The ferry pulled slowly.
A large construction of Beira wood, a faint pink, armoured by molded plates of white ceramic, ironically pretty by Torrin's measure. He liked it though, despite his usual dress he was a colourful man at home.
Laurence had gone his separate ways that morning almost immediately after he'd awoken.
He had apologised, as did Torrin also. Or at least he tried to, he was never particularly good with apologies, or talking in general for that matter.
He always knew what to say but never said the right thing.
He wouldn't see the man again for a long time now. He had business in the south.
Now that it came to his mind Torrin thought the south had been awfully busy again lately.
Perhaps Chrey wanted an easy win to soothe his damaged pride. Marie and Arron doubtless would have had meetings with him by now.
All in all, from what Torrin had learnt of the last year on the Kinan Steppe; he could tell the war wasn't going well, tactics weren't evolving and they were running out of criminals to send.
Apart from the fact that 'Mute' crime was near non-existent in the capital, it made it hard to arrest people when they are too terrified to commit a crime.
Naturally there were still criminals, just now, they could afford to buy their way out.
A 'higher standard' so to speak.
Also with the immigrants from what people used to know as Kinan, a long time puppet vassal of the first empire. People knew the war more personally now, and didn't want to risk the consequences.
On top of all this industry had been collapsing in the Bodmin regions for years, veins ran dry and factories went bankrupt.
Military industry powered through regardless.
Though now people sign to the military instead of factories, soldiers are in demand. The only issue was training them.
The green water of the Kinan churned and rolled beneath the ferry.
The river itself was so wide at the point you could scarcely see one side from the other.
Their journey was trailed by white wash and grey smoke, followed by the engine's thrums and groans.
The port they left from was surrounded by planes and small woodlands for miles.
Even a mile out from the landing he could tell where he was going was a dead place. He could see nothing but browns, greys and smoke on the skyline.
Even then he'd rather jump off and swim than hear the constant grinding hum of the ferry's engines. Though he was meant to be an officer.
He had to play the part now.
Markus probably would have liked the uniform, it would be like him. His lover was once a soldier himself, he got shot in Penninse ironically.
After Rebekah got arrested Torrin was deemed too unstable to move by his doctor. That doctor had been Markus.
Would have been a tale as old as time if their relationship was a crime against god. What was the point in love if not to reproduce, they used to say. Now they sit in quiet contempt, or jealousy. Torrin could rarely tell the difference.
He didn't even know what Arron thought of it, he surely knew. He always knows. Funny how he knew so much, yet, he let others know so little.
"Pardon, sir." A man said to Torrin's back, he heard the snap of the man's salute as he turned. Right hand to chest.
He looked at the man a moment before remembering his line. "At ease." He said. "What is it?"
"Captain Lancass?" The younger, bespectacled man asked.
He was nearly the same height as Torrin. He had blonde hair in a slick back, hair was similar to Torrin's also.
Am I losing my touch?
He wondered to himself, half conscious of the man who briefed him about docking procedures.
"Any luggage will be brought to your quarters after unloading is complete, anything you need would be best gotten now." He said.
Torrin nodded his understanding, He asked. "Been on the front long, soldier?"
He shook his head. "I'm still in my first year, sir. Besides, they don't usually make it past the dregg's."
"Dreggs?"
"Prison army, sir." Torrin should have known that. "Usually they hold them long enough to prepare a bombardment." He explained, Torrin didn't expect much more than that.
Why fight when you have slaves to do it for you.
"Thank you, soldier." He said, dismissing the man.
The soldier gave another salute before turning on his feet perfectly.
Probably spent more time practicing that move than he has training with a rifle. Torrin thought to himself, bemused.
In a lot of ways he pitied those men fighting for an absolution they'll never receive.
For a god who couldn't care less.
An afterlife they'd never reach. He'd been told that the people of Kinan believe The Builder would welcome them through a gate of copper and gold.
A beautiful lie, yet a lie still.
Undoubtedly many deserved to be there.
But how many?
Surely hundreds of thousands of men couldn't all be guilty of a crime that would usually land them in a mine the rest of their lives, or dead for that matter.
Chrey had probably been sending petty criminals from his counties for years.
Torrin spat into the river.
When he arrived at the dock, a large foundation of concrete, planked with yet more Beira.
Nobody was waiting for him.
He'd landed on the western side of the front.
It was more held together than the eastern side by reports, though the place was still a nightmare to behold.
The first thing he noticed was its silence, no gun fire, no men chattering, nothing. Not even a bird.
The second thing he noticed was the stench. Death and shit mixed with the scent of burning compounds, gunpowder, engine oil.
The third was mud, it was everywhere.
Even Broom's Town seemed a paradise in comparison. The buildings were a mismatch of permanent accommodations made of concrete and wooden cabins that seemed put together in a day.
He marched between buildings acting as confidently as he could, while Torrin was used to war zones this place seemed different. Desolate.
He'd seen maybe fifty people since his arrival and not a single one of them was fit to fight. Bandaged and broken they avoided eye contact with him at all costs.
Maybe they were afraid of him.
Torrin couldn't fault them at that, officers in the imperial military while prim and proper were usually crueler than necessary.
As he went up an incline, a tedious, slippery walk, he finally found something like a command post.
The bunker had eight corners, resembling a coin from above Torrin assumed.
A guard stopped him, a burly black eyed man.
Torrin passed his orders to the man who gave it a once over before letting him pass.
Security could be better. He made a mental note to himself. If he was to report on the condition of the front, he may as well start now.
The bunker was strangely well kept.
A varnished table; bruised and scraped, covered in maps and papers, dominated most of the room and two men sat inside smoking.
While smoking was illegal, Torrin wouldn't fault them for it.
He pulled a pack from his breast pocket as the men became aware of his presence.
There was no need to salute. They were of equal rank, and something told Torrin a more casual approach would be welcome.
"Afternoon, fellows." He said, tapping his cigarette on the packet, settling the tobacco for a better burn.
Officers hated ash falling on their maps Laurence had said.
He paced around the room, casually, to where the two men who stood to greet him.
"Captain Lancass?" The first of the men, a young-ish man not too unlike the private he'd met on the boat.
"Yes." They shook hands.
"I'm captain Martin Joyce, and this is captain Ian Russel." Torrin shook the other man's hand at the introduction.
"Raymond Lancass." Torrin introduced himself, he'd practiced calling himself that for hours.
"A pleasure sure." Joyce said while Russel went to grab him a chair. "We don't get to many men coming from the capital these days."
"I can't see why they wouldn't come. The weather is lovely." Torrin said glibly, the pair both chuckled.
"Indeed." Russel said as they got themselves sat in the cramped space.
Ian had a gruff disposition compared to Joyce, maybe a few years older. Joyce's uniform was cleaner, at least by the standards of that place.
"So." Torrin said, resting back in his chair, sparking his cigarette. "What's today's business?" He blew the smoke out one of the gunner's openings.
"Straight to business then." Joyce agreed, he gave a crooked smile as he sat again, flicked ash off the corner of the table. "We have three live ones, we would usually have killed them by now. Two men here have already tried talking to them."
Russel added. "We figured the capital only wanted them for a report."
"You wouldn't be wrong, Mr Russel." Torrin smiled. "Can't say you're wrong, big heads in the capital like knowing everything." That elicited another, more reserved laugh from the men.
"Regardless." Joyce continued. "We had more at first, no matter what we took out of the sells they'd always manage suicide."
"Hiding something?" Torrin asked.
"Probably." Both said at the same time, Torrin smirked behind his cigarette.
"They all say the same things." Russel continued. "He comes. Some other shit about mountains bleeding." He waved his hands as if to emphasise the absurdity of it.
Torrin took effort to hide his recognition from the men, that last part was new though.
"Are they religious?" Torrin asked. "Could be prophetic."
"Or they could just all be mad." Joyce suggested. "Though I suppose all religions are mad without evidence."
"Religion can be mad even with evidence, have you ever visited the capital, captain?" He shook his head. "Well it doesn't matter." Torrin tossed his cigarette out the window, a visual cue he was abandoning that trail of thought. "Prophecy usually lies in truth, gentlemen." he moved to stand. "And this prophecy is hinting at an event. If it's all the same to you I'd like to get started."
—
"hɛˈləʊ." Torrin greeted the man.
They sat deep under a bunker about a mile west from where he had met Joyce and Russel earlier that day. It was dark, damp and for lack of any better term, anxiety inducing.
Small strips of lights cornered the walls, waning and flickering and in some instances they actually worked.
"I apologise for butchering your language." He continued. "Care to talk?" He gave the man a consolidating smile.
He assumed starting with a friendly approach was best, it almost always was.
Though from the last encounter he'd had with these men, he didn't know how long he would keep his temper.
The man, an old grey beard with bird-like features, turned his head up to Torrin. Grinned.
"dəʊ juː wɒnt miː tuː pɪs ɪn jɔː maʊð tuː?" He spat. Red eyes, wild in the half light of that room.
'Do you want me to piss in your mouth too?'
Temper tested, Torrin patched together the sentence in his mind, despite his best efforts he only knew parts of the language.
He smiled, it was something he'd say under the circumstances.
"Only if you paid me." Torrin bit back. "Who is 'he'?"
The old prisoners' grin grew ever bigger.
"hiː kʌmz! ðə wʌn, ðə ɡreɪt. ɡɪft ˈbrɪŋər ændbɜːθ ˈmʌðər ɒv biːsts." He chanted.
'He comes! The one, the great. Gift bringer and…'
He didn't catch the last part.
"Did this, 'great one' create your monsters." Torrin pressed. "Are you attacking us on his.."
What was the word for behalf?
"forget?" He ventured.
The Northman snickered. Torrin, now irritated, slapped the man.
"No more riddles." Torrin said. He had that phrase prepared. "Who is 'he'?"
He knew he got a word wrong. But he really hated this man.
The tribal repeated his chant, Torrin back handed him.
He too was hairless like the one at the factory, that unnerved Torrin more than he wanted to admit.
A virus, maybe.
He could worry about quarantine protocols later.
He went quiet after being struck, and didn't break eye contact.
Stared at him placidly as a bead of red trailed down one of his high cheekbones. Lucid smile stirring on his face.
There was something odd about that too, there were flecks of deeper red in it.
Like oil and water, not coagulating but curdling, seperating.
He put that out of mind for a time, he was no doctor.
We're any of the Northmen right in the head? He wondered.
The interrogation went on like that for a while.
He tolerated another half hour of the man and as fruitless as it was, it was interesting.
He said, 'gift bringer,'
That stuck.
He looked down at his arm of clockwork and ceramic.
Maybe all god's pass gifts; under the circumstance of catching their fickle interest.
Just as desperate to be remembered as we are to matter.
He'd given up by forty minutes.
When he went out the room again Russel and Joyce were still outside.
"He's right where we want him." Torrin sighed, knocking a cigarette out of its paper wrapper.
"Really?" Russel asked, clearly oblivious to sarcasm.
Torrin could only sigh, light his cigarette, rub his eyes.
Joyce tried to give him the same placating smile he'd given to the tribesman before.
It had lost warmth to him over the years; from most people that is.
From Markus it meant something.
From Rebekah too, when she was alive.
He was alone there.
In a war zone a thousand miles from home.
Forgotten.