Bog Standard Isekai

As soon as Aberthol saw the [Caravan Master], he suddenly didn’t want to do this any more. The man had a few fresh fingernail scars running up from the top of his bald head all the way to his eyebrow. He walked gingerly as if every step were jostling a bruised element between his legs. Clearly, Aberthol had no idea what had actually happened. He didn’t know the full story here, and he wouldn’t get it, not unless Cati told him, and he wasn’t sure if he should ask. It seemed he’d been right when he’d assumed that there was a reason she wasn’t leaving with this caravan, a better reason than her ridiculous story about duty and fate. But he’d been wrong when he’d assumed she was in need of someone to avenge her honor or whatever nonsense he’d been thinking when he’d run over here.

What was he even doing here? He’d already surrendered this fight. If he really wanted to protect the women of the camps from the predations of the soldiers, he could’ve put an Invisible Eye on each of them. Well, a lot of them, at least. He hadn’t done that because he hadn’t wanted to see it, and because he didn’t have the authority or the will to be the arbiter of justice for an entire warcamp.

The smoldering anger that had brought him to this point faded and all he wanted to do was wander away again and pretend none of this existed, but now here he was blocking the caravan with the Frenarian soldiers he’d grabbed on the way over, and everyone was looking at him.

Amai, Cati’s [Mender] friend, was here. She avoided Aberthol’s eyes, though he thought it was more from shame than fear this time. He didn’t care about her either; if she wanted him to care she should’ve stayed behind with Cati rather than go on alone, on a trip that Cati had no doubt arranged in the first place.

Aberthol came to a decision. “Have the leader flogged. The rest can go or stay as they please.”

The Frenarian soldier’s captain said, “For what crimes is this man to be punished, sir?”

“I decline to share that information,” said Aberthol.

“Very good, sir,” said the captain. “Then if I might make a suggestion?”

“You may,” said Aberthol, already groaning internally. The captain was no doubt going to argue for leniency. Aberthol was going to get drawn into a trial. That’s the last thing he wanted, for himself or for Cati.

“I’d like to flog the Casas brothers there, as well. Flavio and Cristofor,” said the captain.

“Then do so, on my command, and with no explanation,” said Aberthol. “Unless you’d like to offer an explanation?”

“For the improvement of morale, sir,” said the captain.

“I see. I like it. Then use the same excuse for the leader,” said Aberthol, already turning away.

“Very good, sir.”

It used to be weird to him that grown soldiers, hardened fighting men, would obey his commands without argument or complaint. A relic from his memories of Mark, he assumed, but now he was far past that. Wasn’t it natural to listen to a knight-at-arms? He didn’t understand how a short couple years in Hammon’s Bog had overwritten all his sensibilities so quickly. Or… or how they’d snapped back so quickly.

That line of thought brought a wave of mental fatigue so strong that he nearly fell to his knees, but something distracted him. Something strange was happening in the camp.

Looking around, he heard the crack of whips, the sounds of groans and screams of pain, but it wasn’t until he spread out a few Invisible Eyes that he saw what the issue was.

A lot of men were being flogged right now. Hundreds. Why? He bet it was because of Lothar. The army was cleaning up their act. Yes, now that he saw it, [Messengers] and [Quartermasters] were handing out prayer books and liturgies. If you wanted a [Paladin] to guide your army, then you had to make yourself worthy of it. Or at least, put on the appearance of being worthy. The hypocrisy put a bitter taste in his mouth, but he recognised it as a solid tactical move.

Watching the movement of the army, it appeared that around one in ten of the men either had been flogged or were currently having it done. He wondered if any of these men had actually committed a crime at all.

Then again, being disliked was in itself a crime. Aberfa had taught that lesson to every inch of his body. All of this reminded him of back when he’d first joined the Lance and Govannon had been a problem. It was common wisdom that if you got any ten men together, there would always be at least one of them that all the rest hated. Having that man beaten within an inch of his life would be a massive boost to morale. This army was going to have terribly high morale when it followed Lothar into Arcaena.

Aberthol used an Invisible Eye to check on Govannon, but the Lance was fine. He needn’t have checked; Cid would never put up with something like that. The common wisdom about every ten guys having a pariah was wrong when it came to his Lance. He loved every one of them. He’d completely given up on any kind of dislike after about the second time that they’d all put their lives on the line for him. Only, he didn’t like himself much, so maybe the common wisdom was still correct after all.

He found himself marching towards the Commander’s Camp. Despite how much he wished he could lose another few hours to the apathy, he had a duty to his Lance. It was ridiculous how often he forgot that.

There was a brief moment of vertigo when he realized there was no Commander’s Camp, not anymore. The Frenarian army had split itself completely from the others. Now the soldiers from Prinnash or Olland that had marched all this way with them had joined the eastern or northern armies.

The Order of the Long Sleep had split itself off from all of them in a show of neutrality, and a few other martial orders had joined them there. The Order of Nasciment, the Order of the Luminous Serpent, and the Order of the Broken Stone chief among them. The leaders of all three armies met there now, to discuss whatever business remained until this alliance broke down completely and they all started killing each other.

He wasn’t challenged at the border of the Order’s camp, and no one questioned him when he entered the security cordon around the command tent. The guards at the entrance of the tent had him wait, and so he did, in blessed silence.

It must not have been too long before they let him in, because the sun was still high in about the same position in the sky as when he’d gotten here.

He entered. The tent was crowded and cluttered. Several tables had been shoved together, and the maps atop them were now covered with piles of documents. There were several lamps, but the press of bodies was so great that much of the light was blocked, leaving the interior feeling distinctly ignominious.

“Ah, here he is. Make way, please!” came Galan’s voice, and Aberthol was half invited-half jostled closer to the center of the crowded tent.

When the press of bodies opened up, he saw that it was only the edges that were cramped because everyone was leaving space for the figures in the center.

Galan and the three generals of the separate armies stood in a semi-circle facing Lothar, who sat in a wooden chair, both hands resting on his sword which was planted in the floor in front of him. His golden armor seemed to sparkle even brighter now that Aberthol recognized the material as the tusks of the Easterling’s click mounts.

Lothar met his eyes. “Eugh!” Both of them cringed in disgust at the sight of the other.

Aberthol had seen Lothar before, of course, but he’d never really looked. Even as a child, Aberfa had taught him about the Wyrd and he’d begun to be able to feel the jagged edges of it, even without a Skill. Now that he had a few levers into it, he could read it plain as day.

Lothar was an abomination. He was despair incarnate, he was an open, weeping wound. He was a monument to suffering. And… and he was a [Paladin]. The second truth wasn’t diminished by the existence of the first.

Mark had a strong memory of learning about the stars. He remembered that scientists had found stars that were too large and heavy to be naturally possible and so had theorized that those stars had a black hole at their center. He’d wondered at the time why the black holes didn’t eat the stars surrounding them. He wondered that about Lothar, now. It didn’t seem like it should be possible.

And yet it was. He was walking and talking and acting, even more than Aberthol himself was. Aberthol’s training had been cut short. He’d been separated from Aberfa before she’d really started trying to turn him into a [Broken Doll], before the worst of her tortures had even begun. Lothar had gone through it all and was still moving. Aberthol supposed it would be inspiring if the sheer criminality of what was going on weren’t written in the Wyrd stronger than words graven into stone.

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Lothar broke the silence. “How can you look so much worse than the last time I saw you? Why do you shield your eyes as if looking upon me is to look upon the light of the sun? Has this war truly brought such blight upon you, to darken your eyes so?”

“Yes,” Aberthol answered truthfully. Before, he’d been frightened at Lothar’s [Light of Truth], but now he was sure his answer communicated exactly as much as he intended it to and nothing more.

“Then you can see why we need your aid more than ever!” said Pombe. “Sir Lothar, we appreciate the aid you’ve already given us by directing that caravan here, but–”

“I hardly had anything to do with that,” said Lothar.

“But those supplies have only bought us time. We need to strike decisively if we’re to put a finish to this. We’ll need you–”

“I’m here, am I not?” Lothar said lightly, not moving from his chair.

“Then you’ll lead our assault?” Pombe pressed.

“I mean to conduct this war with the same valor that the rest of your men of renown have shown. If you mean to launch an assault, then by all means launch one! If I deem the risk as one worth taking, then I’ll join along. If not, then I’ll stay behind. Is this not the way of things in this war?”

“Most certainly not!” said the Ollandish general.

“You must remember that I can sort out lies from truth,” said Lothar.

“Do we even want Lothar with us on the assault?” Aberthol asked. The entire room froze. Galan tried to smile encouragingly, but Lyssa stared daggers from behind him. The glares of the generals were the kind that could freeze forest fires. He soldiered on regardless. “You haven’t made it any secret that you think this war is a mistake. If we take the walls and find Arcaena defending her city personally, will you strike her down? Can you?”

Lothar shook his head in disgust. “It’s only to be expected, I suppose, that duty and sacrifice are difficult for you to understand. I opposed this war because I don’t believe the sacrifice is worth the cost and because moving the might of three nations to this spot represents an abandonment of duty. I do not now nor have I ever harbored any sympathies to Arcaena or her monstrous servants. I will slay her if I see her.”

“Can you? She slew the [Paladin] Houwen hundreds of years before you were born. Can you succeed where he failed?” asked Aberthol. He knew how impudent he must sound right now, but this was his entire purpose in the war. Forcing Lothar to make these promises out loud would bolster him in the Wyrd, and might spell the difference between victory and defeat when his [Witch] handler caught up with them.

He couldn’t have had a more hostile audience, though, and even Galan’s limitless patience seemed to be growing thin, because he stepped towards Aberthol with a calming hand raised, no doubt intent on leading him back out of the tent.

“No, it’s a good question. Let him ask. And how interesting, Sir Aberthol, that you assume that I have made a personal study of Sir Houwen’s life and death.”

It wasn’t exactly common knowledge that Lothar was a [Paladin], but Aberthol bet that everyone in this tent knew.

Lothar said, “You assume correctly. Houwen fell to Arcaena, it is true, but not for lack of martial prowess. He fell to treachery.”

“And there are definitely no traitors in our camp here,” Aberthol deadpanned.

“You misunderstand me. Houwen fell because Arcaena set against him many good and righteous men. Men who Houwen had oft protected and those whom he dearly loved. In the course of battle with a wavering heart and trembling sword, Houwen was weakened and fell. I have no such weakness. I have no friends in these camps, save perhaps Sir Galan. Come against me severally or all at once. I will slay all who stand between me and my enemy. Save you, Sir Galan. If you mean to oppose me, then say so now or at any time and I will depart the battlefield at once.”

Galan clapped a fist to his chest. “You honor me, Sir Lothar.”

Lothar nodded.

It sounded to Aberthol like Lothar had already decided to lead the attack and was just holding out as a negotiating tactic. Grimwalt must’ve seen the same, because he said, “What do you want?”

Lothar pretended to consider. “I want… anything.”

Pombe shook his head. “Preposterous.”

“Not at all! What are you asking me for? You’re asking me to do anything I can. I want the same. I want first claim when it comes time to split Arcaena’s bounty.”

The generals all spoke up at the same time to argue, but Aberthol could already see the twists of debt and possession that told him that Lothar was going to get his way here.

Time passed, and before he knew it, he realized that he'd spaced out the rest of the meeting. Everyone had already left, save Lyssa and Galan who was staring hard at a map on a table.

Aberthol blinked a couple times and then tried to figure out if he could just leave. No, it was too late. Him staying behind for this long made it look like he wanted to talk to Galan. It would be too weird to back out now.

"I'd like to send someone else," said Galan. That prompted Aberthol out of his thoughts, making him aware that he'd drifted back into his mind again.

"But you cannot," said Lyssa. She wrapped a comforting arm around Galan's shoulders, as if he were the one who needed comforting, and not the man he was sending on a suicide mission.

"But I cannot," Galan agreed.

"I want to go," said Aberthol.

"If I had my way, I'd send another [Illusionist]. And my best [Knights] to guard him. But these next twelve hours are probably the most Fate-examined hours since before the fall of Nhamanshal. The readings are clear: it must be you. I will proceed with Lumina's original plan. It will be you and Lothar alone," said Galan.

"As it should be. Now, if you'll excuse me." He saluted, then turned to leave.

"I only need him for the walls. Everything else is negotiable. When trouble comes, turn Invisible and flee," said Galan.

"Sir." Aberthol didn't argue; he could hear in Galan's voice how much it pained him to give an order like that. He left the tent.

An Invisible Eye told him that Sion was in a tent nearby, apparently he’d moved his office to the Order after the Commander’s Camp had split apart. Aberthol stepped in.

Inside, Sion looked exhausted, but he smiled when he looked up from his writing. “Brin! What a delight!”

“Sion! Sion the [Merchant], or should I say Sion the Magnificent! You did it. You got us the supplies. In our darkest hour, comes the ray of brightest light,” said Aberthol.

Sion waved dismissively, “Oh, no, I didn’t–”

“You did! I can list your faults with one finger and that is that you are too humble by far! That caravan had your fingers all over it, and do not insult my intelligence by claiming otherwise. Lothar will take credit, of course, but those who matter know the truth,” said Aberthol. He didn’t actually know if the caravan was Sion’s doing, but it cost nothing to butter up your friends.

“Ah, my friend, your trust in me warms my heart, misplaced as it may be,” said Sion.

“My heart is always warm, because it knows that I have a friend like Sion!”

“And how are you? We haven’t spoken since you returned,” said Sion.

Aberthol shook his head. “My story has been repeated too often for my liking, and it grows with each retelling. But what’s happening here with you? Surely you conquer with every stroke, whether the stroke be from pen or spear.”

Sion sighed and shook his head. “My friend, we’re in a mess. I’ll admit that truthfully. I sometimes envy you, you know. [Knights] can be stubborn and intransigent, but at least they say what they mean. The other [Merchant] companies, and even my own company, couldn’t be more different. They smile and tell me I’m their one true heart–”

“You’re my one true heart!” cried Aberthol.

Sion snorted and shook his head. “...and then they’ll gleefully continue the embargo that leaves us starving. I half wish I could turn aside from our budding [Merchant] Council and join my loyalty to the [King]. I would, had he not fled the field weeks ago.”

“How can you swear to a [King] when you are my [King]?” said Aberthol.

Sion sighed. “The thing I like about you, to contrast my peers among the [Merchant] houses, is that eventually after the customary greetings, you drop the act and tell me how things really are. I value that about our friendship.”

Aberthol let the smile drain from his face.

“How are you, Brin?” asked Sion.

Aberthol winced at the use of that name. Oops, too far. He still needed to keep his emotions under control. “I’m not good, Sion. That last fight broke me, mentally, and I think I’m still missing a few of the pieces. Don’t ask me to take off my mask too long, my friend. It’s the only thing keeping my face together.”

Aberthol was quite proud of that little white lie. Impossible to verify, giving no information, but still enough to make Sion think he was telling him something real. It was extremely effective, because when Aberthol smiled again, Sion matched it and somehow seemed a bit less stressed than he had been before.

“My guy! The true guy!” said Sion.

“My friend! The great man, himself!”

“You are the knight who pulls the sun across the sky!”

“I would rather drink mud than buy a potion from someone else!”

And on it went. Eventually, he left.

It was a couple hours after that when a page found him and delivered the message that he would be riding out with Lothar in the morning. One more night until the end.

He spread his eyes out far and wide, not willing to let something happen to someone while he wasn’t watching, not now that they were so close to the end.

Cid trained with his sword, going through the movements he’d seen from Odo, and if Aberthol wasn’t wrong, the movements he’d seen from Jake in the fight against Zaff. Hedrek practiced his intentional, focused dueling and got worse and worse as the night went on. Rhun did squats and pushups, training his body. His defensive Skills were already top-notch. He was ready. Aeron practiced with Anwir, trying to shore up the [Knight of Arrows’] melee skills. Meredydd went through the awkward and strange movements that his Class taught him for his scythe, learning more of the weapon and how to use it. Brych fought Govannon. Brych was blindfolded, and Govannon fought with a dull blacksteel ax, trying at the last minute to earn a armor breaking Skill.

Marksi slept. He woke now and again just to eat, and then he slept again. It wasn’t lazy, though. Aberthol could sense that he was bulking up.

Sion worked into the night, sending letters, balancing budget sheets, sending pleading letters to heartless friends and placing orders that might never come. Cati worked to repair the wheel of her wagon. There was nothing really wrong with it. Amai had already left with the caravan.

He spread his eyes out further. He saw the men of the camp, jumping full-force into their newfound religiosity now that they thought Lothar might win their war for them. Aberthol prayed too, as much as he could stand to, but if the heavens heard his prayers they made no answer and he felt no solace.

Lothar left the Order’s camp and walked across the army camps, from one army to the next. Everywhere he went, all eyes followed him, and all mouths hushed. They knew who he was, and what it meant that he was here.

Aberthol’s eyes also watched Arcaena. He couldn’t see what was happening in that great city, or rather his mind couldn’t remember what he saw, his consciousness couldn’t latch onto the details, but he watched nonetheless.

“Enjoy your last night, city of the [Witch Queen]. One more night to the fall.”