by T. C. Edge
"How's the leg, Kira?" he asks me. Sympathy. I hear it in his voice.
"Fine," I say, probably coming off as curt. It's not his fault to show concern; in fact, it's very nice. He, like they all do, only wants me to recover and contribute.
He knows, however, how I'm feeling, and more profoundly than others would. His telepathy gives him that insight, making him immediately aware, I'm sure, of my current state of mind.
Consequently, he doesn't mention my ankle again. I don't always enjoy the lack of privacy you get when dealing with telepaths, but right now it's a blessing.
"I wanted to come and fill you in on what's going on," he says. "Um, perhaps we should take a seat."
I shake my head. "No need," I say. "I'm fine standing on one leg. Just...channelling my inner flamingo."
I purposefully make light of the situation, raising a forced smile.
"Right, well it's not much of a long term solution," he says, smiling back. "We should see about getting you some crutches."
"The, um, medic suggested it already," I say. "But no one has to go to any trouble, really. I'm fine limping on it. It's not that bad."
He shakes his head with some conviction. "Oh no, that won't do. I'll have some proper ones made."
"Leyton, you really don't..."
He raises a hand and cuts me off. "It's no trouble, Kira," he says, abruptly, ending the debate. "None at all. Now..." His eyes work off towards the work going on in the northern yard. "As you can see, we're gathering up the fallen. Alberta has brought over a hundred Fringers, and thirty wagons. We're going to bring the dead here to the fort for a mass cremation this evening..."
"This evening?" I ask. I look to the skies again. "Are you sure we should stay here?"
"Perses seems quite certain that we won't come under attack again," he says. "Ares believes the same. I'm also inclined to think the same way. It seems that the enemy suffered almost two thousand deaths, as well as that of Herald Kovas. Herald Avon was also injured. They are far too weakened to try to assault us again so soon."
"Right," I say. "But...they do have thousands more, Leyton. Perses already confirmed that. And, well, given what we've seen, with the Fringers being taken to Olympus." I look at him concernedly. He knows what I'm saying.
"That is one of the reasons I came to speak with you," he says. "We have taken a couple of prisoners who might be able to shed some light on exactly what's been going on in the city. I haven't yet seen to them, but wanted to know if you'd accompany me while I do?"
I raise an eye, suspecting that this is probably little more than a way of keeping me 'involved'. Using his telepathy, he's quite capable of interrogating these enemy prisoners without my aid, searching their minds for anything that might be useful.
He clearly sees my doubt.
"They may be resistant to my intrusions," he explains to me. "I hoped you'd be able to...soften them up, if needed. They may have information about Brie, and about all these Fringers being taken to their city..."
Mention of Brie is plenty to get my interest. "Of course," I say, standing up a little straighter on my right leg. "Of course. Where are they?"
"They've been locked away in the cells beneath the main tower."
"The main tower that collapsed?"
"It only partially collapsed," he says. "There are dungeons beneath it. Um, would you like some help walking?"
I shake my head. "It's fine, thank you." I scan, quickly, with my Hawk-eyes, searching for something to help give me support. I see, by some stroke of luck, a broken piece of wood, roughly of the right shape and size, mingled among the rubble of a building nearby.
I limp over to it, careful not to place much weight on my left foot, and pick it up. Grabbing a knife from my belt, I begin shaving it, using my Dasher speed to expedite the process. Within half a minute or so, I've managed to smooth it over in all the right places, and cut it down to about the right size. I then fix it to my left underarm. It fits rather comfortably.
"Well, perhaps having crutches made isn't necessary after all," Burns says, seeming quite impressed. "Does it work?"
I take a few steps with the single crutch, and find that, although the movement is slightly stunted at first, it vastly improves my mobility, without forcing me to place weight on my left leg.
"Excellent," says Burns. "Well then, right this way."
He leads me on, moving towards the central tower, which once stood five storeys tall, but has now been reduced to a great heap of broken stone, and little more. We stop at a slightly less devastated section on the main tower's eastern side. To the north of the fort, I can already see great numbers of bodies being brought in, the Fringers and our remaining soldiers working hard to see it done. Fetching those who were killed when attacking the Olympian convoy, several miles to the north, won't be so easy. I wonder, too, what will happen with all the Olympian dead. It's a query that comes idle. With so many of ours gone, I find myself uncaring of the plight of theirs.
"Right this way, Kira," Burns says, as we reach a set of stone steps, leading down into the darkness below. I see firelight down there, flickering in the gloom.
I take it a little slow on the worn stone as we descend, careful with each step. At the bottom, I find a guard within a dim stone chamber, a set of cells lined up along it. Inside two of them, I see the Olympian prisoners. Only one seems to be conscious right now, hunkered into a defeated posture as he sits on a wooden, mattress-less bed. The other, in the next cell down, lies upon his own, his leg bloodied and wrapped up in bandaging.
"No trouble?" asks Burns, stepping towards the Neoroman guard.
He shakes his head. "Nothing, Secretary Burns," he says, his voice typically exotic, hoarse from the battle. "This one," he says, looking to the man with the injured leg. "I think he will die. He has lost too much blood."
Burns nods, turning quite cold to the man's plight. I see his eyes move purposefully towards the other prisoner, looking up at us from the shadows. He doesn't seem to be so badly injured himself. I see only a cut on his head, suggesting he was knocked unconscious during the fight, but otherwise got away unscathed.
"Unfortunately, we have little provision for better medical treatment right now," Burns says. "I will see that one of the medics comes down again, when he has the time."
The Neoroman guard nods, and draws a key from his pocket, opening the door to the first prisoner's cell. I see, now, that he's chained up, hands locked together, and feet the same. He's not a large man, certainly not a Brute or half-Brute. I doubt he has the strength to rip himself free.
Behind, the cell remains open as the guard watches on. I move in behind Burns, who steps forward with a purposeful stride, a placid, almost callous, expression on his face. He may be a Savant, but it's not normal to see him like this, even when encountering enemies. I suppose it's part of his process when interrogating such a subject, designed to make them realise that they will get no mercy here.
"What is your name?" he asks the prisoner, his head titled down now, eyes staring angrily to the floor.
He doesn't immediately answer. It seems a pointless piece of information to keep to himself.
"Your name?" I growl, limping in closer.
I prepare to draw a knife, play my part, but Burns holds up a hand to stop me. He offers me a calming nod.
The prisoner, eyes down, slowly shakes his head. There's a strange smile appearing on his face, one of resignation mingled with disbelief. "Miller," he grunts. "That's my name. What does it matter now? I'm sure you'll brainwash me anyway." He shakes his head again. "I can't believe he's still alive. I can't believe you turned him."
"Who?" Burns asks, his voice composed, interested. "Are you speaking of Perses?"
"Who else?" grunts Miller. "We thought he was dead. And here is he, fighting for you." He looks up, and for the first time I get a good look at his face, twisted into an expression of defeat. "What hope do I have? I'd rather die than have you make me kill my own brothers..."
"Oh, I
think you misunderstand," Burns says calmly. "That is not what we do here."
I can feel my eyebrows falling as if dragged down by weights. The sheer irony of it. How can he not see? He thinks we're the ones who brainwash people? How deeply indoctrinated is he to think like that?
I hold my tongue, however, and don't interrupt. There would be no point in arguing with a man as deeply conditioned as him.
He shakes his head again in response to what Burns says. "I know I can't stop you," he says, eyes falling low again. There's something in them, I find, that interests me. Something strangely...familiar. "If you can turn Perses, you'll have no trouble with me. I know that well enough. Just...get it done, turn me to a slave. At least it won't be me, not the real me." His face begins to twist once more, grieving as he sees his end approaching. "I'm...dead already, I guess. Just...do it."
"We have no intention, Miller, of turning you into a slave," Burns says to him. "We have rather more important things to think about right now. And there is one matter, in particular, that you may be able to help us with."
The man looks up, snarl forming. "What?" he growls.
His eyes shine out, a strange colour. They're a sort of blue in the middle, but around that, I see a glowing hazel, ringing the blue within. It reminds me very much of the colour of Brie's eyes.
"Information," Burns says, staring at him now. "Just...hold that position, right there. Good, that's it. Nice and still now..."
I see the man begin to fix into place, Burns slipping right through the windows to his consciousness. It seems, as I stand there, that I'm not really needed after all. This man has no immunity. He has no defence against a telepath of the power of Leyton Burns.
All he can do, is sit chained to that bed, and stare back as Burns discovers the secrets within. And as he does so, I begin to see a frown falling over his own eyes, even as they settle into that trance-like state they adopt when reading someone's mind.
What he's seeing in there, I know, is troubling.
And something tells me, it's got everything to do with Brie.
164
AMBER
"Amber, there's no need for you to be out here," says Jude. "Don't you need to sleep? You look...I mean, I'm sorry, but you look terrible."
He grins, which I suppose is the best thing for me to see right now. It's one of his signature ones, the sort I haven't seen much of recently, one side of his mouth pulled a little higher than the other. It's an expression I adore, and he knows it, the sort that makes the world shine just a little brighter. Surrounded by death as we are, it's out of place, but it helps.
Mercifully, the dead here aren't of my own making. Nearby, the three huge siege cannons that had bombarded the fort sit in flames. From where we attacked, down the western flank, they'd all seemed quite close together. Now that I'm near, however, I see that they're well spaced apart, the battlefield here spread over quite an area. Distance, I suppose, can make a grasp of perspective rather more difficult.
It was here that the main fighting took place, where Ares and his troop of two hundred, almost all of them Neoroman, attacked from the rear and took out the cannons. They paid for it, of course, with significant losses, but managed to take out many, many more of the enemy as they did.
I see Ares now, helping to gather up his fallen comrades. They're scattered across a wide expanse, mingled amid the Olympian corpses like flowers amid a garden of weeds. And those weeds, there are so many. I have taken it upon myself to help pull them.
I look into Jude's face, adoring that grin, and yet feeling like I need to respond. "You...don't look so good yourself," I say. It's a lie. He looks wonderful, despite his newly scarred cheek. Oddly, it's starting to grow on me. "Were you up all night?"
He nods. "I was on watch," he tells me, "when Alberta came down before dawn. I don't feel tired, though. How could I with all this?"
I know what he means. He didn't have to exert himself like I did, but still, it's not easy falling off to sleep with all this going on.
"How are my parents?" I ask. "And Grace?"
He turns to look at me. "Ah..."
"Jude? What?"
"Nothing, nothing," he says, his words brisk on his tongue to quell my concern. "They're safe. It's just...your dad. He, um, he wants to enlist."
"Enlist? In what, the militia?" I find the idea immediately preposterous, the idea of my father serving in an armed force.
He nods. "I don't think he feels comfortable just sitting around and doing nothing, you know. Your grandmother said it was fine."
I look over, searching for her. She's somewhere out here, I know, helping direct the Fringers as they gather up the Olympian dead. Amid the sea of the dead and living, I can't immediately spot her.
"Do you have a problem with this?" Jude asks me. "I mean, I'm sure if you do, she might prevent him from joining, but..."
I shake my head quickly, letting out a puffing sigh. "I don't like it much," I say, "but I can't do that. I'd be a bit of a hypocrite, wouldn't I? I mean, I'm fighting. And now you are too. I have no right to tell anyone what to do."
"So...you don't have a problem with me joining the Liberation League?" he asks. His eyes turn narrow, questioning as they search my reaction.
"A problem with it? Jude, I'm delighted for you," I say, quite sincere. "You're a great natural leader. People just gravitate to you. You'll do...you'll do great, I know you will."
I sense a tiny rising of blush on his cheeks, his expression turning suddenly coy. "Thank you, Amber," he says. "That means a lot."
"Well, don't get too used to it," I wink. "I don't want it to become a habit."
We continue working, doing so as a pair, lifting up what bodies we feel we can manage and placing them gently into the nearby carts. It is without a doubt the most macabre work I have ever done, something I'm certain every one of us would agree on. The range of wounds we see is distressing, and at times stomach turning. Not all bodies are intact. Those that come missing parts are the worst, incomplete until their severed limbs have been found and returned to their owners.
We work only on the Olympian dead, doing so alongside the majority of the Fringers, as well as Perses and Elian too. In light of everything that's happened, at least their fractious relationship has been largely forgotten - or, at least, put to one side - Elian working closely with Perses now as they clear a nearby section. It's hard to find chinks of light right now, but that's one, at least, to cling to.
Each cart, loaded with perhaps ten or twenty men depending on their capacity, rattles off towards a nearby ravine once full. There, more Fringers are on hand to unload them, dropping them down into the chasm below. I don't know who's got the shorter straw, them or us. There is something so barbarically unceremonious about tossing dead soldiers down into a canyon like that, seeing them land so awkwardly as they hit hard stone and rock.
As we continue to work, I find my grandmother coming towards us. While the rest of us see to the haulage of human flesh, she acts as foreman of the operation, moving between the Fringers to ensure they're doing OK, telling them to take a break should they begin to feel queasy. As bad as this is for me and Jude, I'm certain there are many others who are finding it significantly worse.
Jude, after all, has endured time as a slave. And I...well, we know what I've done.
These other poor men and women, however, will never have experienced anything close to this. Seeing a single dead body, when it's your first time, can be bad enough. Having to wade through a sea of them, and load them onto carts, is something quite different.
"How are you two getting along?" grandma asks, her tone sensitive to the work. She remains slightly pale, her energy stores yet to fully return having given them to me last night. Without them, I probably wouldn't have survived. It was as if she knew what might happen. As if she knew I'd soar.
"Bearing it," Jude says to her. "It's going to take a good while longer to get this done."
Above, the vibrant hues of dawn have evolved into somet
hing less spectacular, the lands now bathed in a soothing, yellow glow. We haven't been out here long, but there are a hell of a lot of soldiers left to gather. Even thinking about it is exhausting.
"And you, Amber?" she says. "You really don't have to be out here, darling. You've done enough, you know."
"I'll stop when the job's done," I say. "I...I don't mind, really."
"If you're certain," she says.
I nod, putting an end to the topic.
"We could do with some help from them," Jude says. I follow his eyes to the distance, where some of the Neoroman dead are being gathered up nearby to the flaming siege cannons. They're not burning with quite the same energy as before, smoldering only now as they continue to pour trails of billowing smoke into the air. It's a sight that's become familiar across the Fringe the last few days.
There, I see Commander Maximus and a couple of his remaining soldiers, lifting their fallen brothers carefully onto carts using their telekinetic powers. They're able to work with a greater degree of both care and efficiency than we are. It's a bonus, I suppose, that they don't need to physically touch the dead either.
"I'm sure they'll help once they've gathered their own departed," grandma says. "It really shouldn't be the responsibility of soldiers to gather the dead of their enemy, or give them any sort of funeral rites. Perses is a much more sensitive man than I'd imagined."
"You think we should just leave them to rot?" I try to pose the question without judgement. I find myself more intrigued, than critical, of my grandmother's view on things, given her unique experience.
She doesn't respond immediately, showing she isn't entirely sure. "No, I think this is the right course," she says eventually, not trying to hide the fact that she is, quite clearly, not completely convinced of what we're doing. "However, I hadn't expected this when I gathered the Fringers to come and help. I brought them here to aid in the recovery of the Neoroman and Havenite forces. This is a lot more than they bargained for."
