by David Drake
Some of the troops looked hungrily at the women, and some did more than look. After a woman was publicly raped in the town square, Timon asked Abel for his old interrogation detail back to serve as a rudimentary police force in the Third’s sector. Abel let him have them. He doubted patrolling for rapists would distract Timon from the central problem facing his friend now, however: he was a believer who had lost his faith.
How the Blaskoye got in wasn’t difficult to ascertain, either. A breached wall on the eastern side of the city. Gunpowder residue. They’d blasted their way in while the men were gone to fight in the militia.
They’d been ruthless and efficient. In places they had met resistance from the women, and some of the bodies had the battle wounds to prove it.
Some had also had time to flee. These trickled back into the city from caves and hidden villages high in the Schnee Mountains. Orash itself was built upon a foothill in the range.
But signs of a Blaskoye slaving operation were everywhere: slave corrals in the town square, a pricklebush security cordon surrounding it. There was no way to know, but it seemed they’d taken thousands of children, perhaps ten per warrior.
Abel was alone in the warehouse storeroom he’d had converted into brigade command. The day’s business was concluded and all now had beds and bunks to go to. A platoon remained on nightwatch outside, covering all entrances to the warehouse, but otherwise the chamber was empty. It had once been used to stockpile pelts for shipment to points south, where they’d be used for ornaments and clothing. He’d ordered the place cleaned out, but there were signs of its former use all around: in the corners, stray down and feathers. These were not the beautiful plumage of donts. They were functional, the oily, horn-thick feathers of mountain creatures native to the Schnee range. The warehouse’s wooden floor he’d had covered with the tough hides of northern daks used as rugs. These also hung along the walls, too, and kept the place from becoming an echo chamber.
After a day of firing off orders, making minor, but pressing decisions, listening to appeals from soldiers slated for punishment, and even assigning some punishment himself, sitting in the quiet was calming. For the first time in days, Abel took out his pipe and smoked a bowl of Delta weed. When it was done, he set the pipe down on his desk and rose to go to the map table. There stretched before him was a large representation of Progar on several papyrus scrolls joined together. There were also smaller maps of Orash and the Land itself.
Abel had always liked maps. He’d been taught to read them by one of the best cartographers around, Josiah Weldletter, his father’s chief cartographer in Treville. He’d always been good at translating in his mind the lines of a map into a vision of the actual terrain. He believed he would have possessed this ability even without Center’s presence in his mind, but he supposed he’d never know.
Abel touched the circled star symbol that indicated Orash on the large map, and stood for a moment pondering.
Why was it so easy?
The Progar oligarchs believed they had a deal with the Blaskoye. They had traded so long with the Redlanders, they’d been lulled into thinking that all things could be arranged with a bit of dealing and barter chits on the side for lubrication.
Not this time.
There is one positive aspect to the situation, Center continued. The captives have spoken of a Law-giver named Kerensky. It would appear a new element of thinking has arisen among the Blaskoye.
Abel had finally begun to forgive him for not informing him of the Blaskoye raid. Center had predicted it long before.
What could that possibly be?
The most important aspect of all. The Blaskoye, and Zentrum, who must be controlling the leadership in some manner, expected the Progar militia to win.
You mean Zentrum sent the Guardians up here to get us slaughtered?
Shattered. And then to fatally weaken the resolve of the men of Progar by this total deceit—the destruction of all they believed they were fighting for. I have shown you in visions before how it was all set to begin. The Blood Winds were to start in Progar and sweep south. Now there is no beaten and retreating Guardian army for the Blaskoye to destroy from behind. Invasion from the north is cut off.
Zentrum will not get his invasion down the Valley. You and your brigade tipped the balance. He’s sure as hell not going to like this.
So what will he do?
Aye, that is the question, isn’t it? He’s not done. Not by a long shot.
Probabilities are in rapid fluctuation at this time, Center said. In fact, they have been since your decision to kill the crucified Hurth boy.
What? Why?
Unanticipated variable introduced at a crux point in Seldonian calculations.
What does that mean?
It means that once you showed mercy to that boy and beat the odds, all bets were off in a lot of other matters, Raj said with a rueful chuckle. Center has been winging it since that moment, haven’t you?
It is true that a series of recalculations had to be conducted. They are now complete, however. Long-term adjustments are underway, and given sufficient time to develop should greatly accelerate the downfall of Zentrum. We have only to—
Center’s raspy, insectoid voice suddenly ceased.
Have to what?
No answer.
Have to what, Center?
The eerie silence in his mind continued.
Raj?
Center?
No answer.
“Raj!” he shouted. “Center!”
Silence. Silence. Silence.
And then a long, raspy scream. It was like the crack of an avalanche in a Redlands ravine, but a hundred times as loud.
Abel covered his ears, but the sound was not coming from outside himself.
It was resonating inside his mind.
It was Center.
Dying.
The pain of an A.I. stripped of its functionality, its data, its memory translated into sound.
He has found us! He is here!
Who is here? Who is here, Center?
Zentrum.
Then the scream began to fade, to transform from articulation to a sound akin to the passage of wind over broken stones.
But as that wind died away, blew itself out, Abel believed he heard one final word, a blend of the gruff voice of Raj and the precise clatter of Center.
Good-bye.
3
He lay abed for days, his mind a blank. He was unable to act, almost unable to think. Most of all he felt empty—utterly, completely empty.
I’ve been drawn and quartered. How can I be drawn and quartered and still live?
He lost the capacity for simple movement for hours at a time. Several times he shit himself and lay in the muck until he could summon the mechanical impetus—it was not will, not even close—to clean himself and change his clothing.
Timon tended to him for a time, but realized his presence was useless. Besides, Timon’s arm, after healing nicely, was now giving him trouble. He limited his visits to twice a day and kept everyone but a servant from entering.
Abel had no idea what Timon had told his staff. He didn’t care.
Sometimes he concentrated on one thought for a watch or more before he had another.
I am sick.
I am not hungry, but should be.
They are gone.
Slowly his perception returned, beginning with hunger. With that sensation came the will to eat. From there, Abel slowly became functional once again.
He knew he would never, ever be whole, however.
After a week, he returned to work, mostly because he could think of nothing better to do.
Then, after the numbness dissipated, the despair set in.
That was how von Hoff found him.
* * *
“You helped me once,” he said. “I thought I might try to return the favor.”
The general had taken Abel out to look at a most curious place a scavenging squad had discovered. Abel had almost demu
rred, in fact he had at first, but von Hoff insisted.
“One should not die without seeing this.”
The location was on the other side of Orash near the north wall where an enormous waterfall roared down out of the mountain.
“This is where the water heresy was born,” von Hoff had said. “It’s a sight no man should miss, and who knows how long the priests will allow it to exist? No, you must come right now.”
They’d taken donts across town, then tied them under an arbor and walked the rest of the way up a steep path to the spot where the huge waterfall from Lake Orash emptied over a cliff a fieldwatch high and many fieldmarches long. It was as if the lake were a giant cup full of liquid and tilting just enough for a steady flow to spill over half the rim.
All along the waterfall were wheels. They were akin to the bucket-powered chain drive of the Escarpment elevators, but most were circular rather than oblong. Each spun around a shaft, and those shafts were connected by an intricate series of power transfer points, each a carved wooden cog, to a large assortment of forges, mills, shops that fabricated who knew what. It was the largest single man-made project Abel had ever laid eyes on. Even the Tabernacle in Lindron was dwarfed by the sheer size and intricacy of the enormous mechanism.
And so they had gone to the edge, felt the spray against their faces, and then von Hoff had led Abel to a nearby destination he’d clearly had in mind to visit. It was a long building with several chimney flues emerging from it in odd spots along its canted roof.
Those chimneys did not vent mere cooking fires.
Inside, Abel found out what they did vent. Coal-fired forges. This was a metalworking shop larger than even the priestsmith’s facility in Treville.
It was empty. The men of Progar had abandoned it. They were living on handouts from the army that had defeated them now, debased, without hope. Von Hoff had hung the oligarchs. Bigelow he’d had before a firing squad of his own men. He’d moved their mass execution a little farther into the future.
“What do you think?”
“Nishterlaub hell. The priests won’t let this stand for long.”
“What else do you think?”
“That this is where they made the revolving rifles.”
Von Hoff smiled. “Precisely. I want you and the Third in charge here.”
“No, thank you.”
“That’s an order, Colonel Dashian.”
“Then I must respectfully decline to obey, sir.”
“Again, I could have you shot.”
“Go ahead.”
Abel rested a hand against a large anvil. A hammer lay beside it on a work table, as if it had been abandoned and dropped in mid-blow. The anvil surface was cold. The entire forge was cooler than the surrounding air. There was some sort of natural air-conditioning system at work.
Von Hoff stood nearby, his arms crossed over his general’s sash, his expression thoughtful.
“Do you really mean that, Dashian?”
“Yes. I don’t know. I do not seem to know my own mind at the moment, General.”
“You’ve . . . you’ve lost something, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“It is that certitude you had before. Whatever brought that to you.”
“That’s right. It’s gone. Dead.”
“Too bad.”
Von Hoff uncrossed his arms and dropped them to his side. “I was serious. You helped me once. I want to help you, Dashian. I truly do.”
“This isn’t the same problem as yours,” Abel said, staring down at the charcoal dust that covered the floor. “You won’t understand.”
Von Hoff set his jaw, considered Abel for a moment, then spoke. “Do you perhaps feel that a destiny you were certain of has been yanked out from under you?”
Abel lifted his head up, blinked. In his mind he waited. He waited for the dry commentary of Center.
“The general has encapsulated the matter with admirable succinctness.”
He waited for Raj’s low rumble of a laugh at the folly and glory of humankind.
Neither came.
“General, I know you mean well, but—”
“But you’d much rather be left in your misery than deal with the likes of me?”
Abel chuckled. It was the first time he’d laughed in days. It felt wrong. A denial. Maybe even a betrayal.
“No. Not entirely.”
Nearby, at a large fabricating table of some sort, was a line of workmen’s stools. Von Hoff stepped over, got two of them, then brought them both back to the anvil where Abel was standing. The back legs of the stools rattled against the uneven mortar chinks in the floor. “Mind if I sit down?”
“It’s your forge, General.”
“You sit, too, Colonel.”
Abel nodded. “All right.” He sat down on the other stool.
Von Hoff signaled across the room. An aide was discreetly watching for this. Soon two cups of beer were set before them on the table.
It’s good to be the general, Abel thought.
He raised his cup, took a tentative sip. It was cold, far colder than any beer he’d ever tasted. The cold suited this beer, as well. He took a longer swallow.
“Not bad?” said von Hoff.
“It’s the best beer I’ve ever tasted.”
Von Hoff nodded enthusiastically. “They sure as cold hell know how to brew the stuff in these parts.”
“Probably with nishterlaub methods. It’s heretical beer.”
Von Hoff snorted at the joke, but then shook his head glumly. “No doubt you’re right. Let’s not speak of such things, however. This is the beer we have now.” He raised his cup in a toast. “Bottoms up.”
Abel smiled wanly and touched his cup against von Hoff’s. The meeting of the soft clay that made up the vessels produced a muffled clink.
Good beer. Cheap infantry-issue cups. Hard to get everything right at once.
“Dashian, you have to snap out of this . . . grief . . . for your own good.”
“Said the man who almost put a bullet in his own head.”
“You talked me out of it. Do you regret that?”
Abel shook his head ruefully. “No. You know I don’t.”
“What would it take to cheer you up? Or at least get you to come to terms with whatever it is that’s eating at you?” Abel didn’t make a reply, and von Hoff leaned back in his chair, put his hand to his chin, and considered. “How about this, then,” he continued. “How about I give you command of this forge works. It will take hundreds to work it—maybe thousands. It will have to be secured, as well. Like I hinted at, the priests are already demanding I dismantle the place. But I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, at least not yet.”
“Want me to plumb the secrets of the Progar heresy, General? I’m not the man for that, I promise you.”
“You personally? No. You’re much better with a map than a plum bob and trowel. But that engineer of yours . . .”
“I wouldn’t want to get Captain Hoster in trouble,” Abel said. “And this place is trouble.” He finished the last of his beer. The aide immediately filled his cup back up from a pitcher. “I particularly wouldn’t want to see Captain Hoster burned at the stake. I have a bad history with that.”
“Your concern is noted,” said von Hoff. “I’m going to make you a promise, Dashian. I know Hoster is itching to get his hands on some of those weapons the district has been producing and try them out, find out how they work. And you, if you were in your right mind, would be right there with him. You’d want to see what makes them tick, if nothing else.”
Abel looked von Hoff straight in the eyes and spoke. “General, I know what makes them tick.”
“Very well, then.” Von Hoff looked annoyed. “I do believe you.” He considered for another few eyeblinks, and his smile returned. “I’ll go beyond that. I’ll give you a free hand to do what you want with the Progar technology. This includes keeping the chaplains away from you.”
“Thank you, Colonel, but no. Maybe M
ajor Athanaskew will be interested.”
“I’m making another use of Timon Athanaskew. With you down and out like this, he’s my most competent officer. I have him setting up a military police force even as we speak.”
“Glad to hear that.”
“Besides, he is going through his own ordeal at the moment.”
This was news to Abel. The last time he’d spoken with Timon, the major had seemed in a slightly dour mood, but otherwise untroubled.
“He hasn’t told you? His wound has festered. The arm will likely have to come off.”
“No, he didn’t tell me that!”
“He probably didn’t want to trouble you.”
“Damn it.” Thrice-damn it. He was going to locate Timon the moment he got back to brigade command and find out what was going on with his friend.
I can’t believe I didn’t notice. But he could believe it of himself. Timon will never admit he needs help. I should have noticed. With everything else, he’s losing an arm, too.
Abel breathed a sigh of exasperation with himself. I will notice from now on. There’s no excuse.
“Dashian, while you’re pondering that, let me share one other bit of information on this matter: the Chaplains’ Corps already has Landry Hoster in its sights.”
“Landry knows. He doesn’t care,” Abel answered. He discovered another chuckle erupting from within himself. How had that happened without his knowing it was coming? He felt like a stranger in his own body. “He may look soft, but he’s a resourceful son of a bitch.”
“The priests will break him eventually. He’ll end up in the Tabernacle prison.”
“You know that and I know that. Landry may even know it. Like I said, he doesn’t care.”
“So it’s up to you to protect him.”
“How’s that?”
“He’s your friend, is he not?”
“Yes.”
“You believe in loyalty?”
“It’s about all I have left to believe in.”
“Then be a friend to him. Take over at this forge and set him loose here. Keep the priests off his back at least until he figures out how these men have made such machines and weapons. I wouldn’t trust most military men to go up against the priesthood, but I think you could politic and manage them to a stalemate with sheer competence.”