TMarkos
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Chapter 113 - Taking Shape
🕑 Added 2023-06-07 14:02:53 +0000 UTCWho shall walk with me through fire?
Who shall send me on?
Who shall guide to my desire
Through darkness unto dawn?
Though Sword may clear the path ahead,
And Shield ward me from harm,
None but I knows where I tread,
And none shall guide my arm.
Though Flame may light my path at night,
And Sunlight in the day,
None but I direct my sight,
And none else knows the way.
Though Seeker knows where perils hide,
And Seer knows the end,
None but I shall be my guide,
And none to me will tend.
Though Speaker hears my heart’s own song,
And Caller knows my name,
None but I may forge along,
And none shall set my aim.
Who else but I could know my worth?
Who else shall heed my call?
Though not alone, I must stand first
Or none shall stand at all.
- Safid Hymn
—
Whatever else the Safid might be, they were efficient. By now Michael had glimpsed the workings of more than a few military camps - Ardan, Daressan and Mendiko. There was a particular feel to each, a combination of noise and emotion that defined them. Ardan camps had been tensely chaotic, like a pen full of cattle sensing the herder’s approach. Mendiko camps were a coiled spring in clockwork, intricate parts meshing together under immense pressure. Daressa sat somewhere in the middle, an attempt by the Mendiko to layer their methods over Gharic culture.
By comparison the Safid camp seemed calm and quiet, despite the impending attack. Nobody barked orders. No formations of men stomped their way across the camp in double-time. Yet Michael felt their nearly-pathological awareness of their surroundings with each step he took, a hundred veiled eyes darting his way to shape their own steps around the Great Holy One.
Men flowed in rivulets that broke away from anyone with an uncovered face. Officers shaped the soldiers with their presence rather than their voice, sheepdogs stalking around the edges of their flock - and their eyes were forever darting towards their commanders, and so on up the chain. In the spaces between, men hauled crates of supplies and ammunition from carts, or labored to shore up their trenches.
Yet it was quiet apart from the necessary noise of their work; the men were possessed of a curious focus. Or perhaps not so curious. Michael knew it for what it was. Their orders had been phrased in the context of their paths, whether by invoking the defense of their homeland or of their own person. In war, the Safid were like nothing so much as an anthill, seething in silent, productivity for the benefit of their queen.
That queen gave no obvious direction, though; in fact, Michael was fairly certain he had spotted Amira tearing away from the camp at a blistering pace, her footsteps chewing great divots in the land. Scouting, perhaps, or attacking advance elements.
Whoever she was targeting, Michael spared them a moment of gratitude and pity.
His course took him back to the one knot of stillness in the camp, a tent filled with sullen, quiet bodies that waited awkwardly amid the hubbub, wishing that they were anywhere else. His tent. He ducked inside and found the men much as he had left them - Lars and the other Ardans trying their utmost to sleep on narrow Safid cots while Zabala stared as if trying to burn a hole in the tent wall. Sobriquet was already looking at the tent’s entrance when Michael approached.
“How was the walk?” she asked.
Michael waggled his hand. “Not as calming as I had hoped,” he sighed. “But I have a better idea of the camp’s disposition. They’ve got artillery, ensouled, and enough men to take the edge off Ardalt’s numerical advantage. I’d say they’re in decent shape to hold out against pretty much anything aside from Luc and Friedrich.”
“And against those two, they’re looking to you,” Zabala said. “Fighting for the defense of Saf.”
“It’s certainly a development I wasn’t expecting. Luc is a problem that transcends borders, though, and he’s already made an enemy of the Safid.” Michael grimaced, looking towards the tent flap. “I’m not saying we should plan on sticking around after we resolve this, because I doubt our alliance will outlive our shared interests by long - or at all, depending on how things turn out. I don’t trust Amira, and Saleh is somehow even worse.” He looked at Zabala. “But we’re all striving in the same direction, and it can’t have escaped your notice that Saleh and Amira have the two souls most suited to standing against Luc and Friedrich, respectively. We need them.”
“All solid points,” Zabala agreed. “Yet it still rankles knowing that every Safid life we save will one day turn itself against Mendian. You know that conflict is coming.”
“I’m not naïve enough to think that Saf will actually hold to a peace, yes,” Michael agreed. “But I’m hoping that by the time they think to make their move, their strength won’t matter. As Amira noted yesterday, when the dust settles there will be six of the Eight aligned with Mendian. Whatever Saleh’s ambition might be, that should temper it.”
Zabala made a derisive noise. “You’re assuming they’ll wait until the dust settles,” he said. “The confusion of battle is the perfect time to strike. If you think Taskin will let you leave Saf unimpeded when this is over-”
“Who’s going to stop us?” Sobriquet scoffed. “I don’t like working with Saf any more than you do, but we’re either going to come out of this in an unassailable position or we’re going to be dead. Smoke and Sustain are the perfect counter to Luc and Friedrich, but don’t forget that the reverse is also true.”
“And I’m saying Taskin knows that as well as anyone,” Zabala insisted, sitting upright. “He’s not an idiot. If I were in his position, I’d have Sustain set up to kill Michael as soon as Luc dies, preferably in the moment where Michael receives those souls. He’ll be off-balance, maybe even incapacitated. When Charles died he was unconscious for three days.” He glared at Michael. “You know it’s a risk. If you die, and Luc is dead, nobody knows who those souls will go to - but a Safid bearer is likely. It’s the same risk that led the Star to support you initially.”
Lars cracked an eye. “This might be an unpopular opinion,” he said, “but I don’t care.” He grunted, raising himself onto one arm. “We’re fighting for Saf, if we take the field here, and we’re fighting against Ardalt. I don’t normally like enemies at my back and friends in front, but those men out there - those aren’t our lads anymore. The common soldiers are dead on their feet, and the ensouled - take it from a former Swordsman; against them, we should be standing with Saf. Whatever veneer of civility they may have once had, it’s gone now. They will do things to this land that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, which is a rather relevant claim in this case.”
“They’ll thank us as they twist the knife,” Zabala muttered.
“Maybe.” Lars stretched, yawning. “But I think in this bizarre, extreme case, we should take a page from Michael’s book and do the right thing without worrying if it’s also the smart thing.”
Sobriquet did a poor job of hiding her amusement; Michael shot them both annoyed looks. “Hey,” he protested. “It’s not as though our other options are any less perilous. Saleh and Amira may be - how they are. But they’re at least more rational than Luc and Friedrich.”
“Yes, Amira seemed very level-headed,” Sobriquet said dryly.
“Rational may have been the wrong word. Let’s say they’re at least more predictable than Luc and Friedrich, who are demonstrably insane, and unlike Sofia neither of them hate me.” Michael shrugged. “We can plan against eventualities, but nothing is going to matter much unless we stop Luc. If we fall to him, he’s unstoppable. If we let him take his pick of Safid souls uncontested, he’s unstoppable. The only way we win this is by stepping in front of it and dealing with the consequences.”
“Which brings us right back to right, not smart,” Zabala sighed. He shook his head. “Ah, fuck it. Someone from Mendian needs to stick around to see this through.”
Lars grinned at him. “Where our countries fall short, we must make do,” he said.
Zabala gave Lars a long-suffering look, leaning back on his cot. “Somehow, getting encouragement from you only reminds me of how far I’ve fallen.”
—
Morning stretched into midday. They found their way to the Safid mess and had a surprisingly hearty meal of stewed lamb over rice. Michael found himself thinking of the curry Sofia had made, the spices taking him back to that tumultuous night in her garden. It seemed a sharp difference that she was now out for his blood. After seeing her wanton murder of fleeing Safid, though, Michael found himself ready to fight back in kind.
“That’s a frightful look,” Lars noted, his mouth half-full of lamb. “Food not to your liking?”
Michael shook his head. “The food might be the one thing that is,” he said. “I was just reflecting on people I may need to kill, and then again on the fact that I have people I may need to kill. My life has taken some strange turns, this past year.”
“We’re sitting in a Safid mess, mate; we could all say the same.” Lars wiped his mouth and leaned back. “Strange turns, but I don’t think they were wrong turns. I like the shape of this life better. Certainly glad I’m on this side of the fight; it’s rare that you get such a clear look at where your life would have ended if you had made different choices.” He nodded towards the south. “A few decisions not made, or Vera doesn’t cross my path, and I’d be setting up with the rest of Sever’s lads to go get my teeth kicked in.”
“You think the Swordsmen will be out in force?” Michael asked. “We didn’t see them near Friedrich last time.”
Lars grimaced. “They don’t idle near him,” he said. “Nobody does. People think that the Swordsmen are under Lord Sever’s command, but the truth is that he doesn’t care for them much. We were hangers-on more than anything, tolerated because we made it easier for him to do whatever he wanted. Maintaining that force of scalptors gave him the clout to dictate his movements. Now that he’s past the point of caring about that, I imagine the Swordsmen are feeling rather aimless. They’ll be searching for something to do, some way to rise to his attention once more - so yes, I imagine they’ll make a showing.”
“That’s troublesome,” Michael said. “If Amira is tied up with Friedrich, a force of scalptors could do some serious damage.” He frowned, then shook his head. “I hope the Safid have fortimentes to spare.”
“Honestly, I think the Safid will take them apart.” Lars shrugged. “We used to think we were the next best thing to Sever himself, but after seeing the Mendiko and now the Safid at their work-” He shook his head ruefully. “Zabala isn’t wrong. We weren’t soldiers. We were idiots who liked the look of a uniform. Raw power isn’t a substitute for organization and tactics, not unless you’re one of the Eight.”
“Not even then,” Michael noted. “I hope you’re right. It does match up with what little I’ve seen of them.” He raised an eyebrow. “I keep forgetting that you were a Swordsman, to be honest. You don’t match that profile in my mind.”
“Am I not enough of a dashing buffoon?” Lars chuckled. “You’re right, though; I was never a good fit. I lacked the requisite strength of soul, not to mention the bloodthirst.”
Michael nodded. “What drew you there, then?”
“Lack of better options. Middling scalptor souls are as common as middling merchants’ sons; both together were barely enough to cadge my way into the corps.” Lars made a dismissive gesture. “That didn’t get me power, but it did get me power’s uniform - which was enough for my father to content himself with.”
“But you were a captain in the Swordsmen, not part of the rank and file,” Michael protested.
Lars rolled his eyes. “A good thing in every other unit, I’d imagine, but the Swordsmen don’t particularly care for hierarchy. Being captain meant I was in charge of liaising with the regular army, doing paperwork and talking to quartermasters, the sort of work the men with real power couldn’t be bothered to do - following Lord Sever’s example, of course.” He shrugged. “And of course, it’s why I got nominated to stay behind to lead the farce when the rest of them buggered off back to Ardalt.”
“Seems like they did you a disservice,” Michael said. “You’ve been superb in combat, when the occasion has called for it.”
Michael expected a wry response from Lars, or some soft deflection of the praise; instead, the Ardan captain’s brow furrowed. “That’s the rub, isn’t it?” Lars said. “I’m not half bad, when I’m pressed, but I’ve cultivated a keen talent for avoiding such occasions. I was glad of that captain’s post, until it stranded me on the continent. It kept me far from what the men were doing. I got to keep my uniform, my father got to keep his pride, and the unit kept their liberty. The arrangement made everyone - content.”
“Contentment isn’t a horrible thing,” Michael pointed out.
“I’d say that rather depends on what you’re contenting yourself with.” Lars leaned back in his chair, looking away. “This morning I looked at all of you and said very seriously that the Swordsmen needed to die, to a man. They haven’t changed so much in the intervening months. When I was with them, we all deserved the same. Yet at the time, it never crossed my mind to do anything about it. I was happy to be included. Proud of my rank, thankful that it kept me from the worst of their merriments.”
Michael nodded slowly. “It’s not any great wisdom to say that perspective changes things,” he said. “I’ve been thinking along similar lines, now that we’re confronted with the Safid.” His eyes flicked to the scattering of others in the mess; it was not crowded, nor was it empty. Nevertheless, all present gave him an extremely wide berth.
He dropped his voice slightly anyway. “The Safid are men like anyone,” he said. “People make the mistake of thinking them stupid or blinded by their fanaticism, but they’re only - constrained in odd ways by it. To them, it’s natural. One doesn’t simply wake up in the morning and question their identity.”
“You did,” Lars pointed out. “You had more to lose and less to gain by turning your back on Ardalt, but you’ve done so resolutely.”
Michael gave a wry grin, holding up his hand so that Lars could see the scars there. “I had less to lose than you assume,” he said. “And it wasn’t always so resolute. I did consider going back. Almost did. Sofia and her friends wanted me to return with them, to see the Institute and the Assembly held to account.” He shrugged. “It might have actually worked, given what I’ve seen since then.”
“But Sibyl was her usual, hateful self, and you refused,” Lars said.
“No, actually,” Michael frowned. “She was slightly horrible that day, but willing to talk like a reasonable adult about it. I still felt that I owed her for saving me. If she had asked for anything else, I would have said yes - but she asked for Sera.”
Lars blinked. “You turned against Ardalt for love? In fairness, she does seem like the sort of lady who would appreciate the romance inherent in treason.”
Michael snorted into his glass of water, setting it down hastily. “I only really got to know her afterward. At the time she was just my personal floating headache, one to whom I owed a slight favor.”
Once again, the answer had an inexplicably depressing effect on Lars. The other man shook his head. “I think your logic must operate in a different way than most,” he said. “Very few people would casually move against their homeland for a slight favor.”
“It wasn’t about the favor!” Michael protested; his voice rose, exasperated; he hurriedly lowered his tone again. “Look, from the beginning of all this people have been pestering me about what I want to do with this soul. They’re obsessed over it, terrified, and not without cause. I never knew what to say to them because I never had a good answer; I didn’t want to do anything with it. I wanted peace, and quiet, and contentment.”
Lars looked around theatrically, taking in the military environs. “Good job,” he said.
“It’s a work in progress.” Michael chuckled and took another sip of water; his expression sobered as he set the glass down. “But I’ve come to learn that peace and quiet has a cost associated with it. The last Stanza had it for years. He lived in a paradise, and he was a good man.” Michael frowned. “A good man. But the price for one man’s peace is solitude, and he broke it to care for me. He lost his peace. And when he gave it up, he looked to me with tears in his eyes and asked me if he was evil, for choosing not to help before then.”
“What did you tell him?” Lars asked.
“Nothing.” Michael smiled again, shaking his head. “I had just watched him kill three men with a scrap of poetry, my mind wasn’t up for a response. But if I had the chance again, I would tell him that he wasn’t evil at all. He saved a number of people; Vera and I were among them. But he could have saved more, at the cost of his solitude. To those people who could have used him, he was - absent. Their lives had a void in them, a space waiting for a change, and he wasn’t there.”
Michael nodded towards Lars. “Vera also saved me, in a fashion, as she did you. There’s no Vera without Jeorg, and so you also owe your current allegiance in this battle to him. I imagine how different things could have been with his hand guiding the world, now that I know what this soul might do. A force for understanding and growth, something to push Ardalt in another direction. A thousand more of Vera, and ten thousand more of you. Yet we don’t have them, because we didn’t have him.” He took another drink of water. “You wonder what I want; that’s it. I want to be there when I’m needed. There was a child, the other day-”
He broke off. “He was praying, and it was the saddest damned thing I’ve ever seen. There was nothing he could do in that moment but step aside to make a space for someone who didn’t exist, who wasn’t listening. But in the next moment - I realized that I could be that man. I could take the shape of salvation; fill the space he had made for me.”
Lars mustered a sad smile. “I think I’ve had that realization a few times over the years,” he said. “That I could - step in. Usually the prelude to a very unpleasant, drunken week. Never found it in me.” He shuddered and looked down. “There was a woman, once, with two children. The others cornered them-”
He paused for a long moment, saying nothing; Michael felt the raw drumbeat of horror pressing out from him.
“Amira told me something interesting,” Michael said. “She said that the children who died in the attack led me to her. Not by intent, but because - we respond as we do to such things, and our path changes accordingly. Not a signpost, but a rock in the trail.” He stood, clasping Lars on the shoulder. “So maybe you’re the man who remembers those three when he stands against all the Swordsmen, whenever they may come.”
Lars didn’t look up. “You all said she was crazy,” he muttered.
“I cannot begin to tell you how correct we are. But she’s also oddly insightful, at times.” Michael shrugged. “Or maybe the insanity is catching. Regardless, I’ll be glad to have you with us.”
“Mm,” Lars said, still looking away. Slowly, though, his eyes came up to Michael’s, looking slightly brighter than they had before. “I think I’ll be glad to be there.”
—
That evening came slowly for everyone. The sun dipped steadily lower in the sky as men stacked wood and oil near braziers, preparing them for a long vigil. The fortifications here had great kilns just back from the lines, and carts lined with thick layers of an oddly-stiff white cloth. Michael caught glimpses of great steel spheres within, already glowing a bright cherry red in the flames.
The rest of the defenses were likewise prepared with care. The stone pillboxes had been faced with a coat of artificed metal; with one artifex from each alignment in the emplacement, they could keep the structure intact indefinitely. Guns were behind those, with an earthen berm hiding them from direct view. More stone fortifications sprawled behind them, underground storage for what seemed to be an endless reservoir of shells.
At each of these places, men stood restlessly, waiting, pumping an acrid tension into the air that set Michael’s teeth on edge. Everyone felt it, soul or no; the air was metallic, thick and ripe with fear.
Stenger cleared his throat. “So, do you think they’ll-”
“Fuck’s sake, Stenger,” Richter snapped, looking up from his cookfire. “If any of us knew that the bastards were going to move tonight, we would’ve answered the first six times you asked. Shut the fuck up.” He shoved a small bowl of stew at him. “Eat this.”
Stenger took the bowl happily and began to eat. Zabala looked askance at him, then at Richter. “You know,” he said. “At first I think they were nervous, but now they’re just doing it because you keep shutting them up with a taste of the stew. Maybe if you let them eat it properly-”
“It’s not done yet.” Richter hunched back over the fire. “As I’ve mentioned every time you’ve asked.”
“Ardan stews are strange. I can’t think of any in Mendiko cuisine that wouldn’t be done after-”
Richter shot him a venomous look. “It’s done when I say it’s done,” he muttered.
Zabala smirked and turned back towards Michael and Lars, who had been watching with mild amusement. “I don’t think he’s ever going to give us any,” Lars said. “He just prefers cooking to waiting, so as long as we’re waiting, he’s cooking.”
“Sort of defeats the purpose if nobody gets to eat any.” Zabala jerked his head to the left. “And there’s a perfectly good mess over there, which is still open.”
“Yes, but Richter doesn’t want to eat,” Michael noted. “He wants to cook. Seems reasonable to me.”
“Downright unreasonable to my stomach; I know that smells better than the Safid slop we’ve been getting.” Zabala made a face. “It’s not proper for a soldier.”
Michael blinked, surprised. “I rather like their curries,” he said.
“Of course you do, you grew up eating Ardan food.” Zabala gestured to the pot dismissively. “Which is decent enough, I suppose, but nothing compared to Mendiko food.”
“I don’t know, I had goxua once and it was okay,” Michael said, as deadpan as he could manage. “Not very flavorful. Not even any cream on it.”
“Cream?” Zabala retorted. “Goxua is cream! Although I wouldn’t be surprised if someone tried to serve you one with cream on top in Ardalt, I’ve seen what you make of gazta tarta-”
There was a flash and detonation, then another; the men cursed and dropped to the ground by reflex right before a third exploded in the tent row to their left, peppering the area with shrapnel. Michael and Zabala remained upright, looking around as more shells burst within the camp. Men began to shout down the line, and soon torrents of soldiers were flooding towards the forward trenches.
Michael reached up to guide the shells almost by reflex, though within the camp there was only so much he could do to direct their fall. It was enough that they should concentrate in a few less-vital areas rather than striking the kilns or ammunition stockpiles. He saw a flicker in the corner of his eye as Sobriquet woke up from wherever she had been napping to materialize, her apparition taking in the battle.
Zabala looked back at the men with amusement. “You know I’m protecting you all, right? We’re safe from anything but a direct hit, which I believe Michael is preventing.”
“Alas, chums, the damage has been done.” Lars nodded towards the cookpot, which now bore a new hole in its side; stew was leaking out to raise steam from the fire. “A stalwart comrade-”
“Oh, you shut the fuck up too,” Richter groused, wiping his ladle clean and stuffing it angrily into his pack.
Zabala turned and raised an eyebrow.
“-captain,” Richter amended. “Shut the fuck up, captain.”
“Better.” Zabala turned towards Michael. “Hold here or go up?”
Michael surveyed the line; the artillery was already tapering off as the element of surprise faded; men were in trenches or behind walls. Few had died, though there were scattered moans from around the camp where shrapnel had found unlucky soldiers.
“You all find somewhere safe with a good vantage,” he said, bending down to touch Richter’s soup pot; his fingers hissed as they touched the metal, but a moment later the pot had been repaired. He licked the stew off his fingers and gave an appreciative nod to Richter. “I’m going to go play anatomens for a moment, while things are quiet.”
“I think he was asking about the less-quiet parts immediately following,” Sobriquet said, hovering closer.
Michael looked out over the highland as it faded into twilight, detail fading away with the sun. A low haze of smoke clung to the terrain from the shelling and the camp’s braziers, lending the air an eerie look. “Same plan as always,” he sighed. “We wait to see what comes, and go where we’re needed.”
Comments
TMarkos
Luc will definitely have some space to talk when we see him again! I'm sure that since he's had all this time to compose his thoughts, we can look forward to a well-organized and rational argument from him.
Blorcyn
This is a beautiful, beautiful poem that you've opened with. Well done. I'm excited for the battle to be starting, but I really loved Michael's verbalisation of his new perspective, how this weird demi-god line the Eight inhabit can function, and sharing that. It clarifies a lot of things and brings me hope ... except, I'm sure Luc has some sort of horrible and near-convincing revelation to share, based on his annals, too. I await being shaken, keenly.
TMarkos
They've mentioned it before, their name for it is "fishrot" because lucigentes are often operating in the open on the docks. That's for chronic exposure, though, not acute - the symptoms and prognosis for acute exposure are very different from chronic exposure. The Mendiko are the only ones that have a decent understanding of the mechanism and how to prevent it, though.
MrHrulgin
I really appreciate the way the newspaper clippings show Luc's lingering impact on Ardalt even as he's away. No one there would understand irradiation, would they? It's a concern fairly unique to the Mendiko, given their obsession with holding onto The Star.
