A Slow March Unto the End

For a month’s time the expeditionary force marched across the lostlands tamping down earth gone ages without human touch, not since the Age of Incursion had been christened by the Empress Attendant.

The demon presence had warped the land to such degree that it was unrecognizable even to those who’d grown up in the shade of its trees. Those forests they’d chased each other through, played games of hide and seek, grew now as ladders for vines to spread closer to the skies, releasing sprays of crimson to blanket the land in perpetual carmine night. Air heavy with alien dew dampened garb, morale, and matches, clinging to the skin with clammy fingers.

In the deeper reaches, more alien topographies had taken root. Violet, white-spined spires pushed up through cracked earth where a lieutenant swore a village had one lived. He’d run out into the field, stuttering about where the townhouse was, where an inn once stood, the glade he’d enjoyed in the embrace of a lover’s arms, and had to be dragged back and restrained for good measure.

An avaricious carpenter had tried to pick apart a crystalline growth sprouting from a stone with her hammer and chisel, and come down violently ill upon splitting it open to find its inner structure brimming in webbed marrow like a glassy bone.

Vegetation imagined in narcotic-spun dreams impeded human and animal alike with myriad afflictions to skin and hide at the slightest brush: rashes and boils, weeping pimples and yellow pox.

To ease the burden on their magi, the army moved not as one unit, but in packs, like buffalo migrating across the plains seeking calm fields burgeoning with edible plants, and comfortable climate. Houses, kingdoms, and lordships sailed as one or several hosts depending on the numbers beneath their banners. Independents were given two rules: “Don’t be seen,” and “Take in others who can be seen.” Insofar, it had been a successful practice both in averting Incursion notice and building rapport amongst the soldiers, often being forced into close proximity if a magus lacked proper training in the craft of bending light. Friendships cropped up, were broken, or flipped into vendetta under the shimmering barriers, sometimes all three, over a single day of marching.

Night was the only time a soldier was allowed to relax and engage in camaraderie with others of outside camps, when the barriers were less taxing to maintain. As an effective way to maintain morale, drinking was common. Wealthier houses caravanned special-made carts stacked high with barrels and kegs and rainbows of precious bottles, vintages from far lands, private stocks of ales and wines. And soldiers all sharing the same ship were more than willing to offer mugs to their brethren. Such was expected praxis of those sallying forth against the Incursion. If they survived, they would celebrate! If they lost, well, at least they’d not have wasted good drink. Better to toast their final days than let the good stuff rot in a dank cellar until the end of time.

On this particular night the expeditionary force had settled on the border what had once been a forest in halcyon days, and a thoroughly indulgent celebration was happening. Sometime in the next day of travel the force’s journey would intersect with that of the Empress Attendant’s. The combined forces would then continue towards their final destination and…

…supposedly, they would fight.

Armies never marched off unless battle was expected. They wouldn’t have need to celebrate as if that night would be their last, unless it could be. Spending resources and manpower to preserve one’s military was a gesture as wasteful as it was grandiose – unless – a commanding power believed every individual soldier crucial in times to come.

Logical thoughts, all of them; yet Ol-Lozen had no earthly idea what the next days would have in store for him.

He hoped there would be fighting. The marches – stopping, starting, hurrying up only to wait – felt more torturous than any wound he’d been dealt.

In truth, he hadn’t asked.

On this particular night, Daigay had been asked to rotate in with the magi keeping the barrier stable for enough hours to let another magus rest. She had groused over the injustice for an appropriate amount of time (six hours) as it interfered with her interrogating Az-Uharpak on all matters based in science that Ol-Lozen knew nothing about, as she had nearly every waking hour of every day for the past month.

She had given him a list of tasks: dig the firepit (done) make supper (done) brush Jackbee and feed him an oatcake (done) find specific satchels and arrange them in the wagon (in progress) and pin the map to the bonnet (found, but not pinned).

Two of the satchels and the map lay next to each other at the wagon’s end, and he searched for the third. The wagon had been greatly emptied of food during their time amongst the expeditionary force, but Daigay had demanded to keep all the containers in case a need arose. Ol-Lozen tossed the clutter aside until he found a satchel buried underneath wooden boxes with the slight scent of citrus. He loosened the straps and felt around inside until his fingers closed on a cool squat cylinder.

Make certain you find the one holding the red jar, she’d said, you’ll know it when you see it.

He nearly dropped the jar at first sight. He’d seen it before, ages ago, on the day they’d left the hovel: a wet, organic, and certainly red mass whose singular eye followed him no matter where he moved. Returning it to darkness, he slid the satchel beside the rest.

“Mouse,” he said, picking up the map, and number of small pins. “I’ll need to work around you.”

The girl, a creature of habit, sat in the wagon’s corner with a new tome, reading by the light of a lamp that held no flame. “Do what you will, demon,” she replied without looking up.

In a few minutes the task was complete. Small items like pins troubled him little nowadays, and he’d managed to hang the map without sticking his own fingers even with needing to work from outside the wagon’s window. Practice made perfect, as the saying went. The bonnet having been patched up since their catastrophe in Goldhome-In-The-Dell also helped.

A frown crossed his face. Compared to when Daigay had rolled it out before, some of the markings had been changed. The violet expanse portraying the lostlands had grown, and the lines depicting the paths of different traveling armies had been elongated. All were converging on a point near the center of the lostlands a fair distance north of the city circled in red.

“Nor…aye…sis…” he mumbled.

Mouse sighed. “Norisis. Nor…ee…sis.”

“What’s so important about that city?” he asked, receiving only a shrug. Whatever the reason, he had a nagging feeling about Norisis. He racked his brain for any occasion the name might have been mentioned but came up empty-handed.

“Are you going to stare at the map all night?”

“Will you be reading alone all night?”

“I intend to be useful beyond violence in the future, so yes.”

He tapped a hand against the window ledge. “Enjoy your book,” he said in goodbye.

The night was young, and Ol-Lozen was restless. Beside the wagon’s wheel, from a barrel that once held green apples, he withdrew sizable folds of dark goatskin leather cut and stitched to fit approximately two and a half men side by side, as well as a set of equally dark gloves, sliding them on over his transference attire.

Among the expeditionary force traveled a competent leatherwork Daigay had sniffed out. With favors here and there, she’d convinced him to spend a not insignificant amount of resources on tough, flexible armor for the Orkan. The gloves Ol-Lozen had made himself, after countless times stabbing his own fingers. Incursion claws would make short work of the leather, but wearing garb more durable than the thin transference attire into battle would provide an invaluable sense of security. He punched the air, mimed kicking an invisible foe, and gave the bloodsword a few practice swings, stopping to brush strands of oily black hair from his oily face.

No rivers in the lostands meant no chance for a bath. Water was intended for drinking out here, not bathing. Any other use would be a waste.

His hair had grown longer too, and was becoming more difficult to control with strips of fabric alone. Pulling it back, tying a bun, braids – limited success each time. For a moment he considered shearing length using the bloodsword’s edge. It would serve. Not once had the blade needed sharpening since Daigay forged it from the wyrm’s lifeblood. Of course, should his hand slip, he was a dead Orkan. Sighing, he decided against the risk as heavy footsteps sounded, paired with the swishing of fabric. A familiar set of teeth split white against the night.

“Hopefully I am not interrupting, Ol-Lozen.”

“No, Edrikt, not at all.” He returned the sword to its rough sheath. “Just as yesterday, and every night before. If I don’t see battle shortly I may drink with the rest, if only to brawl.”

“That is the only occasion someone would engage you willingly, I fear. But, we need our hands in the days to come.” The magus opened his arms to the Orkan. “Why not pass the time in good company instead? We have plenty of room. Trade verbal jabs around good fire and supper.”

“I could eat you stores in one meal.”

“My provisions accounted for an Orkan. I do not think that’s possible.” He gestured to a camp in the long-off distance. “I have enough for you, myself, Joshua… and one more guest. I believe you’ve met Charan.”

“Not a name I recognize, and I don’t do well with guests.”

“Neither do they. But, they chose not to run.”

Ol-Lozen narrowed his eyes. “I’m not running.”

“You may walk, if you so choose. I, on the other hand, will stand in this spot.” His eyes followed the Orkan, as the not-man placed the bloodsword into his clothing barrel, sighing.

“What have you set for tonight’s meal?”

“Not sure. On the way here, I suppose the memory fell from my head. It will be a lovely surprise for us both when we arrive!”

Edrikt led the way through the bustling camp. Festivities of a night in enemy territory were in full swing, and one could almost forget the world outside the shimmering bubble, and the terrors that befell it unceasingly.

The magus’ camp was larger than expected, boasting one of the larger pavilions Ol-Lozen had seen, all white with red trim, devoid of windows and banners – just as Daigay had described. In a small way the Orkan felt he knew every detail of the castle-like tent already despite never having set foot inside or around. Dark wooden crates had been stacked outside, lids tied together and leaned against their boxes. Joshua perked up as Ol-Lozen arrived and waved him nearer to the firepit. Another, gangly form warmed itself against the flames, and he felt his hackles rise at the sight of them. Delicious smells from an awkward pot atop the kindling did little to mollify the tension.

The form rose jingling to greet Ol-Lozen, holding out a hand clad in black metal for a moment –suddenly pulling it back – before pressing the hand to their cheek, nodded, and held it out again. The metal was hot against Ol-Lozen’s palm, but not scaldingly so. The waterfall of raven hair framed their scarred face, white as snow.

“I take back what I said earlier, Edrikt. This… Charan… led us into the camp at swordpoint when we’d first arrived.”

After being relayed the information, Charan inclined their head. “Glad am I to meet under better circumstances, Orkan. Please understand neither I nor my underlings mean you harm here, and hopefully this night will put that fuss behind us.” Their words were formal, and evenly spoken.

“You’ll like Charan, demon,” Joshua said. “I’ve already forgiven them for nearly scaring the piss out of me.”

“That remains to be seen. I’m not what you’d call a forgiving type.”

At a rumble in the earth, he turned to see Edrikt raise a wide seat from the ground, patting it, to let the Orkan know it was his. He sighed audibly, wondering that horrors he’d signed himself up for.

---

Edrikt burst out laughing, a wide belly-deep note that shook his entire frame. “She ignited the entire throne room aflame?”

“No, no, no,” Ol-Lozen corrected, “No flame. More like a bread oven. Guards, Lord Larkhen, the magus – all of them burned. The lord himself squealed like a pig.” Edrikt conveyed this to the rest, and the camp burst with mirth.

“And you survived this?” Charan leaned in, eyes wide as saucers. “I know a majority of our army is here, Larkhen would never reduce his own personal guard. The palace should have brimmed with swords. How did you escape unscathed?”

“Daigay, too, had our escape planned out: filled the halls with fog to hide us, and slip anyone trying to pursue.”

“Old Da’ would’ve given the goat to see that,” Joshua laughed. One finger brushed against his necklace.

“Th-This magus,” Edrikt chortled, trying to get his words out, “You say he was an old, saggy prune? Hair only a thin ring around his shiny head? That was my successor. Great man, very flammable, and in need of a friendly singe since the day we met.”

“He was a righteous slob of a magus. We were promised charms to stave off the rains one spring, and instead he built us each a leaking roof.” Charan shook their head, rebuffing the memory of failure.

“A fond farewell to that man! And his lust – not for another – but for his own voice. May he remain sharp as an egg ‘till the end of his days!”

More laughter rose from the party. Charan dumped another kindling stick from the pile to keep the flames fed, spiraling embers into the night.

Joshua coughed into his arm, smile unwavering even as each burst shook him. “You know, we have our own way for describing people of that nature. Ma’ and Da’ called them ‘grown in their own manure.’” Agreement over the phrase’s accuracy was chuckled through the party.

Ol-Lozen put up a finger to announce intent to speak. “Orkan have a good tale of our own,” he said. Waiting until Edrikt was solemn enough to hear, he cleared his throat before starting. “Politician was parading around the city I’d lived in. He collected all this soup, hundreds of cans, into the largest bowl you’ve ever lain eyes on, intending to serve it hot to those hungry for it. But he built this grand stage above the pool. As lines formed he would campaign to everyone waiting – except – he hadn’t built it to code.”

“Code?” Edrikt asked.

“Standards. All structures must have them. No one can just build a house wherever they damn well please. He took one step out onto the stage and broke right through the floor.”

“Oh… oh, no…” Charan whispered.

“Right into the soup. Broth and vegetables everywhere. Second and third-degree burns for everyone involved. ‘Feetfirst in your own soup’ became a common phrase for idiots afterwards.” He snorted at the memory. It had looped on every screen for weeks after from TVs to phones.

“Alright, now it’s my turn.” Charan rubbed jingling hands together. “For twits and flexible legs alike – Our Empress’ Bed Attendants!” They slapped their knee with a metal clang, heaving up air like a beached fish. Raven hair shook with unrestrained joy, and they let out one final squeaking hiss before realizing no one was smiling.

The camp had gone silent, save for the lick of flames. Edrikt and Joshua appeared as if Charan had taken a raw fish in each gauntlet and gulped them down like sweet, delectable churros before their eyes. Horror was written into their faces.

Ol-Lozen eyes flipped from one person to next. Without Edrikt’s assistance he’d missed what had sent joy running for the hills. “What happened?” he asked the magus.

“Charan besmirched the name of Our Empress Attendant.”

The metal limbed warrior scowled. “Even a magus like you believes in that nonsense?”

“You hear the tale enough times, it becomes difficult to continue believing them baseless rumors.”

Joshua swallowed, fingers fidgeting into his hands. “Ma’ said she hears everyone who badmouths her, and she sends her secret knights to hunt you down and take you away forever.”

“You’re talking about observing every person at once, every waking moment, every day of their lives. Such is impossible.” Charan leaned back on their stone block, arms folded. “Wholly impossible.”

As Edrikt finished speaking, Ol-Lozen grimaced. “No, it’s not.” All eyes spun to the Orkan. “Global surveillance has already been achieved in my world. With what magic I’ve seen do here, I wouldn’t put it far outside possible.”

“I agree with Ol-Lozen,” Edrikt said. “Az-Uharpak has also experienced this level of sight from across the world. She may be able to see us at this very moment.”

“You mean… she can watch me sleep? Or, when I’m taking a dump?” He made a gagging sound. “That’s perv-” he started, catching himself with a hand over his mouth.

“Whatever insult you had planned isn’t strong enough to describe her. Speak free. I know I will.” Charan’s arms jingled as they shook. “The Empress is a warmonger, callous down to the marrow, desiring only to claim dominion over the common folk. She has pruned her court down only to those who serve her unconditionally, and they have been ruthless in seeing her dream realized.” They swung a vicious hand over the fire. “Her rule was only made possible when the kingdoms capitulated. Before this war, she was only queen, without a king at her side.”

“We were strongarmed, by her.”

All eyes fell on Edrikt, but he stared into the fire, and the blackening cookpot. “As court magus to Lord Larken the Second, I was made to attend congress when she demanded it not long after the Incursion started to tear across the lands. A condition of her rule, of the joining of forces to combat the threat, was to seat her at the head of the table. She had…” He sucked his teeth, searching for the word. “…tempting leverage, as one might put her holding the secrets of summoning over our heads.” He chuckled weakly. “Our congress to the capital was, in a way, form of summoning, itself.”

“Oh!” Joshua said. “You’re talking about Quaqua, right? Daigay told us about her.”

Charan’s hands ground into their arms. The metal squeaked under force of their grip.

Edrikt nodded. “Yes. Quaqua, the Innovator –”

“She is a violator!” Charan leapt to their feet. Every movement jingled with fury. “She is the worst of the Empress’ lapdogs. She wrought this on me.”

They struck their arm, then the other. The left leg. The right leg. With a hiss, they rose clacking above the party. Limbs extended and locked into place. Each arm and leg bore two sets of elbow joints, manipulating in inhuman fashion. Joshua fell back with a cry. Ol-Lozen was reminded of the image of a praying mantis.

“I was to lose a foot, and she claimed all of my limbs.”

Edrikt nodded, appearing unfazed. “And that is why you deserted, I gather.”

“They will not take another slice of me. Not the Empress, not Quaqua, no one. They will not collar me, and when this war is over I will spread their crimes across the kingdoms, until they know folly.”

“Collars have historically been their forte.” He chuckled darkly. “One would think a fascination buried in all their gifts.”

Ol-Lozen touched a hand to the runes on his throat.

“But a little disobedience is good for the soul,” Edrikt continued. “Unceasing obedience is the drinker of spirit, promising the fall of our kingdoms and self.”

“I disobeyed Da’ and Ma’ to be here. Never see myself regretting leaving for this place.” In Joshua’s clenched first was the necklace of his father, burnished and shining.”

Edrikt gestured to the boy still on the ground. “We are all unruly here, I think. If Quaqua could see how I’ve broken her creation, she might be tempted to travel down from Feeruni herself to have at me.”

Charan snorted. “Good. She deserves nothing but pain.”

“If I’m allowed honesty, so many inventions tied to her name begs the slippery question of how a single mind conceived them all. Unless she is simply breeding stock for ideas. The solar lamp, the lightning rod, the thief’s trapped chains – oh, chains again! – and now summoning, among numerous others.” Edrikt waved his hand to raise the cookpot from the fire, twirling a finger to unscrew the lid and bathe all present in the mouth-watering scent of curry.

“How did you break her magic?” Joshua asked, having returned to his chair with a bowl in hand.

“The notes on her ritual were quite thorough in their explanations. Breaking the forced obedience gramarye consumed the better part of a year.”

He’d spooned out a bite’s worth of curry when Ol-Lozen departed. They shouted for his return but he moved as if deaf, pushing aside the pavilion’s curtain doors with a shaking hand, and stepped inside the murderer’s abode.