired a long burst of bullets. With a black spray of
fluid from ruptured vital lines, the bullets punched steaming holes in
the other jacks boiler. The two collided again and tumbled into the
mud, the larger Khadoran jack growing weaker by the moment as
Patriot clambered on top of it, spending the last of its ammunition in
a close shot under the other jacks chin. The rounds chewed through
hull armor to pierce the cortex. In the next moment, both warjacks
vanished in the flash and roar of an intense arcane explosion.
Holden felt like cheering, but a barrage of shots punched into the
sandbag he was hiding behind. The assault kommandos pressed their
advantage and jogged across the battlefield, firing on the run. Holden
called to Lewis, Get a grenade ready! Theyre in tight formation!
When the first few kommandos came within range, they dropped into
a crouch behind their shields. Bracing their carbines on the top rim,
they fired a salvo of squat canisters trailing ribbons of smoke toward
the trench. Most fell short, but a few landed among the trenchers,
spewing out choking clouds of thick smoke.

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Fire! Rogers screamed, and the trenchers opened fire. Rounds

caromed off the front ranks, repelled by Khadoran armor and shields.
Behind them, a second wave advanced and returned fire, their
carbine rounds striking men in the trenches. Holden shot repeatedly
at the approaching enemy, finding his rhythm and shooting true, but
the enemy advance did not slow. The men of the 715 held one of the
chain gun positions and poured rounds at the kommandos, but their
shields held the worst of it back.
Grenade! Brinn shouted. Lewis primed his explosive and aimed
for the second rank of kommandos. It arced and detonated behind
the shield wall, flinging broken men away from the blasts. Holden
and a handful of other sharpshooters kept firing, targeting men
who were exposed when dead mens shields fell away. Several
more kommandos died, but behind them the red of Khadoran
reinforcements drew closer through the haze of smoke. Holden fired
a round that caught a charging Khadoran in the face. The armored
man pitched back into the wet mud. In the gap the dead man created
in the enemy line, the hollow-eyed creature was waiting. Only now,
there were two.
Numb, Holden fell back. The sound of the battle was replaced by the
thudding of blood in his ears. A rushing wall of Khadorans blocked
the two creatures from his view, but he knew they were there, waiting.
Around him his allies were turning back the Khadoran assault even
as it reached their own trench. The Khadoran kommandos broke
over the trench to his left, falling down onto the soldiers there. The
fighting turned into a bloody brawl of men tackled to the mud, trying
to strangle or stab their enemies with bayonets and trench knives.
The chain gun had fallen silent, its crew collapsed over the weapon
as two kommandos stabbed repeatedly with their bayonets. Holden
looked right to see Brinn hurl himself into battle with his trench
knife, stabbing through the helmet of the closest enemy with a brutal
downward strike. A short jab from an enemy bayonet punched
through Brinns backplate and he stumbled and fell. The enemy was
being turned, but not without cost.
Rogers smashed the butt of his rifle into the face of the closest enemy
and charged another. His bayonet thrust scraped off the Khadorans
shield but left the man off balance. Rogers shouldered the man
against the wall of the trench and slammed the stock of his rifle up
against the Khadorans throat, pressing his full weight up to crush
the mans larynx.
Holden, get up! he shouted. Like a drunk, Holdens head swiveled
unsteadily toward him. Get up, god dammit!
Holden rose to take in the bloody melee around him. He could see,
then, how it would end. His comrades would drive off the enemy.
They would charge again, to be driven off themselves. Back and
forth, back and forth, over a useless muddy patch in southern Llael.
If a Khadoran bullet, blade, or bomb didnt claim him here, then
one of those ... things would. There was no way out. Already the
kommandos were being overwhelmed. The sword knights heavy
Caspian battle blades proved too much for their shields to stop.
Rogers slashed the throat of the last Khadoran in the trench and
turned back to Holden. His lips moved, like he was asking Are you
okay, perhaps. Holden couldnt be sure. But the parting gift of a
Khadoran bullet caught Rogers in the base of the skull, blowing out
his neck and spraying Holden with gore. He sagged forward into
Holdens arms with wide, surprised eyes.

And there it was. The way out.

The other Cygnarans were busy fighting, paying Holden no attention.
Laying down, covered in the dying Rogers blood, Holden joined
the wounded on the muddy, bloody wooden duckboard floor of the
trench. Rogers sagged on top of him, lips still twitching as his blood
flowed forth.
Medic, Holden cried, his throat raspy. He repeated. We need a
medic here. Then he lay back and waited to be taken away from all
of this.
Holden tried to lie still, tried to maintain the illusion of his injury as
the medical crew rushed his stretcher away from the front and to the
medical tents, but Holden couldnt help himself. He picked his head
up, looking north toward the trenches.
In the area Rogers fell, Holden saw a thin figure in tattered clothes
obscured by the blasting powder smoke. It loomed over where
Rogers died, staring down like a collector stares at a rare sample. It
looked up toward him then and cocked its head in recognition.

Holden nodded and lay back, trying to maintain his composure.

What the woman said as she loaded him up into the train car hurt
him more than any enemys weapon could.
Youre a hero.
Holden sat across from himself. The two Holdens faced each other in a wide
and empty field of darkness rimmed by cold and impossible stars. Points of
light flared and died in the distance, each one an echo of the sun that would
never warm this world. It was an infinite theater with no audience.
The other him cocked his head like a curious bird, studying Holden from
the corner of one eye. He said nothing, but had a wry smile on his face.
Rogers smile.
What are you? Holden asked the other him.
Im you. The you who stopped fighting. The you who understood the
inevitability of his fate.
Am I . . . am I losing my mind? Holden asked in earnest, but the other him
smiled like hed told some fantastic joke.

Why does he still have a rifle? asked the battle chaplain as he

jogged up to the medics.

Who said it was your mind to lose? I think the rest of us should all have
a say.

Wouldnt let it go, sir.

Holden clenched his eyes shut and clapped his hands to his face. Behind
his hands he said, Youre just a nightmare. Youre here because of my
grandmother and Wyatt, because of Brinn and Rogers. Youre here because
I keep letting people die.

Get him onto the train. Khadorans flanked us to the west and are
advancing on the tents.
The medics both said yes, sir as they veered toward the rail
spur. Through half-lidded eyes Holden saw the chaplain give him
a skeptical look, but if he meant to stop them, if he saw through
Holdens ruse, he gave no indication.
The medics trotted him up to the side of the train where dozens of
wounded men were being loaded into boxcars. A few doctors were
tending to them, performing triage to determine who would receive
medical attention and who wouldnt.
Then, without warning, a trio of Khadorans burst from the tents
flanking the train on the west side. One of them wore a massive
pressure cylinder on his back and carried a weapon with a tongue
of flame licking at its barrel. The medics panicked at the sight, some
dropping their stretchers as they dove for cover. Holden banged
down on the ground, bouncing off his stretcher as the flamethrowerwielding kommando leveled his weapon and chuckled in a deep
voice. Flying from between the tents, a black crow cawed.
As a reflex, Holden shot the kommando on the left, reloaded, and
shot the kommando on the right. Both teetered and crumpled, dead.
The flamethrower operator was stunned by this sudden display and
swiveled to burn Holden to ash.
Holden loaded a fresh round and shot through the tank on the mans
back. The bullet ruptured the tank and it detonated, consuming the
man in a flash of fire.

The other Holden laughed. The noise was a piece of broken glass. You idiot.
As if the gods care about them any more than they care about you. Youre
just a grain of sand caught in the teeth of an awesome and terrible machine.
Holden looked up. The other him had begun to weep a viscous black fluid
from his eyes and mouth, mutating them into the pits that adorned the
creatures face. The endless fluid flowed down and stained his face, running
onto his tarnished uniform.
If they dont care, why is this happening to me? Holden asked.
Because it had to happen to someone. The other him leaned forward. Oily
rivers ran down his face. Because you made the wrong choice at the right time.
Of all the possible fates to befall all the people alive, you failed to act when you
should have. Or acted when you shouldnt. In the end it doesnt matter.
Holden stared at the other him. It leaned closer, that black weeping dribbling
to fill the space between them and flowing close to his feet. As if the vitality
of the other Holden flowed with that foul liquor, its skin grew sallow and
began to wither. Its face drew tight as its teeth dropped away like a handful
of tiny stones.
Holden gaped at the grotesque version of himself, choking on his words.
Then how can I stop this from happening?
Sweet child. As if it was ever up to you.

There was a moment of quiet. Holden felt the eyes of the wounded
upon him. He heard them murmuring. One of Holdens stretcherbearers approached. You say youre wounded?
Holden couldnt meet the womans eyes. I didnt mean to
She cut him off, speaking loud enough for all to hear. If you werent
here, all of us would be dead. Get on the train.

COURAGE AT THE CROSSROADS

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