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Chapter 123 - Dust and Ashes
🕑 Added 2023-08-23 15:01:35 +0000 UTCThe white wolf approached the black hound at the edge of the wood. The hound told the wolf to go back to the wood, for he had been charged with safeguarding all of the animals that men kept there.
The wolf pointed out that there were plenty of animals to be had, and that if the hound were to let the wolf take one without raising the alarm they could both eat their fill. The hound considered this, for while the men of the village fed and housed him they took the sweetest meats for themselves, leaving the hound with bones and scraps.
Before he could answer the wolf, though, the raven came down to alight upon a stump.
“Do not do this,” the raven warned. “If the hound does not guard against the wolf, what use has man for a hound? There would be but two wolves, and the order of things would be broken.”
The wolf replied that with greater numbers, they could take livestock as they pleased from the pens.
“Foolishness,” the raven replied, “to think that things would stay as they are. Against one wolf, the men keep a hound. There is balance in this solution, and while neither thrives, neither dies. But if one wolf becomes two, men will fear to set another hound lest there be three - and in their fear, they will ensure that there are none.”
Pre-Gharic Ardan manuscript, vellum, c. 500 PE
—
“Train’s here,” Zabala said.
Michael looked up. The platform was a turbulent sea of humanity, anxious bodies pressed close as the engine chuffed to a halt. Men, women and children jostled for a spot close to the doors, held back by stern-faced soldiers that stood between them and the tracks. Michael was on the other side of that line. The boarding area was clear save for his small party and a few anxious Safid officials who had been cleared to travel with them as representatives; Michael had not seen any of their faces unveiled, and they had made no attempt to speak with him aside from mumbled greetings when he had arrived.
Sobriquet stood to the side with Zabala, Richter and Brant. The two Ardan soldiers were playing a game of cards; Zabala was staring fixedly at the train. Sobriquet’s eyes were to the south, though, and she wasn’t alone in her attention. Michael let his gaze stray towards the distant mountains yet again.
On a clear day it was probably a beautiful sight. Today, though, the peaks stood against a dark field of clouds, lightning flickering dull red through the haze. The storm was pressed up against them, crowding around them from either side. The storm grew broader every time he looked, but also higher, the churning column of air reaching up to disturb the far reaches of the sky.
For now it was merely an ominous feature of the horizon, but that did nothing to lessen the fear he felt pulsing out from the crowd. They were swimming in it, desperate. From what he understood, this was the fifth train to arrive today. Some of those present had seen the four previous come and go, and at this point in the afternoon the reality of their situation was beginning to assert itself.
Michael tried his best to stay focused despite the hopeless miasma of the platform. He longed to do something to help, but there was really very little he could do - except for that thing which only he could do. He watched the lightning crawl across the distant clouds, towering high over whatever remained of the Gharic peninsula.
“How much longer do you think?” Sobriquet asked. “Before it spills across the mountains.”
“Not sure. It may go over, or around.” Michael lofted his sight up, though at this distance it made little difference whether he viewed it from ground level or far above. “It’s not letting up, though. This morning you could barely see the cloud tops beyond the peaks. When it does come north-” He turned his sight to take in the platform, and his perspective shifted; for a bare instant he was a giant looking down at a field of ants, his head high in the clouds. His balance failed, and he staggered to the side, hastily reeling his sight back to where it belonged. A few dazed eyeblinks later, his vision had returned to normal.
Sobriquet gave him a curious look. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“I think so,” Michael replied, blinking rapidly. “Got - dizzy. Not the first time it’s happened. I think I need to be careful with my sight until I adjust to whatever this is that’s going on.”
“You never did visit the anatomens like I asked,” Sobriquet said reproachfully.
“What would they have done? How many anatomentes in the world can repair eyes? None in a Safid field camp, that’s for sure, and certainly not me. It’s more likely that Mendian has one, though I expect anyone that skilled is in Goitxea.” Michael shook his head. “I’m as fine as I’m going to be - as I need to be. We don’t have time for anything unnecessary.” He managed a grin. “Besides, it will help make our case to Antolin. Hard to dismiss the seriousness of the threat when I show up looking like a boiled potato.”
She shook her head. “Boiled and baked. I think the storm will make its own case before long. Ghar isn’t far off from the Daressan border, and you know how Mendian loves their listening posts; I’d be surprised if Antolin isn’t in his third briefing on it by now.”
Michael nodded slowly. “I’ll be glad to talk with him,” he said. “I don’t expect he can help in any material way, but he’ll have an insight or two. Hopefully one that points me in the right direction. Right now, I look at that and it just feels like - a storm, like a force of nature that I have no hope of contending with.”
A conductor hopped off the train, bowing his head and touching his knuckles to his lips, then his forehead. “Great Seeker, Great Holy One,” he said. “The second car is reserved for your use.”
Michael turned to look at the passenger car. It was the usual size, and fully capable of holding dozens. “That’s not necessary,” he said. “Fill it with people from the platform, we’ll take five of the seats.”
The conductor shifted uncomfortably, but nodded. “As you wish,” he said. “We’ll allow boarding once you’re-”
The man paused as a shout went up from the crowd; a shadow arced over their heads to land with crushing force upon the platform. Slowly, Amira straightened up. Her body was wrapped in bandages, some of which were crimson with blood. She wore a borrowed military uniform, ragged below the knees where it had snagged on brush as she ran. Her feet were bare and muddy, her eyes fixed upon Michael.
“I’m coming with you,” she said. Her eyes flitted to the Safid functionaries, who had begun to tremble as they recognized her face. “You two can go.”
The two men didn’t hesitate, scampering off into the crowd before Michael could open his mouth. He sighed and turned to face Amira fully. “Shouldn’t you be recuperating?” he asked. “The anatomentes-”
“I am where I need to be,” she said. Her voice was granite. “And I endure. This doesn’t end without my participation.”
Michael met her eyes, feeling the absence that he had expected from her. After a moment, he shook his head and turned to the conductor, who had gone very pale. “Six seats,” he amended.
—
In the end, the conductor sat them in a cabin in one of the other cars. It theoretically could have held two more passengers, but the look on the conductor’s face made Michael sigh and stop pushing; as it was, he wasn’t able to enjoy the extra room. Amira sat in the middle of the bench opposite him, her eyes fixed forward, while everyone else crowded as far away from her as possible. Michael and Sobriquet sat in the center, bookended by a very nervous Richter and Brant; Zabala was the sole member of their party relegated to Amira’s bench. The Mendiko soldier had taken the window seat and was staring outside, steadfastly refusing to engage with the tense atmosphere within the car.
Michael let his head thunk back against the cabin wall, closing his eyes. The gesture did even less than usual, but it still felt relaxing. He stayed that way through the rattling and swaying of the car as they traversed eastern Saf, heading up the coast towards the tracks. After a moment of consideration, he sat up and opened his eyes. “What’s the situation at the Daressan border these days? Zabala? You were in the Daressan Home Guard.”
Zabala snorted. “In Imes, for all of two weeks. I expect that it’s fortified, with derails and barricades on the tracks. We’ll have to stop at the border and find separate passage to Rouns - another train if we’re lucky. Otherwise we can just have her speed us along while we run.” He made a dismissive gesture towards Amira, who did not acknowledge him. “Once we’re there, Grand Marshal Errea will likely have someone to meet us; they’ll send a wire ahead of us from the border.”
“Makes sense.” Michael turned his sight to the outside, where sunset had painted the sky a dull red; the storm loomed as a thick black bar to the southwest, receding from view with each new stretch of track - but always present in the distance, the furious cloud-tops reaching up over the horizon to remind them that it was still churning on the peninsula.
The conversation died away as they continued. Whatever words might have been spoken were smothered by the dark mass in the sky. Michael felt it from the rest of the passengers, their subdued quiet permeating the carriages. The gentle rumble of their transit was the only noise that dared to disturb the quiet.
Slowly, though, the dark receded. The mountains fell away beyond a horizon that was only a bit dimmer than it should be, almost normal to the innocent eye. Their progress slowed at a junction, where the main track curved sharply northward. Nobody moved to get off at the station; the sole sound of motion came from the conductor’s timid footsteps. The door to their cabin slid open.
“Holy ones,” the man said. “The train must turn north here. The tracks east have been sabotaged in several parts, so there is no route-”
Amira stood abruptly; the conductor fairly jumped aside to clear the doorway as she strode out. Michael raised his eyebrow at Sobriquet, a gesture somewhat diminished by his current lack of eyebrows. She shrugged and followed Amira out. The rest of them trailed through the cars, glimpses of staring, whispering faces coming through doorways.
The junction was little more than that. There was no town to speak of at the split in the rails, only a decrepit hut next to the switches that was clearly not in regular use. They walked away from the tracks as the engine wheezed back to life, creeping northward. More tracks continued east, disappearing into a wooded hillside.
“We shall run,” Amira said. Her soul swept out to encompass them; Michael noted Richter and the other Ardans wobbling unsteadily as the unfamiliar sensation hit. Zabala bounced once on the balls of his feet, nodding. Amira scarcely bothered to look at the rest of them before setting off east along the track. The others hurried to follow, and they were off.
Michael coursed forward, already accustomed to the feeling, and in short order was running beside her. “You haven’t asked where we’re going,” he noted.
She gave him a flat look. “To Daressa, and the Mendiko forces based there. There is nothing else of note to the east that we might run to. That much was easy to determine.” She turned her eyes back forward. “I am less clear on why.”
Michael pressed his lips together, considering his words; he decided on honesty. “Because I can’t beat Luc.” he said. “Not as he is now.”
“And what will Mendian offer that we lack?” Amira asked. “Are they perhaps hiding a ninth great soul? Because I can think of little else that would make a difference.”
Her tone was sharp, angry; Michael felt unreasonably nettled by it. The stress that had been lurking in the corners of his mind all day bubbled to the fore.
“I don’t know what we’ll find in Mendian,” he snapped. “I only know that we’re unlikely to find anything more from Saf to help us - unless you’re hiding that ninth soul.” Michael cast an irritable look her way. “No? Any insight on how to defeat an insane union of I-don’t-know-how-many souls that currently seems intent on annihilating all life in its path? Did Saf have a contingency for that plan? Or was Saleh it, because that didn’t-”
Amira punched her foot down, splintering a rail tie as she stopped abruptly to swing a fist at Michael; he ducked under it by a hair. The air thrummed it the blow’s wake. The others stumbled awkwardly to a halt; Sobriquet stretched her hand out. Michael felt the familiar sensation of a veil settle over him and skipped to the side.
“Let her see me,” he said.
Sobriquet looked incredulously at him, jerking her head towards the furious woman casting about on the track; Amira slammed her foot against the rail in frustration, bending it and ripping the metal free from the ties. Railroad spikes popped up to clatter against the rocks. “That sounds like a terrible idea,” she noted.
Michael shrugged, his anger already settling into fatigue. “Just let her see me,” he sighed. “We don’t have time for this.”
He stepped forward onto the tracks again as the veil lifted; Amira’s head came up to focus on him. She took a step forward, gathering an inexorable energy about her; Michael slammed his foot down against the ground before she could take a second step. The railroad ties and the stone fill beneath disintegrated, slumping into a pit of loose sand and sawdust. Amira’s eyes widened as she fell; before her feet could strike the bottom Michael reached out to touch the deformed rail.
It whipped out, snakelike, circling once around her neck before settling poised over her mouth and nose. Michael held it there, leaving just enough room for her to breathe, and glared down at the woman now standing knee-deep in the sand pit. “It was unkind of me to bring up Saleh,” he said. “But if you’re going to try to kill people who say unkind things about him, then our trip to Mendian will be exactly as unproductive as you think.” He inclined his head to her once, sharply. “I don’t need any more enemies right now.”
“Then maybe you should kill me,” Amira hissed, her voice muffled by the cold metal. “Take my soul. Use it against the storm.”
Michael gave her a flat look. “If that’s what you wanted, then you don’t need my help. It’s not like we have to look far to find death, these days.” He brushed his fingers across the rail, and it withdrew from her face. “But you don’t want to die, and I don’t want to kill you. You just think it’d be easier if that were the case.”
“Wouldn’t it be?” She reached up and tore the rest of the metal from around her neck with a screeching twist; the broken remnants of the rail thudded to the sand. She tore her legs free, standing to glare at Michael.
He met her eyes, then shook his head. “It might be,” he conceded. “In the moment. But I haven’t come to this point by murdering my allies for power. We all got a very good look at where that particular path ends.” He nodded vaguely towards the southwest. “Thinking of people as the sum of their soul and power is a mistake I can’t make. There’s too much of my soul, and not enough of me; I feel it more keenly every day. Clinging to the human is what keeps me sane, keeps me - not like Luc. So I’m not going to kill you, and you’re not going to force me to.”
Amira raised her chin. “And why is that?”
“Because your path is to endure,” Michael said, shrugging. “Or so you keep saying. It seems like the least you could do is endure me for a bit longer.”
Sobriquet snorted behind him, loudly; Michael ignored it and kept his eyes on Amira. She held her glare for a few heartbeats longer - then looked down. “I have sand in my wounds,” she noted.
“Whose fault is that?” Michael muttered, feeling the tension bleed away from the air. “Come on. We’ll find you a proper anatomens in Daressa and get it seen to.”
Amira scowled - but nodded, and kept running.
—
They reached the Daressan border before night fell, slowing to a jog as they approached the checkpoint. It was impassable, with coils of wire laid across the track. The rails had been artificed away, and a low stone wall raised to ensure that no train or vehicle would cross. Michael leapt up to land on the top of the wall, waving his hand to the guards hurriedly scrambling to take their positions behind cover.
“Hello!” he shouted. “Michael Baumgart and his party, we’re looking to-” A shot caromed off his knee; he looked down, frowning, then looked up. “Michael Baumgart and his party,” he repeated. “Which means that shooting at me isn’t really necessary.” He paused. “Or effective.”
One of the Daressan soldiers raised his head above the barricade, then walked tentatively forward. “Baumgart?” he repeated. “What do you need? Uh, sir.”
“Transport to Rouns,” Michael replied. “Failing that, directions to someplace we can secure transport. We’d like to get there as quickly as possible.”
The soldier stared at him. “We walked here - marched. There’s a town a bit down the tracks, they might have something - there.” He paused, fumbling for his words. “I’m supposed to ask you what your business is-”
“Urgent, is what it is,” Michael said, beckoning to the others; they began to hop over the barricades and onto the Daressan side of the tracks. Amira came last, still ragged and bloody. The soldiers stared at her, shrinking instinctively back from the lethal grace of her gait. “Wire ahead to Rouns, if you’ve got a means. Let them know we’re coming, and to prepare to evacuate from Daressa’s western border.”
He left the man stammering on the tracks and continued on, falling back into their steady pace; the land fell away behind them. The next town was even closer than the soldier had made it sound, appearing over a rise just as the sun was setting. It was a small hamlet, a mere scattering of houses and shops, but at its center was a train platform with a battered engine at the siding, so it was enough for their purposes.
Michael led them towards the platform, which was deserted at this hour. A lone train sat on a siding, hooked up to nothing but its coal tender; Sobriquet found its engineer in short order. The man was incoherently drunk, and indignant at being woken up until Amira seized him by his waistband and carried him to the train like a particularly-offensive stuffed toy.
The man was quieter after that; Michael took pity on him and used Stanza to mitigate his hangover. Zabala and the Ardans stayed within the locomotive itself to help shovel coal, while Michael and Sobriquet rode outside on the sideboard, letting the cool night air whip past. Amira elected to ride on the roof, and Michael saw nothing of her for the entirety of the ride.
They were rolling up to the station outside of Rouns before sunrise. Despite the hour, however, there was a contingent of sharply-uniformed Mendiko soldiers waiting at the platform, their eyes on the train as it whined to a stop.
Michael and Sobriquet hopped off, followed momentarily by the other three; despite the sweat and coal dust on Zabala’s face, Michael felt the glow of his happiness at being among so many Mendiko soldiers once more. The mood was only somewhat disrupted when Amira vaulted down from the engine, landing in their midst with her usual lack of subtlety. The soldiers gave her a wide berth as they walked towards a few waiting military trucks.
None of their escort spoke, save for simple directions on where to go next; they were less overt in not meeting Michael’s gaze than the Safid, but he felt their wariness of him all the same.
The Mendiko headquarters in Rouns was a grand old hotel that had been abandoned during the last of the fighting. The exterior was ornate to the point of tackiness, or at least it seemed that way to Michael’s Ardan sensibilities; he caught Sobriquet eyeing the columns near the doorway with an appreciative look. He shook his head and let himself be led up a gilded double staircase to a meeting room.
Antolin was there, his usual haggard appearance an appropriate fit for the hour; he was nevertheless impeccably attired and clean-shaven. He gave a wan smile when he saw Michael, but it was not nearly so wide and toothy as the one worn by the man beside him. Lekubarri spread his arms and walked up to greet them, looking completely unscathed by the early hour.
“Michael!” he said. “What an interesting coincidence that you should be dropping by, we were just musing on your role in current events the other day.”
“He means to say that this isn’t the first night you’ve cost them sleep,” Vernon noted dryly, stepping out from the corner of the room. The auditor’s appearance wrested a genuine smile from Michael, and he breezed past Lekubarri to embrace Vernon warmly.
“I didn’t expect to see you here!” Michael said, drawing back to let Sobriquet hug her old comrade. “Last I remember, you were saying how you never wanted to leave Imes.”
Vernon shrugged. “Yes, well, you know how these things go. Recent troubles have drawn focus to Rouns, and Emil wanted a Daressan set of ears nearby. For some reason, his thoughts drifted to me.” He grinned at Michael, and gave Sobriquet a brotherly peck on the top of her head. “I’m happy to have made the trip now that you’re here, of course, but if Emil asks let him know that it was an incredible inconvenience and he owes me a favor.”
“Your loss is our gain,” Michael laughed. “Doubly so, since I had some things I wanted to discuss with you after-” He paused, remembering that the others were there; Antolin and Lekubarri were watching their reunion with tolerant smiles. “Well, after everything else. It’s been an eventful week.”
“Yes, I should say that it has,” Lekubarri murmured, his eyes straying to Amira as she walked in. Her face was sweaty and marked with black soot, her hair wild from the wind. Nevertheless, she held her injured body with an imperious grace, glaring at everyone present before lowering herself into a seat around the room’s long table. The others found their way towards seats, though Michael paused to exchange a quiet handshake and greeting with Antolin before taking his own.
“Why don’t you begin?” Antolin said. “We’ve heard more than a little from Ghar, but there’s no substitute for a firsthand account.”
Michael nodded and launched into an abbreviated retelling of their trip through Ghar - of their arrival in the city, their encounters with Marcus and subsequent trip south. Of how they were driven north after the Mendiko withdrawal from Gharon. Their brief defense of Saf, culminating in Friedrich’s death. And, finally, Michael’s trip south to confront Luc.
When he had finished, Antolin was grim-faced, hunched forward onto the table. Lekubarri’s expression had ceased to show emotion midway through the tale. Vernon’s brows were knit together in concern, and he leaned back in his chair.
“This seems bad,” he said lightly.
Antolin let out a dark chuckle, shaking his head; the bags under his eyes stood out in the room’s lighting. “Bad doesn’t begin to cover it,” he said. “Xabier, tell them.”
“I’ve been getting reports from Zuzendaritza stations all across the south of the continent,” Lekubarri said, steepling his fingers. “It’s early still, but I think there’s a very real concern that this storm represents an existential event.”
Michael blinked, sitting up straight; the tone of Lekubarri’s voice set his heart beating faster. “Existential?”
Lekubarri nodded, drawing a folder from a slim leather case at his side. “You know that the purpose of our listening posts is, first and foremost, to locate the Star of Mendian when it has gone astray. To that end, we monitor for light across its spectrum, from radio to the high-end of hazardous frequencies. Recently we’ve monitored an increase in that latter category-”
“To the point,” Antolin said, making an irritated gesture.
There was a long pause; Lekubarri drew his hand over his face with a sigh. “Apologies, I’ve given too many speeches before the Batzar this week. It’s not a group that likes things stated plainly.”
He pulled out a map of the Gharic coast, on which a large red circle had been drawn. “We believe that it is urgent to take immediate action against the rogue Star. In the wake of Taskin’s death, his light has grown strong enough to induce changes in mundane soil and dust, which begin to emit an echo of that light. We’ve already started to see indications that this contaminated dust is being blown outward to Saf and western Daressa. An accumulation of this material will render the land uninhabitable, unusable for crops for several decades at least. The longer it goes on, the worse the problem gets.”
He put the map on the table, sliding it forward so they could see the glaring red circle; it already covered a sizable area around the peninsula. “At the most extreme,” Lekubarri said quietly, “we are looking at the end of life on the continent.”
Comments
TMarkos
Yeah, I had a moment while I was writing the start of next week's chapter, where I realized we're really coming up on it. There's still some stuff to cross off here and there, of course, but it's all incidental next to the giant world-ending storm on the horizon.
Chase C
Seems like things are really coming to a head. Nuclear fallout irradiating the continent certainly puts a time limit on the next confrontation with Luc.
