> Our Gharic cousins give much attention to the field of civic law. It is not inaccurate to say that societies of men require laws to function, but the laws must change to suit the society. Ghar’s legal codes could fill a library, and each of her children have followed that example.
>
> Yet our own are so short, barely worth binding together. Whence the difference? It lies in the goal of those laws. Gharic law exists to constrain the deeds of evil men, and to rebuke them for their excess. We have no need of such in Saf, for we do not have evil men.
>
> Do not mistake me; we have men who commit wrongs like any other country. These we deal with by law. But the labyrinthine edifice of law that Ghar built to reconcile the existence of evil with good has no place with us, for we recognize the law as a compact between good men. For those who stray from the path, we have another text entirely.
- Saleh Taskin, On Reclamation, 687
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“That’s the border?” Michael asked, squinting. It did nothing to improve his sight, of course, but it felt correct.
Zabala nodded, pointing out across the low valley ahead of them. “The hills there - I forget the name of the range, but they’re the traditional northern border of Ghar, from back before it was an empire. The placement isn’t an accident; it’s about the only natural barrier dividing the peninsula from the continental mainland. During their last war, Ghar held Saf at this border for years. When those lines broke, they came to us for aid.” He grimaced. “You know the rest of the story from there.”
“And now they’re manned from the other side,” Michael muttered. “Fine. I imagine there’s enough cover for a small, veiled group to slip through somewhere along the range.”
Sobriquet nodded. “Potentially. The Safid don’t have Sibyl, but they’re not idiots; they will be watching with more than just eyes.”
“I expect they’ll have their hands full with Ardans before long,” Michael said. “Given that this is the only spot to mount a defense, they’ll contest the passage north.”
“Not too strongly, I think,” Lars said. “While the Ardans are still on the peninsula, resupply from the coast is trivial. If they bleed them some, then let them over the hills, they’ll be complicating the Ardan supply train significantly.” His fingers twitched, and a series of parallel furrows appeared in the dirt at their feet. “I imagine they’ll set up several lines, small skirmishes here and there to force the army to stop and fight. Slow them down, keep them from resting or regrouping.”
His foot drew a track across the furrows, stopping fractionally at each one. “By the time they’ve done that dance five or six times, they’ll be hurting some - and deep into Safid territory, with every scrap of food and kit passing over those mountains. They’re going to have attrition problems with the obruor-touched men even without those complications; with them, the impact will quickly become ruinous.”
Zabala shot him a look. “If the obruor-touched men were the core of their fighting force,” he pointed out. “Which they aren’t. They’re a placeholder, debatably-warm bodies to hold positions and stand guard. Their real offensive, defensive and intelligence power is in their ensouled corps, and attrition won’t impact those to nearly the same degree. As long as they manage to serve Luc a hot breakfast each morning, they’ll be more than a match for the Safid.”
“But it will serve to disorganize them,” Michael noted. “And given that Luc is such an important part of their force, it will fix him in place. There should be ample opportunities for us to take advantage of the chaos.” He looked out at the hills. “If we can get across and to the other side, we should be able to pick our moment.”
Sobriquet made a face. “And what are we going to do for supplies and shelter, while we’re there? We’re leaving Ghar because the locals want our heads - or my head, at least. Our reception in Saf isn’t likely to be much warmer, and we’ll have worse than a mob coming down on us if we’re discovered.”
“But they’re not looking for us,” Michael pointed out. “And Saf should offer richer opportunities to resupply than we’ve found here.” He grimaced. “Half our food is still back at the safehouse in Gharon. Assuming Lars is right about their staggered defense, we should be able to lift rations and equipment from Safid caches.”
“Oh joy, more Safid rations,” she deadpanned. “It seems reasonable. I’ll caution you that the Safid keep a much tighter grip on their countryside than you’re used to in Ardalt. There’s a reason we always had trouble maintaining cells in their territory; they take matters of internal security very seriously, and their common people have a literally fanatic patriotism.”
“I imagine they’ll have evacuated much of the border anyway,” Michael said, though Sobriquet looked less than convinced. “With any luck, we’ll find a farmstead or hamlet we can use as a base.”
He cracked his neck, then nodded. “But first, we have to get there.”
[https://i.imgur.com/K0w4TFv.png]
After the not-inconsiderable thought they gave to crossing the border, Michael was surprised to note that the frontier was unmarked and unguarded in the spot they picked to cross. In fairness to the Safid, they were far from any road, with Michael bending the short scrubby pines aside to create a track for their passage in the otherwise impassable terrain.
As a result their descent into Saf felt somewhat anticlimactic. It was a countryside that looked little different from Ghar, with no signs of habitation in the long valley that led northward to the plains. The coast road ran to their east, though, and once the curve of the land mellowed out they were able to turn their course towards it.
They did not advance far into Saf that day, since the light was waning. As darkness fell, Michael saw lights wink into being across the landscape. The small, warm light of cookfires came from a few isolated farms, while larger blobs of radiance sat farther distant.
“Those will be the defensive lines,” Michael said, lofting his sight upward. “At least three groups that I can see, although they’re at the edge of my vision.”
Sobriquet frowned. “One of those is a town, not an army camp,” she said. “Although it seems to have no small amount of soldiers even so. I count a total of four encampments, including that one. Most of the troops are held in the farthest line, though - that’s the one you can’t see, it’s beyond a rise. The border and the two lines behind it aren’t manned to do more than delay the Ardans.” She gave Lars an appraising look. “You had them more or less figured out, it seems.”
Lars flushed. “It was the obvious strategy,” he demurred.
Michael shifted his sight around, trying to get a better picture of the arrangements. “I think we’ll find it easiest around the town,” he said. “More food, perhaps some livestock - there’s likely a stream there for water, too. We’ll rest here tonight, then approach cautiously over the next day or two to establish ourselves. It will be some time before the Ardans make it to the first line, but I’d like to be in a position to watch their advance.”
Morning came damp and chill, with a persistent fog obscuring their route forward. The distant camps were lost in it, the dead brush of the mountains glistening with cold droplets. The sun made itself felt only after several hours of wan half-light, during which they had descended into the flats and begun picking their way towards their destination.
Even with the burgeoning light, Michael found it hard to see far. Raising his sight up left the land swathed in white below him; they were all relying on Sobriquet’s direction as they drew closer to the road. She led them on a curving route that kept them off the ridgelines, pausing frequently to take her bearings.
“How long until we reach their pickets, do you think?” Michael asked during one of these pauses.
Sobriquet snorted. “We passed a few earlier,” she said. “They’ve got eyes and souls scouring the valley for interlopers, but I can keep us hidden well enough. This far out, they’re only concerned with looking for large groups. Perhaps they’ve got stronger measures focused closer to their main camp, but I’ve yet to see them. The Ardans don’t seem to be bent on a subtle approach, and the Safid aren’t looking for one.”
Michael nodded a wordless assent and let her lead them closer to the village. The fog had begun to clear by midday, and through a gap in the drifting white banks of mist he saw the first outbuildings. Michael stopped, frowning at them.
“There’s still people living there,” he muttered, pushing his sight as close as it would go. “Those don’t look like soldiers, there’s women - children, too, I see more than a few.” He pulled his sight back, giving the others a perplexed look. “This entire area is going to be a battlefield in the coming days; why wouldn’t they have evacuated?”
“Safid,” Sobriquet shrugged. “Who knows. Probably keeping them close to support the troops or some nonsense like that; there’s not as strict of a civilian/military division as you’d see in Gharic countries. Villages are expected to quarter troops as a matter of course, and are usually happy to do so.” She grimaced. “That’s been the cause of more than a few fights in Daressa, over the years. Soldiers in the occupied territories would come in and put their feet up, then act surprised when the farmers ran them out. They eventually cut back on the practice, but not before a substantial number of deaths.”
“Bizarre,” Michael said. “But all right. That may make things easier for us, in fact - easier to skulk around a village than between rows of tents.” He peered through gaps in the mist, trying to get the lay of the terrain. The houses were on the near end of the defensive line, anchoring it against a rocky rise that afforded modest views over the plains.
“We should keep to the high ground above the village,” Lars said. “Perhaps a bit back, they’ll want to use the ridgeline for scouting if they don’t have spectors at hand, and I imagine most of those will be with the bulk of forces in the rear. Saf tends to reserve their ensouled, save for a few weaker potentes and sculptors in the frontlines to add spice.”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Michael nodded. “That’s been my experience too,” he murmured, the echo of the Safid spector glowing briefly bright within his chest. “I don’t think we’ll have too much trouble up there, but we’ll need to stay veiled. That means staying together, and keeping our heads down. We’ll watch and wait, and see what sort of order the Ardans manage to maintain through the first lines.” He nodded towards the second line, barely visible in the distance. “Luc should make himself visible while they advance, and we can track his position.”
He frowned as a thought struck him, turning to Sobriquet. “Will he be able to see us here? He may or may not be a spector by now, but I’m more concerned with the soul he gained from Carolus. Even if we stay hidden from sight, the eventual attack should feature in his thoughts, no?”
“Don’t ask me to explain the workings of auspices,” she sighed, “but I’ve confounded them before. He’ll undoubtedly see us strike at him, but as long as we remain veiled it should be exceedingly difficult for him to determine where or when. Since he already knows you’re after him, it’s not spoiling any surprises.” A considering look passed over her face, followed by a smile. “If my concept of it is accurate, he’ll see the slightest possibility of attack everywhere he goes. It’s enough to drive a man to paranoia.”
“I think we’re well past that point too,” Michael sighed, scratching his head and looking around. “If we’re secure against detection, we may as well find a spot to lay our gear and rest. We’re going to be here for a few days - I hope.”
A nearby cluster of boulders proved to be decent shelter, with a few craggy overhangs and hollows set into the rocks. The northern slope of the mountains was muddy, but the ground at their base was firm, if not dry. The men busied themselves setting up camp, which was really only some light unpacking; they had been forced to leave a decent bit of gear behind in Ghar, and had only a few packs worth of supplies between them.
As Michael’s pack was not among them, he leaned against one of the lichen-mottled rocks and took a deep breath of fog. His sight went up once more, stretching as far as he could extend it towards the village. The near edge of it was just beyond the limit of his range, but it was close enough that he could watch the movements of people among the buildings.
He busied himself observing what he could see for a short while before a noise pulled his attention back to camp; he looked over to see Richter leaning against the rock beside him.
“No cookfire tonight,” Michael said. “You won’t be very busy.”
“Can’t be any less busy than you,” Richter said. “I don’t think you’ve moved since we got here.”
“Ah, but I’m performing reconnaissance,” Michael chuckled. “It’s very important, probably.”
Richter snorted. “If that’s what reconnaissance looks like, then I’ve spent a couple of watches doing the same,” he said. “Scouting the back of my eyelids. Dangerous terrain, that.”
“I happen to be looking at the Safid village,” Michael said, returning his sight to the distant buildings. “Trying to figure out where we can grab some food.”
“Anyone leave a ham unattended?” Richter asked. “We’re set for at least another day, but it’s not going to be a happy one - and we’ll need extra if we’re going to let Zabala get his hands on us.”
Michael smiled. “Nobody’s given up their secrets in the time I’ve been watching,” he said. “I don’t see anything that looks like a granary or storeroom either; that would be preferable to raiding someone’s house.”
“Safid towns keep their stores in the temple. That’s where all community property lives - plows, surplus food, seed grain.” Richter coughed. “Turned into something of a joke while we were advancing through Safid Daressa during the War proper. We’d set up kitchens in the temple when we were holding a town, the boys took to calling me their favorite priest.”
“Hm,” Michael said. Several comments had come to mind as Richter spoke, but the cook’s unsettled manner kept Michael from voicing any of them. “I suppose I should have realized you’d all know more about this than I do. It’s something of a tradition in this company.” He pulled his sight back to look at Richter. “Anything else worthy of mentioning?”
Richter shrugged. “Lord or not, I assume you know what a village looks like. They’re villages. People plow, plant, herd their animals, ply their trades, eat, shit and fuck. Savvies do some of those things a little different, sure, but not enough that it really matters.” He frowned. “It’s when soldiers come in that things get a bit queer.”
“As luck would have it, there are currently several soldiers in the village,” Michael said dryly. “Perhaps you could elaborate.”
The cook paused for a moment, his frown deepening. “They like their soldiers,” he eventually said.
“So they have well-behaved soldiers?” Michael asked. “They did seem unusually disciplined.”
“Disciplined, yes,” Richter sighed. “As for well-behaved - milord, can you see-”
“It’s Michael,” Michael interrupted. “I’m less a lord every day.”
Richter blinked, then gave him an irritable look. “Michael,” he said, enunciating it delicately. “Nope. Anyway, Captain, as I was saying - when you scout the inside of your eyelids, are there any soldiers about?”
“A few,” Michael sighed, turning his view to the village. “Rank and file, from what I can tell. Only a handful in the village, and a few around the perimeter.”
“Any of them near some citizens?” Richter asked.
Michael watched the few he could see, shifting his sight around to get a better look. There were a trio of soldiers standing quietly at an intersection, either idle or at their post. As with the other Safid Michael had seen, they wore small veils that hung from the brims of their caps to cover their eyes.
Everyone in the town was veiled, in fact. The citizens walking by them lacked the neat black cloth across their eyes, but made do with a variety of wraps and gauzy coverings. Most of theirs hung down farther than the soldiery, in some cases covering their whole face.
None of them paused to speak to the soldiers as they passed. Their only reaction to the three was to dip their heads down until they were facing the dirt, or near enough as their burdens permitted. Those with free hands touched one to their brow. Only when they were several paces clear of the men did their posture straighten once more.
Michael relayed this to Richter, who laughed. “Exactly,” the cook said. “They do like their soldiers, mind. In awe of them. But they’re beneath them, just like they’re beneath ensouled. Now - our villagers are beneath soldiers too; that’s how it goes. They know who has the power. You won’t catch anyone in Daressa gawping at a soldier, nor even in Ardalt. Savvy soldiers take food from the village stores like we do. They commandeer horses and stock like we do. But where an Ardan or Daressan will spit blood over it, the Savvies figure that’s just the way it has to be.”
“They just put up with it?” Michael asked, watching a woman duck her head, clutching her veil close to her face. “Maybe a few, but there have to be some where it doesn’t sit right.”
“Probably.” Richter spat into the dirt. “There were sometimes one or two folks who were quick to take off the veils when we showed up. Of course, as soon as you do that the other Savvies stop talking to you. No more temple food, no more friendly neighbors.” He made a noncommittal noise. “They put up with it because life is pretty good in Saf, from what I can tell. The soldiers don’t take liberties. Everything works, everyone gets along, nobody goes hungry or sleeps rough. In short - good. The trick is that there’s only one sort of good on offer.”
Michael nodded slowly. “That fits with what I’ve seen elsewhere,” he muttered. “You’re either on the path, or off it.”
“I stop short of trying to understand their path nonsense,” Richter said. “Seems awful convenient for the folks at the top. Life might be a little fucked up back home, but at least we get to fuck it up as we please.”
“I can tell you that it’s not just an affectation,” Michael said. “Convenient or not, their leaders believe every word of it.”
Richter gave an amused snort. “I bet. Big shiny soul, people bowing and scraping wherever you go, I’d believe some pretty crazy shit too if that’s how it turned out for me.” He nodded towards the village. “Now those poor bastards down there - they’re impressive. It’d be a lot harder to keep faith in something if all it got you was an empty larder and a face full of dirt. Yet there they go.” He made a dismissive gesture. “Bowing away.”
Michael watched them for a long moment. A pair of children ran past the soldiers, chasing each other with wild abandon. Their heads came down as they passed, then back up. They didn’t even break pace.
“It’s not so strange,” Michael said, his eyes still on the children. “You tell a child who he is often enough, and he’ll believe you. Everything makes sense through that lens. It’s comfortable. Something he’ll fight to defend, bad as it is. Honestly, I find it stranger that any of us manage to become something more.”
Richter said nothing in response; Michael brought his vision back to find the soldier looking at the ground, radiating a mild discomfort. He smiled and shook his head. “I’m rambling,” Michael laughed. “Come on. I’ve got the layout more or less figured; let’s talk about getting some food.”
It was a short conversation. They broke from their camp and moved as one towards the village; their need to remain veiled at all times meant that staying together was essential. It was no burden, though - the streets of the village were wide and uncrowded, making it easy for them to slip through to the temple at its approximate center.
The temple hewed to the same guidelines as the larger versions he had seen back in Daressa, built under the occupation. The building was white, with clean, simple lines. It was afforded a generous amount of space, and that space was swept clean of debris and refuse.
Cautiously, Michael sent his sight through the building and found it mostly-deserted; only one older man clad in white robes remained inside, sweeping the floor with unhurried motions. His veil was pinned back from his face, against his stringy grey hair, and his lips meandered in the slow hum of a tune only he could hear.
The front door was open, which was convenient. The larder was below the building, however, accessible through a stairway in the rear. That way was blocked by a heavy wooden door, which they would have to take care to open gently - Sobriquet’s ability to veil them was prodigious, but if they started destroying bits of the temple she would struggle to keep up.
He led the group inside through the open door, steering wide of the man with the broom. They circled around to the stairs, and made way for Sobriquet to lay her hand on the door. Michael waited for her nod, then touched his finger to the metal of the lock.
The iron resonated under his fingertip, and Michael knew the metal. There was nothing revelatory or profound about it; in fact, the mundanity of it continued to surprise him. Just as he could feel the position of his fingers or toes, he knew where the black iron lay.
He pulled the door’s heavy bolt back into the lock, then withdrew his hand. The door drifted gently open. Sobriquet looked up at him and smiled, though Michael noted the tinge of sadness that clung to her at seeing his artifex soul. He reached out to squeeze her shoulder, then pushed the door open to go downstairs.
Despite it being winter, and the plain above being full of troops, the temple’s storeroom was admirably full. Grain and beans were in abundance, but Michael dismissed those in favor of more tempting prey. He shrugged off his pack to grab a small wheel of cheese, followed by a mismatched variety of sausages. Richter and Lars were eagerly lifting apples from a barrel, scattering the packing sawdust on the floor.
Michael sighed to see it; there was probably no hope that the Safid wouldn’t notice the raid, but it would be good enough if they missed it until after he had left town. He turned his attention back to the food, finding a dusty shelf of Safid army rations. With a grimace, he added those to his hoard. The rations looked old, but he was confident that the tasteless bricks had a prodigious shelf life.
They took enough for a week, which Michael thought was fair - if they were still idling around this camp a week after this, then it was likely that food would be the least of their problems. A few empty, battered canteens joined the haul, and they turned back upstairs to leave.
The old man was still sweeping when Michael reached the top of the stairs. As the last of their party came up, he eased the door shut.
Perhaps there had been a draft, or a soft noise in its closing; perhaps the old man had one of those inexplicable feelings that informs a person when they are being watched. Whatever the case, he looked up from his sweeping a bare moment before the door had finished closing.
Michael saw immediately that the old man knew. The door had not unbolted itself at a stray gust. He could not see them, but his eyes fixed on the door with fear and shock.
The broom clattered from his fingers, bouncing on the stone tile. Sobriquet raised her hand, but before she could act against the old man he dropped to his knees, his hand snatching the veil across his face. In the next moment he had pressed his veiled forehead to the tile, bowing low.
Sobriquet paused, as bemused as the others.
Michael stared for a different reason; before, he had watched the bowing from a distance. Now the quavering man before him felt all too familiar in Spark’s view. His heart sped as he lived a single memory spread over a thousand moments, of the air in a room changing as his father walked in.
“Leave him,” Michael rasped. “Time to go.”
Sobriquet gave him a questioning look, but found whatever answer she needed in the look on his face. She walked out the door, and the rest followed. Michael was last, stopping to look one more time at the old man pressed against the tile - doing what he knew was right.