A Perverted Path to Victory

Graf Urs

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The clank and rattle of iron and wood was an old, soothing sound. The subtle rasp of skin sliding against the grain, instruments of war conducting themselves to the guidance of thousands of soldiers. He could hear a single ringing collision folding over itself a thousand times, the discordant harmony of an army at work. Heavy breathing, the scent of sweat in the air, and a tall field worn flat by tireless effort. Tens of thousands of soldiers standing in flat-faced blocks, listening to the barking of men and women who sought to prepare them for the coming conflict. To some, it was chaos. To Graf Urs, it was home.

The Empire was as impressive during this misty morning as it had always been. The soldiers, inured to their tropical home, ignored the steaming heat and pattering rain as they drilled, grim faces shining with sweat and morning dew both. They wore their full battle kit, every figure wearing armor that, if enchanted, would have been the equal of many a minor Sporaton noble. To have so excellently provided for so many troops was not an achievement Graf had seen equaled in all his long life.

It was no wonder why. He had seen the gaping pits which had been torn from the earth to provide this war its fuel. Craters in the jungle so vast that the mightiest monsoon could only wet their walls. The Empire’s civil war was a conflict more titanic than any who had not borne witness to it could comprehend. Graf Urs had fought in it only once, against his better judgement, and did not wish to do so again. No single battle could be decisive in this hellish war. Not when each combatant could field five, six, or seven armies of a hundred thousand soldiers. It was exactly the endless churn of metal and blood that he so despised, vindicating the effort he expended to keep so many other conflicts from developing into the same. Atrocities were met with atrocities, a cycle of rage circling so many times it had etched an inescapable rut in the souls of this people. He doubted many remembered why the war had begun; only that the enemy had killed their kin. It was despicable.

Some opportunities, regrettably, could not be missed.

“As you can see,” the vulgar man at his side said, “the True Empire’s army is as diligent a force as the world has ever seen. Before you stands thirty thousand of our most loyal soldiers, equalled in their tenaciousness only by the second and third portions of this insurmountable force. I dearly wish you could have borne witness to the assembled army. Alas, even the roads and rivers of our great Empire have their limits.”

Tiam-En took a deep, proud breath, swelling up his chest. Graf studiously kept himself from scowling. Tiam-En was a familiar and insufferable sort of Imperial Warrior. Built and bred for war from his first tottering steps, he had utterly dedicated himself to the pursuit of martial excellence— to the detriment of all else. Tiam-En had doubtlessly been chosen as Graf’s escort because of his reputation as a skilled combatant, but unfortunately for General Kuhn-Drah, Graf would rather have been escorted by a lowly servant than he would the bloody-fanged catfolk. Tiam-En was a warrior, yes, but only in the most pejorative of definitions. He was no soldier. He fought for nothing other than the rush of battle, unmoved by cause, coin, or country. Graf had just met the man, but he already knew him well. If the war ended that very instant, Tiam-En would either wander off to some other battlefield and ply his trade there, or begin killing at his own discretion. Much as a dropped knife had no handle, such a brute had no use in a peaceful land.

Tiam-En was leading Graf along the foremost portion of the assembled army, the unwieldy force having stopped two days beforehand to utilize one of the Empire’s precious few clearances in their vast jungles. It was a rare opportunity for the oft-constrained Imperial military to practice maneuvers on the open field, and they were taking it. Graf watched with a critical eye as the troops went about their early-morning work, which apparently began with the miming of preparing, loading, and firing a shot from their muskets.

How right you were, Champion, Graf thought, watching the ripples of musket barrels raising and lowering across the field. Already, two entire Empires have turned all their industry to the mimicking of your weapons. You well and truly understood what you had unleashed.

“I have read your works, achingly few though they are,” Tiam-En said. “I am sure that you will be glad to learn that our army is composed wholly of those who volunteered for the duty. They are proud, experienced soldiers, all of whom will doubtlessly exert themselves to their fullest in the coming weeks. Their morale could not be higher.”

Tiam-En turned to him, eyes glinting with an expectation.

If it was praise he wished for, he would not have it.

“Your force is not nearly the equal of Tulian regulars,” Graf stated. “They are slower to load, sluggish in their following of orders, and ignorant of the true workings of their weapons. Were you to face an equal number of Lady Eliah’s mercenaries in battle, I anticipate an abject slaughter.”

His escort’s smile did not wilt. Even a bestial Warrior knew how to master his expression. His face instead crystallized, a polite expression maintained with soulless perfection.

“It is only natural that the progenitors of the Fire-Arm are superior in their use. But they do not equal our number, and though they may advise the traitor armies, they are too few to truly train them. By the time our two forces meet, we will be their superior.”

“Correct in your opening arguments, yet dreadfully ignorant in the last,” Graf stated. He was tired of this man. If he wished for explanations, he would have to beg for them.

“The difference is not so great, surely. I understand that Kuhn-Drah considers you a worthy advisor, and so I would not dare question you,” he questioned, frustration seeping from every word, “yet I cannot see how the enemy could be as superior as you claim.” He forced a smile onto his scarred muzzle. “If you could kindly explain it?”

Graf sighed. “You were told that I think myself a teacher, I assume? No matter. I am. If you truly consider yourself a student of war, not battle, then note that I stated my supposition on the assumption of equal forces. Perhaps a vacuous hypothetical, impossible as it is for five hundred soldiers to be equal in number to an army of some ninety thousand, but if it came to pass, the Powdered Lead will strike down your troops from a distance you cannot equal. They have secrets to their weapons that no one beyond Tulian’s borders have yet begun to fathom.”

“Ah, yes. Their vaunted ‘Hot Rifles’,” Tiam-En drawled derisively. “We have heard reports of these weapons, and we are preparing our own response. What it is exactly I cannot speak to, of course. Too much secrecy. You understand. Should you become employed by the Empire, however, I would be glad to discuss-”

“Of course,” Graf grunted, turning away. “Now, if you would, I would like to meet with General Kuhn-Drah. And you may refrain from any further tactless attempts to remind me of the stipulations of the proposed contract.”

Tiam-En’s eyes darkened, his fingers twitching. It almost seemed as if the man was suppressing the urge to strike Graf for the interruption.

Ah, if only the King were here to see this man, Graf thought. It would do the boy good to see what happens when you raise a creature for nothing more than war. Perhaps he would be less eager to throw so many noble brats into the clutches of Knighthood.

Graf discarded the thought, returning his attention to the world around him. He was being trailed by two of his most trusted members of the Night’s Eye, who were keeping a careful eye on the army’s drilling. They knew they might soon be called to help train it.

The first man was Darin, a houndmaster, with the ever-loyal Cormus loping happily along at his side. The hulking dog’s once-voluminous fur coat had been butchered by Darin’s attempts to allow the mountain breed to endure the southern heat, giving the poor thing a mangy, sickly appearance, save for the piles of tangled fur which remained to protect his neck. Fabis walked on the other side of Cormus, repeatedly drawing, spinning, then sheathing his blacksteel dagger, all while keeping his gaze locked on the Imperial soldiers. Both men looked largely bored with the proceedings, but their attention had not wavered. They were good soldiers.

And, of the most interest to Graf’s prospective Imperial employers, they each carried a blackpowder firearm. The weapons were unique to their owners, as was so often the case amongst the Night’s Eye.

Trusting to Cormus for dealing with most foes as he did, Darin carried only a short and thick-barreled weapon, spiraling enchantments wrapping its steel shell in a shimmering haze. If one had the inclination and opportunity to inspect the artificery, they would see that most of the enchantments were designed for enhancing sturdiness, not increasing offensive power.

Fabis’ weapon was its stark opposite. Nearly as long as the man was tall, but with an inordinately thin barrel, it more closely resembled an oversized version of a primitive’s dart pipe than it did a musket. Equally enchanted, but with a visibly different structure of engraved runes, it was clear to any who so much as glanced at the weapon that its original function had been altered to the edge of unrecognizability.

Both represented the crux of the Imperial proposal: an exchange of information on blackpowder weaponry. The Night’s Eye had been the first non-Tulian entity which had begun experimenting with firearms. The Empire, in turn, had resources and manpower that vastly outstripped the Night’s Eye. The fees associated with the hiring of his mercenary company could not have lured Graf back into this unending conflict alone; he had more than enough offers of employment. No, it was the promise of practical, reliable information on blackpowder weaponry that had forced his hand.

Graf Urs did not share the King’s opinion that blackpowder weapons were a passing trend. Frankly, he thought the King was idiotic for insisting so. Graf had directed the Night’s Eye to adopt them regardless of the Royal Decree to the contrary, a measure which had caused no small amount of political instability amongst the already unsettled Sporaton nobility. Despite the commissioning and adoption of the weapons, however, all field use of the firearms had been frustratingly inconclusive. It was already true that the Night’s Eye did not often face foes that could meaningfully challenge them, so the few battles they’d used firearms in altered little of the already-inevitable outcome.

This was why Graf wanted to see blackpowder weapons face blackpowder weapons. Normal men and women, not elite mercenaries or Champion-led armies. It would be the only way to truly evaluate the efficacy of the tactics he had theorized, which were to this point entirely untested. The Empire was presently the only place in the world in which he could possibly see musket meet musket, cannon meet cannon. The opportunity to observe this conflict would be paid by the advice he could offer the Imperials.

Alongside his usual fees, of course.

The command tent that Tiam-En led him to was as opulent as any other Imperial fare. So encrusted with gold and gemstones that Graf was thankful for the humid cloudcover, without which he feared he would have been blinded by sunlight bouncing off intolerable piles of gaudy finery, the tent protected a thick, ornate table. At its head sat General Kuhn-Drah, dressed in the armor demanded of her status. Its steel-pressed imitation of human anatomy was masterfully crafted, so detailed that the eye could have been tricked into believing she wore nothing at all, if it were to be painted the color of her skin. As had been reported to Graf, the woman moved as if she were nearing the end of her life, practically a cripple, though she had the face and skin of a thirty-year-old. The General was deeply engrossed in conversation with a dozen advisors, using a wooden pole to push models across a detailed map of the Empire.

Graf took the map in at a glance. It was easy to see why the war had lasted as long as it had; cities were owned, taken, and lost seemingly at random, making it impossible to define a front line of the war. The trails which led through the jungle allowed any bastion to be bypassed with ease. Markers representing unknown armies and unverified reports outnumbered the confirmed by a factor of five, creating an impossibly complex weave of possible strategies, almost all of them based on spurious information. The jungle hid too much to allow anything more. So chaotic and unpredictable was the war that Graf had heard it claimed some armies had gone three or four years without ever successfully locking spears with the enemy, despite spending the entire period in pursuit of a foe.

Graf’s eyebrows rose as he took particular note of one model on the table. The icon used for the army which Lady Eliah’s mercenaries were accompanying was the only painted piece across the vast spread: a shining golden cannon.

I see the Napoleons made as great an impression on the Empire as they did me, Graf thought, allowing himself a private chuckle.

Finally noticing his approach, General Kuhn-Drah held up a hand to silence her advisors. They did so immediately, but took a moment more to realize why.

Graf stopped some twenty paces from the tent. Tiam-En turned around, confused, until Darin stepped forward, whistling a sharp note.

Cormus, who had been thoroughly inspecting a splash of bird droppings, snapped his head up. Darin pointed toward the tent and snapped his fingers.

“Surely this is not necessary?” Tiam-En asked.

Graf ignored him.

Cormus trotted forward, nose pressed to the ground. With his coat so thoroughly mangled (save for the thick, leonine puff around his neck), it was easy to see the beast’s corded muscles twisting as he moved. Several elaborately-armored guards moved forward to intercept the dog, shifting their spears to cross them before the animal’s path.

“You’ll just embarrass yourself,” Kuhn-Drah called tiredly. “Let the mutt through.”

The spears raised just as Cormus walked between the guards, unconcerned, snuffling like an elephant with a cold. The guards watched with consternation as the dog walked up to the first of the advisors, raised his head to sniff the woman several times, then moved to the next. His wet nose left imprints in their clothing.

It took about a minute for Cormus to make his rounds. Darin, Fabis, and Graf waited patiently for the dog to finish. They offered no explanation, and none was asked for. Only when Cormus had sniffed General Kuhn-Drah herself did he suddenly let his tongue fall happily from his mouth, padding back to Darin’s side without the slightest sign of concern.

Graf and his entourage entered the tent unannounced and without fanfare. Not only was it obvious who they were, Graf had a famous dislike of lengthy introductions. Accordingly, General Kuhn-Drah wasted no time.

“Graf Urs.” She spread her hands welcomingly. “What do you think of the army?”

“Competent, but lacking flexibility,” he stated matter-of-factly. “It is clear they have not fired their new weapons in anger.”

“Every soldier must have a first battle. I seek to prepare them for it as best I can. How do they compare to our enemy?”

“To your Imperial opposites, they are equal in the few skills I can evaluate from seeing them perform simplistic drills. They are perhaps marginally better-equipped in armor, but I suspect their muskets are markedly inferior. I will need to see them fired in earnest to be certain.”

“Hm.” The general pursed her lips. “And when you say ‘your Imperial opposite’, you are referring to the force of the traitor Borek, yes?”

“Correct. I have seen his army personally.” And the fool pointed a few thousand of their muskets at me, he added silently. No need to voice the thought. Kuhn-Drah’s spies had doubtlessly informed her of the incident.

“That you specified Borek’s forces implies a hidden statement.”

“In terms of musketry skill, armor, and equipment, your troops are invariably inferior to any in Lady Eliah’s– pardon, Lady Evie’s– mercenary company.”

Mixed reactions went around the table at this. Many seemed to accept the claim at face value, as if they expected it. They knew that their army had spent far less time drilling musketry, so it was only natural that the world’s only veteran musket force outskilled theirs. Others, however, seemed to take reflexive offense, viewing Graf’s statement as an insult.

It was. Merely an accurate one.

General Kuhn-Drah leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table, her youthful body at odds with her arthritic movements. “The Powdered Lead number only five hundred. Slightly less, even, after a scattered few losses. Do you believe that their advantage is so outsized as to tip the scales of battle?”

“Yes. They have a ten cannon battery. Any battle against them will involve your troops marching for nearly a mile under artillery fire.” Graf smirked, thinking back. “I can assure you, it is an unpleasant experience. Only mageflame racing up the line is more demoralizing to the common soldier.”

“Hmph.” General Kuhn-Drah scowled down at the golden cannon on the table. “Not an insurmountable advantage, however, else you would have said so.”

“We have not yet made a contract. I speak only of the things I am already certain you know perfectly well.”

The oddly-aged General sighed, resting her chin on her folded fingers, looking Graf in the eye. “Well, then. The contract. What do you think of it?”

“Acceptable, but I have two additional clauses, both of which are non-negotiable.”

Kuhn-Drah cut off the rising indignation of her advisors with a flick of her fingers, sneering at those who’d been near to taking offense. General Kuhn-Drah was not usually a woman that had terms dictated to her, but equally, she did not often make deals with those of Graf’s stature.

“Be silent and remember who you are speaking to,” she sternly ordered. “Not only is Graf Urs a man of honor, who would never falsely claim something to be non-negotiable for the theatre of it, but none of you have the right to challenge him. He has earned the Emperor’s writ. Contain yourselves.”

She took a deep breath, showing Graf an apologetic smile. “Now. What are these additional terms?”

“The first is that you do not place myself or any of the Night’s Eye against an army accompanied by the Powdered Lead mercenaries. I will not oppose the living avatar of Divine Will.”

“You have before,” Kuhn-Drah pointed out. Not in reproach or argument, but curiosity.

“I was ordered to by my King,” Graf explained. “You have only the loyalty of my contract and your coin. There is not enough of either in the world to oppose a Divine Champion.”

“I see.” Kuhn-Drah thought for a moment, then nodded him on. “And your second term?”

“That you have the Emperor’s Adjutant order all forces under their command to take Lady Evie and her family alive, should they be defeated in battle.”

This second clause finally overwhelmed the ability of the advisors to bite their tongue. They still knew better to argue with Graf, so instead they launched pleas toward their General, asking her to see reason. They asked that she understand how degrading an order it was, how much risk it would put their loyal Warriors in should they come to blows with the Champion and her kin. To fight without intent to kill, against someone who expended every effort to sink their blade into your heart, was nearly the most debilitating disadvantage a soldier could find.

“Silence,” Kuhn-Drah said. The tent’s clamor ended so severely that one might have thought a spell had been cast.

“The points raised by my advisors are valid,” she said. “You cannot expect any Warrior who encounters Lady Evie on the battlefield to lay down and die. Much less the Champion, who is still a growing power. Seeing as she has bedded down with traitors, if our Empire ever wishes to thrive, we must eliminate Sara Brown before she grows too powerful.”

“You are too late.”

General Kuhn-Drah tilted her head, a keen-eyed curiosity burning behind her eyes. “I humbly ask for an explanation, knowing that the answer may be too precious to share.”

Graf considered his response. He soon decided an honest warning would serve his purposes better than a nebulous one.

“Sara Brown’s weapons– the weapons she herself uses, not her mercenaries– are a force multiplier unlike anything which has graced the known lands. I am a student of warfare’s history, General Kuhn-Drah. The greatest of enchanted blades and spell-woven staffs have never once equaled what she has access to.”

Kuhn-Drah looked confused. “You speak of the pseudo-cannon she carries? I received reports that the weapon, though crudely ensorcelled, wreaked devastation upon Ta-Pet’s garrison and Warriors.”

“No. And before you ask, I do not know what it is I am referring to, nor how it is so powerful, nor even how it functions. I have never seen it for myself, nor have my agents gathered any intelligence on its nature.”

Kuhn-Drah’s respectful tone wavered toward irritability. “Then how can you know such a weapon exists?”

Graf waved a hand towards the map, indicating the recently-taken city of Ta-Pet.

“The Champion’s behavior in battle, of course. She and Lady Evie have happily dove into battles in which they were out-numbered, out-skilled, and surrounded.” He cast a meaningful expression around the table. “I trained Lady Evie myself. This behavior is an impossibility. She would not take such a risk, so there must be something yet to be revealed. One of those two women, perhaps both, carries with them a weapon that they believe can overwhelm nearly any number of Imperial Warriors. Though you are correct that Sara Brown’s Divine Powers are nowhere near their final flowering, you are still too late to kill her as you might another young Champion.”

Graf allowed himself a small smile, one borne of pride. “That Lady Evie has allowed Sara Brown into the thick of battle means she is absolutely, uncompromisingly certain of the woman’s safety. Rather than a restriction, I believe you should view this second clause as the most sound of my advice yet. Freely given, too. You have the necessary advantages to defeat Borek’s force, yes, but that does not change the fact that you will be best served by doing so in a way which spares Lady Evie and her family. If you did choose to attack them, perhaps you could overwhelm them with sheer weight of bodies. Perhaps not. As I said, I cannot speculate as to the origin of my protege’s confidence. All I know is that I trust it implicitly. To order an attack upon the Champion’s person is to send your Warriors to their deaths.”

The gathered elites absorbed this declaration in contemplative silence, punctuated by a few whispers here and there. Graf swept his gaze across them, if only to make a show of inspecting them. He couldn’t gather much from their expressions alone, and even if he could, he wouldn’t much care to. The General was the only person present with a meaningful opinion.

His eyes eventually landed upon his earlier escort. Tiam-En, the soul-stained catfolk. The man’s lips were twitching upward into a cruel smile, his attention distant. His sword hand was twitching oddly, one finger at a time, as if he were counting numbers off by repeatedly extending and retracting his claws.

The man’s focus suddenly snapped back. He looked Graf in the eye, then nodded low, as if in thanks.

Graf scoffed, looking away.

“I have decided these terms are acceptable,” General Kuhn-Drah announced. The declaration appeared to take her advisors by surprise, but not exceptionally so. They clearly hadn’t expected much opportunity to weigh in. “Payment will be rendered in the standard form. You will not be required, nor brought to, any battle at which the Champion or her forces are present. However,” she raised a trembling finger, her frown deepening. “I expect due compensation for this caveat. You and your mercenaries will advise my troops to the fullest of your abilities, Graf Urs. I expect this to soon become as superior a force as your reputation would suggest.”

“Of course,” he said off-handedly. “The Night’s Eye have always served with honor. Then our negotiations are concluded?”

“They are.”

Graf nodded, stepping away. Darin and Fabis followed after him as he turned his head out to the field, narrowing his eyes. He wondered if anyone in the world could understand the way that he saw that army. Every soldier, every weapon, every step they took, they were all brought to his foremost attention. Thirty-one thousand, five-hundred and forty souls in that army. When combined with their second and third counterparts, that number would swell to nearly a hundred thousand. Because of the standards Sara Brown had convinced Borek to hold his troops to, he doubted they would gather half so numerous a force before battle was inevitably met.

Oh well, Graf thought as he nodded his farewell to General Kuhn-Drah. Lady Eliah– oh damnit, it’s Evie now, you old bastard– will thrive under the challenge. And if the Imperials fail to follow my clauses… Graf shrugged, a motion which sent a crick of pain into his left shoulder. They will learn how honest a man I am, I suppose.

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David Brown

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David was a mess. Head to toe, hindbrain to forebrain, throat and stomach, the speech he’d given before Parliament had thrown every part of himself into disarray. He felt nauseous even as his stomach rumbled with hunger, exhausted and wired to the gills, tired, yet unable to fall asleep.

How many years did you spend arguing against the shit you just pulled? He demanded of himself. Vietnam, Cambodia, Libya, Iran, Nicaragua, Kuwait, Afghanistan, Panama, and gods know what else you’re forgetting. You protested them all. And now you gave a speech to Parliament that sent them off to war?

The moment he’d finished reading his report, he’d fled. He couldn’t bear to hear what came as a result of it. He’d merely done an investigation, he tried to justify to himself. He’d discovered the facts, organized them, and presented them to the Ministers. What they did with that information wasn’t up to him.

Like hell, he scoffed. You knew what they’d do. You know what they’re already doing. Why didn’t you write more about how you have no idea who did it? Why didn’t you add your own opinion, asking that they not go to war over it? You could’ve backed up the faction that was saying it was a normal, limited raid. You could’ve pushed for a proportional response. But you didn’t.

You’re a coward.

He could justify some of it to himself. He’d done his investigation, and he’d done it well. David wasn’t any kind of forensic expert, but the simple fact that he understood things like bias and the scientific process meant that he was the best option for the job in this world. Yes, the fire had been started intentionally, and yes, he was confident of that.

But it’s not worth what you’ve started. What are you, fucking Kant? Was it more important to tell the truth than to save people’s lives?

He couldn’t believe what he’d done. He couldn’t believe himself. How many people were going to die because of him? Thousands, easily. Tens of thousands, maybe. The war almost certainly would have started on its own, but so what? It didn’t matter how many fuses had been left lying around, not when he had been the one that dropped the match. It was his fault.This war was his fault. All his life, he’d said that if he’d been in charge of things, it wouldn’t have happened. All those awful, imperialistic wars, he’d been against them even before the first debates had happened in Congress.

But when it all came down on your shoulders, you proved you’re no better than them. Just another fucking Republican warmonger.

His knees felt wobbly. He bent over, supporting himself against his thighs as he felt bile rising up his throat. He felt like he was going to vomit, and he felt like he deserved it.

“David,” Garen’s voice said. “Please, over here. There is a chair.”

David blinked, looking up. He had no idea where he was. It was some random street in Tulian. He was sweating through his clothes, and a bone-deep ache in his legs suddenly made itself known. How long had he been walking since he left Parliament? Where had he been going?

Garen was nearby. The archmage was standing by a simple wooden table set outside someone’s home, gesturing at the chair he’d pulled out for David. He wore his unassuming brown robes, and had the same unkempt, half-shaved appearance he always did. No one would have guessed they were looking at the most powerful person in all of Tulian.

David began making his way over to the chair. On the way, he discovered that he was breathing terribly hard. His lungs burned. His throat was so dry it hurt. He fell into the chair and dropped his arms onto the table, resting his weight against them.

Garen stepped around the table, taking the chair opposite. With a twist of his wrist, a sharp line tore in reality. He reached in, pulling out a tall wooden mug, frost rimming its lip. The archmage set it before David, then grabbed a second mug for itself. The rift in existence sewed itself up without a sound.

David didn’t wait. He grabbed the mug of cooled beer with both hands, drinking eagerly. It wasn’t bad, a lot like some of the better IPAs back home, but in that moment all that mattered was how cold it was.

Cold enough. A chunk of ice bounced against his lip.

Garen took a more normal sip from his own beer. He looked around at the street, seeing several other people walking up and down the road, and muttered something under his breath.

The outside world grew just a bit dimmer. The few people who were looking David’s way suddenly stopped, their eyes sliding off his presence like water off glass.

“There,” Garen said. “Some privacy.”

David set his beer down, face locked in a grimace as the icy headache set in. He’d drunk half the mug in one go.

Garen made a gesture. The mug began to refill, the frost on its rim reforming. David lifted it, taking another long drink.

“Shit,” he eventually gasped, shaking the needle of pain from his head. “God. What a fucking…” He sighed, slumping in his chair. “Thanks.”

“You are welcome. I apologize I let you grow so thirsty; it took me some time to find you.”

David chuckled. “Oh, yeah? How’s that possible? You get too drunk to cast your spells?”

“No. You know as well as I that you have been as well-cloaked from magical detection as I am able, David. I did not do something so presumptive as add an exception for my own spells.”

“Really?” David snorted. “You found me pretty quick, then. How good are your wards really, then?”

Garen did not rise to the bait. “Good enough. But having designed them myself, I was particularly well-suited to circumventing them.”

“Guess that makes sense,” David mumbled into his beer, taking another drink. Intoxication couldn’t come soon enough, and with the light beer Garen preferred, he was going to have to work at it.

“May I ask…” Garen trailed off, an odd expression on his face. Consternation, perhaps. “Hm. I don’t know how to say some certain things without being presumptive.”

“Hit me,” David said, rolling his wrist in a go-on gesture. “We both know what’s happening here.”

Garen sighed. “You regret giving the speech, then?”

“Yeah.” David took another long drink. “Yeah, I do.”

“Because of the war, I assume.”

David speared Garen with a silent, caustic glare. The archmage held up his hands.

“I only wanted to confirm.”

David looked down. “Yeah. Yeah, because of the war.”

“I see.”

The muted sounds of the city were all that filtered into their little spell-wrought zone of privacy, save for the occasional sliding of mugs and thick swallowing of beer. Garen wasn’t going easy on the drink either, David soon noted. He wasn’t going at it like David was, but the archmage was usually far more reserved.

“I… understand,” Garen eventually said. “As much as any save your daughter can understand, I suppose.”

“Understand what?” David snapped.

“The guilt of failed pacifism. The gnawing regret that comes after one does something they wished they didn’t have to do.” Garen’s thumbnail scored a line down his mug. “I have done similar things. Not the same, but… similar.”

David looked at the archmage. As far as he knew, the man had been a teacher all his long life. People here didn’t like to talk about the local archmage’s history, not even David’s daughter or her wives. Garen had done something in the Battle of Tulian, David knew that much from listening to the students whisper, but he didn’t know anything more than that.

“Oh yeah?” He challenged. “You’ve been as big of a hypocrite as I just was? Spent your whole life fighting and arguing against every kind of war there was, only to end up starting one of your own?”

“No. Not quite. Something…” Garen lifted his beer, taking a few quick swallows. “Something similar, as I said. Perhaps… the order was reversed. That might be the best way to put it.”

Heat, brought on by the cool beer, was beginning to pool in David’s empty stomach. He looked at the archmage as he took another gulp. To his surprise, the man wasn’t meeting his eyes.

“...how old are you, Garen?” David asked.

The question clearly took the mage by surprise. “How old am I? What does that have to do with-”

“You said you were one of Sporatos’s youngest archmages, right? Well, how young is young for an archmage?”

Garen licked his lips. “Well. I am nearing my third century, believe. It gets difficult to recall specifics after so long.”

Any other day, David would have gawked. He would have been all over that information like a kid in a candy store, poking and prodding at everything Garen was willing to tell him, then continuing to pry at what he wasn’t.

Not today. Today, David just blew out a long breath through his nose.

“Three hundred years old, then. Rounding up.”

“If you round up, yes.”

“Three hundred years. You ever meet that old Champion that was in Sporatos? They showed up around two hundred years ago or something, didn’t they?”

“I’m afraid I did not. I was nearing my ascension to archmagehood at the time, and couldn’t spare the attention. My body was failing. I didn’t have the time to leave my efforts for even a moment.”

“Huh.” David took another drink. “So me and Sara are really your first time seeing someone from Earth.”

“Yes.”

“She give you the talk?”

Garen’s eyebrows rose. David laughed.

“Not that one. The talk. About what war is like back home.”

“Oh. Then yes, she has. Her descriptions were… graphic. Vivid. She has a way with words, as I’m sure you know.”

“Good. I don’t have to explain shit, then.” David drank. “But you know, you might have heard about it. I’ve seen it. All that awful shit, I saw it. Not firsthand, but in videos, movies, documentaries. Seen kids get, just…” David spread his hands wide. “Opened up. Their guts turned inside out. And I hated it.”

“Those that don’t hate war are very few. I believe that is something our worlds share. Only the elite who remain safe in conflict see purpose in it.” Garen sniffed. “Them and the few people whose minds are… ill. Delighting in the depravity of it. They’re the only ones who enjoy war, as far as I know.”

“Yep. We’re not too different, you and I,” David said, quoting something he couldn’t remember. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. He looked Garen straight in the eyes, water beading at the corners of his own. “I’m one of them now, aren’t I? What have I done, man? What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Garen’s expression, already concerned, turned to alarm. He leaned forward as well. “David. You didn’t start this war.”

“I did.”

“The enemy attacked Tulian.”

“Which one?” David’s breath grew intense. “Which one? The Sporatons? The Empire? The Cult? Or just some fuckin… just some fuckin’ pissed-off worker? What if it was that, huh? I told them what happened, but I didn’t know enough. What’s next for me, huh? Am I gonna start telling Sara that Sporatos has got WMDs? Am I gonna be Tulian’s first Dick Cheney?”

Garen watched David talk. He listened closely. Then, with a blurred gesture, disappeared the mug right out of David’s hand.

“I do not know what those are, nor who this Cheney is. But I can assure you, David, you are not him.”

“How do you know that? Huh? You don’t even know who he is. You said that yourself. You’ve got no idea.”

“In the two centuries since I became an archmage, have you any idea how many children I have taught? Children of noble blood, born to families of soulless, heartless warmongers? Thousands. I could see the stain of their upbringing on their soul as clear as a Carrion Lighthouse.” Garen pointed a finger at David. “And do you know who you raised, David?”

He blinked slowly. He opened his mouth to respond, but Garen didn’t give him the chance.

“You have raised Sara Brown. The Champion of Amarat. The scion of the first true Republic this world has ever seen. A woman whose rage– rage at those who oppress– terrifies me. That is the daughter you raised, David.”

David opened and closed his mouth several times. Then he hung his head, mumbling into his chest.

“She’s… better than me. That’s what we raise kids for. To be better than we ever were. I did that with her…”

“An honorable ideal,” Garen said. “And one I hear far too rarely. But let’s say it’s true, David. Let’s say that you have raised a child who is better than you. More moral, more motivated, more just.” Garen pointed toward David’s chest. At first David thought he was pointing at his heart, like some kind of cartoony motivational speaker, but then he realized Garen was pointing at the communication crystal in his breast pocket.

“If she is all that much better than you,” Garen said, “and you have failed your duties…” He spread his hands. “Where is she? If you had done all you claim, do you think she would spare you her wrath? Her anger? Think of your daughter. When you made a mistake as you brought her up, did she remain meekly silent? I doubt it very, very much. So do you think that in the hours since you gave a speech that you claim to be so awful, a speech you know she listened to, do you think that she would have remained silent?”

David lifted his head. Garen was right. He had two crystals in his pockets. One for the network, and one that connected him straight to Sara. And… she hadn’t said a thing.

“That’s… I don’t know if…”

“David.” Garen reached forward, mist coalescing into a tall glass of iced water. He held it out. “Tulian is going to war. But it is not a war you started. What’s more, it is not a war like those of your home. You are not the tyrant stepping on the necks of the weak.” Garen chuckled weakly. “Gods, I almost wish you were. But we, the Republic of Tulian, we are far from that. We are a lonesome tree standing against a storm. I do not believe that this war will be your fault. But even if it was? It may be the first war in my long life which I may consider myself proud to have been a part of.”

David accepted the glass of water. He took a long, slower sip, wincing slightly as the ice clinked against his teeth. The world around him, though still dulled by the strange spell of privacy, seemed to be coming back into focus. As his mind turned outward, he began to feel more than just his own twisting gut. He could feel the chair beneath his trousers, the grain of the wood his elbows rested against.

He finished drinking before he could give himself another brainfreeze. Setting the glass down, he leaned back.

“...Okay. I’ll… I’ll give it a lot more thought. I’m not sure if you’re right. I mean, Garen, I’ve built weapons. So many weapons. Designed them, supplied them, sold them. I’m not… I’m not innocent. I’m a hypocrite.”

“So are we all,” Garen intoned, showing the briefest flicker of the ominous gravity the unfamiliar might have expected from an old archmage. “But that means little, doesn’t it? Only what we intend to do next has any bearing on our worth.”

David chuckled. “Well, I don’t know about that. That’s some heavy philosophy stuff right there. But it’s nice to think that way. I’ll think about it that way, for now.”

“Thank you.” Garen stood, shaking out his robes. “Now, back to our usual duties. Would you like to see a new spell I have been working on in my spare time? I believe it will be of particular interest to you.”

“Depends.” David stood, a touch wobbly on his feet. “Do I need to sober up? Because if so, I’m gonna take a rain check.”

Garen laughed. From a man like him, it was an echoing, harmonious sound.

“No. No, I do not believe you will have to. Though I’m not sure how precise a task geology is.”

“...What?”

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Outside the walls of Tulian, far enough away that the rings of farms had faded to a more palatable density, the Archmage Garen knelt in the dirt. His eyes were closed, his knuckles pressed to the soil, the loose sleeves of his robe hiding the exact manipulations of his fingers.

David watched from a distance, his anxiety growing with every passing moment that Garen didn’t cast the spell. David had seen the archmage do a whole lot of things over the course of their friendship. He had summoned gouts of flame hot enough to melt granite to a boil, slammed building-sized shards of ice into a dozen hillsides, and flung multi-ton boulders far beyond the horizon, all without visibly exerting himself. The scant few history books that David had managed to acquire (there were hundreds available to him, but maybe a dozen he considered reliable enough to be worth studying) told stories of archmages flinging mountains into the sky, ripping miles-wide scars in the planet, and, when their ire was raised, smashing entire cities flat in the blink of an eye. The way some of the authors wrote of archmages reminded David more of the Old Testament than anything else. If they’d existed on Earth, David felt confident Archmages would have been worshipped as nothing less than gods.

With that in mind, the fact that Garen apparently had to focus on this spell?

David felt his rattled nerves were excusable.

Something began to tremble. David’s head snapped down, hoping that the sensation was just the imagination of his half-drunk, overworked legs.

No such luck. The grass around David’s feet was shaking and shivering, dust rising between the blades. David had never been in an earthquake himself, but he’d spent a lifetime studying the topic. He knew the signs.

“Garen?” He called. There was no response from the crouched mage. “Garen, we don’t have to-”

With a screech of fire, twin beams of light raced outward from the archmage. So bright they seemed solid, each twenty feet high, they shot away fast as a gunshot. David watched them race directly parallel to the mage for two, four, eight hundred yards, then turn abruptly inward, racing along for several dozen yards, then snapping into a second turn, running parallel to their original track.

The shaking of the ground was joined by a rumble. Low at first, nearly audible, then growing greater and higher-pitched. It was soon joined by deep thumps and booms, then sharp cracks and snaps, each repetition louder than the last. The ground shook and jumped, a great storm of dust rising across the green plains, choking his mouth and nose, forcing him to cover his face with his shirt.

With a blinding flash, the two lines connected.

Garen stood.

The world stood with him.

Before David’s eyes, an entire chunk of the planet began to rip itself free of gravity’s burden. With a conductor’s deliberate grace, Garen raised his hand.

The sound of tectonic calamity was replaced by an endless woooosh of disturbed air, the colossal chunk of earth creating a miniature tornado as it was dragged into the sky. David watched, craning his neck upward, trying to keep track of the grass at the top. In seconds, it was nothing more than a thin green line.

Without warning, the ascent stopped. Somehow, that struck David as the most unnatural of it all. There was no grinding to a halt, no slow shift in the gargantuan object’s momentum. It simply stopped. Nothing fell from the titanic wall, not even a pebble, and the wind it had been throwing off died in an instant.

“There,” Garen said, turning around with a pleased smile. He stood at the base of a half-mile cliff, one which hadn’t existed thirty seconds ago. “I believe that went well. I didn’t anticipate the vibration, though. I apologize for the dust.”

Garen made a tapping motion with one finger, a light one, like he was prodding to see if someone was awake without actually waking them. The dust cloud, which by then had spread to cover several square miles, was instantly crushed back into the soil. The air became breathable once more. With shaking hands, David lowered his shirt.

“Now,” Garen said, turning to the rock wall. “You’ve told me much of striations, intrusions, epoch layers, and many other terms, but I must admit that I’ve never understood them as well as I would like. The more we’ve spoken, the more I’ve come to agree with your opinion that the best learning is done ‘in the field.’ And seeing as I could not fully grasp the importance of your field of study, and you are obviously anxious to learn all you can of the mineral composition of these lands, I thought this would help us both satisfy our curiosities.”

David took a nervous step forward. Garen looked over his shoulder at him, rolled his eyes, then waved him forward.

“Come, now. I’ve fixed the rock in place. It won’t fall unless I cast a secondary spell.”

“O-oh. Good.” David adjusted his glasses on his nose, suddenly feeling like he had to, even so long after he’d had his vision healed. “So is there anything beneath this, or…?”

“Hm? Oh, no, there is not.” Garen raised a hand. The monolithic slab raised with it, moving a few extra feet skyward. Garen pointed at the yawning blackness that had been revealed. “I could have lifted more from below, drawing from material even further, but there was little point in it. I simply reinforced the walls to avoid any cave-ins while you studied.”

“I see,” David said faintly. He adjusted his glasses again. “Well. This is…”

He looked up at the wall. Instincts he hadn’t used in months– years, really, since the last time he’d done field work– kicked to life. His mind began noting the colors, layers, and structures that Garen’s spell had relieved, connecting data points in his mind.

As if entranced, he took a step forward. Garen cast him a wary look, then lowered the rock face down, closing the gap once more.

David pressed his hand to the bedrock that had been revealed. Almost as if confirming it was real. When he lifted his hand away, it was coated in a light layer of dust.

“This is…” A pattern caught his attention. He scuttled over to it, craning his neck back to look at the depression several yards above his head. It was a… swirling pattern? In the bedrock? A spiral, it looked like. The closer he looked, the more patterns he found. Biological patterns.

No, it couldn’t be.

Is it?

He looked back at Garen. “I changed my mind. Can you get rid of the alcohol in my system?”

“Of course.”

The fog that clouded David’s mind vanished. He straightened slightly, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

“Did you see something interesting?” Garen asked. “I haven’t much experience–”

“Lower the rock face about fifteen feet, please.”

Garen chuckled, but did so. It brought the pattern to David’s eye level. He grinned.

“Come over here. You see this? The spiral pattern? This isn’t geology, Garen. This is biology.”

The archmage looked dubiously at the stone. “You are saying this is a sample of Living Rock? Here in Tulian?”

“No, no.” David turned aside. “Wait. What’s living rock?”

“I can tell you about it later,” Garen said. “But this… strange spiral. You say it is biology? The study of life?”

“It’s a fossil,” David said. “It reminds me of an ammonite, but it’s too big.” His words fell to a low mutter. “What is it, eight feet across? But the structure is so similar… Are there really evolutionary pressures at work in a deific landscape? I know what Daylagon’s priests said, but the way they were talking about ‘survival of the fittest’ better fit a social darwinist belief, not…” He trailed off, lips moving silently.

“David,” Garen gently interrupted, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You do not have to hurry. I am expending no effort to keep this landscape altered. Please, explain your thoughts to me.”

David took a deep breath. He buttoned up his shirt, which felt even looser than it had last week. God, he wanted Tulian to invent sugar processing. Then he turned to Garen.

“As you can see, many elements of geology exist within layers, called strata. Depending on the tectonic history of a given area, these strata can be composed of a variety of rocks, divided into three main categories. This pseudo-ammonite… no, I shouldn’t call it that, it’s clearly evolutionarily distinct, just look at those graspers…”

As David began his lecture, he was perfectly aware of the intentional distraction this little excursion represented. It was as transparent an attempt at appeasement as when David had taken a sobbing Sara for ice cream after her childhood doctor’s appointments.

But it was working.

“Do you have any meetings today?” David asked, interrupting his own lecture, which had been spilling automatically from his lips.

“None that are pressing.”

“Good. Could you excise this piece of rock here?” He took a piece of chalk out of his pocket, making marks. “From here, to here, to here. Maybe about ten feet deep, so we don’t chop off anything behind. We’ll want to develop a preservation method, too, because minerals like this don’t do well when exposed to humidity…”

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