The desk, the rug, the heavily polished and
waxed wood floorboards underneath, even the lack of windows and the
oil-burning lanterns that lined the sides of the room, they were
all there to convey a particular image, a particular feeling.
And it was a beautiful image; striking,
powerful, evocative. Seeing it always brought him some measure of
peace, a moment of tranquility, much relished and deserved, from
the normal hurricane of activity that was his every day. Just as
seeing it would give any other that entered the room a feeling of
inferiority, of powerlessness.
Of course, that was when he could see the
desk. Covered in letters and reports as it was at the moment, it
simply angered him.
He briefly considered sweeping an arm across
the desk, scattering the assorted papers across the floor, freeing
the holy symbols of the desk from their dark confines.
But as he sat, as he began to skim through
one of the many papers, he knew he wouldn’t. His land, his people,
were in danger. He would show resolve, strength. He would act in a
manner befitting his role in the church.
So instead, he read, the lights of a cool
dozen oil lanterns steadily lighting the words in front of him.
Riin’s defenders in the southern desert were
still keeping the Church’s armies at bay. Horse-mounted saboteurs
kept destroying water caravans. Always just the water. General Chae
was apparently at his wits end with how to proceed, not that he had
ever had many wits to begin with. Hereditary positions for the army
were a mistake, one he would rectify. Eventually. When he had time.
Still, no water meant no concerted attack could be made against
Ceyl, which meant none against Riin itself.
Annoying, he thought, but with perseverance,
Ragn would prevail. He always did, after all.
The forced evacuation of the North was still
proceeding, the refugees moving slowly towards Wraegn. The ruse was
still working, thankfully, as he had been promised it would. What
would happen to him, to the church, if it were discovered? He
shuddered to think.
Food shortages were starting around Wraegn,
some anger beginning to afflict the populace. More soldiers would
put a stop to that. More soldiers, and more work camps. Further out
from the city this time.
The reports were endless. No word had come
south from Heyle in weeks, not that they concerned him. Heyle was a
backwater, a haven of whores and inbreds. Someday they would be
brought to heel under the arm of Ragn, but they mattered little.
Heyle could keep its fancy of freedom and independence, could keep
its forests and mountains for now. There were lusher, more
important places to deal with first.
Dhome and Dheme continued their incessant
bickering, as if there were no more important matters to be dealt
with. He wondered how they could ignore the Fog, the war, the
spreading famine; how they could ignore everything but their
constant bickering, and still not come to blows. But again, more
important matters.
As he flipped through the papers on his desk,
jotting down quick notes and replies for each, he waited. He knew
what would come, eventually. Bhede, his secretary, always put it at
the bottom. It used to matter more, weeks ago, used to interest him
more. But it was always the same report now, always the same. And
it angered him each and every time. Bhede was right. Best to leave
it to the end, till all the important decisions were made, till the
problems he could solve were solved. Best to leave the anger as
long as possible, as close to when he could retire to bed, and
entertainment, as possible.
There were dozens of reports to go through,
maybe closer to a hundred of the blasted things. Some could be
ignored, could be thrown in the trash to be burned later, but more
required at least a cursory response. Many required more. But
eventually he reached it, that final report. It was small, neatly
written, and frightening, as it always was these days. Sent by
pigeon, the few scratched sentences were close together, inked in a
steady hand.
‘No changes. Fog still advancing. Experiments
continue. Require more subjects. Recommendation remains same.
Staen.’
The same. Always the same. The fog was still
coming, and the fool man was running through test subjects faster
than the army could provide them.
He scribbled a reply. He’d send refugees if
he had to. He could not fail.
He had planned everything. Everything! And it
was all working too. Had been working anyway. The enemies of Ragn
were going to be crushed, and he would lead the Church when it
happened. He would be heralded through the ages, his name would
echo through the holy halls for an eternity, and he would sit at
Ragn’s right hand in the After.
But then the fog had come, and now it was
throwing all his carefully laid plans awry. What good were the
carefully laid plans of men when God intervened?
‘Why is Ragn testing me this way’, he
wondered silently as he stood, slamming his hands on the desk in
anger. ‘What more must I do to prove myself?’
The door to his office opened, and Bhede
bowed his way in, shuffling as he did so. He must have heard the
slam, known what it meant. He often did lately.
‘Come, my Lord, they are ready’ he wheezed as
he bowed the way out of the office.
The Meiter, chief of the church, Master of
Ragn’s armies and ruler of Rognia, strode willfully past his
servant, robes billowing out behind him as he absently wondered how
many he would go through before he could sleep tonight.
***
Staen hated having to move the camp with such
frequency. Twice a day, all tents, all equipment, all prisoners,
would have to be packed up and moved further towards Ragn as the
Fog continued its relentless, inexorable march. So far nothing had
stopped the fog; not even lines of torches set out as a barrier.
Yes, the torches had slowed the fog for a time, kept it at bay
anywhere the torchlight hit. But a long enough line wasn’t
possible. Eventually the Fog just flanked the torches, took them
from behind, and continued, unabated. Staen still didn’t know if
the torches continued to burn after they were surrounded by the
Fog.
He cursed under his breath as the wagon
jostled. The idiot driver had probably hit a rock. Couldn’t the
fool learn to drive properly? The stacks of books around him swayed
as the wagon continued.
Staen couldn’t write while the wagon was
moving, which he hated, but his mind never stopped working. He only
had thirty two subjects left, which wouldn’t last him the week. The
Meiter needed to send him more subjects. He had sent hundreds into
the Fog, but none of them had come back out. He had almost lost a
team of horses trying to have one prisoner pulled back out of the
fog. Twelve horses couldn’t pull the man out. It was…astonishing.
The Fog was strong.
Strong and strange. It killed anything living
it touched, slowly covering them and consuming them, but it ignored
any inanimate objects. Trying to capture the fog in jars or flasks
had proved useless. As soon as the container was pulled away from
the main body of the Fog, it was empty.
Fire held the Fog back, but could not be used
to make it retreat. The Fog never seemed to give up ground. And it
never moved with the wind either. In fact it only looked like Fog.
Nothing else about it was the same. ‘Still, Fog is as good a name
as any’ Staen thought to himself, giggling.
Still, there must be something about
Fire…something that made the Fog delay when confronted with its
light, or its heat perhaps?
Staen wished he could pace. He liked walking
while he thought, but with the wagon moving; it wouldn’t do to
fall. Embarrassing. Possibly painful. Certainly distracting.
What was it about the Fire? Was it the heat,
or the light, or a combination of the two? Maybe he was on to
something here…he would have cauldrons filled with water. Heated
and left, he would see if they halted the fog’s advance. If they
did, it was the heat. If not…was there any way to test for
light?
The Sun’s light clearly had no effect on the
Fog…maybe it was just the light from a fire? Which meant…
Maybe it was Ragn, doing what he could to
protect his chosen people. Maybe the Fog was some kind of enemy of
Ragn’s, and Ragn would fight it through fires set by his holy
people? Or maybe the Fog was sent by Ragn, in order to punish the
unfaithful? Perhaps only true believers in Ragn would welcome the
fire enough to be saved?
Staen would have to send the theory to the
Meiter. Theology had never been his strong suit.
Still, if it was Ragn fighting the Fog, or
Ragn that had sent it…maybe his subjects weren’t believers? Maybe
Ragn was punishing them for being nonbelievers, or they weren’t
strong enough to fight Ragn’s enemy.
Staen would need someone stronger in faith as
a subject…maybe the Meiter would allow him a few Priests. He would
need at least 10, for controls, and multiple tests…yes…that would
work.
But rounding up priests would take time; time
to ask for them, to wait for an answer, to wait for delivery. And
for now, he had no time. He never had enough time. But he might be
able to try something else…
Staen lurched forward slightly as his wagon
came to a halt.
‘Finally’ he nodded to himself, standing and
grabbing his latest notebook as he walked to the wagon door. He had
more thoughts to write now, as he always did after moving camp, but
first…
He opened the door to his wagon and stepped
out to organized chaos. The caravan had stopped at what appeared to
be an abandoned farmhouse. Probably abandoned anyway. Staen doubted
anyone would have stayed when the Fog was so close.
On the other hand, if the farmhouse were
still occupied…he could always use more test subjects.
He stood impatiently, looking out over the
dry dirt of the farmyard as he waited for his desk to be set up.
Two soldiers were struggling to pull it off the back of one of the
wagons. Staen’s foot tapped impatiently, absently, as he inspected
the surroundings.
The subjects were led into the barn across
from the farmhouse. A kick or two from the guards to get them
moving. Having the subjects indoors would be beneficial. Easier for
the guards to watch them. He had fifty men under his command, and
the subjects, but he always needed more of both.
Staen wondered absently if any of the farm
animals were still alive. Some fresh meat would be a welcome
change. He had given up testing the Fog with animals. They garnered
him no useful information.
‘Bring me the Legnar’ he said to one of the
men who had finally finished setting up his desk and stood wiping
his palms on his uniform. The man saluted and trotted off as Staen
sat and began to write.
Staen hadn’t written out all of his thoughts
from the trip yet when the Legnar arrived, saluted, and stood at
attention in front of his desk. He didn’t bother looking up from
his notes as he spoke.
‘I had some more ideas on the trip Legnar. I
want…hmm…five subjects. And I want as many religious objects as you
can find. Symbols of Ragn, idols, any of the holy works, as many as
you can find among your men. Have them search the house too. Maybe
they’ll get lucky.’
‘Sir’ the Legnar replied, saluting and
turning to leave. He was always very curt with Staen. Probably
didn’t like having to call him Sir. Ah well.
‘A moment, Legnar. Two hours, by the barrier.
Bring the subjects and the items, and I’ll also want several
cauldrons of boiling water. Say…four of them.’ He said, his quill
continuing to scratch away at the paper in front of him.
‘Sir’ the Legnar replied, saluting again and
turning away, his boot heel crunching a divot into the hard packed
soil of the farmyard.
Staen stopped writing for a moment, his eyes
and brow furled in thought. He would need a control for the water
as well…
‘Ah, Legnar, one more thing.’
The Legnar stopped in midstride, turning at
the waist to look back.
‘Make it six subjects please.’
The Legnar saluted, and turned away, yelling
some orders to his soldiers. Staen ignored him, and the rest of the
noise as the camp was reset. He had notes to make.
***
Two hours found Staen watching the fog,
watching it slowly creep forward through the fields around him. He
had half the soldiers with him, as well as the Legnar and the
subjects, but he noticed them almost as little as he noticed the
fields of some type of grain around him. The Fog always held his
attention when he saw it. How many lives had it taken? How many
would it yet take? Could it be weaponized? Controlled? It still had
not touched Rognian soil…would the holiness of Ragn’s chosen land
stop it? More questions. Always more questions.
The first round of test subjects was in
place. They had been chained by the ankle to stakes in the ground,
so they could not run. They had also been stripped, as usual. Four
men and one woman in this test. The men must have come from Heyle,
as with most of his subjects. Maybe the female had been a camp
follower? He rarely used women as test subjects. This one would be
interesting.
He was using her as one of the controls. She
sat still, her naked back to Staen. Unfortunate. But she didn’t
struggle, or scream. He wondered what she was thinking. Maybe she
had given up? Maybe she had given up years ago? Staen made a note.
He should find out about his test subjects. Any information could
someday be crucial. Where they were from, what they did, what they
believed in. He would have to have one of the soldiers
conduct…interviews.
Though, if one lived, he could ask them then.
Ask them what though? Staen made a note quickly in his book. ‘Come
up with questions?’
The woman was still. The men on the other
hand…the other Control was straining against his chains, trying to
rip the stake from the ground. Many subjects tried that. It never
worked. The soldiers had learnt to plant the stakes deep.