> I believe I met my daughter today.
>
> I can't believe I'm writing this, if it's found... But I cannot keep these feelings totally locked away.
>
> Why this of all things? I don't know, I barely understand my own feelings.
>
> She looked just like her father, maybe that's why they even permitted us to meet, didn't think I'd see myself in her.
>
> But I remember him. He was gentle. He spoke to me before and after, and seemed to regret the necessity of what we'd been told to do.
>
> He said he hoped I would have a daughter, it struck me as odd, neither of us would ever know her.
>
> I learned he died shortly afterward, maybe that's why I remembered, he didn't live to her birth.
>
> He wouldn't have seen it even if he’d lived.
>
> Oh, but her. She's so beautiful, not like me at all. I wouldn't have known, but when she smiled it was like looking into a mirror.
>
> They wanted me to advise her on her carding, it was similar to my own primary, strong but tricky, requiring nuance only I can teach.
>
> I want to see her again.
>
> Last diary entry of Syl Relia, bondswoman.
Stroph’s posture carried no recognition for himself or the world.
His hands remained curled into half-claws; legs bent and tensed for action at any provocation; his eyes roamed continually, flitting to and fro in the wild fear of a cornered animal.
Jack finally understood. He’d suspected it in only the broadest terms, that Stroph’s strength was not freely claimed.
Power granted in commensurate cost to his mind. And the warrior had not gone cheaply.
Jack took a careful step backward, and seeing Stroph slightly settle at the growing distance between them, stepped back again.
He half expected to see his friend flee into the distance, governed by primitive instincts; but after a stumbling step that flowed wrong—like a child’s first efforts—he merely curled himself into a fetal position and buried his face in his arms, as if hiding from an incomprehensible world.
The impulse was there to approach, to offer comfort to a friend bound in misery. A glance at the unrecognizable mess of the warrior curtailed that longing.
‘Jam knows of it. He as well as told me when I asked about Stroph’s moods. He’ll know what to do.’
“I don’t know if you can understand me, but I’m getting help. Don’t... don’t kill anyone… human while I’m gone.”
Fretfully, Jack set out back towards the caravan. He hurried, anxiously checking his position too often, fearing that the pressure for haste would lead him to miss the company and force a double back.
He’d barely travelled more than a few minutes before a welcome figure appeared over a rise. Issaiah reoriented towards Jack and in moments they were meeting.
Jack began babbling an explanation but trailed off as he took in Issaiah’s appearance. The normally neatly arranged baubles and pouches he kept on his person were in disarray. An untended scratch on his forearm had soaked through his sleeve and the usual playful half-smile he kept was absent.
Those details fell to the wayside as well, when the final piece came to Jack’s attention. Issaiah’s hands were coated in the same blue ichor that Jack had last seen flowing from the Hiver warrior.
“The caravan?” Jack asked with a feeling of dread, but didn’t wait for a reply as panic assailed him. “They were attacked as well—You’re the only one who made it… Swarming erratics took them. We need to run, we need—”
Visions of strewn corpses came to him, of carrion birds growing too fat and lethargic to fly.
“Oh, the caravan?” Issaiah replied nonchalantly, “All dead.”
But before the horror could resonate through Jack at those words, Issaiah was already continuing.
“Don’t be addled boy, there were nobles there. The Hiver patrol barely arrived before half were dead and the remainder fleeing.”
Jack glared at him, speechless with anger.
“There!” Issaiah’s finger was brought sharply up to Jack’s face, “That’s the feeling we need now. The worst came and left so quick you hardly had a chance to make a home for it. Took the panic you were nurturing with it as well.”
Jack knew not to bother slapping away the offending finger, he’d only hurt himself in the process. But words still remained to him.
“That’s a dirty joke to play, Issaiah.”
Issaiah’s manic grin collapsed instantly into an implacable stare.
“There was no jape boy. I needed something from you and knew the fastest way to get it. Kindness kills out here and I am very tired of killing. Now you’re ready to take me to Stroph, aren’t you?”
With a start Jack set back the way he had come, with Issaiah keeping pace. Belatedly, he realized how deftly he’d been manoeuvred. Issaiah had put the pieces together immediately—the attack, Stroph’s absence, Jack’s state—and gone from there.
“How did you know to come?” Jack asked, finally aligning with Issaiah’s purpose.
“Hivers are odd things, odder still when they break their molds. It’s little surprise that they made them from men...,” a quick glance at Jack, “Still, some things they do by rote. A pair wandering off on their own? They’ll send a warrior to deal with them. Someone flees their direct assault? Outlying screeners make quick work of runners,” a gesture with his blue coated hands, “or they try. Bugmen don’t expect a mountain in a grip.”
“But... Hivers are mindless. What you’re saying sounds like tactics, strategy even.”
“Oh it’s true, take a lone warrior and watch them for a while and you’ll reflect on the intelligence of stumps. But a dozen? Like a pack of wolves. A thousand? An army.”
Jack considered the movements of ants he watched as a boy, individually unfocused, but collectively accomplishing lofty purposes—for insects that is, and Hivers were much greater than ants.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Without the debris of the battle to mark the spot, Jack wouldn’t have recognized Stroph when they came upon him.
He was half-buried in the gory mud, face-down and struggling blindly. Even as Jack watched Stroph tore through earth and rock in his flailing, sinking deeper into a self-made tomb.
Jack’s gut clenched at the choking coughs and sobs that came from the wretched figure. Mud had filled his mouth, and a reflexive swallow led only to a choking fit, and then finally vomiting out the accumulated grit.
“You’ve pulled too deep haven’t you?” Issaiah’s spoke softly, with resounding regret.
He went to Stroph then, pausing only when he stood above the lost young man. Stroph, insensate, only continued to struggle against the ground.
With careful movement, Issaiah grabbed one of Stroph’s wrists. Not lunging to grab it but merely placing his hand in the way of Stroph’s swing, and then closing his grip.
In an instant, Stroph reacted by lashing out with his free hand towards Issaiah. Jack cried out involuntarily, only to quell when he saw that the blow had fallen short, captured again by Issaiah’s waiting palm.
“There now, Catastrophe, you’re safe boy. You remember what this feels like don’t you? What it means when even your strength fails. Let your fears still little lad of stone, the mountain holds you now.”
While Jack watched Issaiah pulled Stroph close against his chest, even while the muck covered man flailed desperately against him, wrenching with such violence that Jack feared the two of them would be brought to the ground. But Issaiah stood implacable, drawing Stroph ever closer until he held him tightly against his chest.
“You were frightened. You feared for yourself, but more, you feared for your friend. You spent everything you had didn’t you? Foolish Catastrophe. You gave up your sight and your sound knowing what it meant, because you knew losing would be worse.”
In Issaiah’s arms, Stroph’s struggles slowed.
“Little boy lost in darkness, you must have been so afraid. You gave up touch too didn’t you? You gave up everything you could in desperation. But you kept the last. The motion of your limbs and the feeling of them, as I showed you. Now you need to show me you remember, show me you didn’t give up yourself, show me you’re still there.”
In Issaiah’s arms, Stroph finally fell still. And then, inarticulate, a wail like a newborn rose from him.
Issaiah looked over his shoulder to Jack, who could see the tears running down his weathered face, even as his face beamed with joy.
“You did it lad, you saved him and yourself. You did it.”
----------------------------------------
The last he saw of the pair was Issaiah settling Stroph atop his back and beginning a march into the wilderness. They had been a ragged sight, but as they descended out of view Issaiah began to sing a lively tune in a language Jack didn’t know, and then they were gone.
Issaiah had explained that it would be weeks before Stroph’s mind returned to normal, and even longer before his senses would recover fully. That whole time he would have strength that would kill anyone in the caravan but Issaiah at a touch.
His card was a terrible thing, eroding his mind in measure with the strength he pulled from it. The real threat, Jack realized, was how using the card would worsen Stroph’s judgment, and so encourage further use. It was a card that trended inevitably towards self-destruction, and then, bereft of his senses and nearly mindless, the destruction of everyone around him.
There was no question that a Censure court would demand his execution—even with his isolation from populations, even when he’d practiced such self-control that only in the face of mortal danger had he drawn too heavily upon it—and so necessity of the deception he planned.
The temperance of Calre and Vasala could not be relied upon, and so, in their eyes, Stroph had to already be dead. The dilemma of the dead warrior, the evisceration of which could not be hidden, was the sticking point. Any story that didn’t include the site of Stroph’s fury would be dashed at a glance. Simply hoping it was never discovered would be too wishful, as even now the nobles were likely scouting for them. But Jack had a solution to that as well.
‘A big lie is swallowed easier with a little truth.’
With that he prepared his scene.
His clothes were too immaculate, a roll in the blue-stained muck left him properly attired for the occasion.
A fist sized stone in each hand, liberally applied to the remains. Take special care to make the crushed imprints left by human hands unrecognizable.
A touch of panic for authenticity. Just think about all the death you’ve seen. Reflect on what will happen to the friend who risked everything to save you if your efforts are seen through. Ahh, perfect.
No, no, stop there, that’s quite enough. Don’t-don’t think about that. Stop. Stop. STO-.
----------------------------------------
Grant found him, glaze-eyed and silent, surrounded by the viscera of a Hiver. He was crouched, dully striking the remains with a stone held in both hands. Jack didn’t realize he was there until he reached out to grab the boy’s wrist.
There was little recognition in the young man’s eyes and for a moment he worried that he had taken a head blow, until he spoke.
“They took him, they took Stroph. I couldn’t stop them,” then a glint of crazed desperation came into his look, “You can save him, please. Please!”
Grant felt a rush of pity, the young man clearly wasn’t suited to this life. From chatter in the caravan Grant had picked up that this was his first expedition, a youthful spot of adventure combined with a possible courtship effort with the caravan master’s daughter, and with the evidence of a single-handed Hiver kill, he suspected another reason.
But a lie now would serve no greater purpose.
“I’m sorry lad, Hivers don’t keep live captives.”
“If we hurry he might still—oh,” Jack’s fevered look fell back into a numb haze, “of course. Foolish of me.”
Jack returned his attention to the remains around him.
“I killed the umbrar as well. Everyone would have died if I didn’t. I was lucky then. I couldn’t manage it this time.”
Grant closed his eyes. He didn’t want to ask this, but duty bade him.
“How did you manage this?”
After a moment of silence, the youth began.
His story was an unfortunate one, not common, but not as rare as it should be. His cards were ultimately of little combat use, barely threatening to a single noble. From his description most of the... tertiary damage to the Hiver was done in the same fugue Grant had found him in. There was always the chance that he held some other power, but Grant judged it unlikely. He could be permitted to approach Calre and receive a more formal judgment, which, knowing his master’s disposition, would be generous. He had been silent, considering what he’d been told, when his thoughts were interrupted.
“Are you going to kill me now?” a small voice, almost like a child, coming from this young man nearly full grown.
Taken aback, Grant stumbled through his answer.
“No! Cal would neve-,” he corrected himself, undue familiarity wouldn’t suit here, “Lord Calre does not live up to the reputation of some of his peers. We’ll assess your cards, and then, perhaps a Censure court will review the Lord’s judgment. But you have already earned his favour, he won’t allow you to be dealt with harshly.”
“Oh... alright. You really trust him. I suppose I will as well.”
Grant didn’t answer, instead bundling Jack onto his nimble to make the return journey to the caravan and continue the already draining day, but the words lingered in his mind.
Bondsmen did not know their own children, such a division of loyalty was unacceptable. With his talents he had been ordered to father on numerous occasions, ceasing only once Cal had been old enough to discern his own feelings on the matter and give him the right to refuse.
Cal was his family in a way no one else could come close. Grant had been only Jack’s age when he had been assigned to that quiet, studious child, expected to serve Calre for the rest of his life, to lay down his own life if needed in that service. Grant did love him, but Cal had never needed him as a child might.
Maybe that was why, as the boy he held struggled to stay awake atop the nimble, his thoughts dwelt on what it must be like to have a son.
When they returned, the caravan was still in disarray from the attack by the Hiver scout group. With the boy found, and his friend taken, there was only one other missing—an elderly cook, presumably taken by the swarm in their retreat.
With some solemnity he deposited the boy with the caravan master, before continuing onward to Cal, whom he could see toeing through the slain Hivers at the edge of camp with Vasala.
The next assault—and he had no doubt there would be another—would be overwhelming, assuming the Hive had the numbers for it. That was the consistent pattern advanced Hives exhibited, probing strikes with disposable aged warriors and weak workers, followed by annihilation of all major resistance through the power of as many scythe-armed berserkers as the Hive supported. He would survive, along with the lord and lady of course, but many of the caravan members likely wouldn’t.
Cal would have an answer to all of this, along with the dilemma of what was to be done with Jack.