Asheron's Fall: The Power of Ten, Book Six

Our return to Eastham’s ruined buildings and domiciles was more welcome than when we’d left, as scores of soldiers of multiple species had moved in and were rebuilding some of the homes. They were quite happy to see us, and maybe me in particular, because I was about to save them a lot of brute force labor.

It was fine. I established a connection to the bedrock underneath the town and began to lay out the barracks, homes, streets, fountains, wells, storehouses, and the like as the engineers had all hurriedly marked off for me under Briggs’ precise instructions. I politely did not bother to tell them that Briggs had the whole redesigned town in Visual File in the Markspace, and I could have literally made everything needed blindfolded.

The Hea in particular watched in disbelief as I was putting a couple thousand cubic feet of stone into place with every breath or two, often sweeping away the stone remnants of other homes or buildings that were in the way as I did so, or precipitating a general collapse of aging, exposed wooden parts that the whole company descended on and cleared up as fast as possible so I could work through it instead of around it, not incidentally helping the firewood supply.

I was done when I erected an inner and outer wall around the place, turning the place into the fortified city it should have been and was not. The soldiers all cheered in disbelief and admiration that their crude camp had now been turned into proper living quarters and storage areas, like a true military fortress should be. Not having to worry about random wandering olthoi bands or the random and unpredictable wild tribes, as well as having a very secure fallback point, was always appreciated.

Nobody saw Kris or Briggs until later on that evening, which came as a no surprise to anyone. My building so much stuff and issuing orders on who to move in, and what and where, all matching what Briggs wanted to have happen, stood in for them.

I was surprised by just how many Hea were here, all of them bristling to prove themselves, yet subdued by the heavily-armored Isparians and lugians present.

“Problems with the Hea?” I asked the Mick, who had wandered over to shoo off the admirers who wanted to follow me around with a scowl and a few choice curses about lazy heaps of cow leavings letting their work slack off to talk to a pretty lady. They scattered quickly enough as I was rescued from their inane questions and hopes that I would grace them with my attention by dint of rapid reassignments to setting up lavatory holes and moving supplies into all the new buildings instead of admiring the damn things.

“Nae much, surprisingly. The Aun are in charge o’ them, which is only wise. They be wantin’ t’ learn the old ways regardless, an’ the Aun are good judges o’ character. If an’ when they say a Hea is good enough t’ be promoted, he’ll be promoted. They bristle a bit, but the people dealing with them be the elites, not the rote soldiers. There’s strong discipline here, an’ any mocking or taunting be enough t’ get sent back to the common battalions, an’ Valus cuff me head, some o’ them might well kill themselves in shame be that happenin’ to them.”

“Good to hear,” I agreed, as another two-story storehouse drew itself up out of the ground and began to flow into shape. Floors, buildings, windows, rolling shutter doors, support beams, second floor, movable walls… I had tons of plans for stuff like this inherited from Aelryinth, so it only took a little concentration to get it all done right and ready to go. “Before it becomes a rumor mill, you do know what you are doing, messing with the Queen Mother, right?”

He looked only a little shifty, but his dark eyes met my silver ones, and he swallowed anything trite. “Aye, she’s not a woman t’ be lovin’ an’ leavin’, that be certain,” he agreed after a long and thoughtful moment. “If ye be asking if I love her, lass, that be nay. But… we be comfortable with one another, an’ she’s found her youth again, without all the weight o’ the crown pressing in on her. The weight is off her, an’ she’s free t’ live as she’s not been in nigh forty years.

“I be understandin’ her, an’ she be understandin’ me. She’s had the great love of her life, an’ I had the great love o’ mine…” he trailed off, and I knew what was coming as he took a breath. “What did ye find, when ye went lookin’?”

“I found that I couldn’t curse the System here enough.” His eyes closed once as he took a deeper breath. “The Cursed undead I can reach, because their souls and bodies are here and material. But those who died during the Fall? Either the cataclysmic realignment of magic broke something, or they’ve been grabbed by the System. I couldn’t get a lock on Bunita’s soul at all, Lord Mick. If she’s out there, she was taken beyond my reach by the wild magic, or something has her… and I am very sincerely hoping she’s at peace, and not a prisoner.

“It’s good to know now that I can’t reach anyone who died during the Fall or soon after it, because if and when I start returning the Cursed undead, people are going to be begging me to bring everyone back…”

“And ye can’t.” His fists tensed for a moment, and then he relaxed. “Ye warned me not to get me hopes up on that matter, but it were so hard…”

“Getting your uncle back instead of your bride isn’t a fair trade, I know it.”

He barked out a short, wicked laugh. “I still be thinking about me uncle owing ye for his second life, which means his whole life. He been running away from his debts his whole life, but I dinnae think he can run from this one.”

“I’m kinda hoping that he finds a fire in him and isn’t afraid of dying like so many others, and he can fight a bit more actively against those who killed them, now that he’s not tied to a grave.”

“Or maybe find a woman of his own and stay with her, as he never could.” The Mick’s smile was self-mocking. “Spared himself some pain, aye.”

“He spared himself ever knowing the love of his life,” I corrected him mildly. “I think that, for all the pain her loss has caused you, you’d suffer a whole lot more to keep it, aye?”

“Aye. Like Elysa, she’s never forgotten her husband. Told me a lot of stories about him. A good, solid, dependable man, driven t’ help people an’ not afraid t’ fight an’ work hard for that. He’d’ve been a fine king, I be thinking, especially if his son be any sign o’ the matter, an’ that be hard for even a McMikal t’ deny, now.”

“You must be spending a lot of time with her?” I arched an inquiring eyebrow.

“She’s taken a shine t’ bein’ a Royal Scout, an’ is helping the Roaches with their stick-spitting as I be with their energetic flailin’ about. The woman learned her scouting the hard way, few teachers but survivin’ an’ not getting killed when she screwed up. There’s a hard an’ mean woman ready t’ kill under that courtly demeanor she’s practiced a long time, an’ she’s getting’ more comfortable bringing it out again,” he assured me. “She’s not the gleeful throat-slitter Her Imperial Highness is, nor the opportunistic bastard I be. She’s patient an’ calculatin’ an’ kinda deadly murderous when it be time t’ be killin’.”

“You seem to be attracted to deadly women, Lord Mick! Wasn’t your Bunita a bit of a swashbuckling duelist?”

“She were indeed, happy t’ risk the fight t’ win the day, an’ not afraid t’ die, an’ I believe wouldn’t be even if the Deathstones were no longer there t’ catch her.” His eyes misted over a bit, finding a distant laugh and far-away smile in the clouds no one else could see, his hand clenching on the hilt of his Morphed Claymore. “Working with an archer be quite different. They be patient, deadly, an’ hunters, waitin’ for that shot that brings shit down. It ain’t the contest t’ them, it’s the kill.”

“I can see that. I might get excited at a contest of magic, but the main result is to win, there’s too much danger to have fun doing it… and I tend to be too bloody busy to enjoy it while I’m doing it.”

“Aye, but the Markspace gives ye yer own cheering section now, do it not?” he asked in a lilt, and I had enough grace to blush.

“I am aware I have a LOT of admirers, Lord Mick, and their ages span… well, older than you, to younger than me!”

“Surprise, surprise. Ye hold yerself like a queen born, lass, while the Princess be holding herself like a Warlord. Ye done more for the good image of Casters in the last six months than they clawed back in the last fifteen!”

“I suppose it’s a good thing I’m a charitable, generous, hardworking, and capable soul, instead of a greedy, ambitious, and power-hungry bitch then, right?”

“Ye’d make a damn horrible McMikal, that be sure,” he agreed immediately. “All that truth and honesty and hope for the future and determination like a steel plate ringing with Thunder…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “Question, then.”

“Yes?”

“The Words ye know… did ye decide on them, or did they… just come out?” he asked carefully.

“Hmm.” A difficult question to answer truthfully. Inheriting Words learned out of choices made in a video game... “It’s… about fifty-fifty, I’d say?” I hazarded. “You tend to be drawn to the Words that are most suitable for you, the easiest ones to learn. Trying to learn a difficult Word is like trying to learn a virtue that is foreign to you, it’s not just something you can work hard to get. You really do want something that speaks to your heart, not just a desire for power.

“That said, the soul I inherited wanted them as yet another tool in the arsenal, not primarily for some greater understanding of Goodness. The Words I know are Words for fighting, not for support or non-combat uses. They directly crash into and defy the biggest tools of the enemy: Fear, Despair or Apathy, and Lies. Hope is a fire that never goes out, Valor is a Shield that never falters, and Truth is a Sword that is always ready to cut.

“They are the greatest combat Words of Heaven, meant to directly go up against the machinations of Evil. They are far from learning Words of Joy, Compassion, and Charity, among others.” Only the slightest brushing of those Words I didn’t really know at all.

“And if I were t’ reach for them?” he asked wistfully. “What do ye see me getting?”

“I think that you cling to Hope as the furnace it is, needing something to drive you on. I think you lost all fear of death long ago, when you realized it would just bring you to your bride, so Valor is not for you, that just passes on through, and Truth and you have a flexible understanding of sorts.”

“Aye, we do, an’ it be quite understandin’ about it all, too!” he agreed cheerfully.

“What I see on you are Liberty and Fortitude.”

“Liberty an’ Fortitude,” he repeated horribly, but he could, in fact, repeat them. “An’ why those?”

“You’re a McMikal, and you value your ability to choose for yourself above pretty much everything else in your life. You’ve learned that such choices don’t need to impinge on others, or be cruel to them, and Liberty of yourself, and giving it to others, appreciating that free will and the freedom to use it, is a great and mighty gift.”

“Huh. All me life, been told it just makes me a trouble-maker.”