Chapter 25: The Western Front

Chapter 25: The Western Front

The story of Saf is, broadly, the story of the Safid Cults of the Eight. Even when Ghar itself lost its grip on the old Safid lands, their governors held the reins of power with few real challenges until nearly a century later. This was the Third Bulu War, at which point historians begin to mention the name of Salman Ghazali.

Some claim that Ghazali bore the soul we now call Spark, others contend he held no soul at all. Whatever his gifts, he convinced the abbots in Khem to endorse him as the mortal echo of the first soul, thereby enshrining in Saf the precedent that living men might be worshiped as divine beings.

Ghazalis purported soul did not allow him to dismiss the internal problems of his fledgling sultanate, but war has ever been the salve which tyrants use to soothe such disturbances. Though Ghazalis initial attempts to claim more-central Gharic lands yielded only moderate success and were largely reversed in the upheavals after his death, he created the template from which all subsequent occupants of the Eight-Petal Throne have molded their rule: that of divine right to power.

Disastrous as this may seem, the progression of Safid governance developed strangely well in the following centuries. The remnants of the Gharic aristocracy settled into a comfortable stalemate with the ascendant clergy. War with Ghar was no longer palatable, and what aggression was required for purposes of state was largely visited upon the Bulu.

Inevitably, however, a structure in which the whims of one man may pass unquestioned is doomed to failure. The Abasement of Ghar and subsequent defense of Gharon by the Tenth Star in 442 left the Safid with but one prominent ensouled - Khalid the Blade, bearer of Sever.

Khalid did not rage further against Ghars newly-secure borders; instead, he returned south, induced the Cult of the Sword to slaughter the leaders of the aristocratic faction and engaged in a pacification campaign against the Bulu that would span more than a century. Khalid himself did not live to see the end of it, but his successors did not lose sight of that wars ultimate purpose - to clear the way for what we now term the War. Indeed, it was less than a score of years between the end of the fifth Bulu war and the Safid occupation of Rul.

- Leire Gabarain, Annals of the Sixteenth Star, 691.

It was on the fourth day that the land began to die around them. The change was slow and almost-imperceptible at first, with a few stray craters or the dark loops of wire laced amid the greenery. Where the signs of battle had been intermittent on the coastal road, however, here they began to cluster. The land was muddy and denuded where it had not been trampled down by columns of men.

Trees vanished. What was left of them rose splintered and dry from the ground, or lay toppled and half-submerged in the omnipresent mud. Their skeletal form saw its echo in the broken spires of chimneys standing here and there along the road. They stopped for the evening in what had been a village, now an eerie brick forest. One of the houses was still partially standing; the north facade had collapsed into the street while the rest stood stubbornly in the evenings shadow.

Vernon confirmed that there were no heartbeats within the ruins, and the ruined chimney once again played host to a small but cheery fire. It was oddly unnerving, Michael thought, watching the shadows swell around their little island of light and warmth. The evening deepened and they slept, with Gerard waking Michael at midnight for the morning watch.

The artifex lingered for a moment as Michael rose and drank from his canteen, blearily rubbing his eyes. The stars shone overhead through a thin blanket of haze; otherwise, the land around them was utterly dark.

Its quiet, Gerard muttered.

Michael took a final pull from his canteen and looked at the other mans silhouette. Quiet is good, isnt it? he asked.

There should be something, Gerard said. Insects, birds. Mice. Theres nothing out there to make noise. Its just - quiet. He shuddered, then turned back towards where the others were sleeping. I dont like it. I know Clair said we should wake at dawn, but - if we were to wake a bit earlier and be on our way, that would be fine by me.

There was little Michael could say to that, so he merely nodded and turned his sight out to the ruined village. Even though the light was poor, his spectors sight was enough to pick out the contours of the crumbling houses, the piles of brickwork spilling over into the street - and the crude chair Gerard had shaped from those near him.

Michael sat and waited for morning. Gerard had been right about the lack of noise; it was mere minutes before Michaels mind began inventing things that were not there. Stone scraped, pebbles tumbled downward to clatter on bricks - or perhaps they did not. The silence that reasserted itself afterward made him doubt his senses. His eyes screamed that a thin, shadowy figure was lurking just out of sight amid the debris, his ears half-heard the brush of feet across the stone.

Per Gerards request he woke the others when the pale light of dawn was just coloring the horizon. Clair looked backward and touched the houses lone remaining doorframe as they departed, murmuring something Michael could not hear - and then they were once again on the road.

Past the village the terrain was no longer churned soil and vast stretches of muddy desolation. The first sign of the old Ardan lines they passed was a long ridge of shell casings, piled high and spilling backwards down the low slope of the land. It stretched for so long that Michael was not certain of its end, millions of casings stacked in corroding piles that stained the soil beneath them green and black. Earthworks began to appear, berms and long, twisting trenches that snaked before and between them. They had not been maintained in some time; some of the trenches had collapsed inward, others had become stinking canals after the recent storms.

After three sets of berms and trenches they saw people - a small company of Ardan soldiers wandering listlessly around a checkpoint on the road. Their appearance set Michael on edge, but Clair only waved and pulled out a sheaf of papers for the bored-looking guard standing at the gate. The man glanced them over, then slid the small stack of banknotes from between them into his breast pocket.

All in order, he said, winking at Clair as he returned the papers. She smiled back prettily, the expression nevertheless somewhat predatory to Michaels eyes; it faded to her usual stony mien once they had moved a step past the gate.

Past the old Ardan lines the signs of battle became fresher and more pronounced. The charnel stink of corpses slithered into the wind and refused to depart. They saw surprisingly few living soldiers, however, save for those at the occasional checkpoint or marching along in sullen convoys. It was not until the sun was once again glaring in their eyes that they began to see the rear of the Ardan advance.

The civilian camps came first, massive collections of carts and wagons that churned even the hard-packed roads into muck. A haphazard assortment of tents, pavilions and carts formed avenues across the fields that abutted the more regular grid of the Ardan encampment. Where the two met, cookfires spewed smoke upward against the evening sun.

The camp followers called out to the Ardans with promises of bellies filled, clothes laundered, cups filled and beds shared. After the quiet desolation of the old lines the market seemed almost violently vibrant; Michael found himself looking away from the press of humanity, and as he did he saw Vernon don a pair of woolen earmuffs against the tumult.

Clair led them along the impromptu market street with quiet certainty in her steps, veering to the side only to avoid particularly drunk or massive knots of soldiers. These were a regular occurrence - the mood in the camp was jovial, even celebratory in the wake of their recent advances. At one point the street was almost entirely given over to a mob of black-jacketed soldiers adorned with a single red stripe on their left arm and a saber at their hip.

Michael looked wonderingly at them, having never seen such an affectation in parades at home - and collided with Gerard. The artifex had slowed to stare at the soldiers in black, and when his head turned to the side his expression was pure venom.

Gerard? Michael muttered. Come on, we should-

Charles siezed Gerard by the shoulder and hauled him roughly forward. Not the time, he hissed. Dammit, keep your eyes forward.

The other artifex twisted angrily out of Charless grip, wrenching his eyes back toward where Clair had stopped to look back at him with alarm - but not before a member of the black-clad contingent had turned to look at him.

Hey, the man called out drunkenly. Hey, Ressie, you got a problem? He staggered away from the mob, a few of his fellows turning to follow in his wake. Youre looking at me like you got a problem.

No problem, Charles said, holding his hands up palm-outward. Hes just had some drinks, he doesnt know what hes looking at.

The soldier spat into the dirt. As he straightened up Michael saw that he bore a small patch on his shoulder, just above the red stripe - a bloody hand, grasping a bared sword by the blade. I think he does, the man slurred. Think he dont like Ardans.

Who doesnt like Ardans? Charles countered. Absent prior knowledge of the man Michael would have thought him sincere; it was surprisingly unsettling. You all keep us safe, we know that. Come on, let me buy you a drink to show my thanks.

The man regarded Charles woozily for a moment, then his eyes hardened and shifted back to Gerard. I wanna hear him say it, he said, stumbling closer to Gerard. Go on, Ressie, let me hear it. Thank you, Ardans, for protecting us poor fucks. Then we can have that drink.

This battle will be the end of Imes, Gerard said, looking up from where he sat resting against the barns wall. If we could stop it, if we could get the Ardans out of Daressa like you wanted-

Its an idiotic risk, Clair shot back. We cant involve Sobriquet, not under any circumstances.

It seems as though I should get a vote in such matters, Sobriquets voice said, echoing from the dark corners of their shelter. Clair looked up in horror, her eyes widening.

No, she said. No, no, you were supposed to stay behind. You cant be here!

I must be here, Sobriquet said gently, its apparition materializing out of the shadow. This is too crucial a task to withhold resources.

They will kill you if they find you. Clair stood and stared at the blur, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks. And then they will kill all of us.

Sobriquet cocked its head to the side. You would have been dead three times already if I had not come along. It nodded to Gerard, who blinked. With my involvement a raid on Severs camp is a reasonable prospect. I had hoped to avoid this conversation, but it is past time for niceties. We can end this, Clair. Besides, there is little danger in my presence so long as it is brief. I am here, but that does not mean that I am particularly here, as it were.

It is still too dangerous, Clair said.

This is the War, Charles shrugged. Being Daressan is more dangerous than it used to be. Im in favor of taking the chance.

As am I, Gerard said. You said it yourself, we cant do it without the boss.

Clair skewered the artifices with a betrayed look, then turned her gaze to Vernon. The auditor held his hands up. Not about to contradict one of the Eight, he said. Sorry, Clair.

Finally, reluctantly, she turned to Michael. Youre the only one of us here with something Sobriquet wants, she said. The apparition pulsed once, quickly, then stilled. Stop this. It will be the end of everything if we fail.

Michael met her eyes for a long moment. There was desperation there, and fear - boundless fear, far more than hed seen when her own life had been threatened in the past.

I cant, he said, watching Clairs face harden with his words. Theres always a choice. If this is Sobriquets will, to intervene here and try to end this piece of the War - I cant stop that.

Idiots, she spat. Fine. Then lets be quick about it, and be off home. Every day we linger is an unacceptable risk. Clair glared around the barn once more, then stormed out towards the road.

After a few more moments to tend to Vernon and gather their supplies, the rest of the group followed. Once more Michael trailed in the back, and once more he saw the telltale shimmer of air that heralded Sobriquets presence beside him. This time, however, the apparition did not speak.

Michael glanced up at Clairs distant form. She loves you, he said. Doesnt she?

There was no response for several paces. Finally, the blur shifted. Do you know what the saddest part in all of this is? it asked. Were all fighting for Daressa, to restore what was taken. Its a lie. The Daressa we remember is gone, swept away under something much - greater than it, much more profound. Subsumed under what came after.

There was a shimmer, and the voice took on a bitter tone. Just a memory of something comfortable and safe that probably never existed to begin with. Daressa is what you see now, and regardless of what we remember - it must proceed from reality. From today.

And you? Michael asked. Whats your reality?

Another pause. Its simple. I am Sobriquet.

The blur vanished, and Michael kept walking forward.

It was not until the next day that they felt prepared to begin their reconnaissance of Severs camp, allowing fatigue and nerves both to bleed away as they slept close and fitfully within Emils cart. When morning came they proceeded under Sobriquets protection towards the Ardan camp, to the sprawling mess of tents that Sever claimed as his own.

Stinks, Vernon muttered. Ardans normally keep their camps cleaner than this.

Charles shook his head. These arent regulars - look, theyre not all even Ardan. He gestured to a swarthy man with a festering sore on his cheek. Safid, that one. Emil said they were using prisoners.

Michael raised his sight up and looked around. The disorganized mass of prisoner tents was neatly ringed by Ardan soldiers, and now that he was looking properly the sentries were obvious - regularly-spaced, and facing inward.

More guards patrolled the edge of what Michael presumed was Severs actual compound, a collection of tents that clustered tightly around an old, crumbling manor house. The gardens and grounds that had once lain around the house were trampled into mud, statuary broken and defaced. On one wall, someone had daubed the blade-and-hand of the Swordsmen in lurid red.

The edge of the manors property had been fortified with several layers of wire, as well as assorted debris and scrap that jutted out from the dusty remains of a hedge. Going to be tough getting in, Michael said, stretching his sight higher still. Doesnt matter how invisible we are, we cant get through that barrier.

I fall somewhat short of omnipotence, Sobriquets voice murmured. Please accept my heartfelt apologies.

Clair grunted and waved them towards a less-traveled stretch of the camp boulevard. Well observe for a while and see what we can learn about the camp, she said. No sense rushing in. Tell us what you see, milord.

Michael winced at the hostility in her voice; siding with Sobriquet over Clair had likely erased any scraps of goodwill hed managed to build with her. He did not reply, however. He kept his sight high, and trained on the compound.

The border fence was porous, for the right people - groups of Swordsmen were waved in without a second glance, and a small stream of Ardan regulars came and went in their wake. Even the prisoners were permitted entry, albeit in closely-herded groups.

Labor, perhaps, or some more twisted amusement for the Swordsmen. Michael focused on one of the departing groups - and froze. Amid the dirty castoffs and rags of the prisoners, there was a faded blot of red. The shirt was torn, dusty, but not so far gone that Michael could not recognize the uniform of Sparks control group. A second later, its owner raised his head to look out across the camp.

Despite a black eye and a crust of blood on his cheek, Lucs face was unmistakable.