Peculiar Soul

Chapter 116: Perfection from Fullness

Chapter 116: Perfection from Fullness

The tortoise was at the pond for a drink one day when he noticed the man staring down into the water. The man did not move while the tortoise came and went, and he thought it so strange that he mentioned it to the mockingbird when they next spoke.

The tortoise asked what made the man stare at the water so.

The mockingbird replied that the man was not staring at the water, but at what he saw in it.

This irritated the tortoise, who knew that man saw his reflection in the water, and he said as much to the mockingbird. The mockingbird replied that it was not his reflection that the man stared at either. It was what he saw in the water that captivated the mans attention so.

Frustrated, the tortoise asked what the man saw in the water aside from his own reflection.

The mockingbird replied that there are things in the minds of men that exist only there, that are more dear to them than anything in the world. He told the tortoise never to interrupt a man who has caught a glimpse in truth of something that ought to dwell only within his mind, for men treasure such glimpses beyond reason.

The tortoise said that it seemed foolish to treasure something that could not be felt or touched. The mockingbird agreed, but said that men still caught hope on occasion that such things could not only be touched - but grasped, kept, and obtained.

If the tortoise ever saw a man that lifted his eyes from the water and still saw hope, the mockingbird warned, he should keep far away.

- Pre-Gharic Ardan manuscript, vellum, c. 500 PE

His short stay at the hospital would have been perfect for a nap, Michael reflected, if naps were still an option for him. Instead he stayed by Amira and thought - about what she said, about his failings as an anatomens. About the fight with Friedrich. The memories prickled his skin with gooseflesh even now, and he rubbed his hand absentmindedly over the fresh skin on his arm, wrapping himself in Stanzas comforting glow, calling upon the warmth of his low souls-

He paused. That warmth had grown, since last he looked. Some had come to him during the shelling the night before, certainly, but it was only a handful; now there were a round dozen more of them quietly flaring away within him. His thoughts slipped into incoherence as he focused inward, unbelieving. He had been focused on the battle, but to miss a new low soul entirely was unprecedented.

Yet the ones that had come the other night had done so with only a trickle of warmth to mark their passage; it was not so strange to think that he might have missed such a thing in the middle of fighting. Nor was it beyond belief that these might have come with even less notice than that. Indeed, he had felt the warmth swell in his chest as he approached the hospital, but dismissed it as the sign of dying men-

Which he supposed it had been.

Michael sat on the cot, staring at the imagined glow for a long time.

Eventually the medic brought back his senior, who looked Michael over before turning his attention to the Great Shield. The junior medic promptly shooed him out of the hospital, grumbling when Michael thanked him.

Absent an obvious destination, Michael called on Sobriquet. She guided him to where Lars, Zabala and the men were assembled. Richter had given in to his stew-making compulsion once more, and they huddled around the anemic cookfire clutching small bowls of whatever he had managed to scrounge.

Zabala looked up at his approach, raising an eyebrow. You seem to have had a fun time.

Michael looked down, surveying the ruins of his clothing. He was almost as frightening a figure as Amira, save for the small clean patch where the medic had healed his arm. Fun is one word for it, he sighed. I dont suppose theres a bath in camp.

If there is, they havent told us about it, Lars said, his mouth half-full of food. Keep it on, I say - you look frightful.

Sobriquet gave him an unimpressed look. Overruled, she said. Or hes finding a different cot. She raised her arm towards the far end of the tent row. Theres a small station there. The water is freezing, but that shouldnt be an issue for you.

Michael nodded gratefully and jogged towards the artificed building she had indicated; it turned out to have a cistern on the roof, which fed showers beneath. It was packed with men in the aftermath of the battle, weary and manic men methodically freeing the evidence of the day from their skin. They all looked miserable; Michael realized why when he stripped off his tattered clothing and stood beneath a free showerhead. Being a potens rendered the cold less of an issue, but made it no more pleasant.

He closed his eyes and drew his focus up to the water, briefly stealing heat from the rocks beneath them until the water was acceptably warm. Shouts of joy came up as the water began to steam; Michael smiled and went to work on his horrendous appearance.

A short while later he rejoined the group, having managed to beg a spare uniform from the other men showering; once he offered to top off the waters heat again, he had been offered his pick from the clothing there. He had chosen a standard Safid infantrymans uniform, for its fit and cleanliness, and tugged at it as he rejoined the others around the cookfire.

Lars did a double-take at seeing him in the clothes, his lips curving into a grin. My word, youve gone native, he said. I know theyre keen on you here, but I never thought theyd convince you to enlist.

It may surprise you to learn that the variety of clothing in a military camp is somewhat limited, Michael sighed, settling down in an open spot around the fire. It fits, and its not full of holes. Thats about all I care about at the moment.

You forgot to mention clean, Sobriquet said, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. Which I appreciate. I take it Amira is recuperating?

Michael waggled his fingers. Shes in rough shape. Its hard to injure potentes, but hard to heal them as well. I got the impression she was in for at least some recovery - and shes never getting that hand back.

Ive always been a trendsetter, but thats a bit too much, Sobriquet snorted. And it leaves us with the problem of what to do next. With their commander and most powerful soul unavailable, the Safid will be immobile for some time. Meanwhile the Ardans are regrouping in the mountains, and Luc is still presumably playing with Saleh out west.

Or hes killed Taskin, Zabala pointed out, and is coming over here with a fresh new soul to tear us apart.

Michael nodded, frowning. Either way, sitting around isnt what we need to be doing. We need to get to Luc. If hes not going to meet us here, then its on us to track him down.

So lets go, Zabala grunted. Do we have any actual confirmation that hes out west, or is that merely process of elimination?

The latter, Michael admitted, scratching his neck. Amira didnt seem to have any actual reports from that side of the front, but if Luc isnt here-

Then hes not here. Zabala countered. Thats about all you can say conclusively, and even that is suspect since hes been such a sneaky bastard in the past. He drank the last of his tea, then peered out around the camp. We should find whatever passes for an intelligence division here and use your status to wring what we can out of them. Then we leave.

Michael nodded hesitantly, following Zabalas gaze; the camp was teeming with men in the wake of the battle, some of them wounded but most surprisingly well-off. The battle had been much easier than it might have been thanks to Amira and Michael intervening. Without either-

Sobriquets eyes narrowed. I know that look, she murmured. Youre thinking idiotic thoughts.

Even if Luc isnt here, Friedrich and Sofia pose their own kind of threat. Without us theyd have had their run of the Safid lines. Without any of the Eight on their side, the Safid wont fare well against the Ardans, diminished or not. Michael turned to meet her eyes, all too conscious of the burgeoning warmth within him. I told them theyd have to trust me once this was over, if we wanted to avoid another War. Helping them now may mean I dont have to kill them later.

Im in favor, Lars said loudly. Same arguments as before; these are good lads and the men theyre fighting are bastards. Would sit poorly with me to let them get torn up.

Sobriquets voice drifted close to his ear, low and amused against the surge of emotion from the front; her veil dimmed their cheers. Whats the matter? she murmured. Dont you trust Lars?

His misgivings aside, the evening saw them marching south in force. There had been enough volunteers that the Safid officers were turning latecomers away; they did not want to leave the line entirely defenseless. As it was, about half of the remaining ensouled and a good number of unsouled men volunteered to join their expedition.

Michael looked out over the vast column as it set out. The officers had the men in immaculate ranks, and each one marched with vigor despite the trials of the day before. Even Zabala looked grudgingly impressed.

But the only emotion Michael could muster was a sick dread that knotted his stomach, twisting the pride and excitement he felt all around him into sinister mockeries of themselves.

Zabala walked closer, nudging him in the side. Dont look so glum, he said. This is a better turnout than we had any right to expect.

Its too many. Michael plodded along quietly, shaking his head. A mere few strong ensouled with your backing would have been better. Theres no way we can protect this many men. Theyre following me to their deaths.

Zabala chuckled. A bit arrogant of you to think that you can go up against the Ardans without losing a man, he said. Men will die. Probably a lot of them. What youre aiming for is to lower the count, not eliminate it entirely.

Michael grimaced. Im not so blind as to think I can do this without losing a man, but they dont know what theyre signing up for. This wont be some grand test of their strength, like they believe it to be. I dont have any holy purpose for them. Theyre going to line up and die randomly, meaninglessly, because they think Im the Caller from their stories.

You as much as told them that you were. You cant invoke the name when its convenient for you and put it aside in the next moment, Zabala scoffed. But youre not claiming to be perfect; you said this mission was certain death. They came anyway.

I suppose I dont understand why. Michael looked back at the column of men, at their smiles. The mood was excited, expectant, with none of the dread that Michael felt. I dont know what makes a man march joyously to his death. For all that Ive put myself in danger, I never felt happy about it.

Zabala took his cap off, scratching at his hair. Nobody ever credited the Safid with an abundance of sanity, he said. But there is something to be said for marching with purpose - a purpose you can take pride in. He paused, sliding his cap quietly back onto his head. When he resumed talking, his voice was quiet.

Its been a while for me, he said. I love Mendian. You know I do. Its a beacon - the beacon of civilization on this world, and Ive always believed that. Leaders like Antolin and the Star are the reason why I enlisted. But more and more that isnt who directs us. Its men like Lekubarri and Mendoza, the sneering batzarkideak who want to use Mendiko blood to clear the way for their trade ships. To use our might against downtrodden innocents in Ghar.

He shook his head. I think Mendian has lost itself, because I dont see it in our occupation or our cowardly neutrality. I see it here, with you, marching against men that would set the world ablaze for madness and spite. And while I cant speak for the others - I think the rest of the men see the Ardalt thats being strangled by men like your father. The ones who joined today, they see the Saf that Taskin never showed them. Were not choosing death, Michael; this is the only way forward where we can see life.

Michael looked back over the crowd. His eyes found Lars and the other Ardan soldiers, marching in a close-knit formation alongside the Safid. Their backs were straight, their eyes held up. The note of pride that resonated from them stood apart from the Safid chorus, a minor harmony that rang with extra force in Michaels chest.

It seems great, he muttered. I wish I could see it.

Doesnt matter if you see it. They do. Zabala gave him a rare grin. One of the first things I learned about leading soldiers was that you only need to lead them when they dont have a direction. Once theyre already marching, you can just shut up and let them work.

Michael snorted. So-

So shut up, Zabala advised. And let us work.

The conversation stilled after that, not least because the distant thunder of guns intruded on the idyll of their march. It was late enough now that Michael could see the flash of their fire illuminating the hills. He began to guide the shells aside, an easier task now that they were away from the camp.

Soon the rain of shells fell steadily, though almost harmlessly. A few men were injured by unlucky bits of shrapnel; one man turned his ankle while distracted by an explosion. These few interruptions were dealt with smoothly, with Michael pausing to heal one of the nearby grazes himself. He felt that his brief exposure to the Safid anatomentes was already improving his technique, though the wound was light enough that it didnt require much.

Their pace did slow, though, as the fire intensified and the terrain sloped steadily upward. Sibyls eye was on them now. Michael felt it like summer sun on the back of his neck, angry and red; he did not bother to look up at it. Any temptation to talk with her, reason with her had fled.

He kept walking, and his men followed. They reached the nearest of the abandoned Safid lines before long, remnants of scorched tents and the discarded refuse of battle littering the ground in a ragged line. Corpses still lay frozen on the ground. Mostly Ardan, but there were more than a few Safid that had fallen in the defense; the troops lost the jaunty stride of their earlier march and continued their advance with a newfound sobriety.

Their scouts began to report back resistance - not, as Michael initially assumed, the advance elements of the Ardan defense, but the discarded men from obruor-led units still roaming the space between lines. They were little threat to the column, but more than a few times they were forced to pause and deal with mobs of ragged, feral men that lurched towards them from the brush.

As they drew closer to the mountains the land teemed with them. Some vestige of their minds remembered where their camp was and drew them back, limping and staggering, but lacked the awareness to guide them properly home. Michael wondered if those that made it back were re-enlisted or merely shot as they approached.

They stopped before they were in direct sight of the Ardans to form up their lines. Men spread to the side, with the small groups of potentes they had used to screen their columns advance spreading farther into the wild brush of the mountains. Gunshots erupted here and there in the last vestiges of twilight as they found their Ardan counterparts.

The ridge was no barrier to Michaels sight, though. He sent it upward, forward, searching through the night until he found the line of Ardan soldiers. They had set up in the remnants of the farthest Safid line, clearing out some of the trenchworks and turning around the few guns that the defenders had neglected to destroy on their retreat. To this they had added their own artillery, as well as a still-formidable cadre of men.

But the men were not what drew Michaels eye. Near the center of the lines stood a company of black-clad Swordsmen, their grim faces trained on the ridgeline. Their trenches were broad and deep, and most of the remaining guns operated near their position. Compared to the remainder of the Ardan forces they were an intimidating sight, dark figures in the night holding against their advance.

And still, Michaels sight strayed past them to a void in their lines. The Swordsmen stayed clear of a small patch of ground as if an unseen wall restrained them. In the center of that patch was Friedrich.

He was still barefoot. His trousers hung torn and bloody from where Michael had wounded him earlier. The rest of him was filthy; his beard was wild and crusted with dried blood. His ragged shirt had been discarded, and Michael could see Friedrichs ribs clearly under his bruised skin. His eyes burned clear in the night, though, fixed on the encroaching darkness.

Michael swallowed against a dry mouth. Well, I have good news, he murmured. We wont have to go looking for Sever.

He pulled his sight back to see Sobriquet giving him an unimpressed look. I can see that, she said. I dont think his willingness to fight was ever in doubt. Did you have any thoughts on actually dealing with the crazy bastard?

I have notions, Michael said. Faint ones. Hes strong, Sera. Every time we meet it gets harder to walk away from a fight with him. The last time, I almost didnt.

She pressed her lips together, then nodded and leaned in close. You realize that if you die to that idiot and dump all of your souls in Lucs lap, I may never forgive you.

Youre ever in the forefront of my mind, Michael grinned, leaning in to kiss her. Ill do my best not to disappoint you. He looked back towards the Ardan lines, his smile fading. But this has to be the last time. Ive withheld from killing him, and hes done the same for me - to both of our detriment, I think. Amira was right. He should have died back in Daressa, whatever the consequences. All the men that die tonight, they might have lived if we had chosen differently back then.

Or found another way to die. Sobriquet scowled up at him. Im inclined to agree with you, but now is not the time to go borrowing blame.

Michael raised his head, taking a breath of the night air. The men around him were ready, formed into their lines. Lars and Zabala had collected a few stray Safid soldiers to flesh out their unit; they stood beside Michaels position. The gunfire had tapered away as they advanced, leaving the night mostly quiet, expectant - ready.

Michael began to walk forward.