A man came up to the Caller and the Speaker one day, presenting himself before the pair with a plea for assistance. “I am but a humble man,” he said, “and the levers of the world strive to crush me at every turn. I do not know whether it is wiser to ask that I be made greater or the world lesser, but I cannot proceed ahead as I am.”
The first to respond was the Caller, and he spoke thus: “The world cannot be made lesser, for it is precisely as it must be.”
The next to speak was the Speaker, who said: “A man cannot be made greater, for he is precisely as he must be.”
The supplicant looked up in despair. “How then shall I go forth?” he cried.
“Go forth in faith,” the Caller said. “For all men are lesser than the path they walk. If your surroundings make you feel small, then you have been granted room to grow.”
“Go forth in courage,” the Speaker said. “For you have not yet been tested to the extent of your strength. What we do not know resides in the unfamiliar, so we must travel there to seek it.”
The man thanked them and left, weeping tears of joy now that he had been shown the path forward. When his back had disappeared amid the crowd, the Caller turned to the Speaker with a question on his lips.
“Was there greatness in this man’s heart?” the Caller asked. “Or have we sent him to his death?”
The Speaker smiled, and said: “All roads lead to greatness, and to death. We have sent him forth, and this is enough.”
- The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Secrets. (New Kheman Edition, 542 PD)
Michael’s feet propelled him in a nervous circuit of his tent. The walking was mindless and unhelpful, but seemed to him better than the echoing discomfort of remaining still with the phrase endlessly repeating in his head.
My soul to the One.
“Why did he say that?” Michael muttered. “Why would he say something like that?”
“Vernon and Emil are making inquiries at the Ardan camp,” Sobriquet said, the reply as well-tread as the rut Michael was wearing into the ground. “Come here and sit, I’ll let you know as soon as they find anything.”
Michael walked stiffly over to his cot, sitting beside her. “It doesn’t make any sense,” he muttered. “I don’t know them, they shouldn’t know anything about me. Least of all my soul.”
“There’s a reasonable explanation,” Sobriquet sighed. “We just have to find out what it is.”
Michael nodded, the muscles in his jaw working; he rose to his feet and began to pace once more. “He said there’s a whole battalion of them. You don’t think they’re all like that, do you?” He looked up to Sobriquet, feeling his heart began to race once again. “If it’s enough to give them affinity-”
“Michael,” she said, rising to put her hand on his shoulder. “The situation is what it is. We are currently trying to learn as much as we can about it. Only once we’ve finished learning can we work to change it.” She looked him in the eye. “You can’t change anything now.”
“But they’re sending them into Imes,” he protested. “If they do have affinity, and if they die-”
“Then they die.” Sobriquet gave him an exasperated look. “Changing those circumstances would require either erasing their affinity with you or ensuring that they never die, and I’m struggling to determine which of the two is more impossible.” She guided him firmly back towards the cot, pushing him back into a seated position.
“Stop trying to find a path to where this problem doesn’t exist. It does. It has for days. Nothing is different right now from when you woke up this morning, save that you learned these men existed.” She tapped him lightly on the forehead. “So over the course of the day, your situation has improved immensely. It just doesn’t feel like it.”
Michael nodded, trying to get a grasp on his breathing; he counted his heartbeats and felt them come more slowly with each breath. Eventually, he looked up to give Sobriquet a sheepish grin. “I’m being a little silly, aren’t I?” he asked.
She laughed. “No, I think panic is the natural response to learning you’ve got a literal legion of devotees,” she said. “But sometimes we can’t panic, so we have to do other things.”
“Wise words from the woman with a stressful vocation,” Michael said, laying back on the cot and closing his eyes. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you panic, come to think of it, and we have been in some spots together that definitely merited it.”
Sobriquet looked at him, unsmiling. “You’ve seen it,” she said. “I try to keep it brief.”
Michael looked at her, perturbed at the change in her tone, but before his thoughts solidified into questions she had raised her hand. “Hold on, I think Emil has finally gotten to the point,” she said. “Let me just-”
Her eyes closed, and around her the confines of the tent blurred and expanded; in moments Michael found himself looking at the interior of a much larger tent, one filled with Ardan soldiers. They were perched on crates or cots, standing where none were available.
As the illusion solidified it brought with it a cheery din. Michael saw that nearly all of the soldiers were holding drinks, and likely not their first of the afternoon. Beer was common, although bottles of Mendiko cider jostled for space with wine, ales and stronger spirits.
In the center of the fracas sat the architect of this multi-pronged assault on sobriety; Emil was smiling as he poured a dram of Mukaramen whiskey for Lars. The Ardan captain had procured a proper snifter for it from somewhere, swirling the golden liquid with practiced ease before taking a sip.
“Damned good,” Lars pronounced, inclining his head to Emil. “Haven’t had proper Mukaramen in ages, not since before we deployed to Azim - Imes, Imes!” He raised his free hand defensively as his fellow officers jeered at the slip.
“Drink!” one of them shouted. “You know the rules!”
“One does not-” Lars protested, cradling his snifter close to his body. “This is good stuff, lads, it’d be a crime to toss it back. Hand me a - there, yes, well done.” He grabbed a proffered cup of cider, drinking it in one swallow. The captain handed the cup back with a grimace, shaking himself. “Ghar’s blood, that’s horrid. No offense to our newfound Mendiko friends, of course, but they’ve got queer ideas about drink.”
“Tomorrow I’ll bring you a bottle of patxaran,” Emil promised. “That will bring you around, or nothing will.” He tipped a bit more whiskey into his own glass, tilting it side to side with theatrical flair. “They’re at least invested in the art of it, not like the Safid; weren’t you just saying that Safid couldn’t hold proper Gharic wines?”
“That’s what we put it down to,” Lars laughed, sipping at his drink. “Raving, the lot of them, so we thought it was the drink going to their heads at last. They’ve always been a bit cracked, of course, but it was at least endearingly savage before last month.” He made a face, then shook his head.
“We noticed it first when we captured some forward scouts. There’s normally some banter with the Savvies, they shout at us about testing and triumph and so on.” He jabbed a finger down onto the barrel that was serving as their impromptu table. “But this lot! None of that usual fire, they were cold and hard as you please. Just glared at us, and when we finally did get a word out of them they accused us of serving the Heart-Eater.”
A ragged cheer went up from the men around him as he said the name, a few raising toasts or echoing the words; Lars grinned and spread his hands. “And of course it’s quite the surprise to us, given that we’ve never heard of the man. We called the Savvy a liar, wound him up a bit. Eventually he tells us that we had chosen sides in their great conflict, that we had all lined up behind some Ardan chap, name of Baumgart, who would devour the souls of the world and bring about its ending.”
Lars raised an eyebrow, leaning in close. “Utter nonsense, of course, but he was so afire with it that we couldn’t bear to put a stop to the show - thus we nodded our heads like this, very serious, and said: ‘my lad, that’s exactly what we’ve done.’”
Laughter erupted around the tent, followed by another round of toasts to the Heart-Eater; Michael sat in numb silence, watching the tableau unfold in front of him.
“And then the next time we came across a Savvy patrol we told them straight away that we were here on the Heart-Eater’s business, and would they please offer their souls up for His Ravenousness?” Lars shook his head, chuckling. “Sent them into a right frenzy, and we’ve been doing it ever since.”
Emil laughed along with him, though his eyes were sharp and cold as he refilled glasses after the toast. “We’ve seen the same thing,” he said. “More or less. One mention of it and they turn wild.”
“To put it mildly,” Lars said. “And it’s damned effective at breaking their tactics; the officers can scarce keep their men from charging when we shout it out.” He shrugged. “We played it up for weeks, thinking it was yet more Savvy madness.”
There was another susurrus of laughter from the room, but darker than before; Emil nodded. “Then the Mendiko invaded.”
“That they did,” Lars agreed. “And it didn’t take long before we realized that the Baumgart we’d been hearing about was at the vanguard - we Swordsmen put it together first, since we’d already been asking after the man who fought Lord Sever. Some wanted to go and fight him, others wanted to toss him straight against the Safid.” He grimaced. “The point was made somewhat moot when the obruors turned.”
Grumbles and imprecations sounded from the assembled soldiers. Emil set his drink down and leaned back, his expression difficult to read. “Meaning no offense,” he said, “but weren’t your armies always controlled by obruors? To an outside perspective they always seemed fairly prominent.”
Lars made a face. “You may have seen more clearly than we did,” he admitted. “Obviously we knew they were there. But - we always thought of them as a waste of rations, to be frank. They were meant to make us fearless, but we were already fearless!” He tapped his chest, smiling bitterly. “We could never feel their touch on us. It was easy to assume that they were doing nothing.”
He paused for Emil to refill his glass, but did not drink. The cheer had left him as he spoke. “The turning point, such as it was, came with the first arrivals from Leik. There were too many of them, and a shortage of officers; I was detached from my unit to lead a response platoon of regulars. The men were frightened beyond anything we’d seen before, but also touched in the head - delirious, enraged, violent. We had our hands full stopping them from tearing each other apart, meanwhile Lord Sever and Lady Sibyl’s camps are packing their things to leave. It was chaos.”
Lars finally lifted his glass to drink, and during this pause there was utter quiet; all of the men present had ceased their carousing to listen to the tale, and though Michael got the sense that it was a tale often told in their camp, they stood enraptured. Indeed, there was something in the way the Ardan captain spoke that invited such absolute focus, for he was as spellbound in the telling as they were to hear. His face was tight with emotion, and had Michael been there in person he was sure he would have found it deafeningly loud despite the silence.
“During the worst of it was when she came. I’ve no notion of her name, but we’ve taken to calling her the Pale Lady. She was a grand apparition amid the War; all white and gold and grace that nothing could mar.” He shook his head, a smile touched his lips despite his turmoil. “The curious thing was that she seemed almost a prisoner within Sibyl’s camp, under guard wherever she went. I’d have thought she was Sibyl herself but for the caution the guards showed. I was watching in a stolen moment, wondering at the truth of her - and she saw me. Looked at me with eyes as pale as the rest of her, milk-white and blind, though I swear she could see as well as anyone here.”
Michael had gone completely still as Lars spoke; a suspicion of the woman’s identity had grown within him from the moment she was mentioned, and he was sure of her name even before the mention of her eyes. “Vera,” he whispered.
Lars could not hear him, of course, and continued with fervor. “She came over to where we were trying to settle a handful of men who had gone stark mad, frothing at the mouth and screaming. Her guards appeared almost in a trance; they made no move to stop her, nor could we as she walked to the afflicted men.” His smile grew, and he shook his head. “She bent to whisper something to them that I couldn’t hear. They went stiff all over for a moment, then calmed. She went down the line like mercy itself, each man quieting in her wake.”
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Lars pressed a hand to his chest. “And then she turned to us,” he murmured. “She walked up to me, looked into the deepest parts of me with those alabaster eyes, and laid a single chaste kiss upon my cheek.” He placed two fingers lightly on the side of his face. “And she told me that I was free. I had no notion of what she’d done in the moment, but I felt a great stirring within me at her words. I asked her what she meant, but she only smiled and told me that she was passing on the same favor Michael Baumgart had given her.”
Michael was dimly aware of Sobriquet’s hand on his arm, but his mind was lost in quiet horror. There had been indications when he last spoke to Vera that he had wrought a change in her beyond what he intended, but his fears had never extended this far. Even discounting the florid bombast of Lars’s retelling, it was obvious that she was taking sweeping action for ends known only to her.
“After she left we spoke to the men she had healed, and of course it was them who told us of what happened at Leik. Obruors controlling entire battalions into suicidal stands, doomed to fail save for Lord Baumgart’s intervention. We’d have disbelieved it on principle, except - we began to see things more clearly as well.” Lars took a grim swallow of his whiskey.
“We, who had thought ourselves free,” he said. “It wasn’t only fear the obruors took, nor courage the instigators imbued. They took our anger, our drive as men, made us placid sheep to be directed as they saw fit. The Pale Lady’s gift was to break their control. With our anger returned to us, we confronted our unit’s - handlers, is what they were.” He grimaced. “There was an altercation that they did not survive. We found documents detailing how they had paired us up to better preserve our souls, killed the wounded who could not be healed so their souls would go to another.”
“I’d like to see those documents,” Emil said mildly. “It could be useful to our cause.”
Lars snapped his fingers; a junior officer walked forward with an overstuffed folder. “Take them, and good riddance; though I think you’ll find that any man of their ilk we could lay hands on was paid a proper due,” he spat.
Emil accepted the documents with a nod, tucking them into his pack. “So that brings us to the present day,” he said. “And free Ardan soldiers.”
“Free Ardan soldiers all!” Lars confirmed, raising his glass; the cheer that had vanished was restored to the room as if a switch had been thrown, a shout of acclaim echoing back. “And so we found that what we said in jest was true in fact; we’re the Heart-Eater’s men.” He raised his glass in another toast, to raucous approval.
The applause was lost, Michael only heard a roaring in his ears. When he looked up he was alone with Sobriquet once more, her eyes concerned and intent.
“Michael,” she repeated. “We should talk to Antolin about this, let him know what he’s dealing with.” She squeezed his shoulder, giving him a quiet smile. “I know this isn’t what you wanted.”
He finally found himself back in the moment; Michael shook his head. “Vera,” he muttered. “I don’t know what she thinks she’s doing.”
“The same thing you did for her,” Sobriquet said. “Helped to set her on a better path, one where she wasn’t being used to hurt others.” She made a face. “I can’t be happy about the prospect of working with Ardan soldiers - Ghar’s blood, Lars is a Swordsman. But he didn’t lie to Antolin before, and I sensed none to Emil just now. It may well be that their crimes were not wholly their own.”
Michael looked at her. “I never thought I’d see such a charitable stance from you where Ardans were concerned.”
“I’ve heard some convincing arguments that there’s at least one of you that’s not horrible,” she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “So I’ll review those documents that Emil secured, and see how the next few days go. They’ll have to impress me quite a lot before I’d consent to them staying in Daressa, though.”
“When the War is over,” Michael sighed. “Sera, they’re going to want to fight, and - they may not have known me before, but they’ve met me now. If they die-”
“That’s why we should talk to Antolin,” she said. “He’ll want to keep them in less-crucial areas of the front just on principle; they were our enemies yesterday and might still be. But Michael-” She looked him in the eye, her hand settled on his shoulder. “This was always going to happen, in some form. It’s another thing that Luc is halfway right about. You impress yourself on the world and there will be a response; well, here it is. Even if it wasn’t your intention, you’ve more than earned the loyalty these men have professed.”
“I’ve never met them before today!” Michael objected.
“Vera did, and even if she’s gone slightly mad she seems to be doing good work - as a direct result of your intervention.” Sobriquet smiled at him. “You’ve helped people, Michael. I know you don’t see it, but you have. And when those people look at the change wrought in their lives, and see that it was your presence that did it, they cannot help but love you.”
She leaned in close to kiss him; Michael found her particular brand of rhetoric quite convincing indeed. When she broke away, she was radiating a low warmth that kindled an echo in Michael’s heart. “And as for myself,” she whispered, “my life has been upended entirely, you infuriating man. I love you most of all.”
“I love you,” he murmured back. “You incomprehensible woman. I only fear what this means. When I receive a soul, great or small, there is a change in me. All of these men, these broken men who laugh and talk of killing in my name - if they should die, and pass to me, I worry that I might not be the same man you know in the end.”
Sobriquet kissed his forehead. “At every turn you’ve gone up against the world,” she said. “And the world has always been the one to yield, even as your demands of it grow less reasonable by the day. If you keep insisting that the world make some manner of sense to you, eventually you will find yourself ruling it.”
Michael made a face. “That,” he said, “is precisely the sort of thing I wish to avoid.”
“And we both know that you always get what you want,” she said, standing to grin down at him. “Now come on, we have to go tell Antolin that Saleh was right, and that the evil Heart-Eater has a legion of fanatics at his back after all.”
“Please stop saying that name,” Michael groaned. “It’s macabre, and with my luck it’s going to stick.”
“Heart-Eater,” Antolin rumbled, drawing an aggrieved sigh from Michael. “Taskin’s cleverness has finally reached back around to bite him, it seems. Making a grand enemy for the Safid to fight does more than rally his own men.” He gave Michael a calculating look. “We can use this.”
“Let’s not,” Michael said. “Surely the real world is sufficiently horrid that we don’t need to borrow from Saleh’s incitements for flavor.”
Antolin gave a rare laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not proposing that we further what those Ardans have started, although you may find that such fancies are harder to stop than you’d prefer. No, I’m intrigued at the extent to which it appears to be compromising Safid professionalism. Fanaticism is an excellent motivator but it cannot instill restraint.”
“I’d never have accused Saleh of wanting restraint before,” Sobriquet said. “So I’m not sure why he should begin now.”
“Because he’s tasked with defending Imes from us, for one,” Antolin said. “And it would be convenient indeed if we can pull his troops forward from their prepared positions simply by waving Michael’s assumed title under their noses. They will adapt, of course, but it will benefit us in the crucial opening moves of this siege.”
He looked out toward the city of Imes; Michael followed his gaze. They were standing on a low swell of land some distance from the outlying districts, one of the few high points in the flat plains near the coast. The city crowded up against the ocean, a fat blob of whitewashed buildings shining with reflected sunlight.
It might have been a serene view but for the obvious signs of battle; here and there buildings were caved in or blackened from fire, and smoke still rose from points closer to the city center.
“It looks mostly intact from here,” Antolin mused, “but our reports say the fighting has been intense. There will be roadblocks, rubble. Your team will have artifices to clear a path forward for our armor.”
He looked at Michael, then smiled. “You look worried.”
“Should I not be?” Michael asked, somewhat exasperated. “We’re about to invade the Daressan capital. Men will die, and I’ve just been forced to contemplate if that might not affect me more directly than I’d wish.”
“Hmm,” Antolin said. “If it will ease your mind, I’m not sending in any of the Ardans with our advance groups. They’re too fresh, and for all that every soul I’ve checked them against has said they’re in earnest I’m not going to mix foreign elements with our advance. The lack of coordination alone would be fatal.” He shook his head. “They’ll stay behind until we’ve reached more of an understanding.”
Michael let his breath out slowly, watching the city laid out below them. “That does put my mind more at ease. I still have no concept of what I’m doing, though.”
“You’re not in charge of the whole advance,” Antolin chuckled. “You’re there for warning, and perhaps protection if they come out with particularly troublesome ensouled. Otherwise, you merely need to follow along and keep your eyes open. You’ll retain your liason, Zabala.”
“Charles will be with your team as well,” Sobriquet added, nudging him gently. “Part of your artifices.”
“I’m not sure I find that reassuring,” Michael deadpanned. He watched the buildings in the distance, imagining that if he strained his sight he could see the forms of men lurking within the buildings, waiting for his advance. He sighed and turned away from the vista.
“Then it’s time?” he asked.
Antolin nodded, and a moment later extended his hand. Michael blinked; he had not expected it, but shook it automatically. The grand marshal’s eyes were kind, but the smile had slipped from his lips.
“It’s not an easy day, the first time you realize that others have expectations of you beyond what they believe they themselves can do,” Antolin said quietly. “But it changes nothing. They’ve seen you as you’ve been up to this point; keep being that man.” He released Michael’s hand.
Michael nodded and looked back towards the airship. “Does she have a part in today’s events?” he asked.
“No,” Antolin said wearily. “She’d be a poor fit for this sort of combat usually, and now that I have cause to question her restraint - she’s not happy about it, but we’ll be keeping her in reserve.”
“Probably for the best,” Michael grimaced, turning as he heard the noise of motors behind him; a line of trucks had begun to snake its way along the road, making its ponderous way towards the city. The distant black spots of an armored division watched silently some distance away, but nothing stirred in the city to contest their advance.
It was time. Michael followed Antolin back towards the road, where a pair of trucks were waiting. Antolin hopped in one and gestured for Sobriquet to follow. She nodded and turned to Michael.
“I’ll be keeping an eye on you from the command post,” she murmured. “You have this in hand.”
“So everyone keeps telling me.” Michael kissed her. “Good luck.”
“And you.” She smiled, then joined Antolin in his truck. Michael turned and climbed up beside Zabala, who gunned the engine and slid them into the convoy. The fortimens said nothing, but there was nothing more to say; the view of the city before them had already laid claim to anything worth saying.