Peculiar Soul

There is no man who can stand against the will of history. One may dam the river, seek to divert it, channel it through painstaking effort - but in the end, men may only alter the minor details of its course.

The reclamation of old Ghar has been a long and tortuous course, and the future shall prove no different. Holding actions and barricades spring up in our path, years are spent squabbling over inches. Ultimately none of it matters; the river always reaches the sea.

- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687

There was an eerie déjà vu in seeing the walls of Agnec. Never before had a place been so thoroughly seared into Michael’s brain prior to his first visit, the low fortifications surrounding the city hard to banish from his thoughts ever since Luc’s confrontation. Now it was afternoon, and a warmer sun lit the stone. That was not the only difference from Michael’s vision, however. The stink of burnt flesh was thick in the air, mingling with earthy, wet charcoal and the metallic tang of melted stone.

The land before the wall was a blackened waste. Gouges ripped the soil, and colossal slabs of stone littered the barren plain - some intact, others gouged and shattered by rending blows. Michael sent his sight out to inspect some of the abandoned stone shields, lingering on the radiating cracks that spread from impact points, the liquid curves where the stone had melted and run like water down to the charred dirt.

It could not hold his attention, though. Stranger and more demanding than the titanic battlefield was the single swatch of white cloth that flapped in the breeze, raised neatly over the half-collapsed eastern gatehouse.

“It could be a trap,” Sobriquet muttered. “But it doesn’t feel like one. There should be more troops in the city, more men on the wall. I don’t feel any of that. Even the chaos and conflict is gone. It feels very much like they’ve abandoned the city.”

“That’s the impression I got from the large white flag over the gate,” Charles replied, deadpan. “But you know how things have been ever since we met the little lord. And the Safid - even if they are surrendering, I don’t trust it.”

Michael pulled his sight back to where they stood, at the fore of a column of trucks and tanks that snaked back along the road to Imes, the bulk of the airship looming over the rear. “I don’t see much choice,” he said. “Either we accept it as a surrender - cautiously, because we’re not idiots - or we begin killing everyone we see on the wall from a distance on the assumption that this is some sort of convoluted trap.”

Sobriquet made a face, nodding; Charles adopted a thoughtful expression.

“The second option is not an option, to be clear,” Michael sighed, reaching into the truck for its radio handset. “Antolin, we’re going to advance.”

“Be cautious,” the grand marshal’s voice came back. “We’ll be ready for Sobriquet’s signal.”

Michael climbed back into the truck, then looked at the driver. “Ready to go?”

Zabala gave him a flat look. A moment later they were rumbling along the uneven path to the city, pausing only where slabs of rock had fallen across the road; one of the artifex clearance crews darted ahead to address the blockages where they occurred. Michael tensed during these few pauses, but no answer came from the city. His sight was fixed nervously on the small group of Safid standing in front of the gate.

There was one officer, and two enlisted men standing behind him. The enlisted men wore the ceremonial veiled hats he had seen during their last visit; the officer stood straight-backed, his sight fixed along the road towards the approaching Mendiko convoy. He did not move until the trucks drew to a halt some distance from the walls.

Michael hopped down from the sideboard and turned to watch the officer approach, his strides crisp and in-time with the two men following behind. Sobriquet moved to stand beside Michael, with Charles and Zabala behind them. The officer stopped at a respectful distance to click his heels together, at which signal the two men with him dropped to a knee, genuflecting and lowering their veiled faces. The officer inclined his head and pressed his hand to his lips, then his forehead.

“It is my honor to greet you, Great Seeker - and you, Great Holy One.” The officer nodded to them each in turn, his expression level despite Michael’s evident confusion. “I have been instructed to convey to you this letter, with the compliments of the Great Flame, and to abide by the contents therein.”

He reached into the breast of his jacket and withdrew a small, finely-made envelope. Zabala stepped around them to intercept the proffered document, taking it from the officer and inspecting it briefly before handing it to Michael.

Bemused, Michael took the envelope. It had been addressed in a neat hand that he recognized well from Saleh’s scribbled marginalia:

To the Seeker, Serafina Miro; and to Michael Baumgart, of many names.

Michael and Sobriquet exchanged a glance; Sobriquet flipped the envelope over to open it. The paper inside was plain, scribed with a short note.

Greetings to you both, and my compliments on a campaign well-fought. Without further preamble: the Armed Forces of Saf shall withdraw from Agnec, and in a short time from the borders of Daressa as they stood on Tempest 38, 623.

There was a soft choking noise from Sobriquet; the hand holding the paper began to tremble. Michael took it gently from her fingers, his other arm around her shoulders.

I expect that this will earn me no goodwill from Khem, nor do I expect Goitxea and Imes to forget their ire. They still live in the world as it has been; we have been given a glimpse of the world as it may be. The path bends strangely and away, to lands where our old truths cannot guide us. We must discard them or be led astray.

In my judgment this War no longer serves the best interests of Saf.

I have therefore ended it. If vengeance compels you to carry onward, I shall end it more decisively. But - I suspect that your duty and desire will lead you to embrace peace, for there are none of us who will lack an Adversary in the fullness of time.

In faith,

Saleh Taskin

The wind tugged at the scrap of paper; Michael read through it a second time. He looked up at the officer who had delivered the letter, still standing motionless in front of them.

“Just like that?” Sobriquet whispered. “Just that, and it’s over?” She took a step towards the officer, her fist clenching. “Decades of war, countless dead, and at the first bloody nose he runs back to Saf?” She took another step, her soul fuzzing out in an indistinct nimbus; Michael stepped back hastily as the officer and his attendants collapsed to the ground.

Her soul crackled out around her, eating the detail from the land and deadening the air. Zabala and Charles scrambled backwards towards the truck; Michael clenched his jaw and began to walk towards her. His skin went numb, prickling with unpleasant sensation at every step.

He focused on keeping his breathing steady, letting the flames within him flare in opposition to the tempest. Michael reached her and grabbed her shoulder; his arm went numb to the elbow. She wheeled to glare at him, her eyes red.

“He can’t do this,” she hissed. “There’s no justice in this end.”

“This isn’t the end,” Michael replied, steeped in the warmth of the flames; he let it pulse down his arm, swell in his chest. His obdurate soul drank it in. “But it is a victory. The War is over, Sera, and we won.”

He pulled her into a hug, feeling the bite of her soul creeping inward despite his efforts. His vision swam, his neck and jaw losing sensation - and then it was gone, her soul falling quiet. The flames surged outward through Michael like a warm tide, restoring feeling to his limbs as they ran exultant and unchecked. These were souls who had died to the War, one way or another. Their joy was palpable, limitless, though one shone far brighter than the others.

Michael let Clair’s flame burn its fierce joy and pride as Sobriquet’s arm tightened around him. For at time they stood motionless; Sobriquet pulled away to wipe at her eyes. “The War is over,” she agreed. “Though not the work.”

“Never the work,” Michael chuckled. He leaned in to kiss her, then pulled back to survey the scorched walls of Agnec. “But that’s to be expected when you have a country to rebuild.”

He pulled away to kneel by the collapsed Safid. A touch on the brow and a gentle whisper from Stanza saw the officer’s eyes open in wild disorientation, settling wide and confused on Michael.

“Sorry about that,” Michael said mildly, standing and offering a hand to the officer. After a moment the man took it, and was pulled to his feet with effortless ease. “The letter said the War is over; all the Safid are leaving. I assume that means peacefully, and without undue delay.”

“Yes, Great Holy One,” the officer said, ducking his head. He seemed to realize that Michael had touched his hand a moment later, staring at it with indecisive wonder before snapping to attention. “Most have departed Agnec already. We three are the only remnants of the garrison.”

Michael nodded. “Then I wish you an expedient journey home,” he said - then paused, his eyes focusing back on the officer. “Actually, one question before you go. Nobody’s ever called me a ‘Great Holy One’ before. Is there something I should know?”

The officer lowered his eyes, touching his hand to his lips. “The Great Flame spoke before the garrison departed,” he said. “He spoke of the twists of the path, and the revelation brought by battle.” Here the officer paused, looking aside. “He said that your purpose was never ours to define.”

“That is a definite step up from when you were all trying to kill me on sight,” Michael said, raising an eyebrow. “Unless you three are merely on good behavior for the day.”

“No, Great Holy One-” The man broke off, looking flustered. “I am not a scholar of the text, nor a great soul, so I do not presume to say - that is, it is not for me to speak on the edicts of the Great Flame-”

Michael held up a hand. “What’s your name?” he asked.

The officer blinked. “Tariq, holy one. Tariq Saidi.”

“Tariq.” Michael extended his hand. “Michael Baumgart.”

Tariq looked at the hand bemusedly, eventually bringing his own hand up to clasp it; Michael gave it a quick, firm shake before releasing his grip.

“I’ve never given much thought to my ‘path’ in the Safid sense of the word,” he said. “And if I’m being truthful, I don’t think I like the concept much - not in theory, and especially not in execution. But I am interested to know Saleh’s thoughts on my path forward from here, and I’d appreciate it if you would relay what you’ve heard.”

Tariq looked away again, his face twisting. “Little more than what I’ve said,” he admitted. “He said that Saf had turned back the mightiest of the challenges that could be found outside its borders, and that even the field of war must at times lie fallow. That our adversaries would make themselves known when the time was ripe, and that we would be ready to meet them.”

Michael nodded slowly, his mind easily providing the unctuous notes of Saleh’s voice speaking those words, his eyes shining with fervid emphasis, with the same certainty and conviction he had shown striding out to face Luc. Yet - Michael had seen his face change, as the spire of rock skewered his side.

There had been fear, there. Not certainty, not conviction. Of all the emotions that Michael had intimate familiarity with, fear was his oldest, closest friend. Even without Spark’s guiding touch, he knew that face.

“I see,” Michael said. “I suppose it’s natural to think about the turning of one’s path after a fight like that.” He let the silence stretch out for a beat, then met Tariq’s eyes. “I wonder if you might carry a message back to the Great Flame for me?”

Tariq blinked, then regained his professional mien. “Of course.”

“I know how his path ends,” Michael said.

The officer stood nonplussed for a moment, tilting his head to the side; after a moment he realized that Michael had finished speaking. “Nothing else?” he asked.

“Nothing else,” Michael said, reaching down to tap the other Safid soldiers lightly on the brow. He straightened and took a step away as they stirred. “Pleasure to meet you three. I hope it doesn’t happen again.”

There was a hitch in the breath of the world. For a moment all was still, placid, fraught with anticipatory dread-

And then there was only Michael, smiling at them in the afternoon sun.

The three men straightened, turned, and began to walk hurriedly west.

A hand slipped around Michael’s waist. “That was actually quite petty,” Sobriquet said, smiling. “I’m proud of you.”

“I’ve had good teachers,” Michael replied, closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath; the last of the tingling, actinic fear from the Safid soldiers dwindled as they left, though the city itself pulsed with a duller, amorphous tension that made a match for its burnt surrounds.

Sobriquet stood with him and watched the wind blow. “Were you telling the truth?” she asked.

Michael nodded. “It’s nothing special,” he said. “The answer is obvious, but we wrap it up in stories about conflict and struggle, growth - pleasant, meaningful things, the sort of stories Saleh likes to tell. But he saw it. He stared right at it for a moment.” He let his breath out slowly, then turned to Sobriquet.

“In the end,” Michael said, “he dies.”

“Even in retreat he’s a bastard,” Antolin grumbled, running a hand through his iron-grey hair. “We’ve got forward elements heading west along the coast to Rouns, and north inland, but the roads are clogged with Safid civilians. Trade has stopped from Pashaluk Qalo right at the peak of the harvest.”

“We do have some people in place, but our resistance cells in the west were always smaller than in Ardan territory,” Sobriquet said, tapping her finger on the coastal highway. “In Rouns, at least, our men control the docks. If you can get supplies across the bay, we can use it as our staging point to begin picking up the pieces.”

“That may be harder than you think,” Antolin said. He met Sobriquet’s glare with a flat look, rapping his knuckles on the map where Safid blue still tinged the land. “Those refugees, they’re almost exclusively the younger generations, the backbone of the labor force. Some of these cities have been part of Saf since the War began. There are still pockets of Daressan sentiment-”

“I know the situation on the ground.” Sobriquet stood up to look Antolin in the eye. “There have always been people who preferred Safid rule. They have a choice, we’re not stopping them from leaving. Those who stay will be part of Daressa. That part is non-negotiable.”

“And what will their introduction to Daressa be?” Antolin asked. “After decades of relative peace and prosperity, their cities are upturned and half-depopulated with winter on the horizon. Taskin didn’t give you a gift, he gave you a length of rope. In far too short a time he’ll be rested, repositioned and in an excellent spot to sweep back through and ‘restore’ the country, no matter how well you rebuild.”

Sobriquet made a face. “I know,” she said. “But we have some time, at least, and our country back. It’s everything we fought for. Even if it’s a trap or some device of Saleh’s, I won’t squander it.” She looked at the map, then back at Antolin. “Will Mendian stand with us, now that the fighting is done?”

Antolin let his breath out slowly, then nodded his head. “I can’t speak for the Batzar, but I’d wager they’ll be glad enough to have scored a victory against Saf. Our initial rationale for intervention was humanitarian, so they can’t very well neglect Daressan welfare as soon as the guns stop.”

“I sense a ‘but’ trailing behind that sentence,” Sobriquet muttered.

“But the Star will grow to be their chief concern before long,” Antolin admitted. “I suspect that they’ll embrace the rebuilding of Daressa to distract the public from that ugly truth, at least through the winter. I wouldn’t count on extended support past then unless the Star of Mendian is Michael’s to wield.”

Michael felt a chill; he caught himself tracing his fingers over his left hand absently and stopped, clasping his hands behind his back. “Has there been any sign of Luc?” he asked.

“None, but we haven’t truly begun to search,” Antolin replied, pacing over to his desk; he withdrew a folded communique and brought it to the table. “It’s been more than a century since they were last tasked with it, but the Batzar’s foreign directorate has historically borne the responsibility of finding and recovering the Star when it goes astray. They’ve maintained that capability into the modern age; Leire made sure of it.”

A shadow crossed Antolin’s face; he shook his head.

“Ambassadors?” Michael frowned. “I don’t know that diplomacy is going to serve, in this case.”

“There are many aspects to diplomacy,” Antolin said. “Formal and - informal. The Zuzendaritza handles both.”

“Spies, then,” Sobriquet mused. “I can see how that would be a help, although I doubt they could do more than point the way.”

Antolin looked away to the window. “I would not discount them,” he said. “I said finding and recovering. Until you arrived in Mendian, our preparations assumed that we would have to locate and recover a hostile soul from the very heart of Saf.” He met Michael’s eyes. “The current director is Xabier Lekubarri.”

Michael leaned forward on the table, feeling the information click into place in his head. Lekubarri, who had orchestrated Galen’s death on Leire’s behalf. They had caught him out, of course, but it had taken Emil’s meticulous recordkeeping, Sobriquet’s nose for secrets and Michael’s personal intervention to finally draw that link; even then they were left with a fait accompli.

He felt the table give under his grip. Michael released it, looking down at the dents in the metal, then back up at Antolin. “Okay,” he said. “Does he have any agenda past that mission?”

“Usually,” the grand marshal snorted. “But I imagine that his next priority after finding the Star of Mendian will be to establish a relationship with its next bearer; he has long enjoyed the benefits of being Leire’s voice in the Batzar. The nature of that relationship, however…”

Antolin looked down at the map of Daressa, his eyes tracing over the slew of forces still spread across the coastal road. He picked up one of the small markers, turning it over in his fingers. “What will you do?” he asked.

Michael looked up, blinking. “What do you mean?”

“The War has ended,” Antolin said. “Saf has retreated back within its borders far sooner than expected. The rebuilding of Daressa will be a long and arduous task, especially as the winter sets in, but that charge will be led by administrators and clerks, carried out by laborers. My role in this undertaking is drawing to a close; you must decide what your role will be.”

There was a pause; Michael looked down at the map. A land of burnt fields and collapsed buildings, of a tired, desperate people. He turned to Sobriquet, who was lost in her own thoughts. He could feel the pressure, the doubt that settled leaden across her.

Antolin had, if anything, vastly understated the challenges laid out before the renascent state of Daressa. Ardalt was a unified nation untouched by war save of its own volition, and Michael had seen the degree to which feeding and employing the population vexed the Assembly; they were not ideal leaders in any sense, but they ultimately did shoulder the tasks necessary for Ardalt’s function.

Daressa had only Sobriquet, and even she had voiced doubts as to her suitability for peacetime leadership. There would need to be leaders selected from the populace, trained in the craft of administration, civil structures codified and built over years of work. Rebuilding would not happen in a season - but that was all they could expect, if Mendian grew distracted by Stellar’s absence.

Slowly, Michael’s thoughts settled into order. “Daressa needs Mendian,” he said. “Mendian needs their Star. The only way this is going to work is if Mendian makes a lasting commitment to Daressa’s security.”

He looked up at Antolin. The grand marshal’s face was solemn, but it could not disguise the intensity of his focus; the fate of two nations was in the balance. There was uncertainty there, and no small amount of grief, but beyond both there was hope. It flared brighter as Antolin met Michael’s eyes. Paths branched away, forking and splitting, but there was only one among them worth considering.

“I must become the Star of Mendian,” Michael said. “There is no other path forward.”

The low susurrus of conversation around them fell away; Sobriquet turned from her thoughts to look at Michael, then at Antolin. The grand marshal smiled.

“That will happen regardless of your efforts,” Antolin pointed out. “Lekubarri will find Luc, I have no doubts there - and powerful though his soul may be, Mendian will not be denied.”

Michael nodded. “In time,” he said. “But we have until spring. And I imagine that if the support ceases, a Star of Mendian who has his soul handed to him by the Batzar will not be able to sway them to restart it. Not before Saf takes advantage of the opportunity they’ve made.”

“This is true,” Antolin said, motioning for him to continue.

“I need to find Luc before then,” Michael said. “And I need to be the one to stop him.” He paused, frowning, then spoke again.

“To kill him,” he said, quietly. “I don’t see another path forward. Either Luc dies this winter, or Daressa dies in spring.”

There was a pause; Antolin’s smile faded. “There are options, when the time comes.”

“There aren’t.” Michael shook his head. “It has to be me, or the soul will be the Batzar’s leash around my neck. If - no. When Saf returns to Daressa, they will need Mendian’s help again. The only way to ensure that is by doing what Leire did - using their respect and fear for her to set a course.” He paused, his sight straying to his left hand. “And I want it to be me. I owe him that, for what remains of our friendship.”

“Well spoken,” Antolin said, nodding his approval. “But I should warn you that the help I can give will be limited. You’ve been accustomed to transport, supplies, resources. Mendian’s support for Daressa will shortly transition to civilian oversight, not military - which means that my abilities will be sharply curtailed, and the Batzar will control what remains.”

“He has resources of his own,” Sobriquet said, threading her fingers through Michael’s hand and squeezing. “This is for Daressa’s future, after all.”

“Your partisans are valuable, but they’re not military - and largely not ensouled, either.” Antolin gestured to the table, and the scattered figures representing his battalions. “They can’t replace this, and many of them will rightfully seek to turn their efforts to rebuilding rather than continuing in conflict.”

Michael picked up one of the markers for an infantry squad. Antolin was right; while Sobriquet’s followers were devoted they were hardly people he could ask to engage in a country-wide search for one of the most dangerous souls known. There was no substitute for soldiers, in the end. He ran his thumb over the marker - and smiled as an idea took root.

“Could you support one battalion through the winter?” Michael asked, looking at Antolin.

“I can’t deploy men under your command,” Antolin cautioned him. “Supplies, perhaps, but my hands are tied once the civilian administrators step in.”

“Supplies are all I’d need,” Michael said, placing the infantry marker back on the table. “I’ll handle the men.”

North of Imes, the road snaked away towards the distant highlands. A steady progression of carts, horses and travelers on foot filled the path; it was not so much as the coast road, but a fair few Safid departing the country preferred to head north to Rul rather than west to Qalo.

The flow was interrupted by a checkpoint where bored-looking soldiers inspected carts; the departing Safid were free to bring much with them, but a sensible cap had been imposed on the total value of goods in order to prevent the wholesale looting of Daressa. Those afoot or without bulky cargo were waved on with scarcely a glance.

Zabala pulled the truck up behind the line of carts awaiting inspection, setting the brake and turning off the engine. He gave Michael a flat look. “You’re sure?” he asked. “Not all soldiers are made alike.”

“I’m not precisely spoiled for choice,” Michael sighed, jumping down from the sideboard and beginning to walk towards the camp that sprawled out beside the checkpoint; the wind pulled at tent flaps and drew away the smoke issuing from the mess. Michael had made it nearly to the base of that plume before a sentry intercepted him.

The young man wore an Ardan uniform; Michael felt Zabala’s professional contempt for the rumpled cloth and the sheer distance they had covered before being challenged.

“Halt!” the man cried out. “You lot can’t be here, civilians have to stay to the road-” He broke off, noting Zabala’s uniform. “Uh, sir. Unless you’re not civilians.”

“That seems to cover the options,” Michael noted mildly, nodding his head at the mess tent. Even from a distance Michael could hear the singing and laughter from within; for all of their evident lack of discipline, the men here were celebrating the end of the War with unparalleled stamina. “I was hoping to speak to-”

“Who’s that?” a voice called out from the direction of the tent. Michael looked up to see a black-uniformed officer walking over, grinning broadly. “My Lord Baumgart! We didn’t think to see you out here on the rump end of the cordon!”

The ex-Swordsman extended a hand; Michael clasped it perhaps a little harder than necessary and shook. “Hello, Lars,” he said. “Glad to see you and yours survived the War.”

“They kept us well clear of any actual combat,” Lars scoffed. “Sentry duty and herding civilians. I can’t complain at the lack of danger, but I shall nonetheless.” He laughed, clapping Michael on the shoulder with excessive force. “I suppose we’ll have to grow used to it, now that peace has broken out.”

“About that,” Michael said. “Have you ever considered mercenary work?”