by T. C. Edge
Her eyes snatch away, suddenly, staring toward the southern reaches of the camp. "Have you checked the Fringer dead?" she asks. "My son...my son was there. My daughter in law. Friends. I have friends in Hunter's Station. I must find out if any of them were turned..."
She quickly marches off, not waiting for anyone to answer. I glance at Burns and Dom, my eyes telling them my intentions, before rushing off after her as they stay behind with Max and Adryan.
"Alberta," I call, catching up. "Alberta, slow down."
"I cannot, Kira," she says, moving speedily through the sea of tents and soldiers. "I must know that my son is safe..."
"He'd never have joined up," I say, moving alongside her. "He wouldn't do that, Alberta. None of them would."
She turns to me, her body pulsing fire. "And what if they had no choice? Who knows who Brie turned and who she didn't."
She growls the words, taken by a sudden anger, and continues to march onwards. It is an understandable reaction. Brie is nobody to her. And the things she's doing, whether forced or not, might just be unforgivable.
We come quickly upon a clutch of dead Fringers, easily distinguished from the Neoroman soldiers in their simple, common attire. She checks over each of them quickly, doing little but glancing into most of their faces to know she isn't looking at her son, or daughter in law, or someone else she knows. A couple of times, however, she does a quick double-take, or takes a little longer to make her inspection.
I ask the question gently. "Someone you recognise?"
"Soldiers," she says. "Brave souls who joined the militia."
She shakes her head and continues on at pace, moving down a street filled with dead. I feel a sudden strike of panic as we do so, recognising it as the street where I did much of my own killing.
What if she finds her son here? What if it was me who killed him?
I become suddenly nervous at the thought, following behind tentatively as she steps over the dead, frantic in her search.
We move right down that alley, Alberta recognising no one of great importance. I let out a silent sigh of relief as we step into a clearing, pressing quickly towards the southern lines. Many more people lie dead there, mostly Fringers, but some Neoromans among them. I see several living soldiers stepping through, performing a final count, gathering their dead to be assembled for cremation.
"So many," Alberta whispers. "There are so many of them." She stops and looks around, her eyes crafted in torment. "There must be hundreds here."
She turns to me, questioning whether I know. I perform a shallow nod. "Up to a thousand, we think," I say carefully. "I'm sorry, Alberta."
She continues onward, stepping further toward the southern lines, the Neoroman dead being gathered up for cremation. Soldiers watch the southern flanks, at least two hundred of them carefully keeping vigil as they look away to the south. They try to stop Alberta as she passes beyond the camp, moving out onto the plains where hundreds more Fringers lie dead. Beyond them, the hundreds of wagons and carts sit quiet and empty under the black night sky.
"Let me pass," she says, brushing the soldiers aside. "Get your hands off me."
I move quickly in and mediate, turning to the guards and commanding them to let her through.
"But we have orders, my Lady," one says. "No one is to pass in or out."
"She is merely checking on her own dead," I say. "Forget your orders, Captain. If there's a problem, I will take it up with General Decimus myself."
The soldiers relent, letting go of the old Fire-Blood as she hurries on through. I follow right after her, as she looks to the left and right, not sure where to start. She stands alone before a sea of dead, none of her own people here to help. It is a heartbreaking image; a single glowing figure, surrounded by corpses beneath the starry night sky.
I step in, needing to help.
"What does he look like, Alberta?" I ask her softly. "Your son. Describe him so I can help search."
"He's...acutely average," she says, shaking her head. At another time, her deprecating words might be humorous. Now, that is not their intent. "Mid forties," she goes on. "Short, greying hair. Clean-shaven. Medium height and build."
As she moves left, looking into the faces of the dead, I choose not to ask her to describe Amber's mother, or Jude's auntie whom I know is important to her too, or anyone else of prominence whose face she fears to see. I went only to Hunter's Station with her once, and met so few people. Those I did see - Jude and Keith, one of the League's leaders - I both know to be here, managing the militia at the western camp.
I do what I can, however, looking through the sea of bodies as the minutes turn to hours. There are a number of occasions where I look upon a man who falls under the description she gave. The right shape, the right age, the right sort of hair. At first, I call her over, and watch her frantically rush toward me, only to glance at the man and shake her head, before hurrying back to continue her search.
After a few of those, I stop, and merely follow nearby to her, ready to provide comfort and support should she look upon her dead son. The night passes on like that, as the dead are gathered and cremated in the fort. I can see the fires burning, no time wasted in honouring the deceased. I know it won't be like what happened at the fort. The Neoromans have no time, now, to stand and think of the deeds of the fallen, to commemorate their passing as their usual custom would demand.
No, everything must be expedited now, everything put back into order. The dead will be burned and the lines restored. The wreckages of the siege weapons and gun placements will be swept away, replaced by others where possible, new dugouts forged and the battlements improved.
And the great Neoroman war machine will keep on rolling...
I look over as I follow Alberta around, wondering if Hendricks has been cremated too. It would make no sense not to, I suppose, no sense to leave him rotting in his tent, when so much still needs to be done.
Eventually, we near the end of our search out there on the plains, though more dead remain littered around the camp. I wonder if the fallen Fringers will be gathered too, cremated as the Olympians were in the gorges outside the fort. They deserve it as much as anyone, don't they? None of them were here, attacking of their own accord.
I think again of Brie, knowing she will take the blame. It may be irrational - after all, is she not being controlled as well - but fingers will no doubt point in her direction. It pains me to contemplate it, to know how lost she must have become. I had hoped she'd have the strength to deny them, too pure to do their terrible bidding, to turn friend to foe, cause so much carnage and death.
But however strong she's become, she clearly isn't strong enough. And part of her, as Adryan has said, might just be craving this.
Eventually, as we begin to move back towards the camp, and Alberta takes a short break to consider her next move, movement draws my eye. From the west, I see them coming, a number of jeeps driving our way, their lights glowing in the pre-drawn air. The Neoromans on guard grow tense, but I know immediately who they are.
I rush over towards those guards, calling as I go. "They're from the western camp. Lower your weapons. They are friend, not foe."
They follow my orders, though I may still be wrong. Given what's happened tonight, how can we be sure who is ally to us now?
I am, however, correct on this occasion, rushing towards the coming vehicles to find Keith and Jude, and a host of other militiamen and women stepping from a grouping of cars. They are City Guard jeeps, I see, loaned for this purpose. But what purpose is it?
I think I already know.
"We're here to help," says Keith, striding quickly in with Jude, and a good fifty militia soldiers at his back. He directs his words at Alberta, who moves right past me, and then steps in, taking Jude into a hug.
"It's OK, Alberta," I hear the young man say. "Amber is fine, isn't she? We heard she was OK?"
I've never seen Alberta so strained, so emotionally unstable. She allows herself the briefest moment of we
akness, if you can call it that, before straightening up again, and turning to the rest. I suppose, spending these hours looking through the dead, hoping you don't spot your son, is going to cause a few cracks in someone's usually indomitable facade.
"We are here to help gather the bodies," Keith says, moving in. He lays a hand on Alberta's shoulder. "We didn't think the Neoromans would wish to do it themselves."
I realise that I recognise a number of the Fringers now, many of them having come to help clean up at the fort. They are specialists in it, I suppose. Better they do it again, than expose others to the morbid work.
"Thank you, Keith," Alberta says, stiffening her voice to steel. "You heard what happened?" She glances across the plains. "You know where they came from?"
He nods. "We did. We were informed on the radio. I mustered this group to come shortly after." He shakes his head, looking out. "Have you found anyone we know?"
Alberta slowly nods. "Good people," she says. "I fear they may find friends and loved ones out there." She looks up to the gathered Fringers, each of them looking out towards the dead, faces ashen, eyes afraid. Someone here will find a mother, father, sibling, lover, huddled amid the dead. Perhaps many of them will mourn a dear loss before the sun has fully risen.
I refuse to leave them as they begin their work, making sure I help this time, where I couldn't in the fort with my ankle weakened as it was. I notice Jude looking at my leg, his eyes crafted into a frown.
"I thought your ankle was bust?" he asks, clearly not up to speed with developments here.
"Dom has a good medic on his staff," I say, trying, but failing, to lift a smile.
We work together, another hour or two passing, gathering the Fringers into piles, burning them where they lie. More join to help, Perses arriving, Adryan stepping out alongside him to lend what strength he has. I'm surprised to see Elian appear as well, thinking him too weary. He moves towards us as Jude and I haul bodies. The two young men, vying for Amber's heart, nod to one another in a damp show of brotherhood and kinship. There seems no ill will between them, no jealousy or dislike. It's as though they've both decided that there's no time for that now. As though such petty things don't belong in a scene like this.
"I hear you fought with Amber?" Jude asks him, as Elian tries to help, but finds himself too weak to do much more than observe, and lend emotional support. "I hear you flew?" The question comes dull, no envy in his tone. I know little of Jude, but I don't see him as someone jealous of our powers.
"She's...a good teacher," Elian says, cracking a muted smile, so out of place here. "She trained me only yesterday. I guess it was just in time."
"And she's OK?" Jude asks, eyes earnest.
"Resting," Elian nods. "She's in her tent if you want to go and see her."
Jude's eyes drop, his head shaking, as he looks to the next body. "I...wouldn't want to wake her," he says. "I'll speak to her when she's up."
"It'd be nice for her to see you, when her eyes open."
Jude looks up, surprised.
Elian shrugs weakly. "You're her best friend, aren't you? I'm sure she'd want to see you more than anyone."
Jude's eyes grow a little more wary, trying to work out if Elian does have some agenda. I don't see how he could. This isn't the time for mental love games, and these two men don't seem that way inclined.
He shakes his head again, and adds the conversation to the dead.
We continue working, our numbers growing as the skies start to lighten. The work is done quickly, quite a few Neoromans also coming out to help. I wonder whether this is Dom's doing, as he steps out to join in too, Max ever by his side. But then I realise that, though General Decimus doesn't likely care for the Fringer losses, for the tragedy here along the southern lines, he does care about the hygiene of his camp. To have a host of dead festering here cannot be tolerated. Everything must be cleared and put into working order again if this siege is to be successful.
But will it, I wonder, my mind now wandering ahead.
Already, the bombardment seems to be continuing, the remaining artillery weapons firing upon the wall once more. I find myself growing intrigued, moving up to a small rise, zooming in toward the city far away. Now, with the light burgeoning above, and the mists so heavy reduced, I can finally see the damage.
The realisation comes with a dull internal throb; there really isn't much damage at all.
Cosmetic damage, yes, but nothing to suggest the wall is about to collapse. I shake my head as I stare onwards, and find my eyes turning away to the east.
I cannot see them from here, but I know they're there.
The sewers. The tunnel towards the wall.
I couldn't contact Zander before, perhaps because Brie wasn't there.
But if she's back in the city now, I think, staring across the plains.
Maybe it's time for another go.
190
BRIE
I stand to the right of the Overseer, Marcus on his left, looking upon the gathered luminaries at the top of the hill. The morning light bathes us in its warm glow, the sun smiling down upon a brand new day.
There's a slight thrill in the air, a sense of excitement. A number of the faces I know well enough now - Herald Avon, Master Krun, Master Tellus, and several others besides - all appear upbeat and enthused. Only a couple, I notice, seem a little more subdued. Herald Gailen, usually fairly bright of face, has a darkness about him this morning that goes against his common mood. Lady Dianna, too, sits pensive and stern, her thoughts falling to deeper places than others.
"Last night," the Overseer begins, "we won a great victory against our enemy. The hubris of the Neoromans has been outed, their ability so siege these walls dealt a fatal blow." His lips pull into a smug smile. "Didn't I say that Brie would turn the tide of this war for us? Didn't I tell you to trust me."
He takes a pause to savour the moment, looking out over the gathered Chosen and Heralds. I see Minerva, off to one side, looking on without her usual cheer. She tries to smile, but doesn't seem able to. I don't know exactly why.
"For those of you who fought, we are indebted to you as always," the Overseer continues. "I have heard your reports, and understand full well that the enemy still have their threats. Fear not, they will be dealt with too." He raises a more genuine smile, heartfelt and grateful. Today, his robes are particularly vibrant, as though brightly lit to celebrate this triumphant day.
"And what of the Skymasters?" asks Master Tellus, the diminutive Chosen Earth-Shaker, so bookish in appearance. "I understand that they were slaughtered last night, by none other than Herald Amber and Master Elian? How do you propose to deal with them?"
"A two pronged query, Master Tellus," the Overseer sings. "The loss of the Skymasters was regrettable, but shouldn't change anything. Their siege power is not what we had anticipated, and has been weakened further. Our Forgers are working night and day to keep the walls intact."
"But they are tiring, Master Overseer," comes the voice of Master Vulcus, the Chosen Forger and resident builder and sculptor upon the hill. "They cannot go on like this forever."
"They will not need to do so," the Overseer says. "Their labour will not last long, I assure you."
"And the Fire-Bloods?" prompts Tellus. "Their combined flame might be hot enough to melt right through the wall, if they're given enough time to do it."
"Oh, Tellus, what a wild claim," laughs the Overseer, his voice ringing out upon the hill. "Our defences would cut them right down if they attempted such a thing. Our walls are built to withstand a great deal more than what they can bring to bear. It would take the combined strength of a dozen Ambers and Elians to melt the wall down quickly." He laughs again, dismissing the man's concern.
Tellus draws up a mousy snarl in response, his good mood turning suddenly bitter. "You accuse the Neoromans of hubris, and yet you're falling into the same trap," he says, quietly but loud enough for everyone to hear.
The courtyard at the heart of the hill turns silent.
Only the continued sounds of bombing remain in the distance.
"There is a difference," the Overseer says coldly, his amiable manner fleeing, "between knowledge and hubris, Master Tellus. The Neoroman war machine came here, expecting us to hide behind our walls, but we have shown them we are not so easily overcome. General Decimus has shown his hand, and we have given our response. To equate my knowledge of the city walls and defences, and the power of the Fire-Bloods, to the actions of the Neoromans, is quite simply asinine. Do not speak again, or I shall expel you from the hill."
Tellus's head dips low, his weak chin all but trembling. A few of the assembly murmur, wondering how the Overseer might have the authority for such a thing. Oh, but they do not truly know his history, his past, his significance. He masquerades as a servant of the Prime only, but it is becoming clear to all that that is not the case.
No, the Overseer has complete control here now, with Marcus and myself by his side.
"Now," he continues on, turning affable once more, "do we have any more queries? Anything else troubling you, my friends?"
I search the audience, my eyes once more finding two people in particular. Gailen is one, his mood still sunken, face brooding. The other I find more interesting - Minerva, still looking a little despondent to the side. I don't like to see her in this way. I prefer her smiling, speaking in those warm, sultry tones.
I look into her eyes, and draw hers to mine. What is the matter, Minerva? I say, speaking into her mind.
She shakes her head and, finally, draws a smile in response. Nothing, sister, she says. It's nothing. I just haven't seen much of you these last couple of days. I fear...I fear you have outgrown me.
Outgrown you? I reply. I am indebted to you, always. You will always have a place at my side.
