Trying to work through the B2 editing and that's taking longer than I thought I would. Working on making the B3 cover and I've got a few ideas on that. The idea I had for the series was to zoom out alittle more on the Landing each time so you get to see it grow. It's been suggested that I stop posting the chapters on RoyalRoad but a few other authors. Any comment on this? I know people don't read the book because they can read it for free on there. I don't really make anything on doing the book and I'm sure that would increase it but I don't think it would substantially. Enjoy the chapter though. Should have another one coming today. Life getting in the way of writing as much.
Hale came back with two mugs and set one on the table in front of Harold without ceremony, then dropped into the camp chair across from him and stretched his legs out and looked at him.
"How are you doing?" he said. It was not really a question.
Harold picked up the mug. "Tell me where we actually are."
Hale grunted and pulled a folded sketch from his coat, spreading it flat on the table with one hand. "Dispersed. The force Dalen took north to hunt those circles — that's a hundred men in broken country with no sight lines, and their blood magic is something our people can't handle well yet. We've lost three separate squad engagements trying to close on the circles directly." He dragged a finger across the sketch. "Caswell and Brennig are going to be three hours out at the Gemheart hold, and I'd love to tell you I'm confident about what shape they'll find them in, but I'd be lying." He sat back. "And here — we've got seven hundred and change holding a position that was meant to be a staging camp, not a defensive perimeter, and a ritual circle on that shelf bouncing keeping us from putting my ballista crews into effective range."
Harold drank his coffee.
"We're a quarter down," Hale said. "Dead. More who can still fight but won't be effective. It’s a shame the potion to regrow limbs is so hard to make." He folded the sketch back up. "You've got us on three objectives, Harold. I can't do three objectives with what I have. I can maybe do two. And completing them in the right order so we don't get hit from behind while we're doing it — that's a whole other problem."
"The Gemheart century."
"That's the one I want back the most," Hale said. "That's my second knight century. If I'm sending anyone up that road without getting slaughtered, it's them, and right now they're out there somewhere and I've had no word for close to two days." He looked at Harold. "I sent good people with Dalen. My best tribune and one of my senior centurions. And they're hunting ritual circles in the forest with no counter to blood magic. Even if they find the circles, closing on them is going to cost us."
Harold said nothing. He turned the mug in his hands.
"I know you want the dwarves," Hale said. "I want the dwarves. But I need those knights back before I can do anything about that shelf."
Harold put the mug down and didn't pick it up again. Outside the tent, the thunk of a ballista came, then the long pause, then the distant crack of something hitting the earthwork berm. A crew chief called something short and sharp, and the sound of a reload started up.
Hale waited.
"I let myself go a little out there," Harold said finally.
Hale looked at him.
"On the wall. When it was going bad." Harold's jaw moved once. "I've been — careful, about that. About not going there unless I have to. And it was easier to go there than I thought it would be. Just reached for it." He rubbed one hand across the back of his neck. "That's not — I don't love that."
Hale was quiet for a moment. Then he shrugged, a slow one-shouldered roll. "You saved lives."
"Yeah?"
"Was it scary?"
Harold looked at him. "Mmm, more than a little. I’ve wanted to put that part of myself behind me."
"Good," Hale said. "That's what it should feel like." He picked up his own mug. "You've chosen a role, Harold. Someone has to be the scary motherfucker standing between these people and whatever Gravesend throws at them. That's what we need. Our own monster, keeping the other monsters off." He drank. "Don't waste time worrying about it. You've got me, Parker, Carter, Beth, and Josh. You start going somewhere you shouldn't; we'll pull you back."
Harold looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded, and that was the end of it. But it was reassuring to know he wouldn’t lose his friends when they see the darkest parts of himself.
"Alchemy's been the difference," Harold said. "Every time. The Thresher King — that worked because we had the best people of an entire region to throw at it before Gravensend expected. The nest push worked because I trained alchemists before Gravesend expected it. Every battle, We’ve found some way to tip the scales before the fighting starts, and it's been enough." He wrapped both hands around the mug. "But I can't crack a blood magic ritual circle with what we have in the field, and I can't alchemize my way past those defender types, and if the Gemheart century doesn't come back. If we don't find a way through this—" He stopped. "We might all die here, Hale. That's not me being dramatic."
Hale shrugged again, same roll. "The legion took a punch." He set his mug on the edge of the table. "You know what happens to men who take a real punch and get back up? They're angry. And they learn something about themselves." He gestured roughly toward the camp outside. "Those centurions and tribunes out there — they're making decisions right now, on their own, they've never had to make before. The ones who survive this trial are going to come out the other side with perks they couldn't have earned any other way. That's hard math, but it's true." He looked at Harold straight. "We've been ahead because of you. But at some point, we have to be able to do things on our own. Maybe that's happening a little sooner than we planned, but I can live with that."
Harold looked down into his coffee before slowly taking a sip.
"I'm not throwing men up that road," Hale said. "Not the way it sits right now." He pulled the sketch back out and flattened it again. "But I think you're right that there's another way up. That shelf didn't grow there neatly — there's something Renna's going to find, or Fitch is. I'd bet on it."
Harold rubbed his temple. "I have a couple of ideas. Depends on what they come back with."
Hale looked at him. "Ideas?"
"Well, yeah, It’s just a shelf. I think you need to get used to what mana-empowered people can accomplish."
"Harold."
"What?"
"Do you have a wild alchemy idea?"
Harold shifted and looked away uncomfortably.
Hale's eyes narrowed. "What did you — what are you thinking about exactly?"
"I’ve just got a few ideas on how to get up there."
"Harold," Hale said warningly.
"I said nothing yet, Hale."
"I know that look. He leaned forward. "Are you — are you thinking about making a potion that lets us fly? You know I hate flying."
Harold pressed his lips together. “Well…not me. It’s a complicated potion. Finn might be able to make it.”
Hale stared at him. "And they call me the insane one," he exclaimed.
"Do you have a better idea?" Harold asked vehemently.
Hale sat back and looked at the ceiling of the tent. "God almighty." He picked his mug up. Put it down. Picked it back up.
"Alright." Hale rubbed his face and stared at the table. "I really wish Brennig were here right now. I'd steal one of his cigars." He looked up. "What do you need from me to make it work?"
“Nothing.” Harold chuckled. “Keep doing your thing, I…I think I need to work through some of these thoughts, releasing my aura like that brought up a lot of stuff.
Hale looked at him for a long moment before finishing his coffee in one drink. “Kill, let me know how I can help.”_____________________________________________________________________
The reports wouldn't come for hours, so Harold found a corner of the tent, sat down with his back against the canvas, and closed his eyes.
Bethel had told him meditation was the way through it, and he'd gotten into the bad habit of dismissing it at the time with her. He avoided meditation when she repeated that he needed to do it. But right now, the feelings were right there. He didn't have to go looking for them.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, the feelings came back easily, which was the problem. He could feel the battle on the wall ebb and wane, and the moment he'd made the decision to release it. He had wanted to inspire his own people and scare the lizards, but that other thing underneath had risen up when he had seen his people get killed.
He'd spent his time after returning building walls around that part of himself. Being careful about it, watching for it, making sure the people around him didn’t see it. And during the battle, it had gone through all the barriers he had built instantly. Then he had been afraid to sleep.
That part had kept him alive. It had also done things to people that he couldn't undo.
He sat there for a while, exploring the emotions for really the first time since coming back. Exploring the memories he had walled off. He breathed slowly and let himself feel the weight they placed on him.
He remembered. The cutters were visiting him because he refused to give them a recipe he had. Or refusing to tell him how he had gained a perk. Fuck them. Fuck those lords and their —It was always so easy to be strong when they weren't in front of him with knives and pliers. Then the hooded faces would appear, and he would beg and beg and beg and BEG! And BEG AND BEG!But they never listened. They enjoyed it just as he learned to do. His hands were shaking uncontrollably again. Damn them, and damn Bethel, for forcing him to remember. Damn the lizards for forcing him to think about these things again. Leaving it buried was so much easier. He groaned softly to himself as he remembered the wet impact of metal against flesh and his wild laughter as he found a perfect ingredient.He ignored the tears that dripped down his face and occasional sobs that escaped him.
He could feel someone sitting next to him and didn’t say anything. Harold ignored it, lost in things he would rather not be lost in. Wild writings on walls with whatever was close then rubbing it out with another wet ingredient. COuldN’t lEt thEm SeE it. Contain it. THey WerE HIS!
The memories were vivid, and were everything he had hidden from himself, but seeing his people pressed the way they were. Knowing they were being screwed with by someone or something he couldn’t influence. They were too much. He had to do something, and the first time he was pressured like that, what did he do? Turn back to the part of himself he had retreated to the first time, and he had done it again. He was sitting there on the ground when a fist suddenly came rocketing across his jaw, stunning him, and he lashed out reflexively, his mana suddenly empowering him. His own fist shot out at the first ingredient he could feel next to him when he was stopped cold. He opened his tear-fogged eyes to see what had happened. Churchill was crouched next to him, holding his fist in one hand while his other hand braced him against the ground.
"Your aura is spread over the camp," Jack said.
Jack looked at him gently, thankfully not with pity. If anything, it was pride. “Owning our story can be hard, but not nearly as difficult as spending our lives running from it,” he said firmly.
“You are not a weak man, Lord Harold. But now is not the time for war, pull yourself together, sire.”
Harold sat there stunned until he could feel his aura spilled out; he tried to pull back — or tried to. It was like gathering smoke, and for a moment it didn't move at all, and he felt a spike of alarm.
"Breathe in." Jack's voice was even. "Breathe in and take yourself with it."
Harold drew a breath that caught twice before it steadied, and tried to focus — and the canvas door opened, and Hale and Carter walked in, both of them sheathed in their own mana just enough to move through the ambient pressure.
He inhaled again, slow, and imagined hauling rope — hand over hand, gathering each loose coil back to its spool. His aura contracted a degree. He breathed out. Another degree.
"You're not owned by this," Jack said, quietly enough that only Harold could hear it.
Harold put another brick down on each exhale, rebuilding the walls one brick at a time. Breathe in, draw the edges back. Breathe out, set the next layer. The memories didn't go away; they were his, but they folded slowly, back into their positions — but the walls went up around them, and the shaking in his hands settled to an occasional tremor and then mostly stopped.
Jack released his fist. Harold stood, Jack's hand under his forearm, and found his feet.
He looked over at Carter and Hale, both of them letting their mana fade back to center.
Hale grunted. "Thought you were working through some things, not redecorating the camp."
Carter had been chuckling quietly since the moment Harold stood up. He crossed the tent and thumped Harold once on the back, then pulled him in briefly by the shoulder. "We all got a box like that. Took me years and more than a few bottles to start opening mine." He stepped back. "You need someone to sit with you through it. Come find me. Not asking."
Harold looked at him.
He looked at Jack, who had already stood and straightened his jacket before he nodded to him.
He looked at Hale, who was reaching for an empty cup of coffee. “I’ll make some coffee.”
He pulled in one more slow breath, and the last of the shaking went out of his hands.