Mercy was a bullet. The rest of us waited.

  The fortress wall loomed before them, its stone face pocked with bullet scars. The air hung thick with powder smoke and the stench of death.

  Izkhaael climbed. Musket fire cracked overhead like breaking bones.

  Orders barked through the chaos. Steel clashed against steel. Men screamed and died. Hold fast. Reload. Fire. Scale the walls. The cacophony found its rhythm, a symphony of war he knew by heart.

  His hands shook. They always did before a fight. He smiled—an old trick Manzonéz had taught him. His hands still shook.

  Izkhaael vaulted over the ledge just as blood sprayed across his face. The enemy soldier's ribs absorbed the recoil of his own shot. He drew his sword and hacked away at the defenders, clearing a landing zone for the men climbing behind him. His ears rang as gunfire erupted at his back.

  The dull pang of a lead ball flattening against his breastplate rang through his bones, the vibration cracking something inside him. He stumbled and fell to one knee, teeth clenched, straining to stand.

  A pommel smashed into his skull.

  He hit the ground hard, and suddenly the enemy soldier was on top of him. The man raised his weapon like a bow, blade tip aimed at Izkhaael's throat. His heart hammered against his ribs, then—

  Crack.

  Blood stung his eyes and crawled into his mouth. He picked shards of skull from his cheek and wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Behind him, a rough hand hauled him from the puddle.

  "Manzonéz," he gasped.

  His friend slapped the crater in Izkhaael's backplate. Pain shot through him like lightning.

  "I was just fucking shot, you lout."

  "Walk it off. Ain't nothing you ain't felt before." Manzonéz gestured to the scar running through Izkhaael's lips—a reminder of battles past.

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  Izkhaael tucked his lips inward, hiding the mark. "Whatever. Set a line and protect the landing zone. Then we take the gatehouse."

  "Aye, Sarge."

  Flesh squelched under Izkhaael's boots as he stepped over the dead. Ribs creaked beneath his weight. He used to watch his feet when he walked through battlefields like this. That was seven years ago.

  The remaining defenders clutched rusted weapons with white knuckles. Their patchwork rags, dull and bloodied, were sheathed in dust. They huddled together in ragged clumps, sticking to each other like fat to flesh.

  Among them, Izkhaael spotted a Jamayyid boy who looked like his brother.

  Manzonéz ended the resemblance with his war hammer.

  A grim harvest, Izkhaael thought. Better to be the sickle than the grain. The Jamayyid had sown the seeds of this cruelty ten years ago. Now came the reaping.

  The shattered defenders retreated to the guardhouse—what was left of them. Piss-soaked boys and broken old men. Even this pathetic lot would pose problems for regular troops, but Izkhaael's men were grenadiers. He'd drilled them to do one thing: attack fortified positions.

  Without waiting for orders, they lit their fuses, cooked the grenades, and hurled them into the guardhouse. The men behind stepped forward, knelt in formation, raised matchcord to touchhole, and waited.

  Inside the guardhouse, men clawed to escape, trampling one another. An old veteran crunched beneath the feet of undisciplined boys. Tears rolled down a young soldier's face as hope died in his eyes.

  Izkhaael covered his ears.

  The shockwave rippled through the air, drowning out their screams. Hot air rich with the smell of charred flesh invaded his lungs. Those who survived the blast charged straight into a line of loaded blunderbusses.

  The aftermath was ugly.

  Chunks of flesh dribbled down the fortress walls. Guts slid across smooth, slick stone. Izkhaael pulled his father's handkerchief from his pocket—nothing but a dirty rag now—and used it to shield himself from the reeking air.

  His boots churned through the pieces of what used to be men as he entered the gatehouse. He finished those who still struggled to breathe, confirmed no resistance remained, and raised the banner above the gatehouse.

  "Two men to the windlass," he ordered.

  They strained against its weight, groaning with each turn. The thick iron gate rose inch by inch, chains rattling with each heave.

  Izkhaael positioned his men on the wall, muskets loaded. They fired a coordinated volley at the defenders holding the inner gate. Below, the roar of Solmoran regulars rumbled like thunder. They fixed bayonets and charged through the opening.

  The Jamayyid line broke. They scattered into the streets like leaves in a storm, and the regulars gave chase, feasting like bats upon a swarm of flies.

  Formation crumbled. Discipline went with it.

  And so the sacrament began.