I spent another week living casually in Red Beach Outpost before anything happened. Over that week, I spent most of my time alone in my tent or wandering around. I saw the cage where the war slaves were kept being emptied, and the slaves were moved somewhere else where the fighting was more dangerous. I noticed the number of tents dwindling as units were redeployed. I aided in the construction of a jetty to help move rowboats to and from the Saltfort out of nothing more than boredom.
Though there was one constant, the guards at every exit of the camp, of course, I could sneak around, but the eastern path went between the mountains, and the northern and southern roads were little more than a narrow pass down the coast. Escape wasn't an option, though it never quite left my mind.
Over the week, I tried to speak with the two other members of the team I didn't know. I first tried to talk to Miss Baker, though I quickly abandoned the idea after learning that any time a man talks to her, she takes the opportunity to try and seduce them. Rather, wanting to avoid that fate, I decided to seek out Henri Dericourt instead. After all, he was an older man from Vilta, and from what little I remember him saying, he seemed quite high in the chain of command.
You already know, don't you? I felt that twitch in my eye; you read my mind almost faster than I could even form my own thoughts. Yes, of course, I want to know if he knows anything about you, Wrath. I'll be discreet, not too obvious. So please let me at least speak.
I felt the burning gaze in the back of my head, like someone was right behind me, staring intently. When turning, there was nobody there. I guess this is your way of saying you're watching. I know, you're always watching.
I spent two days in my week of downtime looking for Sir Dericourt to no avail. No one else knew where his tent was or where he liked to spend his time. It was only by pure happenstance that I crossed paths with him as I was leaving my tent one afternoon, only to catch him leaving Nigels.
"Mister Dericourt!" I called out as he was walking off somewhere. He stopped and turned as I caught up to him.
"Hm? Ah, yes, the half breed. What can I help you with, boy?"
"Ah, well." Well, this is painfully awkward. I hadn't even thought about how to start the conversation with him. Might as well just be blunt. "I was thinking that you seem knowledgeable, so I was hoping to learn some things from you."
In an instant, Sir Dericourt's face went from reserved curiosity to a wicked scheming grin.
"Of course! I am THE Sir Henri Dericourt after all. Military mastermind and honorary duke of the black lands. What is it you seek, boy?"
"Black lands? Wa, ah! Well, I was wondering about a few things, actually. If you have the time, I would like to ask you some questions."
"Course, lad, come with me to my shack and we can talk."
I nodded and started to follow him as he walked with a spring in his step. Did being asked for his knowledge really make him happy? And what was that about the black lands? I've never heard of it.
Suddenly, a memory flooded into my mind. I had heard of the black lands before. My mother mentioned it briefly when telling me about my father. I remembered the name of the capital city of Ravens Rest, the fact is bordered by a great desert. I remembered it was a state with empty grasslands in the north, and everyone lived in the south, closer to the black sea. It was strange that I remembered this so clearly; my memory was never that good to begin with, so why did I remember that in such detail just when Dericourt mentioned the black lands? Did you have a hand in that, Wrath? You're in there, aren't you? Can you see everything else in there? Can you see my memories?
I followed Sir Dericourt towards the northern exit of the camp, and we walked right past the guard with little more than a nod and a wave.
"The mountain peels back a bit just ahead. My cabin is set against it there. Keep on north and you'll hit the city of Lindelt, or what's left of it. Along with Westwatch, the fighting up there is getting quite bad again."
"And what are you doing so far away from the camp?"
"Experimenting, of course."
"With?"
"You really are a country bumpkin, aren't you. Gunpowder naturally. Before I deployed here, I saw the completion of the first Viltin gunship fleet. Now I'm working on creating other things. Though I wouldn't have to if the Empire shared its advanced technology with us. Thought I suppose if they did, they wouldn't be THE empire anymore, aye?"
We approached a rundown cabin that looked like it had been patched together and repurposed with two guards standing out front. Aside from the cabin itself, there was a tent and a fire pit with a cookpot, no doubt for the guard. Even though we were only a thirty-minute walk from the camp.
The inside was dusty with a smell of wet wood and mould lingering in the air.
"I remember gunpowder, they use that to make fireworks, right? I saw them once."
"Fireworks? Must have been the turn of the age then. If not for the war, no doubt fireworks would be a yearly occurrence. But as things stand, we just can't spare the resources."
There was a messy bed in the corner of the singular large open room. The building was more like a workshop than a house, with tables, black powder, and metal constructions strewn about.
"So what is it you're working on here anyway? Not cannons, right?"
"Well, I'm mostly working on figuring out how to make guns. The Empire has had guns for many years now, but refuses to share that technology. So we're having to figure it out ourselves. The theory is simple, but making it accurate is another matter. In the meantime, I've been experimenting with something else here."
Henri grabbed a small metal ball and tossed it to me. I catch it in both hands and inspect it. The metal is rough, like something had crushed it into shape crudely.
"What is this?"
"A bomb."
I drop the ball instantly and take a step back. Sir Dericourt laughs as he picks it from the floor.
"No fear, without fire it's harmless. I pack the inside with gunpowder, put a fuse in it and toss it at the enemy. The powder ignites and tries to push out, like with a cannon, but this time, there is no exit. So it rips the metal apart, and it goes in all directions fast enough to beat a bullet."
"I thought you were researching accuracy?"
"Well, I was. But I figured if I can't be accurate, how inaccurate can I make a weapon? Turns out, so inaccurate that it can kill everyone nearby. Still testing it, though, with different metal thickness and pressing methods."
"Is that why you're far from the camp? So you can test these?"
"That's right, otherwise I might accidentally kill someone." Henri lets out a hearty laugh as he puts the bomb down.
"Now, you said you had something you wanted to ask me about, right?"
"Ah, yes, um. Well, you see. My knowledge of the world is…small. I was wondering if you know of…weird things that exist in the world?"
"Weird things?" He placed a finger under his chin. "You come from the Ironwoods, right? That is one of the weirder places in the world, so it makes sense you think these things…are you referring by chance to the idea of magic?"
"Magic? What's magic?"
"It was a word given to those who could do the impossible and unexplainable. For people who could make things vanish, make this appear from nothing. So on, so forwards. Of course, in reality, there is no such thing; it's all trickery. Though I would say what you did at the Saltfort was nothing short of magic."
"Well, that's another thing. I don't…know what I did." That wasn't the full truth, but not exactly a lie either.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, when I was there with the other slaves, I was attacked, then everything went black. I then had a strange dream and woke up back at camp."
"Really? Fascinating. You have no memory of it?"
"So, are you sure magic isn't real? Because I can't really explain what happened."
"Our idea of magic comes from thousands of years ago. There are old stories that talk of magic and magical things. The tree in the middle of the iron lake, for one, is considered magic. You've heard that old fairy tale, no?"
"Yes, the two brothers who found the magic tree of wealth, one betrayed the other and was embedded in the tree. His blood carried the essence of the tree into the lake, the lake flowed into the woods, and the woods then became the Ironwoods."
"Yes, no doubt your mom told you that one a few times when you were little. That's the story at least. In reality, I think the ground of the lake itself or under the island is rich in iron or other metals, those metals mix with the water and are carried into the forest. Of course, they won't let anyone on the island to test it. Anyway, I digress. Magic comes from old tales, a romanticised recollection of events long past. That's all."
"What about the saints? Surely what they did was magical?"
"The saints? That is quite possibly the only thing I would really consider to be magic. Or, perhaps, a very very enthusiastic retelling. Or perhaps only half the story, and the other half is made up with 'magic'. I'm not a believer in the saints myself, but…I would like it to be true."
After that, we spoke of a few other things. What was the plan with our strange little group? What was to happen with my status as a war slave if my life debt was erased? All things he couldn't answer clearly.
As I walked back to the camp, I thought about what he said about magic. Perhaps he wasn't the right person to talk to about it after all. Though one thing stuck in my mind, the Saints. Even he believed that if they were real that what they did was magic, but that's all he said. There was nothing about magic beings or anything else of the sort. Wrath couldn't be a saint; in fact, I would say he's the exact opposite.
Opposite…
When I got back, I went to see Nigel and asked him if he had a book of creation. Thankfully, he did and let me borrow it. I took the small, hand-sized book back to my tent to read it over. I knew what the book said, and I knew what happened in the book. We had one back at home that we got for free from travelling pilgrims years past, but even before that, my mother told it to me verbally from memory, so I never felt compelled to actually read it. Until now.
The book was written simply as it was meant to be read by all people, easily translated to all languages and understood by all ages. The book spoke of the seven saints and the commonly believed creation mythos. The book said:
In the beginning, there was a grey mist that covered the lands. The mist was grey and pure; there was no light and no darkness, no fire and no cold. No life and no death. Until the saits rose from the mist. The seven saints breathed in deeply, and the mist flowed into their bodies and mixed with the essence of life within them.
It was the first saint, Saint Vekal, who breathed out, from his breath a great flame roared. The flame created many things. Light, heat, life. But it also made shadow, cold and death. From the flames arose the first of men, and Saint Vekal spoke, and man spoke. Such is the work of Saint Vekal, the all-father.
Saint Nicholas noticed something about man, something wrong and unnatural. Mankind breathed, they spoke, they moved, but there was no reason to it; they were no different from the animals also born of the flame. And so Saint Nicholas tore the stars from the sky and placed them into the chest of every human, creating a soul. With the soul came awareness. Such is the work of Saint Nicholas the giver.
Saint Michel watched the humans as they acquired the soul. Although when this happened, the human gained awareness of themselves, the flood of thought and emotion that they had not experienced before was too much for them. They raged, panicked they did not know what to do. They slaughtered all until Michel stepped in and sang; his song calmed the raging fire in the souls of men. Such is the world of Saint Michel the Calm.
Saint Kathryn approved of the calmness of mankind. But saw in their hearts a wickedness. She saw those who would lie, deceive, abuse and harm others for their own gain above all else. This saddened the gentle Kathryn, and as her tears fell upon the world, the wickedness of man was washed clean from them. Such is the work of Saint Kathryn the Pure.
Saint Laz saw the humans hunting animals for food and living in caves and pitied them. He bestowed upon mankind knowledge. It was through him that we developed tools, fire, and houses. All things that man could make were a gift from him. Such is the work of Saint Laz the wise.
Saint Maria spoke with Laz, who was all-knowing about what would happen next. Laz explained that those who have or can do much become powerful, while those with little become weak. Fearing this outcome, Saint Maria bid the humans to be kind to one another; her love for all pierced the hearts of men, and from her, humans gained empathy and kindness. Such was the work of Saint Maria the Kind.
Lastly, Saint Alexandra bid the world to be patient. That man might know all in time and communicate to avoid conflict with each other. To not just know but to understand. Such is the work of Saint Alexandra the Patient.
The closest thing to Wrath in the text would be the mention of rage in the hearts of men that was cleansed by Saint Michel in the third month. It talks about a raging fire in the hearts of men that his song soothed. What does that make the thing in my head? Is he what was born of the soothed flame? All that hatred, anger and rage had to go somewhere, right? What if it formed into a living thing? But not all of the passages talk about something being cleansed, removed or purified, so even if them doing so results in something else being born, there wouldn't be seven if you took the text literally. But there are seven saints… and seven sins. Does that mean there are more of you out there? Would maybe the blessing of Saint Michel cure me of this demon?
Nothing. I expected something, a word, a twitch of my eye. No, you're in my head, you know my intentions. I wanted you to react to this story, I wanted you to slip up and give something away, but you knew and didn't play into my trap. That means, whatever you are. You're smarter than a normal human. Either way, I did learn something about you today, Wrath.
It's the month of Nichols now, but it is the seventh week. Meaning in a few days it will be the Month of Michel, the one who rid the world of you. Did he put you in that cave, maybe? Nothing? I mean, you know I'm trying to provoke you already.
Though I wonder if this camp has a chaplain. I wonder what would happen if he blessed me with the prayer of Saint Michel during his month? Does that upset you? Frighten you? If you spoke to me, maybe I wouldn't do it. Either way, we deploy on a mission in two days, so I'll have to give it a try once we get back.
In two days from now, we will be boarding a ship, sailing west and sabotaging their supply ships. Even if I did piss you off. Make sure I don't die out there, okay.