Chapter Twelve

Come and Stay a While

Ceecee, Maren,

I understand that we don’t see eye to eye on what happened to Delmar. I might not have the evidence to prove it, but I saw the journal with my own eyes, and I know what he did with Delmar’s tower. I can’t stay in the College knowing that the dwarf who killed my best friend’s sleeping a few bunks down the dormitory for me, so I hope you’ll understand as well when I tell you that I’m leaving the War College.

I’m going to flee somewhere far from here, miles away from the College and miles away from the Seviskian front. Maybe Marasko, or somewhere quiet like Forder Plains. Somewhere I won’t have to think about this war.

Thanks for leaving the roses on Delmar’s bed by the way. I’m sure he would have appreciated the gesture.

I’ll see you in the next life,

Scip

I signed my name on the piece of parchment and left the letter right atop Ceecee’s workspace inside the Tinkerer’s Workshop. That was at midnight; I’d have at least a six hour head start before anyone would notice that I had deserted the War College on foot.

And of course, I wasn’t escaping the war entirely. I wasn’t headed somewhere quiet, like the farming town of Forder Plains to the far west, or the desert city of Marasko to the south. I was headed deep into the heart of the war. First stop Kreuzhain, final destination Avengard.

I hoped that Ceecee and Maren understood the wink in their direction when I had mentioned the roses; they had, of course, left Smiling Buttercups on Delmar’s bed, the flower of Avengard. No Avengarder in their right minds would leave roses on a grave. Hopefully they had the sense to share the note with the Professor, or better yet the Marshal, and throw them off my scent.

What I was doing was, of course, illegal. At minimum, it was desertion. Every drafted member of the Free Cities’ war effort was chained to their post by the waist, whether spearman or Lance of the War College. At worst, it was treachery. As Lances, after all, we had an intimate undertstanding of some of the Free Cities’ most closely guarded engineering secrets, most of which were Kreuzhain’s.

Should I be caught and tried with desertion, I would be enslaved and sent to the front, most likely as a bricklayer or suicide sapper. Should I be tried with treachery, I would no longer have to worry about the war; the penalty would be death. But even in death, based off how the Lady of Loss had treated me on the top of that tower the night before, I had a feeling that even that would not be so simple.

In choosing what I would bring with me on my flight away from the War College, I thought like an engineer, just as the Grand Marshal and the Professor themselves would have wanted me to think.

First, I mentally laid out the framework of ensuring my equipment would serve the maximum level of utility for whatever I’d need. I broke it down into three parts. Every good framework, you see, is something that’s simply been broken down into three parts.

Sustenance. Subtlety. Smithing.

Sustenance was an obvious necessity and pressing concern. As a Lance of the War College, we earned the same wages as any common spearman or supply caravaner for the Legion of the Free Cities. This meant that for each week in service, we earned half a Royal, which was just about enough for seven hot meals.

Since I hadn’t stepped foot outside the College since leaving Avengard, nor had I purchased any special meals or personal items, I had saved each and every coin the Legion had granted me. In my pouch, I had thirteen and a half Royals with me, which was a fair sum for an average man living in average times, but I was looking at a sole journey hiking to Avengard ahead of me, while evading both Seviskian invaders as well as Free City officers who’d enjoy a meaty bounty for any deserter that they’d be able to round up.

Writing down the maths and sums on the side of an old scrap of parchment I had used to design my fortress model, I estimated, then, that my coin was enough to last me twenty days worth of travel, rations, shelter, supplies and all.

This was good - but it still wasn’t enough to last me to Avengard. Somehow, on my journey, I’d need to find a way to lighten the load. Maybe an odd job for a tavernkeeper or butcher if I could manage it; I doubted in my ability to hunt or forage for food in the wilderness. That was simply outside of my skillset; I understood the philosophies of the sciences, and not of natural biology.

I considered the application of the hand cannon for hunting small game, or even a deer…and then I thought better of it. The blast was almost as loud as that of a three ton demicannon, and I wouldn’t have any means of dealing with that sort of attention. Besides, the iron shot would most likely shatter inside the game, and I simply had no desire of cracking my teeth on my own material.

Subtlety was another pressing issue. Kreuzhain, based off what I had learned from the majority Kreuzhainer portion of students within the college, mostly consisted of highlander dwarves and erdvolker humans. I wouldn’t blend in with the dwarves for obvious biological reasons, and neither would I with the erdvolkers, who often towered over men from other cities and had light golden hair.

My mind wandered in quite a few directions as to how to best mitigate this. Wild ideas spring forth, from the ridiculous daydreams like forging a steel mask for myself along with iron stilts to walk around with, to the more pragmatic, like perhaps skipping Kreuzhian altogether. After I had put enough thought into it however, I decided that there was no getting around Kreuzhain; I would need the city not just for its supplies, but also for its information. I would need to find my way to Avengard, and I would need a more realistic, grounded understanding of just how the war was developing. Where might I expect pockets of Seviskian occupation? Which roads were being raided, or blocked by encampments from either friend or foe?

The conclusion I arrived at was a crude one. I stole. One of the Kreuzhainers owned a mantel cloak that he had simply hung on the side of his bed every night. With the hood up, I could cover my hair, and maybe even ward off any open questions about my height. It was a fairly heavy cloak as well, perfect for travel on the open road, and was emblazoned with a crest of a house of some nobility on its back. The House of Heimat. It would have to do.

Again, what Kazador had said about refugees and thievery rang through my mind…but I cast it aside. It’s easy to pass judgement when you come from a rich family of aristocrats and landed nobles. In my place, with the circumstances that fate had dealt unto me, I would argue that any highborn Kreuzhainer would do the same.

Finally, smithing. The world was turning into a crueler, more dangerous place to be with each passing day. The Lady of Loss had promised me some level of ability, some form of power that she refused to elaborate on, but that was no certainty that I could rely on. The only thing I could feel safe in was in what she had gifted me in that night of divine inspiration - the hand cannon.

The bulk of the weight in my pack served the purpose of supporting and maintaining my creation. I considered bringing the steel moulds that I had used in the Tinkerer’s Workshop to craft its barrel and blackpowder pot, but they were simply too heavy and unwieldy to carry on the road. I settled with a spare pot that I had crafted with Ceecee, and a schematic that I wrote detailing the measurements I had used for its barrel.

The iron shot, however, was a burden that I would have to force myself to carry. I loaded a mould that could forge six spheres of shot with each press, along with a small pouch of forged shot. To accompany this, I requisitioned a vial of sulphur, and small bottle of blackpowder. This, I kept in a small satchel along with two waterskins, both of which I would have to make sure to keep full as much as I could. For when I couldn’t rely on the hand cannon, I packed myself a small utility blade as well.

Sustenance, subtlety, and smithing. I would keep myself fed and healthy in the shadows. If pushed, I would hold my ground with the gift that the Lady had given onto me. This would be the formula from which I would navigate my way back to Avengard and back to Isidora.

Escaping the campus grounds was much easier than expected. In retrospect, I realize that much of the efforts that were put into guarding the campus were in keeping outsiders and would-be spies looking to steal engineering secrets out. Deserters, as far as the War College was concerned, were not a usual occurrence. Inside, even those as lowly as a Lance were enjoying conditions that almost nobody else anywhere in the Free Cities could take advantage of. Sturdy walls, a steady supply of meals, and some semblance of order.

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This was the comfort that I was running away from.

On the road, the rain was a constant nuisance that I was forced to deal with. As soon as I had felt the first drop, I wrapped my satchel of blackpowder in my spare shirt and pair of trousers. I couldn’t risk losing the only ace I had in this dangerous, war-torn world that I was throwing myself into.

Thick dark clouds blanketed the sky. As I hiked on without the guidance of the sun to guide me westward towards Kreuzhain, I constantly found myself lost and confused. I made a mental note to purchase a map at the city, if possible, assuming that I could find one for a fair price.

When my family and I had fled on foot from Fleur d’Lain to Avengard, we had quickly learned to follow the most trodden roads whenever we had lost our way. The paths with more footprints and carriage lines were safer and more likely to be guarded by lawmen.

Now, I didn’t have that option. The heavy rain had washed away any remnants of travel, and the area in between the college and Kreuzhain wasn’t a major thoroughfare for trade. Even if I did have the option, I may have done the opposite; a boy my age traveling by himself on foot was sure to arouse suspicion, especially this close to the War College.

It was for that reason as well that I avoided fellow travelers along the path. The vast majority of them looked as if they were in dire straits; the young among of them, invariably, would have some injury or missing limb. The elders, on the other hand, all looked frail and sickly, as if they hadn’t had bread in three days. The war had its effects apparent on all.

And as such, once the sun had fallen and the evening chill had sent, I found myself wanting for a flame, and when I was met with a man tending an open campfire by the wayside, I hid myself behind a brush. Holding the thin branches of a sootbrush and standing behind its thick grey foliage, I observed the man from afar, pondering the decision to approach him or not. After all, he could easily choose to turn me in for a deserter’s bounty.

The man was definitely in his later ages, judging from his lanky, gaunt figure and wrinkled, sun-baked skin. Leaning against an old log that he used as a camp bench was a suit of battered tin armor. A crest was once emblazoned on its left breast, but from what I could see, only a scratched splotch of colors remained. Yellow, green, and white. Those wouldn’t have been my first guess for a set of Kreuzhain colors, which normally displayed proud crimson, red, and black hues.

Despite that set of armor, this man didn’t seem like a threat. I inched forward and craned my head over the brush so as to better see him. He did not seem like a violent man. The expression he wore on was face looked kind, almost as if he were gratefully appreciating the warmth of his own fire. He took a swig from a skin that he wore with a thin leather strap across his shoulder as he slowly roasted some hunted game over a small makeshift spit over the flames.

“You can join me, lad,” the old man said.

I froze. I hadn’t meant to be noticed, I turned back; maybe if I left, he wouldn’t pursue me.

“I have wine enough to share, and the fire is plenty warm for company. Come and stay a while.” His voice sounded as warm as his campfire, and he wore a soft smile as he talked. It was calm, measured, and conveyed a gentle, quiet authority.

Almost blushing from the embarrassment, I stepped away from the brush and answered him, “You’re very kind, sir. It’s been a cold, wet day, and I couldn’t get a fire to start with damp wood.”

“That’s because you need more than just wood to start a fire out in the wild,” the old man said. He moved further aside on his sitting log, despite there already having been more than enough space.

“You need to forage for dry kindling yourself. An acorn under thick tree cover, let’s say, and shave it to its core. Once you have a spark goin’ through enough kindling, you can light up any branch or firewood you’ve scrounged up, even the damp ones.”

“I see.”

“Better yet,” he continued, “You could keep some dry kindling on you. I still have some sawdust. Would you like some?”

I almost accepted the offer - the thought of camping some nights without a fire was loathsome - but I thought of the satchels of blackpowder I kept in my pack. The risk of ignition was simply too high, and so I politely refused.

“Suit yourself then, lad.”

He offered me some of the hare that he was tending over his flame, and I politely refused a second time. “You’re being much too kind,” I said. “I couldn’t possibly take more from you, sir. You’ve already given me warmth from your fire, and a kind smile here in the night. I have nothing to offer in return.”

“We all deserve a little bit of kindness, lad,” the old man, with an almost melancholic quality in his voice. He took a swig from his skin, which I now realized held wine. Between his choice of roadside beverage and his set of half-plate armor, I reasoned that he must have been fairly well-to-do. “You can call me Quixada, by the way, lad. From the rolling vineyards around Dewdrop.”

Dewdrop, from what I knew, was a small farming town to the north that essentially existed to serve and feed the sprawling city of Fleur d’Lain. From how he introduced himself, it sounded like he hailed from an even smaller village around that area. What, then, was he doing here in the middle of nowhere, so far away from home? However, before I asked him that, I realized that the same could be asked of me, and held my tongue.

“And you can call me Scipio. From…Kreuzhain,” I introduced myself along with the story I had conjured for myself. He didn’t seem quite so convinced.

“Your complexion tells me that you have roots from the east,” he said in a careful, measured tone. “Somewhere from the isles. Correct?”

“I…” He hadn’t quite bought into my story despite the crest of the House of Heimat on my cloak. I could double down on my lie, but my hesitation had already given me away. Still, he didn’t seem to directly contradict my story. “That’s correct.”

“And I understand that in your part of Jatta, you have your own names. Because ‘Scipio’ as I understand is a southern name, and I imagine you chose it to make it easier on us. But it’s a shame for a man to not be allowed the pleasure of being called his own name.” He produced a small wooden pipe from his pack and began to fill it with tabak. Then, he held the pipe close to the fire. “So please, lad, feel free to share your name with me. I promise I’ll give it my best shot in pronouncing it.”

Again, I hesitated. This man, Quixada, was being so forthcoming, so open. I considered refusing him out of sheer suspicion, but then I remembered that back home in Dalintaya, we, too, took kindly to even strangers without delay. Perhaps there were other cultures, too, that weren’t as cold and guarded as the likes of Avengard or Kreuzhain.

“My name is Lakbayalon,” I said, and he mouthed it to himself, attempting to pronounce my name as I had. “But please, call me Scip. I haven’t been to the islands since…well, for a long time now. It’s just easier, being Scip.”

“Alright then, lad, Scip, if that’s what you prefer.”

“Are you a knight, Quixada?” I asked, before hastily adding, “Ser Quixada?” Apart from the obvious clue of his armour, his being a knight would also explain his traveling, and why he hadn’t been consumed by the war effort.

“I was, of sorts,” he answered. I expected him then to elaborate further, to perhaps share his order, but he had simply left it at that. I felt somewhat slighted, with him refraining from explaining after I had just shared my birth name with him after his prodding, but the look in his eyes was devoid of malice. He was simply an old man who knew the things he wanted to talk about, while also understanding which matters he had no joy in chatting about, and I respected that.

Later that night, he extinguished the campfire and taught me how to bury the coals, so that it wouldn’t be tracked by anyone else on the road, but also to best nourish the different plants and saplings that grew better with ashen fertilizer. To sleep, he taught me to climb a strong coalbark or ashwood tree for their broad, sturdy branches, and how to buckle yourself onto the branch so that you wouldn’t fall off while sleeping through the night. Up there, people were less likely to spot anyone, especially in the night.

The sun rose to a clear sky, but the heavens were not as blue as I had come to expect. The skies were closer to a dull, light grey than a strong blue, especially when compared to the skies over Avengard, and even more so with the skies over the Isles of Dalintaya.

“Shows we’re not far from Kreuzhain,” Quixada said. “You’re headed to the city, correct? I’ll be there in due time as well, but I have a stop nearby to make.”

“A vineyard?” I ventured a guess. “No, a monastery? For knights?”

“A grave,” he said simply, and I knew better than to prod for further details.

“So this is where we part ways, then?” I asked.

“I suppose it is,” Quixada said, bringing his pack to his shoulders, the tinplate armour strapped securely on its exterior so that it did not rattle as he moved. “And Scipio?”

“Yes, Ser Quixada?”

“Protect yourself on these lands. You’re a far way from home. As am I. And the Seviskians are dropping young men like you, cartload by cartload.”

“Of course, Quixada.”

“Though the world is dim, may the Light guide you, Lakbayalon, and may you remain unseen by those who wish to do you harm, and seen by those who wish you peace.” He raised his hand in a sort of salute, or greeting perhaps, that I was not familiar with. Awkwardly, I did the same, and he smiled. “I do not know what you’ve heard from the war, but know that more and more Seviskians are on the wrong side of the Voxen Mountains. If you ever receive word that a Praetor Soulbreaker is within even ten leagues of you, run. And find way to give me word, so that I may ride to meet him.”

“A Praetor?” I echoed. Praetors, in Sevisk, were second only to the Emir. There were ten of them, and men in the college had said that they all had yielded their identities, their humanity to the Emir. They were husks of men and orreks alike, and were called by how the Emir moulded them. Soulbreaker. Deathspeaker. Scalebinder.

“Yes,” he said plainly, without elaborating on how I would send word to him, or how he thought he would have any chance facing a Praetor. “Farewell now, Scipio. Go with grace, and with my blessing.”

“Thank you, Quixada,” I said, waving as he began his way on an opposite fork in the road. “Until we meet again.”

And I continued my way to Kreuzhain.