Chương 118: Ghar's Blood

Rivers flow to the sea, and carry with them a portion of the land. In time the land wears away under their touch, and diminishes, as the water collects in the sea. But the rain cleaves from the sea, and the mountains from the fiery bosom of the world. In this way the breath of the world continues, and its life extends. The division of like from like is the rock on which that life is built. To men it is natural to think that an ending should come from division.

We see our bodies riven and our bones shattered, and we know it as the face of death. But our lives are nothing against the weight of the world. True death comes from a union that will not be broken. Endings are natural and expected; far worse is when an ending never comes, choosing instead to guard jealously all that it has hoarded. Rain does not fall, the wind scrapes the land to its bones. Attend to this verse, o reader! It is the last, for union holds all endings. The Book of Eight Verses, the Verse of Union.

(New Kheman Edition, 542 PD) The battle at the mountain pass ended when the Safid drove a salient through the center of the Ardan formation. The western flank of the Ardan remnants immediately surrendered; Sobriquet commanded the rest to stand down in an illusory voice that struck them like close thunder overhead, augmented with the convincing illusion of lightning. They joined their fellows moments later, and the Safid stood uncontested upon the pass.

Michael looked down the long line of prisoners marching back towards Saf. They were mostly unsouled, though a scattering of black uniforms among them pointed to the survival of at least a few Swordsmen. He idly wondered what would become of them now that he held Sever. He certainly didn't want the reprehensible mob, but then again apparently neither had Friedrich. He sighed and shook his head, turning his mind to the men that were conspicuously not present in the line.

The obruors were somewhere on the road to Gharon, or already in the ancient city wreaking their particular brand of havoc upon its denizens. Michael itched at the delay as the Safid policed the field and tended to their wounded. He knew the anxiety was ill-founded, but it was stubborn in the face of logic. He could do little but wait. He occupied himself by circling back to where Sobriquet sat talking with Zabala; Richter and Brant were nearby, sitting quietly. Their heads came up as Michael approached.

"Fancy seeing you all here," Michael said, easing himself down into a seated position.

"Everyone patched up? Zabala, Richter?"

"We're set," Zabala confirmed, patting the torn leg of his trousers.

"Pending a visit to a seamstress." His eyes shifted to Michael's shirt, which was missing one sleeve to the shoulder.

"Or maybe a tailor would be better."

"I don't think we're likely to find either on the way to Gharon," Sobriquet said, walking over to where Michael sat; she gave him a quick kiss on the top of his head - then grimaced, brushing rock dust away from her lips.

"Blegh. Nor baths, unfortunately. I've been looking afield to the various scouts that the Safid have south of the mountains, and all of them have reported the same thing - that the obruors set off earlier than we thought. They're not on the road; they're likely to be in the city already." Michael frowned.

"Sofia must have retreated well before we arrived," he said.

"She does happen to be an auspex," Sobriquet pointed out.

"Not odd for her to display some degree of prescience, though if her sight is anything like mine it's - clouded." She made an irritable gesture at the air.

"Luc's touch is heavy on everything right now, and your little tussle with Sever didn't help that. If anything, you've made things worse; I can barely see when you're this close to me." She looked at him, and Michael saw a thousand small reflections in her eyes. Her expression grew dazed, glassy; a moment later she shook herself.

"It's going to take some adjustment."

"I don't suppose there's anything I can do to make it easier on you," Michael said. She shook her head.

"You've always been troublesome in the view of those who see potentials," she said.

"Realizing some of that potential doesn't clear anything up, it only increases the scope of your impact." A distracted expression crossed her face, but she managed to smile up at Michael a moment later.

"It's fine. I've been a headache for you long enough, it's only fair that you should return the favor." There was a hitch in the conversation, just about the right length for someone to make a wry comment in response. It took Michael a moment to realize that it was Charles he was waiting for, or perhaps Lars; the well-worn rhythm of their conversation was missing pieces, now.

He felt the tightness in his chest where they both burned among the multitudes, echoed by the stricken look on Sobriquet's face - she, too, felt the lack. But her eyes met his in recognition, evoking a sad little smile, and they limped past that lull.

"I learned from the best," Michael said, stretching and looking around.

"I think we'll be ready to move soon, or at least ready to form up. If Sofia is already at Gharon, then we don't have any time to waste. I'm going to-" He frowned, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.

"I'm going to do something. Find some cuts to heal, move some equipment, whatever needs doing." Michael nodded to the others and turned away, perhaps a bit more rapidly than decorum permitted. Sobriquet's apparition blurred into being beside him as he stalked off.

"You sure you're okay?" she asked. Michael gave a strangled little laugh, shaking his head.

"I'm okay," he confirmed.

"I am, really."

"Convincing." Sobriquet shifted around so her apparition was in front of him, hovering close to his face.

"You're not normally this evasive."

"We're a long way from normal," Michael sighed.

"And I'm not sure we'll find it again before this is over. Things keep changing. I keep-" He paused.

"I don't even know how many low souls I gained today, Sera. Before, I could kind of point to where I gained each of them, at least, even the ones where I don't know their name. Now there's this mass inside of me. I can't tell one from the other. I can't feel the people they used to be." She floated along quietly for a few paces.

"But they're all still there?" she asked. Michael gave a terse nod.

"As far as I can tell. Clair, Charles, Unai, Leire, Lars - they haven't changed, but their numbers have grown beyond my ability to keep up. There isn't enough of me to go around."

"You can't be everything to everyone," Sobriquet warned him, floating closer.

"Nobody can. Do you want to know what I see when I look at you, now? A weight, a great crushing weight upon the world. Everything strains against you, shudders at the tiniest motion you make." Her voice dropped.

"And you're at the center of it. Even if you can't see it, as I do, I have to think that you can feel it. I've never worried about you, Michael, but what you're asking of yourself-" Her outline fuzzed for a moment, then vanished. Michael turned to see Sobriquet walking up behind him, her face pinched with worry. She stopped short of where he stood to look up at him.

"I worry that what you're asking of yourself is beyond what anyone could handle," she murmured.

"You have limits. It's one of the things that sets you apart from men like Luc, or Friedrich. It benefits nobody if you reach beyond those limits only to break apart. And there is a strain on you. Tension. Even if you hide it well." Her hand came up to rest on his cheek. She took a deep breath, words spinning together and dying unsaid behind her eyes; eventually, she shook her head and smiled.

"I'm not going to ask you to be careful," she said.

"Because we're not in a careful sort of time right now. But remember that you're not alone. Don't break yourself to spare us hardship. Especially not to spare me; I wouldn't make that trade." She moved her hand down, poking him in the chest.

"Neither would any of them." Michael took her hand in his.

"It's why there's only five of us left," he murmured. He looked into her eyes, then kissed the top of her head.

"I won't brood on it, don't worry. But for right now I need to think of anything else; I'm going to go patch some folks up at the medical tent if I can. Let me know when they're ready to move out?" She nodded, and Michael strode off. This time, she did not follow, though at the periphery of his sight Michael saw her watch him leave - then, quietly, turn to rejoin the others. By the time they had reformed the column, morning had passed into midday.

There was even talk from some of the Safid officers of holding until the next morning to let the men rest, but Michael wouldn't hear it; the wounded stayed behind with a token force, and their diminished column set out south across the border to Ghar while the sun was at its height. One advantage to the smaller cadre was speed; the fortimentes had taken minimal losses relative to the unsouled corps during the battle, and it let them move rapidly down the long descent from the pass.

There were differences to the countryside. It was still bare and pastoral, but bore the telltale signs of a land picked clean by an army's passage. The few farmsteads they saw within sight of the roads were vacant, their doors kicked in and granaries thrown open. The road was a raw, muddy rut that spilled out beyond its bed. It was a small detail, but one that lent the land an unsettled aspect. Not that Michael would have felt particularly relaxed otherwise.

His stomach churned with acid tension, only growing worse when they caught their first glimpse of Gharon's sprawling ruins in the distance. It was too far to make out anything but a dark blot upon the terrain, but something about the sight of the old city chilled him, forcing his vision back to it again and again. They pressed onward until they could see the orange hues of sunset lighting the city, close enough now to make out details of the buildings, the gates, the crumbling city wall.

Michael called for a halt when they were still far distant; if Sofia wanted to shell them she'd have to haul guns outside the wall. It was a good reason, and a sensible choice, so nobody pressed him on it; in truth, he was also relieved not to make camp in the cold, dead confines of Gharon. Whenever Michael contemplated drawing closer, his skin prickled with tension, his stomach clamping down on remnants of Safid rations. The distraction was minor, but constant, like a noise just outside the range of his hearing.

While the men made camp and ate their dinner - with fires, since the light made little difference against Sibyl's gaze - Sobriquet sat and began to roam the streets of Gharon. Michael sat by her cot and waited, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest.

"So," Zabala said, leaning back against his own cot, "let's say she does find your wayward obruors, or some portion of them. They've been in the city for the better part of a day already, most likely. Even if the people fled, resisted - with Sibyl's direction, the Ardans should have been able to replenish their ranks appreciably." Michael grimaced.

"Probably," he said.

"Probably." Zabala squinted at him.

"Probably more men than we've got here. I'm not saying that their obruor units could stand against Safid ensouled, because we've just seen some fairly compelling evidence that says they can't. But that was in Saf, with prepared positions." He gestured to the city.

"Now they're the ones defending, with a supply line through the port. Gharon is famously defensible. There's a couple thousand years of precedent saying that a besieging army can't take it."

"It's hardly the city that it used to be," Michael muttered. Zabala snorted.

"We're hardly an army. More of a task force, even if we are a powerful one. You're our only real advantage - so before we think about going after those walls, you need to be honest about what sort of battle this is going to be." He sat up, his eyes fixed on Michael's.

"This isn't going to be a battle of armies. If it comes down to it, we'll be watching you kill a few thousand men, then moving in afterward to pick up the pieces. You need to decide if you're okay with that, and if not - you need to get these men out of here while you think of something better." Michael saw an old nightmare flash through his mind, one that had plagued him after he saw Leire unleash her soul the first time. He looked out over a city, stretching out his hand; the buildings shuddered at his touch.

They cracked, crumbled- He licked his lips.

"I'm hoping it won't come to that," Michael said.

"I'd rather not kill any of the obruors' victims if I can help it, and it's far from a sure thing that they'll be able to mount an effective defense of Ghar."

"That's not an answer." Zabala raised his eyebrow.

"But you don't owe the answer to me now. You just need to know it, in case you owe it to the men later." Michael nodded slowly.

"I understand," he said, looking down at his hands. Scarred, dirty - one borrowed, one his.

"But I'm not going to make decisions in advance about this. I won't decide to kill arbitrary men, faceless men, before they've lined up to fight. I'll wait. Sofia will do what she chooses to do, as will the men under her command. I'll make my decision on those who stand against me." If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"That's all very nicely said," Zabala muttered, "but it's generally a good idea to retreat before you're forced into conflict, if you wish to avoid killing." Michael sighed and let his hands drop down.

"I do want to avoid killing; that's the entire reason we're out here, after all." He raised his head to look at Zabala.

"But that means making a world where Luc isn't a threat. Where Saf doesn't make war on its neighbors. I believe there's a path from here to there, but peace is only the destination - not the path."

"That sounded downright Safid." Zabala grinned, stretching his shoulders; the Mendiko soldier leaned back once more on his cot.

"I figured our hosts would rub off on you some, but at this rate you'll be preaching next to Taskin before we're through."

"He's tried the bald look before," Sobriquet said, one eye cracking open.

"Not his best." Michael turned to look at her, straightening up.

"Hey, welcome back. Anything interesting?" She shook her head, sitting up.

"Nothing. And I mean nothing. No sign of Sibyl or her obruors, or of any Ardan presence at all. No conscript army." She frowned, turning towards where the old city loomed outside the tent wall.

"Just people huddled in their ruins, same as the first time we passed through."

"That doesn't make any sense," Michael frowned.

"Why would she make a run for the city? Did she move past it, to the southern beachhead?" He thought on that notion for a moment and shook his head.

"But that makes no sense. They have a perfectly good port right here, closer to Saf."

"She could have left by ship," Zabala said.

"If we assume Luc's forces are still fighting Taskin in the west, then it's possible that she went to reinforce them. She would know their situation even without a message reaching her."

"In which case we should be on our way west as well," Michael said, tapping his chin. He looked up at the city, letting his sight soar above the tent so he could see it clearly. It was silent, waiting; the dread in his stomach flared back to life at the sight of it- Michael frowned.

"Was there anything unusual in the city?" he asked.

"Possibly, my vision isn't that clear," Sobriquet said.

"Nothing the size of an army, or a large mass of ensouled. Aside from that, the place is a maze; I could have missed any number of things. All of Ghar is clouded with Luc's presence, and you're-""-not helping, you mentioned," Michael sighed.

"All right." She peered at him.

"Don't give me 'all right;' tell me why you asked. Should I have seen something unusual?" Michael let his breath out slowly, shrugging.

"I'm not sure," he admitted.

"But there's something unsettling about the city. Can't put my finger on it from here - and I don't feel comfortable leaving it at our backs, not like this." He stood, dusting off his trousers.

"I want to go take a look. See if we can't find some answers about where Sofia went."

"Where do you want to start looking?" Sobriquet asked.

"Ghar is huge. We could focus on the port, or the river, but that's still the entire central district. Searching all Imes would be quicker."

"The Mendiko port sounds like a fair bet," Michael agreed.

"But I hadn't counted on us finding answers that easily. I figure we'll make our way there, poke around a bit - and wait for Marcus to find us." Sobriquet gave him a flat look.

"That's placing quite a lot of faith in Marcus," she said.

"You don't know that he's here, or that he's willing to talk. Or that he's still friendly, for that matter."

"Or alive at all." Zabala crossed his arms in front of his chest, looking unimpressed.

"That said, I don't disagree with seeking intelligence. I'm going to ask around for our radiomen and see if I can learn anything about the fighting at the western pass." Sobriquet raised an eyebrow.

"I didn't hear anything from that side the entire time we were at the Safid camp, nor did I expect to. If Saleh is using his soul then it's unlikely they can communicate; not unless they want to drop their defense against Luc."

"Yes, but I'm confident that I can easily find a radioman to check for me," Zabala said, smirking.

"Have fun looking for your Gharic prince." He turned and left the tent. Michael and Sobriquet exchanged a glance.

"He learns it from you," Michael muttered, grabbing his pack from the ground.

"You'll keep pace from here?" She nodded, giving Michael a quick peck on the cheek.

"Be careful. I didn't see anything odd, but that's odd in itself." Michael nodded, pausing for a quick smile - then turned and began to run. His strides ate up the distance between their camp and Gharon's walls, though with each pace he felt the air deaden around him, growing thick and inflexible. It dripped with tension, fear - dread, thick as porridge, sloshing around the perimeter of the old city. Michael slowed before the great walls grimacing.

He had felt fear from cities before, along with a whole host of other unpleasantness. This was different. Worse. Gharon was transfixed with horror, focused on nothing else. He had mistaken the sensation from far away - but then, he had never before felt any emotion from such a distance. It felt like striding into a bright light of fear, feeling its heat on his skin and its glare in his eyes.

Michael grit his teeth and clamped down on Spark, dimming the sensation to a tolerable level - tolerable, but still maddeningly persistent. He jumped over the wall and began to jog through the outer reaches of the city. Sobriquet had been right; it looked much the same as it had on their first visit.

"Nearest settlement?" he murmured.

"Ahead and to the left, not far," Sobriquet replied.

"Although they're not up to much. I missed them the first time I passed over this quarter. No fires, nobody's outside."

"No fires," Michael muttered, bending his course to the side. Snow kicked up from his footsteps where it had collected in great dirty drifts between the buildings. The cold of the winter seemed to pulse from the stone, more frigid by far than the air around him.

"Something is very wrong." Sobriquet had no reply for that. Michael pressed on until he saw the telltale signs of recent habitation amid the ruins - buildings with boarded-up doors and windows, and walls patched roughly with rubble and mortar. He walked up to the nearest door, sending his sight into the building. It was dark inside, and cold. The tiny kitchen was vacant, as was the table in front. In the back, though, he found the occupants.

A couple with their young son, huddled together under what appeared to be every blanket they owned. What Michael could see of them was pale, filthy - he had seen corpses in better condition. But these were no corpses, for their eyes remained fixed on the door, listening to the tread of his feet outside. They trembled at the noise, slouching under their covers, save for the young child; he did not react at all, save to blink languorously over a glassy, vacant stare.

Michael pulled his sight back, reeling, and sent it into a neighboring house - then another. Each had only mute, staring occupants, recoiling from the faint noises of Michael's presence in their town. He relaxed his hold on Spark slightly, immediately regretting the decision; the howling blast of fear that whipped his mind nearly sent him toppling back into the snow. He hastily restrained that soul.

"Sera, what am I looking at?" he muttered.

"They're petrified. Dying men aren't this afraid. Nobody is."

"I didn't think they had instigators alongside obruors, at least not in quantity," she replied.

"And they don't feel like the obruor units did, they're not - scraped hollow. There's still a mind in there, albeit a terrified one." Michael shook his head.

"Of what? Sofia is apparently gone, along with any remaining troops. There's nothing left here but cold and people too scared to light fires against it."

"We still don't know enough." Her voice was low, rasping.

"And these people aren't likely to tell us much. You should keep going towards the river." Reluctantly, Michael began to run south towards the river, hewing close to the coastline. He let his sight sweep back along the cluster of houses before he left and found them unchanged. Silent, staring. He set his eyes forward and kept running. Buildings flowed by to either side of him, crumbling ruins crusted with ice. Most were empty.

Those few that weren't were all the same: boarded up, with their occupants sheltering in quiet dread. Michael did not bother to stop and look closely, after the first. He pushed forward until he saw the broad expanse of the river that cut the city in two, and the well-laid order of the Mendiko port near its mouth. As he approached, he saw that the port complex had not fared well in its builders' absence. The gates had been thrown open, the walls scorched and gouged. Windows were shattered.

Glass sparkled on the ground, blending with the ice; Michael slowed to a walk as he wound his way between the gutted buildings. There were signs of use here; heavy bootprints and refuse marked the ground, along with the remnants of fires. He saw bedrolls and half-eaten rations inside the shattered windows of the barracks, the corners of the rooms thick with frozen filth. He was suddenly grateful for the cold; even now, there was a vile smell pervading the base. If it had been warmer…

He shook his head and walked further into the compound, sending his sight to the places he remembered from his prior visit. The Zuzendaritza offices were bare, stripped to the walls. The port's command offices were the same, while the mess was more deserving of its name than usual. Yet no Ardans remained. It seemed strange for them to have abandoned the place entirely, even as part of their move north; this was meant to be their resupply, after all.

Food and medical supplies bound north, ammunition, weapons, parts- But all he could see was the ice-encrusted remnants of a camp, looking as though it had been disused for years. Michael's mind was racing in the chill wind, each passing second in the place unnerving him more. The pounding drumbeat of fear all around him did not help; he considered shutting away Spark entirely, but did not want to miss anything crucial. Michael nearly jumped out of his skin when Sobriquet's voice murmured beside his ear once more.

"Brig," she said. She did not comment on his startlement, her voice grim and quiet.

"There are people there. Not many, but-" She fell silent. Feeling a different sort of trepidation, Michael turned towards the command area of the base. The prison wasn't large; really more of an extra barracks that had been converted for its purpose. The windows were laid with bars behind their shattered glass, and the heavy metal door had been thrown wide, its blocky lines distorted by some nameless artifex. Michael ducked inside and made his way past the foyer. It didn't take long to find the prisoners.

Every cell was full - or had been. Now frozen bodies covered the floor of vast holding cages, packed in until they sprawled over top of each other. Some had dragged themselves to the windows, others towards the door. It had made little difference, in the end. Reeling, he bent down to inspect the faces that had been pushed against the cell's bars. They had frozen to the metal, blackened skin next to white.

Parts of his mind recoiled, gibbering in horror at the tableau laid out before him; the rest clustered around the steadying warmth at his core. It was a bright light, a human light, and it helped to drive away the inhuman dark pressing in from all sides. Michael took a steadying breath and straightened up.

"They're Gharic," he said softly.

"All of them. There must have been some resistance to the Ardans sweeping through before-""Before they slaughtered them," Sobriquet said.

"Most of them, anyway. There are a few still living upstairs, in the smaller cells. Faint. Maybe ensouled, it's hard to tell - anything." She trailed off. Michael turned to ascend the stairwell, pushing aside creaking metal doors until he came to a row of individual cells on the second floor. Some of these were clearly meant to hold ensouled; they were bound in heavier metal, or paneled with incongruous hardwoods to stymie artifices.

Most were empty; those that weren't had a few frozen corpses in the same condition as those downstairs. In the potens cells, though, behind the thick metal grating, Michael felt small, hard knots of fear still flaring. He pressed his hand to the frigid metal of the cell door. The lock twisted and flowed away, letting the door groan open. The men inside did not react; it took Michael a few moments to see why. The entire cell was metal, to ward against their strength. Even the floor.

The Ardans had not seen fit to provide the men with bedrolls. There had been three potentes in the cell; one man was slumped against the wall with wide, staring eyes hidden behind a skein of frost. The others had collapsed to the floor. Their hands and feet had frozen to the metal where they touched, the skin of their faces black and waxy. Yet still, their chests rose and fell weakly as the soul within kept the cold from finishing its work. Michael had no need to agonize over a decision.

These men could not tell him anything; there was only one thing left to do. He reached down to each man, quickly, and sent Stanza into their flesh. The gentle rhythm of their breathing fell silent, leaving only Michael's breath fogging the room, quick and shallow.

"Sera," he whispered.

"What is this?"

"Not sure." Her reply was terse, clipped.

"There are more, down the hall." Michael found two more cells with potentes languishing in frozen agony, and left bodies behind. The last cell in the row was larger than the others, built more heavily. The construction was made to deter several types of souls, with interlocking bands of stone, metal and wood cunningly woven together. Michael drew some of the metal away from the lock and delivered a kick to the mechanism.

The brittle stone snapped under his foot, the wood splintering with a sharp crack that seemed profane in the quietly funereal prison. As the echoes of the crack faded away, they were replaced with a quiet, rhythmic noise. It took Michael a moment to recognize it as laughter. It was weak and rasping, but unmistakable. He ducked through the ruined entryway to find the last cell's occupant. Marcus had been stripped and beaten, his hair roughly shorn away.

Dark bruises covered him, and Michael could see the distorted lines of his body where bones had been broken. He hung from manacles on the wall; where the metal met his flesh, his wrists had frozen fast to the restraints. Everything past his elbows was blackened, twisted skin. The Gharic leader's quiet laughter continued as Michael walked in, though his eyes did not come up to look. They were wide, staring, looking at nothing in particular. His lips parted.

"Baumgart," he croaked.

"I owe you - apology." He gave a weak cough that dissolved into more wheezing laughter.

"You didn't lie." Michael crouched down beside the man, holding tight to the light within.

"You idiot," he breathed.

"What did they do to you?"

"Whatever they wanted." He grimaced, coughing again.

"Ah - nimis est. Nimis-""Marcus, what happened?" Michael asked, reaching out to touch him with Stanza. There wasn't much that he could do for the man's arms, but the rest of him was in better shape than the unfortunate potentes in the metal cells, by virtue of being suspended upright and away from the floor. Marcus gasped as blood flowed more strongly, his face contorting with pain.

He was shivering from more than the cold, though; the rot from his arms had left the living flesh red and inflamed where it was not frostbitten.

"I was mistaken," Marcus said, his voice clearer after Michael's ministrations - though thick with pain. He raised his head and looked up for the first time. His eyes were tight, clouded, glittering with tears.

"I thought I was dealing with men. Men, I know. Always have. My house has shepherded the men of Ghar since the name meant something. But the Ardans aren't - men. You tried to tell me." Michael raised Marcus's head up.

"What happened here? Where is everyone? Why are your people hiding in fear?" More laughter slipped past his lips, spittle flecked with dark blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

"We died," he said.

"Some quick. Some slow. Others left, and they'll die slowest of all." A fit of giggling took him. Michael opened his mouth to press Marcus further, but the other man only shook his head.

"We died, Baumgart. For our dream, we died, and woke to see the worst form of it come to life." He laughed again, weaker this time; red foam dripped from his lips.

"Nihil reliquum. Princeps - tamen in solio tandem sedit. Tandem, tandem sedit." He winced, his eyes coming up to meet Michael's - and then rolling back in his head as convulsions took him. Michael watched as the man sagged against his restraints. He reached out his hand to touch Marcus's cheek. The man's breath halted, then sighed out slowly against Michael's palm. After a moment, Michael let his hand drop back to his side. The world was spinning around him, his heart pounding; nothing was as it should be.

"He was the last," Sobriquet murmured.

"I don't feel anyone else in the old Mendiko base." She paused.

"Michael, I don't like this. Nothing about it makes sense." Michael shook his head, trying to clear the last echoes of Marcus's voice from it.

"Right there with you," he said.

"Something is very wrong here. It's more than the dead men, and the fear of the living." He straightened up and turned towards the door, making his way out of the prison.

"I need you to find me the biggest concentration of people still alive. Someone has to know what happened here." There was a long pause before her voice came back.

"On the other side of the river," she said.

"Around where we saw Marcus give his speech. There's a scattering of people left. Not many, but-" She broke off.

"Michael, we should consider going back. Whatever happened, it's clear there's no threat left in this city. No troops, and no people for the obruors to recruit. The Safid lines are safe. We can leave the eastern pass to Amira and go west."

"We won't delay long." Michael descended the stairs, then made his way out into the abandoned yard.

"But I need to know where Sofia went. Her obruors. The rest of the Ardan forces, Sera, there were thousands! Thousands we haven't seen. Someone in this city knows what happened." She didn't reply as he ran back out the gate, setting his course west to the river bridge. The ice crunched under his feet as he ran; it was the only noise that followed him through the ruins.