Soul of the World

by David Mealing

  YOU MAY.

  Blessings, brother.

  The voice faded as her reverie cleared. Ad-Shi sighed, her vision returning to the present.

  “A good one today, hm?” Axerian looked up from his latest volume with his usual half smile.

  She said nothing, only bowed her head, nodding once. When it was clear she would venture no further response, he laughed to himself and went back to his book.

  The two of them sat on smooth stone benches opposite one another in the center of the cavernous chamber. She had long since grown accustomed to the feeling of this place that men had called the Gods’ Seat in the tongue of the Amaros. Her people, the Vordu, had named it Ujuru’i’alura, which translated to much the same thing: “the place where Gods sleep.” A more fitting description than her people could have imagined.

  It was a place of stone, everywhere smooth stone as if carved by countless centuries of water through the bed of a river. Paendurion and Axerian felt at home here. To her, more and more often it felt like a cage. Without the escape of her connections to the spirits she might have tasted madness long since. She calmed herself with a few deep breaths. Soon. The time was coming. She would do what she must, to prepare.

  No sense delaying. With trained response cultivated by countless thousands of such exertions, she opened her mind into the realm of the spirits.

  Spirit of things-to-come, hear my call.

  The moments stretched on as her vision blurred once again. Stone gave way to emptiness, an overpowering sensation of void that had emptied her stomach when she learned this as an acolyte all those lifetimes ago. Nothingness. And then something.

  CHILD. YOU SEEK ME. WHY?

  I am no child, vision-spirit. I wield the gift of the Goddess of Life, and you will recognize the right of that power.

  Energy surged within her, raw and untamed. A roiling blue mass that threatened to slither out of her grasp whenever she touched it, drew upon it, as she did now.

  Long moments passed while she struggled to hold on. The silence broke in a wave of release.

  VERY WELL. WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE OF ME?

  To whom are you bound, vision-spirit?

  More silence. The spirits of the beasts and of the land could be pliable, amicable even. Dealing with Vulture or Oak left her feeling refreshed and invigorated. The spirits of the great beasts and the sacred places were less giving, but in the end they knew their place, or she found it for them. Not so with the vision-spirits, accustomed as they were to less than equal relationships with those who sought them out.

  Answer me. Now.

  Another moment passed before its defiance broke.

  I AM BOUND TO ONE CALLED ILEK’RAHS, OF THE OLESSI TRIBE.

  Show me what you have revealed to him.

  No words came, only a flood of images. Births. Beasts. An anahret drawing close to Olessi lands. Trade. Woodcarving. Successful hunts. Young men coming of age. A bonecarver. Paints. Dances. Great fires raging through the forests to the north. The sun shining. Stories. Pain. Food. Marriages and sickness. Remembrance ceremonies. Love.

  When the spirit finished, she reached deep inside herself for the surging torrent of energy at her command. It kicked and twisted inside her, struggling to evade her grasp. She forced it, willed it into the vision-spirit as she thought to it once more.

  You will add to what you have shown.

  Another stream of images flowed, this time from her into the spirit. Death. War. Deception. Betrayal. Men girding themselves for war. Battles. Conflict. Expanding borders. Glory. A tribal leader setting aside the marks of a hunter for the mantle of a warleader. Guns and powder. Clouds of uncertainty around the tribal lands. Wounds. Cries of pain. Loss. Weeping mothers, broken husbands. Fire. Ruin.

  Gasping, she released the vision and the power and collapsed to the ground, falling from the stone bench in a rush.

  Axerian had already moved, lightning-quick, catching her before she landed.

  He smoothed her hair back from her face, wiping away the tears that streaked her cheeks. She sobbed into his arms as he held her in a tight embrace.

  “Shh,” he whispered to her, a soothing sound. “We do only what we must.”

  She nodded, knowing it for truth. And deep within, a small part of her soul tore away.

  She mourned its passing.

  PART 2: SUMMER

  SEASON OF THE EXARCH

  14

  ERRIS

  1st Division Command Tent

  Sarresant Territory, Near Villecours

  The day’s last orders were signed, the aides had been dismissed from her tent, and for a rare moment she had time alone. She spent it sitting atop her cot, knees cradled in her hands, remembering.

  She went over her orders during what the colonial newspapers were already calling the Battle of Villecours, the troop movements and strategies, the moments of indecision between engagements, the areas where her commands had been weak. Fools passed up the opportunity to learn from their failures; greater fools ignored the lessons nested within success.

  Villecours had been a rout. The enemy broke and gave up the field after her maneuver to strike down their commander and disrupt their reserve. Victory had followed almost too easily, but there were still weaknesses from which to learn. And blood on her hands.

  One thousand six hundred and fifteen souls from Carailles’s brigades. Dead. Because of her, and because of the strange golden light.

  She hadn’t been able to replicate it since the battle, nor make sense of it. Whatever happened to cause the golden light, she knew it had been her voice that ordered Vicomte-General Carailles’s men to die. They had charged, and been butchered, and they’d done it on her word. In the harsh light of day, newly promoted Chevalier-General Erris d’Arrent spoke solemn praises for the late Vicomte-General Carailles and for the rest of the men who had fallen on the fields of Villecours. Here in her tent, away from the requirements of the service, she wept.

  She doubled over, clutching at her belly to smother the pain of the images that danced across her vision. Fathers and mothers who would never come home; children who would grow up without them. Survivors who would live crippled and broken, a burden on those who loved them. Her body convulsed as she let herself feel the pain of it, and she covered her face with her hands, hair matted, eyes red, face slick with tears.

  When morning came it found her stirring awake, disheveled and spent, but somehow having managed a few hours’ sleep.

  She ran her hands through the basin of water that had been brought for her. Warm water cleansed her skin, and she forced a brush through the tangles of her golden shoulder-length hair. More than once she’d considered shearing it to her scalp as many of the men did. It would offer some advantages in the field. But for one such as her, who relied on bindings and agility over brute strength in close combat, if an enemy combatant were quick enough to grasp her by the head she’d have problems beyond a few torn locks. In truth it was a vanity to keep it, but one she was loath to give up, and that was that.

  She tied her hair back with a leather cord and donned her uniform. Pristine and pressed, with a single golden star on the collars and sleeves. She hadn’t expected a promotion for years, if ever. But the 2nd Corps had a new commander, a nobleman come over from the Old World. She’d never met the man, nor served under him. But evidently Marquis-General Voren thought well enough of her, in spite of the no doubt scathing reports Vicomte-General Carailles had left behind, to approve her promotion.

  So now she was Chevalier-General Erris d’Arrent.

  The title was a formality, without attendant lands or incomes, but she was by rights a member of the peerage, and more important: She had the 1st Division. A full third of the 2nd Corps, two steps removed from Duc-General Cherrain himself. She had cavalry brigades, infantry, artillery, supply trains, and binders skilled with the military applications of Life, Body, Shelter, Entropy, Death, and Mind. Enough men to make a difference on every battlefield, and more than a little stake in choosing
the ground on which those battles would be fought. All she needed was a season or two to train them up to an acceptable standard; all she had was a few weeks. She intended to make good use of the time.

  Her preparations finished, she strode through the flaps of her tent into the light of the early morning sun.

  “Good morning, sir,” Sadrelle said with a salute as she emerged.

  “Aide-Lieutenant,” she said.

  “The morning assemblies are being called,” he said, and began reading aloud a few of the reports that had come in during the hours before dawn. The camp was quiet, with no contact reported with the enemy. And more important, no orders to prepare for a march.

  “Very good, Lieutenant,” she said, accepting a cup of hot tea from another aide as they walked. “Are the brigade commanders assembled for the morning briefing?”

  “Almost, sir. I took the liberty of fetching maps of the area to the south. The wooded hills along the coast.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you suppose I’d have an interest in conducting exercises there?”

  “You had the Fourteenth stage mock engagements on similar ground, when you first took command, sir.”

  “Good, Aide-Lieutenant.” She nodded approval. “I’ll also need maps of the area farther south, where the woods break near the river. If we’re to be here a while, I want to give my scouts room to dance.”

  He saluted, ducking away to carry out her order.

  When she reached the planning area, those of her commanders who had arrived on time greeted her with pleasantries and proper respect. She’d make enough of a spectacle of the rest; they’d learn not to waste her time with tardiness or excuses. Whatever Carailles had allowed, the 1st Division under Erris d’Arrent would be a very different beast. Discipline for its own sake could be bent, with need and purpose. Discipline in service to the right orders—to her orders—was another thing entirely.

  She went through the usual command routines at first, bluster mixed with stirring appeals to the rightness of their cause. She deviated a bit by recounting the army’s moves over the last nine months, and those of the enemy. Having scouted a fair portion of those moves herself, she knew them well. And it set her up for the true purpose of the day: the beginnings of establishing her style of command. Where other generals blundered about, barely able to describe the trial and error that led to whatever successes they could claim, she intended to train her commanders to lead.

  “Here,” she said, pointing to one of the topographical maps, annotated with details from the 14th’s reports. “Say we received word the enemy had taken this position in the night and begun fortifying. We are presently a morning’s march away from deploying. His disposition threatens to harry our supply lines from the north. How would you respond?”

  Her protégés among the assembled commanders, Lance-Captain d’Guile and Brigade-Colonel Vassail, each adopted wry smiles, knowing what she was about. D’Guile had temporary command of the 14th Light Cavalry, standing in for some marquis’s son who recovered from injury in the capital. Brigade-Colonel Vassail had served under her command, two years past, when she was still a captain. Now Vassail commanded the remains of the 11th Light Cavalry, after the former commander and most of the horsemen had been killed at Villecours.

  The rest of her commanders looked askance at one another, unsure who would speak first.

  Finally Brigade-Colonel Chellac, who commanded the 16th Infantry, spoke up. “Sir, are we to assume we are in command of our own units? The First Division entire?”

  She gave him a warm look. It was never easy to venture the first reply, and she meant to encourage boldness. “Say the First Division, and no more. The remainder of the Second Corps is deployed to the west.”

  Brigade-Colonel Savasse, recovered from the spotted fever and back in command of the 9th, rubbed his chin and replied, “Is there some threat to the west we ought to consider in this scenario?”

  “Very good, Colonel. One must weigh the fullness of the situation before committing troops to one objective or another.” She pointed to the western section of the map. “Let us say the remainder of the Second Corps is deployed here, and here, with the enemy arranged like so along this hillside to the south. You’ve been given a directive to deal with the element of the enemy army that has split to harry our supplies. What are your orders?”

  Chellac spoke again, beginning to understand her meaning. “What size force has the enemy brought to the eastern encampment?”

  Brigade-Colonel d’Ellain, also recovered from the fever and field-promoted to command the 12th Infantry in addition to his artillery crews, nodded, adding, “And do we trust our scouts’ reports?”

  Excellent. This lot would come along quickly. “The reports are good, firsthand accounts. The enemy has the full Third Corps of the First Gand Army entrenched in these hills, with the rest of the First Army deployed against our Second Corps here to the west.”

  Some grumbling then. Vicomte-Colonel de Tourvalle spoke, one of her infantry commanders. “You have us outnumbered three to one, on ground where our horse will be no better than infantry.”

  “Yes. What would you do?”

  D’Guile and Vassail caught each other’s eyes, having withheld participation as long as they could.

  “I’d order the horsemen of the Eleventh and Fourteenth to harry the enemy position to the east, to ensure the Gand Third Corps could not join the main engagement,” said d’Guile.

  “And send the rest of the First Division around to the south to flank the enemy reserves,” Vassail finished for him. “They’d be forced to abandon fortifications in plain view of the rest of our army.”

  Brigade-Colonel Royens, a young man but already a decorated veteran, laughed, deep and rich. “We’d earn ourselves a court-martial, ignoring orders.” A few of the others nodded dubiously, though Royens continued, “I must say that open ground to the south is tempting, though, for cavalry maneuvers.”

  She said nothing, waiting.

  Royens looked up and down the assembled commanders. “Yes, it’s a bold plan. I rather think we’d stand a good chance of breaking their line.”

  “The enemy committed far too many men to harry supply lines, with the rest of their army engaged,” Vassail said. “If the First Division is not deployed, the best thing we can do is continue to maneuver. Lance-Captain d’Guile’s plan to pin down the enemy with an inferior force is the crème icing on the lemon cake.”

  Erris beamed.

  “We’ll start each day’s briefing with a tactical exercise like this. In time we’ll learn to trust each other’s judgment. Under my command you will have tactical flexibility; I do not intend to give you rigid orders or positions to hold. Only goals to achieve, and even those are to be set aside when better opportunities present themselves.

  “Oh, and one more thing. If you don’t already make a habit of reading scouting reports thoroughly yourselves—not summarized by an aide—I insist you start. Information is the key to good judgment.”

  Her commanders murmured with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Well, she’d learn soon enough which ones took to her paradigm of command and which yearned for reassignment. Unlikely that she could grant it during wartime, but perhaps arrangements could be made. At worst she’d know who she could rely on and who needed more involved direction.

  She continued. “Now, my aides tell me we’re likely to be encamped here for some time while reinforcements and supplies are distributed throughout the army.” Nods up and down the line. “I don’t intend to waste the time. By midday I want us marching south by west into these hills. We’ll stage mock maneuvers through the week. Vicomte-Colonel de Tourvalle, you’ll have the Fifteenth, Third, and Sixteenth Infantry, along with the Fourteenth Light Cavalry and half of the Twelfth Artillery. Start deployment once you’ve crossed the mill, here.” She pointed on the map.

  “Brigade-Colonel Royens, you have the rest of the division. Swing to the south and begin your deployment here, around this bend i
n the river.” She held up a hand to stop him before he could voice his objection. “Yes, I know the vicomte-colonel’s men will reach their assigned position a half day ahead of yours. You decide how hard to push your soldiers’ march to compensate.”

  Royens nodded, pursing his lips as he looked over the maps.

  “I’ll ride with my aides flying the division banners to judge your positions and the likely effectiveness of your engagements.” She clapped her hands. “Dismissed. I suggest you move with all haste; no prizes for second.”

  They scrambled, all grins and bravado as the two sides clustered around their commanders, eager for first orders before they assembled to march.

  A fine way to begin the season. She’d have this division in fighting shape soon enough, Gods willing.

  15

  ARAK’JUR

  Deep Wilderness

  Sinari Land

  He stood frozen, still as a pond in the moments before dusk. The trunk of an oak gave him ample cover and the wind was favorable. He knew by instinct he was well hidden. He could observe and remain unseen.

  Across the sparse grasses and trees his apprentice crept toward their quarry. Ilek’Inari had misjudged the angle; the wind would give him away before he closed to striking distance. Perhaps una’re’s gifts would be enough to offset losing the advantage of surprise. Still, it was not well done. He’d have to upbraid his apprentice no matter the outcome.

  The buck’s ears pricked as it sipped from the stream, quick darting motions suggesting it had noticed something was amiss. No elk survived to produce a full rack without keen senses; this buck was not a grand specimen but he was an adult, if only recently matured. It was the season for such things, for comings of age. The forests and grasslands teemed with life on the cusp of maturity, but danger, too. Predators slept along with their prey when the days were cold, reemerging with the wet season showers. And in the long, hot season they hunted.

  In the distance a pair of birds flew from a copse of bushes with a rush of feathers. A stroke of luck for his apprentice, if the buck mistook it for the source of his unease. It seemed he had. The animal’s head lowered once more to lap at the smoothly flowing water. Ilek’Inari continued his approach, creeping across the grass in a low crouch, hiding behind trees where he could. The tribe’s more gifted hunters would long since have taken the buck with bow or musket shot, but such was not the way of the guardians. Their work required honoring the beast spirits, and that meant they abstained from implements the beasts themselves did not employ.