Page 103 of Swords of Soul and Shadow
They needed to send the Cerl king a message, and attacking his guerrilla warriors would do nothing but prolong the conflict.
“I’m a realist,” Harlan said, taking another sip and setting the drink aside. He stared up at the peaks surrounding them, their towering night-dark silhouettes a soft comfort. “We’ll be worse off once this all really begins.”
Ezekiel crossed his ankles and shook his head. “You know you’re right. I’ve been tinkering with a few things that might help us in the long run, but with your failure to engage the uppers…I’m worried that no matter what I present, it would be knocked aside and discarded.”
“Well, you’ve not long until release. Surely you could do something when you’re out?” Harlan asked, smoothing his mustache. He didn’t like to think of Ezekiel leaving him. It was better—especially since his friend had received a letter a few months after they returned to the front. His wife, Rose, was pregnant. Ezekiel would return to his family shortly after the baby was born and never have to leave them again. He’d been writing to a few guilds in the city about a job, though none of it had panned out yet.
Odd considering the Fairchild name held one of the best reputations in the country, but Ezekiel would figure it out. Harlan, however, had two years left on his tenure, and after that, he’d be re-enlisting. He had no one to go home to.
Which was another reason he wanted to make a difference here. He’d never leave the military, so why not make it successful? Why wait around for tragedy to strike?
He refused to allow another Ravenhelm under his watch. He was meant for something more. Why else would he have been the only survivor all those years ago?
Ezekiel dug his boot heel into the dirt, capturing Harlan’s attention once more. He’d nearly forgotten his friend was still there.
“If I can find someone to hire me on, that is.” Ezekiel’s usual charming demeanor slipped with the admission. “My ideas are considered dangerous by the few people I’ve approached them with back in the city. A shame, really. Our ancestors soared through the stars, yet we’re content sitting here in the mud.”
It was a rare turn of events when Harlan was the one to encourage his friend out of a dour mood.
He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Your ideas are brilliant, I’ll admit, and you care. Not that my name is better than yours, but I’ll happily write a letter of recommendation.”
The music swelled and fell as the fiddler finished his song. A few soldiers called out requests, and after a minute or two, another melody began. Harlan recognized it as a song played in high society weddings, but by the words slurred on the wind, the men had turned it into some drunken bawdy shanty.
It wasn’t hurting anything, not really, but it was yet another example of the military’s poor management. No wonder he and Ezekiel were out here in the Nardens for months at a time without any reprieve. No wonder the Lord Kapitan refused to listen to Harlan’s suggestions.
Why fix something the Lord Kapitan didn’t consider broken?? Yet Harlan knew the rot that festered within, and if allowed to grow, it would spell the destruction of Jayde.
“However,” Harlan said at last, trying to drown out his treasonous thoughts. “I do believe your experiments with electrical currents could prove deadly. Trying to harness the power of the skies is a dangerous game.” He looked over at his friend, whose face was now drawn. “Your cauterizationtechnique though with the Zuprium? That’s brilliant. Maybe start there.”
Ezekiel shrugged. “Maybe, but I think there’s more to the metal than we think. I read a few books discussing the Yalven practices.”
“The Yalvs?”
Ezekiel opened his mouth to respond, but an on-duty soldier appeared at the edge of Harlan’s firelight. His boots kicked a few stray pebbles and dirt into the fire, causing it to sputter slightly.
The man halted, a messenger bag slung across his shoulder. He saluted both Harlan and Ezekiel. The fresh recruit was still round-faced and the light bright in his eyes. So hopeful. “I have a posted letter for you, Lieutenant Colonel.”
Harlan stood and saluted before taking the folded parchment from the man’s hand. He flipped it over, inspecting the wax seal. Maybe it was Carleton or the Lord Kapitan taking back their denial of his suggestions, but if that were the case, wouldn’t the Colonel or even the Brigadier General set up a meeting to discuss the proposed changes?
The seal was simple, a sun with a single blade down the center. The Fairchild crest. Odd.
The boy saluted again before dashing off to his next assignment. Harlan flipped the letter over again. In elegant, swooping script on the bent and slightly battered parchment was his name, not Ezekiel’s.
“I’ll leave you to your post,” Ezekiel said, draining the last of his ale and stretching. “Night.”
Harlan didn’t say much, only waved him off as he sat back down and cracked the seal.
What would Lady Rose or Celeste have to say to him? Why hadn’t Ezekiel received a post? Making a grueling journey before reaching Harlan’s worn and scarred hands, the parchment hadbeen of the finest fiber. The ink was smudged in a few places, but the writing was still elegant and evenly spaced as if the writer took the utmost care in crafting each letter. He sat and began to read, the firelight scattering across the words, and the third verse of the nearby song in his ears.
Lieutenant Colonel,
I hope this letter finds you well and unharmed, but I doubt a few months on the front isn’t nearly as troublesome as a night spent in the Fairchild household. We’ve only heard good news here in the capital in terms of the…disagreements between Jayde and Cerulene, so my hope is probably not misplaced.
I am aware a posted letter from myself was not expected, but I have come across a problem I believe you can solve, and while this letter has begun rather nonsensically, I must now move to graver tidings.
Lady Rose’s pregnancy has taken a turn, and while we have been seeing the best medics the Fairchild name can afford, not one can decide how best to help her. With the advent of her final months, she finds herself ragged and most unwell. The medics are still analyzing her symptoms and believe the best answer is for her to deliver the child, but that’s not to happen for at least two more months. While our ancestors might have performed cesarean surgeries with success, the medics believe doing so now will go poorly without more advanced technology.
She grows paler every day and sleeps well past breakfast only to wake and then require a nap after the noon meal. When she’s awake, she oft complains of nausea and headaches, which only abate for a time after a meal. The medics are encouraging her to eat more, but she can only bear to eat a slim fare.
