Peculiar Soul - Chapter 67: Vows

Chapter 67: Vows

Ardalt’s withdrawal from the continent is complete for all material resources. In the final tally we anticipate 92% of material troops have been successfully evacuated, with an additional 2% en route. Additionally, 81% of inconsequential personnel have been successfully returned to Ardalt.

Those remaining are largely trainees, low-value officers and Institute behavioral teams; those teams represent an additional half-percent of ensouled troops and will execute a tactical withdrawal immediately ahead of Mendiko attacks on current Ardan positions.

Our strategic situation is largely good at present; Mendian and Saf are both disinclined to engage in transoceanic operations at this time, and the behavioral teams embedded within returning units are operating at a high level of control. We anticipate full preparations for the Assembly’s deadline in Waning will be complete before the start of the month.

– Institute Circular #3545, 33 Gleaning 693.

Michael looked out the window; the only thing he could see was the deep blue sky above, unmarred by clouds. There was more out there, of course. He could stand and look down to see the rolling Daressan countryside slide by underneath the airship’s bulk, watch the minute figures of carts and trucks plying the roads below them.

He chose to lay on the decking instead. It was cool and unyielding, transferring the gentle vibrations of the airship’s flight into his back and shoulders. It was oddly relaxing.

“I think I may like this better than the observation room,” Sobriquet said from beside him. “Fewer windows, but it doesn’t echo when you talk. The forward deck always felt a little cavernous.”

“It’s a meeting room, it’s made for talking,” Michael pointed out. “The observation room is for, well – observation.”

“And impressing foreigners,” she said. “Not an accident that’s where Leire has a podium set up.” A frown twisted her lips, and she let her head drop back to the deck. “Ghar’s ashes. I thought things would be quiet until we arrived at Imes.”

Michael turned his head, mustering a smile. “Relatively quiet,” he said.

She snorted. “Relatively, he says. You’re awfully sanguine about it, considering you were the backstabbed party.”

“It’s not like I can change anything,” Michael sighed, sitting up. He leaned back on his hands, looking down at Sobriquet; her hair was fanned out around her in a nimbus. He picked up a few strands to twirl them in his fingers. “Whether I like it or not, she won. She got what she wanted. The cost may have been more than she expected, but…”

He let the hair drop, then hunched forward. “She is right about certain things. Whether by her hand or another’s, this would have happened. I’m not going to make it through a campaign against the Safid without more of the hateful dead making their way towards me.” He shook his head. “I know that. I know it. And I know she was trying to help me, in her own way.”

“You sound like you’re talking yourself into forgiving her,” Sobriquet said cautiously. “I have to admit, I’m a little surprised.”

“No,” Michael said. “Not that. I meant what I said; if she doesn’t recognize the wrong in what she did then ultimately there’s no path to reconciliation. I can’t work with that sort of person. It makes me – Ghar’s blood, it makes me wonder if Luc has been right all along.”

Sobriquet frowned. “He never distrusted Leire,” she said. “At least, no more than anyone else.”

“He distrusts power,” Michael said. “The easy paths it offers, the temptation. Until just now I would have held up Leire as a counterexample, one of the people who held great power but didn’t let it trample their fundamental sense of right and wrong.” He raised his head to look at Sobriquet. “Now I’m wondering if we’re not all doomed to fail eventually.”

“It’s possible that men weren’t meant to hold the sort of power that souls confer,” Sobriquet acknowledged. “I know I feel inadequate to my own at times. But I also don’t think that the failures take away the good that you do. Leire, despite everything, will be instrumental in freeing Daressa. She’s done much for Mendian as well. That doesn’t disappear because she betrayed you. The good and the evil both persist. There isn’t some balance where one offsets the other.”

Michael hummed, considering. “You don’t think one taints the other?” he asked. “I find myself questioning everything about her, now.”

Sobriquet sat up as well, nudging him with her shoulder. “Of course you do,” she said. “You’re the one who felt this transgression most. For the average Mendiko, or Daressan? Her treatment of you is almost entirely irrelevant.” She shrugged. “Despite today’s events, I imagine she will be remembered fondly by most. History never accounts for personal failings. It only-”

She stopped, tilting her head to the side. “Antolin wants to meet with us,” she said.

Michael blinked. “Now?” he asked, sitting upright. “What about?”

“No idea.” Sobriquet lowered herself back down to the decking. “He just ordered some junior officer to find us and ask us to come up to his office.”

“But you already know that he wants us there,” Michael said. “Shouldn’t we just go?”

She snorted. “Do you want to?”

Michael looked up at the swatch of blue visible past the window, listening to the gentle creaking of the airship in flight. After a moment, he laid back down next to Sobriquet. “No, not particularly,” he said.

She reached out and laid her palm across the back of his hand, her fingers curling around to his own palm. “Then don’t. You’re too important to jump at someone’s orders, even his.”

“That seems like a dangerous line of thinking,” Michael said, frowning. “My wants aren’t any more important because of my power.”

“Be quiet, Luc,” she deadpanned. “Not everything is a path to evil and madness, you know. Do you think you’re going to take up wanton murder and pillaging if you allow yourself a quiet moment with me?” She released his hand to raise herself up, looking at him. “That’s what he misses, you know. The person behind the actions. He assumes the worst about everyone. Tiny acts of indulgence look like signs of buried malevolence instead of normal humanity.”

“Now it sounds like you’re the one trying to convince me to forgive Leire,” Michael said.

She shrugged. “Not really. She’s still an insufferable old hag who thinks everyone but her has porridge for brains – but I don’t think she’s driven by malice. You’re her legacy, and she wants you to do well.” Sobriquet made a face. “Do well by her standards, I mean.”

“Six people are dead because of her,” Michael pointed out. “Most of them from her own army.”

Sobriquet waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not going to defend her,” she said. “But I do understand. I’ve been in her position, watching from behind as people in the field blunder through their lives, oblivious to the obvious.” She splayed her fingers out, silhouetting them against the light from the window. “It’s easy to feel superior, from that perspective – to wish you could step in and steer them on the right path, show them what they’re doing wrong.”

She let her hand drop down to her chest. “I used to do it all the time, when I was younger. I’d follow along on missions, call out enemies, suggest tactics. It was fun.” She closed her eyes. “Clair was the one who told me to stop. Said I was crippling people, robbing them of the ability to think for themselves. They might make mistakes without me, yes. But they’d learn, and improve, and if I ever wasn’t there they’d be able to stand on their own.”

A hoarse note invaded her voice; she closed her eyes. After a moment, she continued.

“She wasn’t perfect either. Angry, sometimes impulsive. She took a lot of things out on men that probably didn’t deserve it. We all did.” She looked at Michael, a complex tangle of emotion lurching behind her eyes. “I should call that evil, if I condemn Leire for killing those men. Moreso, because we gloried in it, joked and laughed about what we did afterward.”

Michael studied her face, trying to pick apart the swirl of feeling just below the surface. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

Sobriquet seemed on the verge of speaking, but she looked up towards the window instead. Michael did not press her; he waited as the moments passed. A wisp of cloud came into view outside, crossing the window rapidly and vanishing to leave unmarred blue once more.

Finally, she turned back to him. “I wanted you to know who I am,” she said. “The good and the bad. Listening to you earlier, with Leire – it made me realize that you might-” She broke off, gesturing vaguely before wiping at her eyes. “You know. If my soul came to you.”

Michael’s eyes widened, then narrowed; he shifted closer to her. “Okay, first off,” he said, “you’re not going anywhere. And even if you did, I would never do to you what I did to Galen.”

“You didn’t have a choice,” she said miserably. “You said it burned, that you had to cut him away or he’d have destroyed you.”

He looked her in the eyes. “Nothing you are could ever hurt me.”

She smiled, though her cheeks gleamed with tears. “You don’t know that. I’m not a good person, Michael. A hundred Ardan widows can tell you that, and a thousand more men who probably would have preferred death to what I made them see.” She looked away. “I don’t plan on dying anytime soon. I just didn’t want you to be surprised, if it ever did happen.”

Michael stretched out his arm and gently turned her head back towards him. “It wasn’t what Galen did that hurt me,” he said. “It was who he was. The hatred within him, the anger. You don’t have that in you.”

“Don’t I?” she asked. “I keep telling you, you don’t know what I’ve-”

He leaned in to kiss her, stifling her words; she made a muffled noise of protest. Michael pulled back and smiled. “I know what I need to know,” he said.

She glared at him, though her heart wasn’t in it. “And if you’re wrong? If you can’t bear me?”

“Then we’ll burn together,” Michael said. “But I doubt it will come to that. I’m the one that keeps getting into near-death situations, I’m obviously going to go first.”

“Don’t you dare,” she laughed, trying and failing to scowl at the remark. “I refuse to live in a world where Saf owns the continent.”

Michael shrugged. “If you insist,” he said. “But I-”

He broke off as she kissed him in turnabout. “Mmph, rude to interrupt.”

She grinned. “What can I say? It seemed like the proper moment.” Another kiss followed before he could reply, slow and thorough; for the first time since Galen’s death Michael dared to gently put his arms around her-

The door to the office swung open with the slight whine of metal-on-metal. Michael felt a quick pulse of shock and embarrassment from behind him even as Sobriquet laughed against his lips.

“Sorry, jauna,” the Mendiko officer said, red-faced. “The grand marshal requests your presence in his office.”

Michael shot Sobriquet an accusing glare. “You knew he was about to come in,” he muttered.

“I’d like to see you prove it,” she murmured back. “Now come on, we don’t want to keep the grand marshal waiting. He’s very important.”

Antolin was sitting in his private office when they arrived. It was a change from his normal position amid his officers on the bridge, walking between duty stations and keeping himself abreast of the situation. The temperature seemed to drop when they entered, the light dimming when the door swung shut behind them.

He looked up at each of them in turn. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I thought we should speak.”

Michael sat; beside him, Sobriquet did the same. “Concerning Leire?” she asked. “I’m not sure what more there is to say.”

“There is always more to say.” Antolin steepled his fingers, leaning heavily on his desk. “We are a nation of laws, or we should be. Status and position are immaterial where justice is concerned. So I am-” He paused, looking to the side; Michael felt a miniature tempest from across the desk. “I wanted to apologize personally, in my capacity as grand marshal of Mendian. What was done to you should not have happened.”

“Why are you apologizing?” Michael asked. “We both know you were blameless in this.”

Antolin sighed. “Because it is the only apology I can secure for you,” he said. “No doubt Lekubarri ensured he had plausible deniability, and Leire will issue neither denials nor apologies.” He met Michael’s eyes. “So please accept mine in their stead, unsatisfying though it may be.”

“We-” Sobriquet began, but Michael stood.

“I will not accept any apology from you,” he said. “I’d ask instead that you stop making excuses on her behalf.”

“Someone must acknowledge the fault,” Antolin replied. “And if no one else will, it falls to me.”

Michael rested his arms on the chair; it creaked worryingly as he leaned forward. “All my childhood, my manservant Ricard was in charge of my care,” he said. “He saw to my clothing and personal affairs, coordinated my studies, all on my father’s behalf. And when my father belittled or wounded me, he would try his best to make it right.”

He stepped around the chair and sat down, leaning forward onto Antolin’s desk. “He would say how much better my father was doing, compared to before. How he was only in the grip of anger, and that he still cared for me in his own way. I don’t think I ever really believed it, but I let myself nod along at the time because it was more pleasant than acknowledging that my father only cared about my impact on him and his vaunted legacy. No more than that.”

A moment passed before Michael leaned back in the chair. “So please don’t speak for her,” he said. “Her actions are clear enough.”

Antolin gave him a searching look, the turmoil within him lapsing back into inscrutable eddies beneath the mask of his soul. After some time, he nodded and leaned back in his own chair.

“Hala izan bedi. And what do you wish to do going forward?”

Michael paused, then looked at Sobriquet. “This doesn’t change any of what we need to do,” he said. “We’ll be at Imes before long. The remainder of the Ardans are there, and the Safid beyond them. We’ll help wherever we’re needed.”

There was no masking the quick pulse of relief that Antolin felt, nor did the grand marshal appear to try; he smiled and shook his head. “Then let’s be at it,” he said, standing from his desk. “Come and see our avenue of approach.”

He led them out to the central table in the bridge, a map of Imes prominent upon it. The Ardan forces were clearly visible to the east, and the Safid in the west.

“Each side has two major concentrations,” Antolin said, pointing to a cluster of large markers outside the city. “Their forces within the city itself, and their support camp some distance away. We will come upon the Ardan reserves first.”

He tapped a finger upon the table. “The remaining Ardans are not likely to put up much of a fight. Our advance scouts believe that they’ve extracted most of their ensouled from a makeshift port on the coast, leaving only unsouled conscripts and the obruors to control them. Our strategy is much the same as before – sweep in, break the obruors as necessary and rout the rest. I’ll be counting on you two to guide them towards a swift surrender.”

Michael nodded. “Basically the same as Leik,” he said.

“Correct,” Antolin confirmed. “But once we’ve dealt with the Ardan remnants, we’re on a strict schedule. The remaining Ardan forces within Imes will crumble absent outside support, leaving the Safid free to advance. I’d like to avoid leaving him in total control of the city; we plan to push forward rapidly and take as much territory as we can before the Ardans collapse entirely.”

“Sounds risky,” Sobriquet said, frowning. “Imes is a huge city, there’s no way you’ll be able to secure any portion of it quickly.”

Antolin waved an officer over; the man deposited another stack of maps on the table. The grand marshal selected one and stretched it out to show a street-level map of Imes. “You’ve hit the crux of the issue,” he said. “The Safid have had control of the city for decades now, we have to expect that they’ll have laid plans against this precise eventuality – ambushes, traps, et cetera. Perception souls only get us so far. The better choice for identifying threats are auspices and bonifices; we’re embedding them everywhere we can, but we have a shortage of such souls.”

He looked between the two of them, his expression sobering. “I will be personally guiding one of the advance elements. I’d like to request that each of you do the same, calling out threats and hazards as they arise.”

Sobriquet leaned forward to peer at the map. “I can do that for more than one unit, most likely. Let me stay at your command center, I can monitor most of the city from there.”

Antolin rubbed at his chin, nodding his silent assent; Michael found himself privately relieved that Sobriquet would be back from the front.

“We can decide the particulars later,” Antolin said. “Ardans first. Our advance elements will be at their camp within the next few hours.”

“You said their ensouled had left.” Michael tapped the location of the camp on one of the maps. “I presume that Friedrich and Sofia have gone as well?”

“That’s our operating assumption,” Antolin agreed, “but considering the potential danger of Sever being in the camp we’ll be keeping the airship well back until we’re sure. I can’t imagine the Ardans would gamble further with those souls; thanks to you, they’re short on high-skew ensouled of any variety.”

Michael peered at the map for a moment more, then looked back at Antolin. “All right,” he said. “Then I guess it’s past time I was back on the ground.”

“There,” Antolin said, nodding toward the open field ahead of them.

Michael looked; a trio of horses were approaching along the road to Imes. The lead rider bore a white flag. As they drew near he saw their uniforms, officers all, with the one in command sporting the distinctive black jacket of the Swordsmen.

Murmurs came from the assembled Mendiko soldiers as they spotted it too, a subtle shift of tension from the fortimentes as their focus converged on the lone scalptor. The horses drew to a halt in front of them without incident, however, their riders dismounting with practiced ease and walking to stand before Antolin.

“Sir,” the Swordsman said, offering a salute. “I am Hauptmann Lars Webel, these are my adjutants. We’ve come in response to your – courteous summons.” His eyes darted upwards to where the airship hung overhead, a shining silver thundercloud over the proceedings. “I hope that we can reach an accord that is to everyone’s advantage.”

Antolin returned the salute, stepping forward. “And I am Antolin Errea, grand marshal of Mendian.” He raised an eyebrow. “A captain, you say? Is your general staff indisposed?”

Even if he could not feel the mixed anger and shame radiating from Lars in waves, Michael would not have missed the tightening of his eyes, nor the tension in his voice. “I am currently the acting commander of all forces in the Daressan theatre,” the captain said.

“I see,” Antolin said. “Well, Hauptmann Webel – Mendian would like to take the city of Imes, and I believe you and your men would like to go back to Ardalt. Do not impede us in the former, and we shall facilitate the latter.” He raised an eyebrow. “Any objections?”

“None whatsoever,” Lars said, clearly relieved – but he straightened up, squaring his shoulders. “Sir. You intend to fight the Safid all the way back to the old Daressan border?”

“And beyond it, if necessary,” Antolin confirmed. “Say what you mean, captain.”

“Most of our men will likely wish to evacuate, but we have at least one full battalion’s worth of soldiers who would like to see this through,” he said. “Myself among them. We’ve spent weeks fighting in the streets of Azim Alsu-”

“Imes,” Sobriquet said, her voice echoing louder than it should between the ranks of men; she stepped forward from where she had been standing to glare at the Ardan captain. “The city’s name is Imes.”

Lars looked at her, his eyes widening for a moment as he took in her appearance; a moment later, he gave a sharp nod. “So it is,” he said. “My apologies. My men and I have been fighting in the streets of Imes for weeks now, and we know the general shape of the Safid deployments well. We’d be honored to fight with you, if you’ll have us.”

Antolin made a noncommittal noise. “Captain,” he said, “there has been no official declaration, but Mendian and Ardalt have been effectively at war these past weeks. What you’re proposing is enough to see you shot the moment you return to Ardalt, if not sooner.”

“Yes sir,” Lars said. “I imagine so.” He exchanged a glance with the two men that had followed him, receiving small nods in return. “Most of us hope to remain in Daressa after the fighting. Some few have talked of joining your foreign legion, though I confess I’m not sure if you have such a unit to join.”

“We don’t,” Antolin said. “But I will at least entertain the thought.” He scratched at his chin, taking the man’s measure at length. Finally, he let his hand drop. “I admit to some surprise at your offer. I thought we’d be facing desperate men in a last stand.”

One of the men behind Lars chuckled darkly, and the captain’s own mouth twisted. “It very nearly happened as you say,” Lars scowled. “We received those wounded and fled from Leik several days ago. Their men were used to reinforce our units, while the officers and staff organized the evacuation from the coast. Sibyl, Sever, most of my colleagues in the Swordsmen, and the majority of the ensouled cadres were withdrawn to the temporary staging point.”

He took a breath; his gloved fingers clenched into a fist. “And then they left, sir, and told us to hold here until more ships were available.” A disgusted look cracked his professional mien at last, and Michael felt his indignation like a brazier before the soldiers. “The only ones who stayed were the obruors. Institute men, most of them, not commissioned. They were placed in temporary command and told to organize our defense.”

Antolin coughed politely into his hand. “They seem to have encountered difficulties,” he observed.

“Yes sir, it appears that they were all shot during the night,” Lars said. “The Safid must have identified them as crucial to our command structure and acted while we were in disarray.”

Michael was impressed by how effectively Lars kept his face blank while speaking; one of his subordinates did somewhat ruin the effect by smiling when he mentioned the obruors, but all present had the grace to let the slip pass unremarked.

Antolin turned to look at Sobriquet, a question plain on his face; Sobriquet looked unhappily at Lars, sighed, and nodded.

“You understand there will be some restrictions and due diligence from our side, I hope,” Antolin said, turning back to the captain. “But I believe I can give conditional approval to your request.”

“Thank you, sir,” Lars said, his cheeks flushing an unbecoming shade of red. “We will not disappoint you.” He snapped off a crisp salute, as did his subordinates; Antolin and his staff returned them with equal decorum.

Michael saw the tension bleed out of Lars as he turned to his comrades, exchanging smiles – and then stopped, for the captain next turned to look directly at Michael. Before he could do more than blink, he had walked to stand in front of him.

“Michael Baumgart, I presume,” Lars said, extending his hand.

Tentatively, Michael shook it. The handshake was awkward and stilted, but Lars came away with all five fingers in working order so Michael was ready to count it as a success. “I am,” he said.

There was a spike of consternation from one of the two adjutants, something muddled and fearful from the other. Lars, for his part, looked Michael in the eye and nodded. “The men from Leik told us what you did,” he said. “Who you are. You saved a lot of Ardan lives that day.” He stepped back and sketched a formal bow of the sort Michael had been trained to deliver from childhood, one hand held aside with the other across his chest. “You have their thanks, and mine.”

Michael gave the proper bow of acknowledgment almost by reflex, inclining his head and stepping back slightly; he heard Sobriquet’s quiet snicker from behind him. “I only did what seemed right in the moment,” he said, ignoring her. “But I’m glad I was able to be of some help.”

“More than some,” Lars said, flashing him a grin straight from a recruiting poster. “Their accounts of the battle made us realize the danger the obruors posed before it was too late. Not a stretch to say that we all owe you our lives. We’ll repay it, with our life or death.” He stepped back and saluted. “My soul to the One.”

His subordinates echoed the salute, then as one the three men turned back towards their horses.

Michael stood dumbstruck, watching them leave. There was an echoing horror in the pit of his stomach, growing larger despite the pleasant day and the laughter of the Mendiko around him. He barely felt Sobriquet’s concerned touch on his shoulder. He only watched the three men ride back over the rise, to their comrades – and to Imes.