In Your Heart Shall Burn [Tyran or TG]

[Acrea]

The Kremlin
Arkhangelsk

In the heart of the Kremlin, the cabinet and military leadership sat around the deep, polished and waxed wooden conference table that sat in the middle of them all. Various things sat upon it, mostly files, papers, and cups of coffee or tea. All eyes were directed towards the Premier and the Prime Minister as they discussed with the Minister of Defence in low voices.

Intelligence of the developments in Nalaya was no surprise. By virtue of the volatile and war-prone nature of the nation, the significance of the war there would not be great if not for the heavy involvement of the Shalumite military.

The matter being discussed was the feasibility and potential effectiveness of supporting and assisting the opposition to the Shalumtie and Shalumite-supported forces. The Nava'ai and the Mak'ur were the candidates, and which to support had been discussed extensively, eventually the decision of the idea of supporting the Nava'ai winning out. Both Kirova, Katin, and Avramov were well aware of the risks of supporting the Nava'ai. They knew that, compared to the Mak'ur, the Nava'ai were prone to falling apart. Allegiances disintegrating, and the various tribes of that group going to war with each other instead of the Nalayan federal government and its Protector. It was only their military prowess and warlike ways that won out, on the assumption that they'd be a more effective fighting force and cause more damage than the Mak'ur could.

The matter of arming and supplying a guerrilla army was not a light one. It would mean having to create a large network, one that could adapt and change to opening and closing supply routes, as well as extensive coordination with the Nava'ai. The supplies themselves were, thankfully, not an issue. The Soviets had been stockpiling since the beginning of the Great War, and there were entire complexes that consisted solely of stored tools of war. Rifles, ammunition, tanks, body armour. All the rest that they would be needed to supply the Nava'ai with- food and medical supplies- were likewise plentiful.

"Kharakter etoy voyny oznachayet, chto my mozhem sdelat' tak mnogo s tak malom (The nature of this war means that we can do so much with so little)," the Prime Minister could be heard saying, his deep bass voice carrying throughout the room. "Tam net prichin, chtoby ne proyti cherez eto (There is no reason to not go through with it)."

"Pri uslovii, chto net nichego voskhodit k nam (Provided that there is nothing traced back to us)," Avramov replied.

"Dazhe v takom sluchaye, chto tsalumiye ne v tom polozhenii, chtoby prinyat' mery protiv nas (Even in such an event, the Shalumites are in no position to take action against us)," Katin countered. "Vy znayete tak zhe khorosho, kak i ya, chto Holland, pri vsey svoyey rechi, uzhe potyanulsya slishkom daleko v Nalaye sprovotsirovat' nichego na granitse (You know just as well as I do that Holland, for all his talk, has stretched himself too far in Nalaya to provoke anything at the border)."

"Togda etot vopros reshen (Then it is settled)."

☭ Лояльный и непоколебимая ☭
Управление канцелярии Советской Федерации

Recipient Zhirayr Karagozian
Sender Aleksandrina Kirova, Premier of the Soviet Federation | Viktor Katin, Prime Minister
Security Priority Only - Приоритет только

Mr. Karagozian,

Though far removed physically, knowledge of the plight of your people has reached far. The pride that you and your people hold in your beliefs, in your ways and independence are admirable. It should not go unknown to you and your people that this holds you in high regard with your Soviet compatriots far north, and that as such it would be criminal to not aid you in your mission to maintain your ways, your culture, your religion, and your nation.

Nor has the military prowess and experience in warfare of your people gone unnoticed. It is these two attributes that will aid you and your people most. However, it may also be your downfall. It is only with your assurance and pledge to do all within your power to bind the Nava'ai together that we can give aid, or else we would be merely fueling infighting between various tribes.

Of the aid that can be given, both military and civil supplies can be provided. In weapons, there are scores of everything from Kalashnikov rifles to Rocket Propelled Grenades and surface to air missile launchers in storage. Armour and clothing, medical supplies and food are waiting to be shipped. Perhaps even more than material aid, and with your permission, I have been given the assurance of my Minister of Defence and Chiefs of Staff that military trainers and advisers are prepared to aid and train your people in the operation of these weapons as well as various tactics. Tactics which are designed to combat some of the heaviest of adversaries you may face, namely the Imperial Shalumite Army.

It is our belief, likewise, that Nava'ai forces on the ground would benefit from the potential deployment of military advisers as well as the deployment of more advanced anti-aircraft weaponry to combat one of the largest threats your men and women may face in the field- air power. Anti-Tank missiles will be available as well, and in the end, perhaps some direct military aid would be capable of being deployed.

We urge you to consider our offer, and are eagerly awaiting your response.

Signed,
Aleksandrina Dmitriyevna Kirova, Premier of the Soviet Federation of Acrea
Александрина Дмитрийевна Кирова


Viktor Mikhailovich Katin, Prime Minister of the Soviet Federation of Acrea
Виктор Микхаилович Катин

[Nalaya]

The Tarmac
Sevan, Nalaya

Inna Karapetyan was a tired woman, standing out on the tarmac with her shoulders drooping slightly as if even the weight of the sunlight was almost too much to bear. Her loose blonde hair whipped around her face in the wind coming in from the not-so distant sea as she cupped her hands around her cigarette as she touched a hungry flame to the end of the slim cylinder to light it. After a few seconds, it was lit and she shook out the match. She pulled in a deep inhale of that blessed smoke and rubbed the shadows around her eyes as she saw the plane touch down. She had soldiers with her as well to help secure the area, because heaven knew that the last thing she wanted was a foreign official of any stripe meeting any unpleasantness on Nalayan soil or in Nalayan airspace. The country had enough problems on its own.

Khavar had been waiting—not with nerves, but certainly with a deep and abiding stress—for the Cacertans. Currently the Protector was a frustrated creature, prowling back and forth in her office, waiting for her deadline she’d set Hravad to crawl by as she poured over the reports coming back from the so called ‘unaffected’ regions of Nalaya. The country had always been held together by high-tension wire, like a suspension bridge, but now the first cables had snapped, threatening to bring the whole thing crashing into the abyss. Inna didn’t know if the woman was expecting Anelyn to have an answer for her or what, but hopefully a few hours it would distract them from the void left by the absence of Hravad and Siran. The duo who had left to go west with the rest of the actual forces were still not getting along perfectly, but they were more than professional enough to put that aside in order to work. Siran, last Inna saw her, was being run even more ragged than she herself was.

Inna rocked back on her heels thoughtfully, then exhaled a stream of silver smoke that was blown away by the wind as soon as it left her lips. When she had been a little girl, she’d seen war. Not just a little bit of it, either. It made her feel old, worn out, used up. Still, she straightened her back and held her head up with military bearing and let the nicotine jolt her back to life again.

She was going to need a lot more cigarettes.

“Siruhi!” Inna called over the rush of the wind, approaching the commander of the soldiers who had descended from the plane. “Welcome to Nalaya. Arzhani T’avish is expecting you, if you and your people would care to follow. Inna Karapetyan, Marshal of the Nalayan Airforce, at your service. We can be at the Protector’s office in just a few minutes.”

There were no storm clouds to herald the importance of these visitors’ arrival, but Inna felt it nonetheless. The world beyond Shalum and Nalaya was beginning to care. That could either be very good or very bad, and Inna was not prepared to even dare to guess which.

---

The Office of the Protector
Sevan, Nalaya

Khavar was in the middle of pouring herself a drink when there was a muted knock on the door—Inna’s knock, ever careful and considered. It was so very unlike the woman herself, but then again, these were difficult times for the Avangardn, who had held such high hopes for peace. For a creature of war like Khavar, things had returned to their natural state. Even though she was essentially walking a tightrope of trying to preserve stability in half the country while fighting a war in the other half, she felt a definite sort of strange relief. No longer did she have to be the person she wasn’t. “Come in,” she called, raising her voice. She opened a desk drawer and retrieved a second glass.

Inna opened the door. “Our Cacertan visitor is here to see you, Arzhani,” the tired woman said, a cigarette trapped between two fingers. The war had turned her into a veritable chain-smoker despite her previous, somewhat successful efforts to cut way back.

“Excellent. Send her in,” Khavar said calmly. “Thank you for setting aside your other work to handle this, Inna. It is appreciated.”

Inna bowed her head, feeling a faint flicker of gratitude. It was rare for Khavar to express thanks, but it was something of a balm in this day and age to her fraying conscience. Any moment where she felt like she’d done the right thing was a welcome memory to be stored when the things to come hit the fan. She turned to Khushrenada. “Good fortune follow you, Siruhi. It is a scarce thing in this world,” Inna said by way of farewell, giving the woman a bow of her head before striding off back down the hall to her own office where a bombardment of Armavir was waiting for Hravad to fail to fulfill his deadline.

“Welcome to Sevan, Siruhi. Would you care for a drink?” Khavar asked once her guest had entered. She had carefully composed herself to conceal all hints of her irritation with Hravad and his incessant desire to preserve the lingering tatters of her predecessor’s dream. “It’s Ijevan brandy. I’m personally a strong believer in its restorative properties, but I understand if you are not a consumer of alcohol.”

The Protector leaned against her broad, mahogany desk rather than taking a seat, looking very much a calm woman despite the calamity facing her. She did not have the ferocity evident that the Dread Wolf always wore, nor the old school charm of Zhirayr Karagozian, but there was a definite sense of carefully calculated self-control that expressed itself in everything from her taste in dress to her ever composed facial expression. There was a comfortable looking chair for Vivi, not as worn as the one behind the desk, but quite nice.

---

With the Shalumite Alpine Detachment
10 km North of Siunik, Nalaya

Kella knew very well that her fellows were not intending to combat the Nava’ai, but she had no desire to disillusion Stevens at this point in time. That was something to explain to Rikker and the Nalayan commanders when the opportunity presented itself. Instead, she focused on their plan of action. “It may be difficult to lure them out, but I have confidence that we can stir up a hornet’s nest. The ground here outside of Siunik is broken enough to provide us shelter. They may come to believe we seek refuge among the rocks and will pursue. If we cannot get them to follow, then we will do our best. These Spice bombs might be more useful than a general shelling—were we to hit munitions, it would be counterproductive to our purpose. Besides, I would rather preserve the populace wherever possible,” the warlord said calmly.

“Shall I have everyone gear up, Arzhani?” Ghayth asked seriously. “I would assume that swiftness is preferable to excessive deliberation.”

“Well, some consideration should be given,” Kella said with a laugh. “But it would appear we have at least the skeleton of a workable plan, so yes. Have people begin getting ready.” She looked back at Stevens. “Let us not draw from your reserves if it can be avoided. Should worst come to worst, they will be needed to confront the Dread Wolf. And we do have gas masks. It’s a precaution one should always take, I find. Just…well, let us leave it at tear gas, yes?” She knew very well what chemical weapons could do. There was a reason that one of the first Protector’s almost immediate actions upon assuming power was to carefully have those reserves of such things destroyed wherever possible.

Kella doubted it was all gone, but it had been significantly reduced. She hoped not to encounter it here in Siunik. Odds were that they would be loath to deploy such weapons for fear of gassing their own troops, but it was a risk all the same.

Still, she was pleased. They would have air support, there was artillery in reserve, and Stevens seemed to be an agreeable man. What more could she have asked for? “Now, what else would you bring up for consideration, Paron?” Kella asked the gentleman. “I was considering that my people enter from the north, to facilitate our calculated retreat, in the early hours of the morning when people are at their most prone to be disoriented.”

---

Quellarin Syr’thaeryl
Maerimydra, Nalaya

<<And what do you intend to do now that your perceived duty has run its course?>> the Ilharn Syr’thaeryl asked, clearly intrigued by the explanation Faisal had presented him with. He was leaning forward slightly and the inflection of his tenor voice was undeniably fascinated. To him, a foreigner and a Christi at that acting with such honor and concern towards his own people was as alien and fascinating as a dog playing one of Chopin’s piano concertos. <<Where does your god lead you now?>>

The Ilharn was certainly not unaware of the position he had engineered. At the moment, these foreigners were in Mak’ur clothes in a Mak’ur court, weaponless and unarmored. They were meant to feel vulnerable and at disadvantage, even though his extension of hospitality guaranteed their safety. In his experience with outsiders, such a feeling was insurance that there would be no misbehavior. People aware of their precarious position were less inclined to make waves than those who stumbled through, blithely unaware of their own fragility.

Pella was starting to sway a little even as she translated, eyelids drooping a little bit as the exhaustion finally started to overpower fear.

Despite the Ilharn’s pressing curiosity, he was not an unsympathetic man. When he saw their translator starting to waver, he cleared his throat. <<A conversation for after you have rested, perhaps,>> he said just a touch reluctantly. He was well aware that he would get nothing out of them if he couldn’t understand their speech. While there were some who spoke English in the city who could serve as replacement for the girl should she collapse, they were few and sending for someone would be time-consuming. Besides, that would have been appallingly rude of him. Sabal was not much better than the girl as she approached. Her feet weren’t dragging, but there was an invisible weight crushed down on her shoulders. <<You have come a long way, done a good thing, and you have our gratitude for it.>>

Sabal was still smiling a little, pleased with both the choice of representatives of the Yath and the Ilharn’s courtesy. <<Our thanks for your hospitality is deathless.>>

The Mak’ur leader inclined his head to them. <<I have business tomorrow that will prevent us from again opening this discussion. The day after, I expect to speak with you here again. Pragmatism suggests that you remain here within the villa for that time. Dresmorlin, please show them to the C’rintrin’s visiting quarters. That will have to suffice, though I know it is lacking for as many as yourselves.>>

The same large, intimidating Mak’ur man from earlier bowed from the side of the room and approached them. <<Follow, please,>> he said to the justicars, maintaining a higher level of courtesy now that they were officially guests of the Ilharn Syr’thaeryl. He waved for them to come, knowing that the gesture would mean more than the words, which has been used only out of politeness.

Sabal gave a small bow of her head in parting to the Ilharn, who answered with an inclination of his own.

The rooms waiting were a private common area with a low dining table surrounded by couches. The walls were a soft, sky blue with faint geometric patterns in a slightly deeper blue forming borders around windows and doors. Broad, windows opened up onto the gardens, with dark blue curtains drawn back to allow the light in. The wood in the room was a rich, medium brown with dark, twisting grain—the native and much beloved wylth hardwood. There was no wine out at the moment, but Sabal could remedy that later. The floor was carpeted by a layer of thick rugs that reduced footfalls to near soundlessness. Pella immediately crashed on one of the couches, out like a light probably before her head even hit the cushions. “I think she will be alright there. I don’t have the heart to move her,” Sabal said, adjusting the way Pella was laying so she wouldn’t end up with a sore neck. She tucked a pillow under the girl’s head and moved her so her legs were supported by the couch completely. Pella didn’t so much as twitch. “I am going to bed. I leave you three to sort out your own arrangements. If the beds here are as large as in Telnarquel, sharing will be no problem. I am certainly not opposed to the idea.”

Three doors led off from the common area—two bedrooms with a bathroom furthest back.

She opened the door to the bedroom on the left and grinned at the sight of a king-sized bed. Though a childish part of her wanted to sleep in the exact middle like the cat she supposedly was, she wasn’t going to object to sharing with a justicar. The C’rintrin had a certain taste for luxury, particularly since few of them came from it initially and that made their beds magical experiences to Sabal, who was used to sleeping on hard ground. She liked the firm foam that was the standard. It would have clean sheets, too, as quarters like this were kept perpetually fresh in case of a visiting c’rintri.

Sabal untucked the sheets and slipped into bed, letting out a sigh of contentment. This was a fleeting pleasure, but at the moment her thoughts were very far from Dyvynasshar and very near the soft linen sheets. Her head sank down into the pillow and the tiny bit of Sabal that fell asleep last was quite certain that if given a chance, she could almost get used to such domestic things.

---

The Quellarin Syr’thaeryl
Maerimydra, Nalaya

“You should have never consented to this,” Chardalyn snapped, her displeasure clear in the thin line her lips had pressed into, which could have been used as a ruler. The Ilharess was not pleased in the slightest with her fellow c’rintri’s course of action, but she was conducting their conversation in private, within his study. Audience with the justicars concluded, he had retreated there to collect his thoughts. It came as no surprise that Chardalyn was displeased, but he hoped she would at least come to understand his reasoning. “Elendar, if word of this reaches the Dread Wolf—”

“It will not,” the Ilharn said calmly. “We are fulfilling an obligation, a debt to these people for aiding the faithful in fleeing Armavir. A noble cause if ever there was one. Would you have it said that Syr’thaeryl does not honor its debts?”

“A debt incurred by Most Revered Sabal, not ourselves. We are under no obligation,” Chardalyn said sharply.

“Hospitality demands—” he started reasonably.

“Your goddamn curiosity demands,” she said, opening up the cabinet on the wall and retrieving a bottle lightly covered in dust along with a glass. She didn’t bring one for him, another sign of her disapproval. She poured herself a drink, the rich amber liquid catching the sunlight that streamed through the open window. The Ilharn’s study was a small, quiet room lined with bookshelves on which the many classics of the world rested. He was an avid collector of books, another aspect of his forever inquiring mind. Many of the older volumes contributed a faint vanilla smell to the air.

Elendar was still seated behind his wylth-wood desk. He sighed and then steepled his fingers. “And you are not the least bit intrigued about what possessed a yathallar to consort with Christi?”

“I’m far more concerned with what the Yath might think about the fact that you’ve taken utter leave of your senses and extended them hospitality,” Chardalyn said. “How fortunate we are that the yochlol in particular have had their eyes drawn to other places. Now we need only prevent the other C’rintrin from finding out, lest they go charging to the Quarval-sharess with evidence that we should be further in her disfavor.”

“You worry overmuch,” the Ilharn said.

“If that is true, it is only to counter your own senseless lack of regard,” his partner said with just a touch of bitterness. “One of us must keep this faction afloat, or we may find ourselves utterly replaced.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So what do you suggest, Chardalyn?”

“Get them out of the city and let nature take its course,” she said. “Whether they die out in the Har’oloth is not my concern, though I will add it to my prayers in the hopes that it might prevent future problems. They intend to leave anyway if the steps that Honored Ryld is taking are any indication—my understanding is that he is acquiring supplies on their behalf for a journey. To where, I do not know, nor do I particularly care. Better that they return from whence they came, mind.”

“Frigidity suits you,” the Ilharn said with a chuckle. “I will see what can be done to turn your wish into reality.”

“The hospitality you have given them extends only to the walls which we control. The roads are treacherous in this day and age,” she said bluntly. “As I said, let nature take its course.”

“And the Most Revered?”

“I trust that the Yath know best when it comes to the punishment of their own,” the Ilharess said. “To collaborate with Christi, even indebted to them, even if their purpose is as noble as they claim, will not be looked kindly upon.”

---

The Duel
Sissak, Nalaya

At first, the opposing duelist’s parries were good enough to protect him, but that did not last forever between a combination of pain and slowness brought on by exhaustion. Norazn moved to parry, but not swiftly enough. The blow to his side cut deep, splitting ribs and slicing into a lung, rich red blood against his white shirt coming in a rush. His knee gave out beneath him and he fell to the ground. He lay there for only a moment before raising his left hand. It was not a supplicant’s plea for mercy—it was a signal to his second.

“Halt!” the other Nava’ai man barked. “The Ter cannot continue and will receive the fatal blow.”

He stepped forward and hauled his superior up to his knees rather than lying on the ground, more fitting for a warrior’s death than laying in the dust.

The wound to Norazn’s side was pouring out blood, so he swayed and was stabilized only by his second’s grip on his left arm and shoulder. His grip on his sword remained tight even as he faced down his death, but the last six inches of the blade rested against the earth because he had lost the strength to use lift it. Norazn was exhausted, badly wounded, and weak from blood loss. However, he did not bow his head in submission. This was a blow to be accepted as honorably as possible. There were many killing blows accepted by Nalayan code, but the favorite was to press the tip of the weapon between collarbone and shoulderblade and thrust down, burying the length of the sword into the chest cavity. It would be a swift death, eliminating both the heart and the diaphragm as well as potentially the lungs. However, the right to determine what it would be rested on James’s shoulders.

Norazn’s second kept him stable enough to receive whatever the Shalumite decided without faltering. The man hoped that for Norazn’s sake it would be a swift final blow. It was possible to leave Norazn to a slower death, choking on his own blood, but such a thing was considered extremely bad form.

---

The Gate of Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

“Most Honored,” Nadal corrected almost patiently. His golden eyes flickered as he took in his surroundings. “This will serve, yes.”

He cleared his throat. “You know of the wound that we have been done by the creature Karagozian, yes? No longer can we allow the wicked to continue to destroy that which is ours to protect—the divine has spoken. While the Quarval-sharess has called for holy war, the C’rintrin Nasadra do not believe that means we must necessarily be at odds with you, Ilharn Rikker. However, we require use of Tatev for strategic purposes. That leaves us with a certain…scarcity of options, Ilharn,” the yochlol said. His golden eyes were now fixed on Rikker’s own, waiting for some flicker or hint of what the Shalumite commander might say or do.

“The Ilharess and Ilharn Nasadra have proposed two solutions,” Nadal continued. He rolled his shoulders, loosening them slightly. He wasn’t preparing to take a swing at Rikker, but even he felt a bit of anticipation tightening his muscles. After all, he was invested in this personally even though Nadal had been chosen because—in addition to his status—he was fairly neutral on the Shalumites. He wasn’t prone to any love for the faithless, but he was not hateful of the more benign varieties of heretic either. He generally just avoided their presence and the thought of them, which was usually quite simple in Dyvynasshar.

“If we are allowed to move into Tatev, you have the word of the C’rintrin that the people will not be harmed nor will we combat you at this time and place. You are a matter that may be resolved by the Dread Wolf when the Nava’ai have been subdued and the chaos of the world again given semblance of order,” Nadal said, well aware that it was both a temporary peace and that it would make a future struggle against Rikker and his people all the bloodier for the Shalumites. “When that day comes, we will treat your forces with the courtesy customary for rivvil and adhere to the laws of just warfare, for we do not forget those who have aided the faithful.”

“Ilharess and Ilharn Nasadra wished me to convey that if this is not satisfactory to you, our forces will respond appropriately. You protect only a fraction of the north, Ilharn Rikker. If you will not give us Tatev, we will burn every scrap of ground your men do not protect until it is barren, we will kill every living og’elend we come across, and we will tear up every stone stacked upon stone until structures are left as crumbled cairns because of you and your pride. It is not a threat—it is a promise. When we have finished, we will come for Tatev. We are not Casimir, but we bring a fire with us that even your pet dragon cannot hope to withstand. This is not a war of victory, Ilharn. This is a war of survival. That makes even the most noble capable of anything. We wonder, what does this make you capable of?”

Nadal clasped his hands behind his back. “Either way, all of Nalaya will know what we are doing and why we are doing it: because of you. In your hands, upon your shoulders, rests the power to make or break the north. I understand if you have to confer among your officers, but these are the words I have been given. I await only your answer.”

---

Hramatar Bagratuni’s Office
Tatev, Nalaya

“…I leave Tatev for three fucking months and we suddenly have a leak? What the hell have you been doing here while Vayots Dzor was burning, Emin? Sitting with your thumb up your ass? I should fucking cut you into pieces, box you up, and mail you to the Dread Wolf, since you seem so fucking fond of her!”

“I understand that you are upset about Vayots Dzor—”

“Upset? You think this is upset?”

The voices could be heard, crystal clear, through the closed hardwood door. The two guards glanced at each other, clearly evaluating whether or not their duty to guard Hramatar Bagratuni meant defending him from his fellow commander. They looked back at Levian, who was waiting with the higher ranking officers of the Hreshtakneri Brigadi. “I wouldn’t,” he advised sagely. The only reason this conversation wasn’t happening out in the middle of everyone was a surprising show of restraint from Ada despite her exhaustion and thunderous mood. She’d waited until they reached Bagratuni’s office to lay into him.

Inside the office, Ada was seeing red. Emin had started their conversation by trying to distract her from the leak, which had done nothing for her mood. Her tone was blistering. “I am not going to let you continue to command this way! I sent that man here, into your care, to speak to Rikker! Now he’s dead, and you tell me that you have no leads! What the hell am I supposed to say? ‘Thank you’? You’d better pray to any god that will take you that I find nothing that implicates you, Emin, or it’ll be the Protector who gets that goddamn box of your pieces!”

“There’s no need to be hostile,” Emin said, holding up both hands defensively and standing with the desk between the pair of them. He hated to even think it, but there was something about Ada that could make someone feel small, himself included. There was definitely a good helping of Casimir in his daughter.

Ada’s voice came out low and full of menace, stormclouds in those grey eyes. “Oh, we haven’t even begun to reach hostile. Clean up your shit, Emin, or I’ll clean it up for you with a fucking flamethrower. I have no doubt that Sevan will strip you of command the minute I ask.”

Emin’s eyes widened. If he lost his command over all of this…. “Ada—”

“No, you don’t get to use my first name. You used up that privilege when you left Rikker and I with a massive intelligence leak to try to recover from,” Ada snarled as she stalked over to the door. “If Tatev falls, be it on your miserable little head.” She ripped the door open and prowled out, slamming the door shut behind her with an explosive bang. She didn’t snap at her officers, but her grey eyes were still fearsome. “Levian, get everyone situated. We may not have long to get comfortable.”

---

The Site of the Murder
Tatev, Nalaya

Nasaqu gave them an expressive shrug, then turned to face where she had come from. “We know it is these,” she said, waving a hand at the offices in this area. “Not those who see far through glass eyes, not those who command the many, not those who listen to the chatter of boxes of iron and wire. It is the peacemakers, the soft-speakers, the shufflers of paper. This makes her heart heavy with sorrow, but it is the nature of the spider to hide where the little flies think last to look.”

She looked up at Arnold. “If the trees who rest on soft earth will help, consult them,” she said, a bit confused herself. Then again, she didn’t know how Shalumites conducted divinations. “Talking to the people who make their homes in these—” Again she waved to the offices. “—this too may reveal the strands of webs. The one who knows water illuminates the first of the cracks, but there are many.”

Nasaqu honestly had a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she knew that the knowledge they sought would bring her no peace. “She prays now,” Nasaqu announced. “A harbinger means awareness of what is to come. A bu’idu wanders the halls, too, reliving the time it loses. Prayer brings peace and peace allows eyes to open. Prayer is also guidance. This is why the ku’nal here in this nest of stone pray. They are…uncertain, torn between worlds. Heaven on earth, the eternal and unknowable, calls to their souls, but the bodies are bound by the shackles of duty. Watch them and you see it in their eyes. She is of knowing such pain. The Igigi too feel the pull between spirit and world.”

---

Zhirayr Karagozian’s House
Armavir, Nalaya

“The purge of the Shrjani Nshanneri was not as successful as we had hoped. Some managed to escape to the north,” Madteos admitted.

“That matters little. It means only that they will die in the north,” Zhirayr said calmly. “It is looking more and more likely that the Shalumites are less of a threat than we initially anticipated—they are stirring up the ku’nal and the Vatani against them. They may gain Sissak, of course, but only because Norazn is an honorable fool. It is entirely possible too that they will keep the Dread Wolf focused on Tatev. And if the Samaa’i were to be destroyed, well, they will find themselves contending with all of Nalaya. I have confidence that their own mistakes will come home to roost. By the time they reach us, they will likely have been bled dry.”

“Only Qasim and Idir were reported to the south,” one of the other tribal leaders pointed out. He was a portly gentleman named Khajag Haserjian, a man who was not overly fond of Zhirayr. However, he was even less fond of the Dread Wolf and so he endured the company of his rival with some grace. “That means that the Lady of Steel is loose somewhere in the countryside still. She will surface eventually.”

“Kella’s people are under-equipped. They should be less of a problem than the forces of the national government who are making progress towards us,” Madteos commented. “We need to do something about Ardzuni or he’ll be at our doorstep within the next few weeks.”

“Paron Erysian intends to pull the forces of Sissak out and hit General Ardzuni’s flanks. That should give him something to keep him busy,” Zhirayr said. He looked around the dining room. There were others here listening who had maintained their silence, many of them old enemies or rivals for power. It was always tense when they were all in the same room. A little spark could easily set off the fires of old enmity. It was delicate work that he was doing. “We also have this before us.” He held up the Acrean letter. “An interesting and helpful proposal, but not one that comes without strings.”

“We must refuse to be used as a tool of some foreign power. The Acreani are notorious enemies of the Shalumi. Shall we volunteer to be their pawns, soaking up the bullets so that they need not lift a finger?” Sirvard Izanian said in a vicious tone. She was an old woman now, and a cantankerous one at that, but she still had at the tips of her gnarled, arthritic fingers a considerable amount of influence. “Worse, shall we allow ourselves to become obligated? Do you expect their hooks will vanish when we have a Protector in power?”

“Having a Protector of our own in power will be magnitudes more difficult without their aid,” Madteos pointed out. “It is not as though we intend to maintain an alliance with Shalum in future. Perhaps Acrea would serve as a better friend in the north. Forgive me, Tiruhi, but in this matter I am a realist.”

“A realist or a stooge?” she snapped.

“Easy, Izanian,” Khajag commented. “One might think you have become narrow-minded in your old age.”

“If this is what a broad mind gains, I am gleefully made restricted in my view,” Sirvard snapped. “Make no mistake. We will regret it bitterly if we accept this Faustian bargain.”

“One does not easily live a life free of regrets. Ours may be a short one, should we refuse,” Gurgen Messerlian said ponderously, stroking his long white beard. He was old as well and inclined normally to agree with Sirvard, but he considered the Shalumites much more of a threat than Zhirayr seemed to. Against an enemy like that, they would need things like surface-to-air missiles and anti-tank weapons. Reports of enemy armor had already come pouring out of Sissak—Norazn had been painstaking in his assessment of enemy forces.

Sirvard shot him a betrayed look, but maintained her peace for the moment.

Khajag cleared his throat. “Shall we put it to a vote, then?” he said. His emphasis on some level of democracy—well received among his fellows—was born out of a burning desire to keep Zhirayr out of the role of an autocrat, something he was dangerously near to becoming. They did not need another Tadevos, otherwise they could easily end up with a Protector Karagozian. It was something that would rankle fiercely at the other Nava’ai and raise the ire of the Arusai portions of the country, making it likely that the civil war would only be birthed anew.

There was a murmur of assent throughout the room and Zhirayr inclined his head. “Of course,” he said genially, a gleam in his mismatched eyes. “Let us never forget that we are in this together. As one falls, so too do the others.”

It gave Gurgen a faint chill, but he ignored it. Now was not the time to have qualms about his allies. It was hard enough to keep the more conservative old guard like Sirvard in check. He wasn’t ready to tackle the younger group like Madteos who were so devoted to Karagozian. That could happen when the dust settled. “All those in favor?” the old man said, looking around the room.

Hands went up, largely the younger crowd, who unfortunately outnumbered their elders. It was unfortunate that so many of those with seniority had been caught by the blast in the Hin K’are hotel. Part of Sirvard was still uncertain as to whether that had actually been the work of the Dread Wolf’s ilk. After all, Zhirayr stood to gain perhaps more than the creature did. “Opposed?” she said sharply, glaring at some of the others who had defied what she considered to be common sense.

Fewer hands went up. “It is decided, then,” Zhirayr said calmly. “We will accept Acreani aid.”

“We will rue this day in the years to come,” Sirvard muttered.

---

Correspondence
Out of Armavir, Nalaya

To Srh. Aleksandrina Dmitriyevna Kirova, Premier of the Soviet Federation of Acrea; Prn. Viktor Mikhailovich Katin, Prime Minister of the Soviet Federation of Acrea
From T. Zhirayr Karagozian
Regarding A Certain Understanding
Encryption HIGH

Siruhi, Paron,

It has not escaped my notice that at present, Acrea stands very much to benefit from our engagement in the south. Nor has it escaped my notice that we are currently confronted with the twin dangers of enemy armor and enemy drones. I assure you that we have a sufficient amount of small arms and rocket propelled grenades. What we do not have is a heavier arsenal containing such things as anti-air and anti-armor weapons. We also lack advisors who are proficient in the use of such weapons, though my people do have significant military experience from the armies of warlords past.

Obligation is a complicated thing. Webs of it bind all of us. I hope you and your people understand that we fully intend to repay your generosity in kind, by directing much of our attention towards the recipients of our mutual dislike, the Shalumi forces in country. So too are my people ruled by the bonds of obligation, which is conducive to cooperation even in the face of considerable threat. I can give you assurance that one way or another, the Nava’ai will be acting in concert for the forseeable future.

We have given your proposal due consideration and at this time we are prepared to accept the offer you have made us.

Sincerely,
T. Zhirayr Karagozian,
Spokesman for the Nava’ai Tribes

[Cacerta]

The Tarmac
Sevan, Nalaya
It was a welcome feeling to the woman when she felt her boots touch the tarmac of the runway. It was no ship-deck, but it was far more comforting than sitting on that goddamn plane for the last few hours. She followed closely behind the OZ commandos that had disembarked before her, closing her eyes and taking in a deep breath of fresh unpressurized air. There was always that certain scent that plane’s had that Vivi absolutely hated -- it was almost liberating to start purging it from her system and replacing it with that all-too-familiar smell of ocean spray.

Vivien Darlian Khushrenada was adorned in the dress-uniform of the Organization of the Zodiac -- a dark scarlet that matched the digital red, grey, and black of the commando force that had accompanied her. Despite looking somewhat peaked, a remaining aftermath of the the several days of non-stop air travel that got her here, Vivi did her best to compose herself in front of the men and women that had been assembled to meet her at the airport. It was to be expected in a nation deep in a civil conflict of such caliber. She tugged at the wrinkles in her uniform gently and adjusted her braided ponytail before seating her peaked cap on top of her head.

This marked Vivi’s first visit to the nation of Nalaya. The young foreign representative had heard that Nalaya was a very beautiful country -- certainly one to visit for it’s natural appeal. However, it has historically been a nation characterized by war for many years -- conflicts recent enough that Vivi remembered reading about the nation’s unification while in her last year at Anzio. It amazed her that in the matter of five years, the nation was at war again, but who was she to judge? She knew very little about the details of the ongoing conflict or what grievances there may be. It was the whole reason she was here, albeit on behalf of her own elder sister, the Prime Minister, and the Queen.

Without having to say a word, her guard unit parted to make a pathway for the Foreign Representative to Inna after the Nalayan woman had introduced herself. Vivi walked toward her, her movements crisp and intentional, before bowing lightly and extending a hand. “Vivien Khushrenada, Madam Karapetyan. Please lead the way, and my colleagues and I shall follow.”

---

The Office of the Protector
Sevan, Nalaya
While on their trip to the Protector, Vivi did her best to remember what details of her that she had been told in her briefing. SISMI Director Mila Torano had been there -- a rare sight -- alongside the Queen and Valeriana. They poured over what details they had gathered as much as they could so as to have Vivi as informed as possible before their meeting. It was clear that Khavar was a woman of war and -- despite her best efforts to keep Nalaya in one piece -- she felt most comfortable in conflict. Vivi had spent four years in the Royal Navy and she often remembered how taxing it had been. But she had not seen actual combat, and she needed to remember that when she spoke with the Nalayans.

“I do hope good fortune does follow me indeed, Madam Protector,” Vivi responded to Khavar, “though I cannot guarantee it will. I appreciate the welcome.” She stood up straight in front of the desk across from her, making an indicative gesture and a nod to accept her offer of a drink. “Her Highness has sent me on her behalf, the behalf of Prime Minister Ianelli, and that of my sister -- Duchess Valeriana -- to provide first hand intelligence regarding the ongoing conflict in your nation. I am to report to them my findings and discussions with you so that they may make an informed decision regarding the deployment of armed elements of the Organization of the Zodiac to the Military Protectorate -- should you believe it necessary. The Queen is being cautious in her support; a preemptive deployment of Cacertian military forces from our nearby Protectorate can easily be misconstrued if conducted in an inappropriate manner. As a result -- for now -- she has just sent me. Where shall we begin, Madam Protector?”

[Esperance International]

Office of the Station Chief
Headquarters, Nalaya Station, Esperance International
Central Sevan
Nalaya

There was a great deal to love about Sevan. Its spectacular beauty, for one. The sense of vast antiquity that permeated its faded stones. The narrow streets that gave Nalaya’s capital the feel of a much older, smaller town – a town with real neighborhoods, where people still knew each other. And, of course, the fantastic, seemingly miraculous architecture that spilled down the mountainside in vertiginous drops to the sea below. They didn’t call it the Hanging City for nothing.

And, inevitably, that was also one of Sevan’s drawbacks. Because trying to find the space for a compound large enough for several thousand international aid workers in a two-thousand-year-old city built on a sheer mountainside – that was problematic, to say the least.

In the end, Station Chief Razmouhi Danayan’s honored predecessors had given up on building their own headquarters, and had settled for buying up roughly contiguous plots of land in the center of the city as and when real estate became available. Naturally, the Cultural Affairs Commission steadfastly refused to allow Nalaya Station to demolish any of the ancient buildings that the station acquired through this haphazard process. As a result, the station headquarters compound was a logistical nightmare: two square blocks in the center of Sevan, containing twenty-nine separate buildings that ranged in age from two hundred to nine hundred years old. The Administrative Affairs Commission had tried to make the whole thing look a little less slapdash by connecting the various buildings with stone pathways and spiral staircases; this had succeeded only in making the headquarters look like the world’s least well-planned game of three-dimensional chutes-and-ladders. It took fifteen minutes to get from one end of the compound to the other, and staff sometimes got lost even after a year of working at headquarters.

On the other hand, the compound was beautiful, in a kind of surreal Escherian way: ancient carved sandstone buildings clinging to the sheer mountainside, hoary olive trees growing up between corkscrewing outdoor staircases, even a colonnaded terrace offering spectacular views of the city and the sea. And the Security Force said that the compound’s ridiculous complexity even made it remarkably defensible; a handful of troopers could fight building by building against a far larger force.

In Nalaya, even in Sevan, Razmouhi Danayan understood how important defensibility could be. She knew from experience that all the water and iron in the world couldn’t keep some slaughters at bay.

“Chief?” Razmouhi blinked. “Raz?”

Razmouhi shook her head. “Sorry. What were you saying, Varteni?”

Varteni Rashidian settled back in her chair. The Undercommissioner of Mediation and Diplomacy for Nalaya was a slightly built Arusai Sufi of about forty-five, with brilliant green eyes eyes set in a long and solemn face. She wore a charcoal pantsuit and a black silk hijab; a gold flame-and-laurels pin sparkled on her lapel. Razmouhi had known Varteni Rashidian for twenty years; they had both joined Esperance International in Massis after university, and they had gone up through Nalaya Station’s ranks together.

Varteni did not comment on her old friend’s moment of inattention. “As far as I can tell, no one in power is particularly interested in negotiation at the moment,” she repeated. “I think I can safely say that this news surprises nobody.”

Ardashir Sadeghi smiled mirthlessly at that. The Parasi-born head of the Security Force in Nalaya had a narrow, finely boned, aristocratic face. His thin smile looked disturbingly cruel. Razmouhi’s fingers itched for a cigarette at the sight of it.

“Frankly, the problem is that everyone still thinks that he or she has a lot to gain militarily.” Varteni’s fingers toyed with a fountain pen. “The Dread Wolf is poised to take Tatev. The Shalumites think that they can stop her with firepower, but she knows better. And with Shalumite help, Khavar still believes that she can kill her way to a peace guaranteed by force of arms.”

Yulia Koracheva cocked her head. “What about Karagozian?” The voice of the Refugee Management Taskforce’s head in Nalaya still held a slight Balni accent; in Syara, Razmouhi had heard, Yulia had learned all that she needed to know about being a refugee.

Varteni sighed. “He won’t budge.”

Ardashir raised his eyebrows. “His chances on the battlefield don’t look good. Blackburn to the west, Kella on the move in the east, and if the Shalumites lose Tatev, he’ll have the Quarval-sharess coming down from the north to skin him.” The lean soldier shrugged. “If I were in his shoes, I’d make whatever terms I could.”

Varteni offered a pointedly polite smile, and said again: “He won’t budge.” For a career diplomat, the little Sufi could be maddeningly uncooperative.

Razmouhi leaned forward. “Okay, Varteni. We understand. Why won’t he budge?”

“He’s not stupid,” the diplomat replied. “If I had to guess, I’d say that he has a card in his hand that he has yet to play. Either he’s held something in reserve, or he has gained some new asset. Either way, he’s stronger than he appears, and he is waiting to turn the tide of the fighting.”

“That’s wonderfully specific,” Ardashir muttered.

Razmouhi shot him a cautionary look, and got up from her desk. Her office was theoretically intended to accommodate official functions: it was a spacious room with faded frescoes on the walls, a marble floor strewn with handwoven carpets, and a shallow sandstone dome overhead. Behind Razmouhi’s big cypress desk, the office had no exterior wall: it was open to the air except for a few pillars and a railing. The view of Sevan’s ancient skyline was phenomenal.

In point of fact, the office was at present entirely unsuited for any formal meeting. Maps were tacked up over the frescoes, and the desk and the surrounding floor were strewn with dozens of files and letters. Razmouhi kept telling herself that she was going to organize the clutter, but it never seemed to happen.

The station chief leaned against a pillar and considered the city. “This will get worse before it gets better,” she said quietly.

“Much worse,” Varteni agreed grimly.

“Karagozian is a snake,” Razmouhi intoned. Her voice was neutral; she was simply stating a fact. “Lledrith is insane, but even so, she may be every bit as gods-touched as she believes herself to be. And Khavar is beyond ruthless. She will never make a deal. She will burn this whole country to the ground before she accepts anything less than total victory.”

“Protector,” Yulia remarked, savoring the irony of the title. Varteni pulled a face.

Razmouhi touched her forehead to the pillar. She closed her eyes and saw Vardenis burn, the acres of plastic tents going up like kindling, the screams of thousands as they fled onto the bayonets of the milits’iayi. It was happening again. Razmouhi’s chest seized, as if she were drowning. It was all happening again, and again, and again.

Varteni watched the station chief carefully. So, perhaps surprisingly, did Ardashir. The voice of the Security Force commander was a low rasp; Razmouhi realized after a moment that he was trying to sound gentle. “What do we do?”

It was like a slap to Razmouhi’s face. Ardashir Sadeghi was worried about her. By all that’s holy, pull it together, Raz.

The station chief stepped away from the pillar and walked quickly toward a map on the wall, kicking files out of her way as she went. “Our priority is the people,” she explained grimly. “Everything we were focused on a year ago is now a luxury. Schools – clinics – training programs – even support for the TRC. All a luxury. If we can afford it, great. But it’s not our priority.”

Razmouhi stopped in front of the map and pointed at a point in the northeastern Highlands. “Vayots Dzor. Last month, thirty thousand people lived here. Today, everyone left alive is running for the mountains as fast as they can. The government has thrown the whole city to the wolves.”

Razmouhi’s accusing finger moved across the map. “Sissak. It’s not as bad here, not yet – only half the city has been blown to hell, not the whole thing. But the Shalumites have taken heavy casualties, which means that they will not have the resources to look after the civilians whom their mortars have ripped apart.”

The finger moved again. “Tatev. Everything the OOC¹ is telling me suggests that the Dread Wolf is going to move here next. That will open a real second front for the government, one on which they will not be able to win quickly or decisively. The place will be rubble before this is all over.”

Varteni pinched the bridge of her nose. Tatev the beautiful, Tatev of the ancient walls, Tatev of the glassblowers and the metalworkers and the clear mountain skies. It’s all happening again.

“The people in these cities,” Razmouhi concluded heavily, “do not need university scholarships or eco-friendly architecture. They need food and water. They need emergency medical care. And above all, they need a safe place to stay, and a way to get there without being killed. We are their only chance at any of those things. So this is our job now.” Like it was before Vaneni. Like it was at Vardenis.

Razmouhi shook herself. “I’m told that the Refugee Management Taskforce has been developing a strategy for this – situation. Yulia?”

The Syaran nodded. “We believe that OOC has identified the main crisis points correctly. But there’s only so much we can do at the moment.” Yulia leaned forward in her chair. “At Sissak, the fighting is still ongoing, although I’ve been hearing rumors of some sort of duel between the militis’iayi commander and some Shalumite general.”

“Blackburn,” Varteni interrupted. “He married Casimir’s daughter.” Ardashir shook his head incredulously and smiled his mirthless smile.

“Anyway,” Yulia continued, “even if both sides respect the outcome of the duel, the fighting will probably resume soon enough; neither the Shalumites nor Karagozian will be willing to abandon the city permanently. It’s too symbolically important.” The Balni took a deep breath. “So ideally, we need to evacuate people from Sissak as soon as possible. Start work on a refugee camp, maybe at Massis, and get them moving to it in an organized fashion as soon as the roads are safe.”

“Massis,” Razmouhi muttered. “Of course it would be Massis.” Flames flickered in her mind’s eye.

“That’s if the people are willing to go,” Ardashir noted.

“Yes. And the time when it’s safe to evacuate is always the time when nobody wants to evacuate, because it always looks like things are starting to get better. That’s why it’s safe to leave.” Yulia shrugged helplessly. “If people won’t go, they won’t go. We’ll stay and help them in Sissak, and lay groundwork for a twenty-four-hour emergency evac when the fighting starts again.”

“Our people will die,” Ardashir warned.

“That’s our job,” Varteni snapped. There was a shrill note to her voice, something haunted and panicked. “We’ve been doing it in this country since before you could grow a beard.”

“Enough, Varti,” Razmouhi snapped; the nickname softened the blow of her tone. The station chief turned back to Yulia. “You have a blank check. Get our people into Sissak the moment it’s safe to do so, and start organizing a camp at Massis. God knows that someone will find a use for it before this is over, even if Sissak refuses evacuation. Ardashir, do what you can to secure operations in Sissak in case most people refuse to leave until it’s too late.” The station chief took a deep breath. “Now: what about Tatev?”

Yulia managed a weary smile. “Tatev is the one place we can actually be proactive. The fighting hasn’t started yet, and the Shalumites are there in sufficient strength to buy us some time – if we can get them to be smart. If there’s going to be bloodshed, we should get the Shalumites to expand their perimeter so that we can get as many people into the city as possible; that’s our initial locus for aid and organization. Then we need the Shalumites to provide a corridor south, out of the danger zone: refugees go out, supplies go in. We get the people to a safe zone, maybe at Siunik. We can set all of this up in the next week or two; when the whole situation goes to hell, we’ll be prepared, and it might make a real difference.”

Razmouhi and Varteni exchanged a look. “There’s just one problem,” Varteni observed.

Yulia frowned. “What?”

“You want to evacuate the population of a mostly Arusai city to Siunik.”

Yulia raised her hands. “I know. And OOC is saying that the Vatani might strike Siunik themselves, too. But if we have to evacuate Tatev, where else can the people go? North is right into kun’al forces. East is the mountains, and they’ll freeze before they reach Menassa. West is Vayots Dzor, for Christ’s sake. It has to be south.”

“Can we get them all the way south?” Ardashir asked suddenly. “Aragotsotn, maybe even Khn’dzoresk? All the way to the Heartland?”

“Close to a thousand kilometers over the Highlands,” Varteni asked, “across the mountains and through the Tap’astan, with militis’iayi all around? And with what vehicles?” She shook her head. “Your trucks will break down before you’re halfway there, and then it will be camels and mules, and you’ll be lucky if half the IDPs reach Aragotsotn alive.”

Ardashir spread his hands. “Without Peacekeeping Corps support, I cannot protect a camp of thirty to forty thousand people in Siunik. My mobile reserve is less than two hundred troopers with no heavy weapons. Karagozian would roll over me in a heartbeat. It’s not possible. I’m sorry.”

Yulia looked at Razmouhi. Razmouhi shook her head wearily. “If the fighting starts, talk to Karagozian. If he says he will protect the refugees, get Tatev’s people to Siunik. Protecting a refugee camp could shield the snake from international criticism, and make it harder for the Shalumites and Vatani to attack the city; Karagozian is not stupid, and he stands to gain by working with us. If he refuses anyway, we will have to try the long march to the Heartland; without Siunik, the whole north is unsafe.” Razmouhi glanced longingly at the desk drawer where she kept her smokes. “Either way, tell Kapriel to talk to General Rikker, and start planning for an orderly evacuation if the Dread Wolf chooses to attack Tatev.”

“If we try to take them across the Highlands on foot,” Varteni stated plainly, “our people will all die.”

“That’s our job,” Ardashir replied with a small, strange, sad smile. “Right?”

Varteni blinked. Her brow furrowed. Then she gave a tiny, silent nod.

Yulia cleared her throat. “The worst news is from Vayots Dzor,” she announced grimly. “We estimate that there are about forty thousand displaced persons in need of immediate attention in that city’s vicinity. About ten thousand of those will reach Tatev, and then we’ll have to evacuate them from there. Twenty thousand will be city residents who flee for the countryside. Ten thousand will be rural people from the surrounding area who are displaced as a –“ Yulia briefly searched for the English word – “a knock-on effect of the general chaos. That means thirty thousand IDPs stuck for the relatively long term in the vicinity of Vayots Dzor itself.”

Varteni’s fingers beat a tattoo on the arm of her chair. “Where we can’t reach them.”

“That’s what it looks like,” Yulia agreed. “At the best of times, it would be hard to move large quantities of personnel or supplies by road from Sevan to the northern Highlands. And right now, the area is a warzone swarming with bandits. There’s no law or order whatsoever. If we try to set up a field office or a camp, someone will loot it for all it’s worth within a week.”

Razmouhi looked at Ardashir. The unspoken question was clear, because the Security Force officer shook his head. “No. Again, no. I’m sorry. For thirty thousand people, I’d need seven hundred men and armored vehicles. I don’t have them. You need the Peacekeeping Corps.”

“This whole country needs the Peacekeeping Corps,” Yulia muttered.

“The day Lledrith and Karagozian and Khavar sit down with me and agree on a mandate for the Corps is the day I start looking around for the Mahdi,” Varteni said bluntly. “So if you can’t provide security for civilians around Vayots Dzor, Ardashir, then what can you do?”

“Extract our people,” the commander replied. “We’ve got fewer than a hundred Esperancers in the danger zone. I can get them out.”

Varteni looked at Razmouhi. “If the IDPs see us evacuate our personnel and leave them to die, our credibility will collapse completely. It will be a decade before anyone in Nalaya trusts us again.”

“I agree,” Yulia added quietly.

“I am duty-bound to note,” Ardashir stated carefully, “that EI policy is to attempt extraction of at-risk personnel whenever realistically possible.”

Razmouhi raised a hand before Varteni could reply. “This is not up to us,” the station chief said firmly. “We’ll let our people in the Vayots area know that evacuation is an option. Whether or not to take that option – that should be their decision to make.”

“They need to make it fast,” Ardashir warned. “And they need to know that evacuation may not still be an option in another week.”

“Noted.” There was an edge in Razmouhi’s voice, and Ardashir fell silent. “Anything else?”

Yulia shook her head. Ardashir let out a breath and rubbed the back of his neck. Varteni sat very still and stared at nothing in particular. Razmouhi knew that her old friend was seeing the past, and wondering if it was a vision of the future.

A world ablaze.

“All right,” the station chief said quietly. She picked up a file from the floor, and set it on her desk. The office was still in chaos. Dozens of other papers swirled around Razmouhi’s feet. Picking up one file was a vain effort: a token, a finger in the dyke. But it was something.

Razmouhi Danayan took a deep breath and nodded to herself. “Let’s get to work.”


¹ Office of Official Counsel, a branch of the Commission of Inquiry that provides intelligence and analysis directly and confidentially to Esperance International leaders.

[Esperance International]

”The Old Chapel”
Headquarters, Tatev Office, Esperance International
Tatev, Near Miak Amrots’
Nalaya

Nothing ever happened in Tatev.

That was the conventional wisdom, anyway. Aramvir? Troublemaking intellectuals from the Commission on Democracy and Civil Society met politicians in café booths to argue for political reform. Yeraskh? Inquiry spooks rented apartments overlooking warehouses and gathered evidence for human-trafficking prosecutions. In Salah? Just serving a full year with the In Salah office without causing a Vatani to swear blood vengeance on your entire family was cause for not inconsiderable celebration. Those were risky officers, important offices, offices that changed lives every day.

But Tatev? Beautiful Tatev, with its ancient towers and minarets, its spectacular cathedral carved into the cliff face, its world-renowned artisans? Well, it was a good place to meet with tribal leaders, and an important base of operations for Esperance clinics and schools in the surrounding mountains. And the Fair Trade Commission had longstanding and lucrative relationships with local glassblowers and silversmiths, selling their works overseas and reinvesting the profits in Tatev’s poorer neighborhoods. But in Tatev itself? Come on. Nothing ever happened in Tatev.

And so the Tatev office of Esperance International became a dumping ground of sorts for the troubled and the unreliable, the eccentric and the prickly, the broken and the lost. Send them to Tatev, the conventional wisdom ran. They’ll be able to handle it there.

The conventional wisdom was wrong, of course. Drada A’Nadros dal Gallaer could have told the Sevan bigwigs that much. Sooner or later, something always went wrong everywhere. Stability was an illusion. It was written: “There is no stagnation, there is only the breath of passion: that by which I grow, change, adapt, or die.”

Or die.

“How do they even know that there will be fighting?” Tran Thi Xuan spread her hands. “We’ve been fine so far. Why would it change now?”

“Because now we are in the Dread Wolf’s way,” Kapriel Maksudian replied. The office chief’s voice had a hollow, shell-shocked evenness to it; Drada thought of a man who had been shot but did not yet feel the pain. “And when you are in the way of the Quarval-sharess, there is fighting. This is really quite simple, Xuan.”

Xuan sighed and sat back in her chair. The Quenminese-born diplomat had arrived in Nalaya six weeks before; Tatev was intended as a gentle introduction to her new posting. Drada smiled, half-bitterly and half-contemptuously.

The Tatev office was headquartered in an old limestone church about a block from the Miak Amrots’ Gate. Esperance personnel had found the place abandoned after the Unification War, and they had bought the property from the local bishop. In the past few years, the chapel had cleaned up nicely: an organic vegetable garden hosted weekly giveaways of environmentally friendly cookstoves and fertilizers, Global Health Commission nurses ran a round-the-clock vaccination clinic out of the narthex, and a round-robin of local therapy circles and survivors’ groups used the building for meetings in the evenings. A few months before, an angry Nava’ai had shot up the big sign in front of the church; the Security Force simply took his picture and requested help from the local police, who arrested him within a week.

Safest posting in Nalaya, Tatev.

For particularly sensitive meetings, the office’s leadership retired to the church’s former sacristy, which had been repurposed around a big table of metal and glass donated by local artisans as a thank-you gift to the Fair Trade Commission. The room was small, windowless, and covered in fading murals of saints and martyrs – but the thick stone walls meant it was basically soundproof.

A local office was not like a station or a bureau; because it included only a few hundred Esperancers, an office’s leadership structure was informal, based on respect and necessity. The Global Health Commission, for example, ran a number of projects in the Tatev area, but those projects were all more or less autonomous – so there was no clear Global Health senior officer, which meant that the commission was not represented at the leadership meetings.

The Mediation and Diplomacy Commission, on the other hand, had two seats at the sacristy table, mostly because nobody trusted Tran Thi Xuan to make decisions on her own yet. Hera Padrakouni was the senior Nalayan diplomat at the office, and also the senior liaison to the Tatev branch of the Truth and Reconciliation Committee. She had lived in Tatev her entire life, and her reluctance to leave had run her career into a cul-de-sac.

Aileen Cananach was the office’s Security Force captain. She didn’t generally attend meetings; the Ossorian was notoriously prickly, which had eventually caused her exile to the harmless embrace of the Tatev office. She was a tall, broad-shouldered, somewhat horse-faced blonde woman of about forty. Drada didn’t much like her, but she found her plenty amusing.

And then there was Kapriel. Kapriel Maksudian: the man who hadn’t had the decency to die while he was still a hero. Back in the early aughts, Kapriel had been the Commission of Inquiry’s most fearless investigator in the Highlands; his photos and interviews led Esperance News Network primetime coverage of Nalaya's civil war for most of a year, and were seen regionwide. Kapriel had been at Vardenis. Apparently, Casimir’s men had broken both his knees, thrown him in a mass grave, and then set the corpses on fire.

He had lived. More fool Kapriel, Drada couldn’t help but think. Afterwards, everyone had known that he was broken, but the old guard still loved their old friend. Chief Danayan had sent Kapriel to Tatev as the office chief. Because after all – nothing ever happened in Tatev.

“So there will be fighting,” Aileen agreed grimly. “So what? We evacuate?”

“That’s what Raz seems to think,” Kapriel said wearily.

“Chief Danayan also seems to think that we should throw the population of the city on the mercy of Zhirayr Karagozian,” Hera Padrakouni noted. “I know a lot of people here who would rather die with their city.”

Xuan shook her head. “Hold on. If there is fighting, won’t the Shalumites win? Why should the population have to leave?”

“The Shalumites won’t win,” Drada said flatly.

Xuan frowned. “They have artillery. They have airplanes. I don’t understand – “

“The Shalumites will fight,” Drada explained. “They will kill a great many of the faithful. For every Shalumite or government soldier who falls, ten kun’al may perish. And they will still lose – because they count their losses, and at some point those losses will outweigh whatever is to be gained by remaining in Tatev.” Drada’s hooded eyes watched Xuan, calm and still. “The Quarval-sharess,” she said slowly and clearly, “does not count her losses.”

Kapriel raised his hands; the gesture was stiff and stilted. “We don’t know who will win,” the office chief said. “We do know that the battle will leave this city in ruins. That is why we have orders to evacuate, Xuan: no matter who wins, anyone who is still in this city in a month will be dead or wishing they were.”

Xuan nodded jerkily. Hera shook her head and said: “That still doesn’t solve where we go.”

“Siunik is close,” Aileen noted.

“Can you protect us at Siunik?” Hera asked.

The Ossorian chuckled darkly. “Not even remotely.”

“I haven’t been here long,” Xuan said, “but I did come by road from Sevan. It doesn’t look like the sort of road you can take forty thousand people down. Especially not without – what’s the word? – resupply. And with people shooting at you.”

“It can be done,” Drada said briefly. “Not easily, and only as a last resort. But it can be done. It is no longer and no harder a road than the Pilgrim’s Way.”

“On which hundreds die every year,” Hera observed pointedly.

Drada smiled coldly. “As I said: not easily, and only as a last resort.”

Kapriel pushed his wheelchair away from the table. “This is all academic if we can’t get Rikker to expand the Shalumite perimeter and secure a corridor south. I need to go and talk to him. Xuan, Hera, would you come with me?”

The two diplomats nodded. Aileen unfolded her long body from her chair. “I’ll go too,” she announced.

Kapriel glanced at Drada, who shook her head. “I have other work.”

“So be it,” Kapriel said. Drada felt a flash of gratitude. The cripple had worked for the Commission of Inquiry himself. He understood Drada’s task from his own past experience. And so he knew better than to ask prying questions of his senior investigator.

As the meeting adjourned, Drada took the time to entreat the divine on Kapriel’s behalf for a good death.

* * *

Out on the street, Tran Thi Xuan pulled her coat a little tighter around her slight form; the wind blowing down off the distant mountains was unforgiving. Hera pushed Kapriel’s wheelchair; the office chief’s mangled hands lay limp in his lap. Aileen Cananach prowled around her three colleagues, occasionally detouring to confer with a hard-looking man or woman in combat boots and unobtrusive body armor and a pale blue baseball cap emblazoned with the EI logo.

The headquarters’ courtyard was a scene of barely organized chaos. Dozens of vehicles covered the cobblestones, everything from military surplus trucks to ancient local tractors; Esperance administrators moved from one automobile to the next, assessing petroleum consumption and durability. A few Nalayan staff from Mediation and Diplomacy spoke patiently with a distraught group of families; Tran gathered that the locals wanted to evacuate immediately, and the Esperancers were protesting: “vtangavor, vtangavor.” Unsafe. Three traumatized-looking children sat with a big aid worker in an EI windbreaker. The kids were dressed in ragged farmers’ clothes, and the big Acrean kept asking, “Hayr? Mayr?” until the oldest girl started sobbing and babbling in hushed Nalayan.

Xuan felt sick. Aileen looked up, as if smelling trouble, and hurried ahead out of the courtyard. In a shed near the narthex, Xuan saw an old Nava’ai man in an EI baseball cap tapping sacks of dried cracked wheat with a rusty bayonet, and counting under his breath. “Mek, yerku, herek…”

There weren’t nearly enough sacks.

Kapriel’s wheelchair rattled over the cobblestones as the Esperancers left the chapel courtyard. Xuan looked up to see Aileen striding purposefully toward her. The Ossorian’s face was grim. “Something’s up.”

Kapriel cocked his head. “Can you say more?”

Aileen pursed her lips. “Apparantly, a kun’al emissary showed up at the castle gate about fifteen minutes ago and is meeting with Rikker less than a block from here.”

Hera frowned. “Who is the emissary?”

“Some yath. Everyone is really agitated. Apparently it’s some kind of big shot.”

Xuan found her tongue. “Can you say more?” she asked, echoing Kapriel. The ghost of a smile flickered across Hera’s face.

Aileen shot Xuan a fish-eyed glare. “I heard the word yochlol.”

Hera made a soft noise as if she had been punched in the gut. Kapriel swallowed hard, and nodded once. “Yes,” he muttered. “Yes, that makes sense. Yes.” The office chief twitched slightly. “God.”

Xuan frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“A yochlol is not an emissary,” Hera said quietly. “A yochlol is a – an avatar. An extension of the Quarval-sharess. A physical incarnation of her will. Her hand. Her eyes. Her power at work in the world.” Hera shook her head. “I can’t remember the last time one was seen outside the Homeland.”

Xuan attempted to absorb this. She tried to wrap her mind around the full import of the religious awe in Hera’s voice. She gave up when a mule loaded with supplies almost ran her over on its way into the chapel courtyard. “So we should meet this person,” Xuan announced, with a confidence she did not feel.

Aileen glanced between Xuan and Hera. Hera looked at Kapriel. Kapriel twisted in his wheelchair, and then nodded once. “Yes,” he managed. “Yes. We should.”

Xuan smiled. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

And so it was that, a few minutes later and thanks to Aileen Cananach’s oddly unerring grasp of Tatev street gossip, four Esperancers arrived at the gate of the courtyard where Dominic Rikker and Nadal Ilaleztice stood talking. Aileen took in the scene, nodded once at the lack of apparent bodyguards, and started to stride into the courtyard. Xuan hurried forward and grabbed at the big Ossorian’s arm, feeling faintly ridiculous; her head came up only to Aileen’s shoulder.

“I thought we wanted to meet them,” Aileen muttered, sotto voce.

“We do,” Xuan hissed back, “but not by interrupting a private meeting.”

“They’ll see us waiting,” Hera explained. “And they’ll invite us in when they’re done. It’s a gesture of respect to wait patiently, one that they will reciprocate.”

“In due time,” Xuan agreed.

Aileen made a small noise of disgust. Xuan let go of her arm and stepped back. The small group of Esperancers retreated from the courtyard door to a point within the view of Rikker and Nadal, but out of earshot of the two men’s conversation.

It was an odd bunch that met the eyes of the Shalumite and the yochlol. There was Aileen; more than six feet tall, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, powerfully muscled. Her skin was fair and perpetually half-burned, her eyes were blue-grey, her hands had boxer’s callouses on the knuckles. She was perhaps forty years old. Aileen wore jeans and combat boots and an EI ball cap and a brown leather bomber jacket, and an EA45 handgun was strapped to her thigh. She shifted gracefully, impatiently, from one foot to the other.

Next to her was Xuan: barely five feet two inches tall, slender as a willow, swathed in a bulky grey winter coat. Her delicate Quenminese features were incongruous among her colleagues, and her black hair was neatly bobbed. She kept her hands stuffed in her pockets. She could have been anywhere between twenty-five and forty-five. She looked worried.

There was Hera: tall, slim in a way that spoke of exercise and robust good health, her skin the color of burnished bronze. Her hair was long and dark and she wore it in a braid, and her face was round and earnest and strangely beautiful. She wore a simple, traditional brown dress with subtle copper-colored embroidery, and a white shawl was draped around her shoulders against the mountains’ chill. She was obviously young, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. Her thin hands rested upon the handles of Kapriel’s wheelchair.

And then, of course, there was Kapriel. He wore a threadbare blue suit and a white dress shirt open at the collar. His dress shoes flopped limply on the footrests of his wheelchair, utterly motionless. His hands were gnarled masses of burn scarring; the left was twisted into a claw, and the right was missing the little and middle fingers. Reconstructive surgery had done what it could for Kapriel’s face, but the olive skin was still sickeningly shiny and seamed by scars - and the nose was unnaturally distorted, and the left side of Kapriel's mouth would never quite close. One of the office chief's ears was a nub of scar tissue, and half of his head could not grow hair, and so Kapriel kept his whole scalp shaved. His eyes were dull and tired, and he sat slumped in his wheelchair as if exhausted, his ruined hands clasped in his lap.

There they stood: the cripple and the Amazon, the foreigner and the local. And they waited for their time to speak for the people of Tatev.

* * *

Drada A’Nadros dal Gallaer walked alone through the streets of Tatev. She watched. She listened. She noticed.

Drada had worked for the Commission of Inquiry for four years. In that time, she had become the Tatev office’s senior investigator. The word from Sevan was that she was a naturally gifted sleuth destined for great things. Drada knew better than to think that she was special. She just paid attention, that was all.

People lived their lives screaming their sins to high heaven without ever opening their mouths.

Take that man: Arusai, well-dressed, well-groomed, lugging a heavy suitcase toward his car. Note the two jerry-cans of petrol in the trunk; he is leaving the city for good, and he expects to go a long way before he stops running. He is getting out.

Except for him, the truck is empty. But he wears a wedding band.

Drada walked on.

Take those two Nava’ai men, sitting by the side of the road under the awning of a taverna, sipping coffee and smoking. Note the scars on their necks, half-hidden by shirt collars: swirling scars, deliberate scars, ritual scars. Note their flat eyes. Note the black oil on their fingers that will never quite come off. How many rifles would you find if you looked in the basement of that tavern?

Drada walked on.

Take the Nalayan and Shalumite guards at the gate of Miak Amrots’, still nervously clutching their weapons. The Nalayans had the look of men and women who had seen a ghost. The Shalumites had the shell-shocked look of warriors who suddenly understood just how much larger the world was than they had thought.

Drada knew that a yochlol had come to Tatev. She did not want to meet him. She was without kal’um. She had left the Homeland a long time ago. What good would it do her to be reminded of that?

But the awe of the fortress guards would make Drada’s life easier nonetheless; compared to the will of the Dread Wolf incarnate, a Commission of Inquiry investigator would hardly warrant alarm. And that was important, for Drada needed to enter Miak Amrots’ without raising eyebrows. Because apparently, an Imanalov’ monk and a half-dozen Shalumites had arrived at the castle earlier that day and started asking questions about a dead man.

Ordinarily, that would be none of Drada’s concern: the Commission of Inquiry was not a local police force. But these were not ordinary times. And if the Shalumites and the Imanalov’ had reason to be interested, then Drada needed to know why they cared. That was her whole job, after all: to bring secrets into the light.

So Drada walked calmly up to the Nalayan serzhant and produced her papers. She was a lean woman of about thirty, dressed in boots and cargo pants and a denim jacket that she wore over a white blouse. Drada’s hair was silver-white and fell to just above her shoulders, but she had no visible scarification, and when she offered the serzhant a polite smile her teeth looked entirely normal. It was hardly her first time visiting Miak Amrots’; there was no reason for the guards to look twice at her.

Open in Drada’s hand was the distinctive cordovan leather booklet that identified Esperance International permanent employees; Drada’s own booklet bore a stylized golden eye upon its cover, identifying the bearer as a member of the Commission of Inquiry. The investigator kept the polite smile painted on her face, made eye contact with the serzhant for two seconds – long enough to be trustworthy but too briefly to be threatening - and said: “Drada A’Nadros, Esperance International. I’m here on official business. May I pass?”

[Esperance International]

Ayrum Village
28 kilometers south of Vayots Dzor
Nalaya

“I came here,” Eric Holzmann protested, “to build a bridge.”

“We’ve heard,” muttered Ari ben Oved. The skinny Menassan played with the fringe of his tallit.

“To build a bridge,” Holzmann repeated. “Not to do emergency relief in a goddamn warzone. This was not our job. This wasn’t why any of us came here.”

“Well,” Mayda Kenosian observed drily, “things have changed.”

By the spirits above and the spirits below, Parouhi Kenosian thought, that was the understatement of the new millennium.

A month ago, before the bombing in Armavir blew all comfortable certainties to fragments, Parouhi and her sister Mayda had been working quite happily in Ayrum. The village was a little place of about five hundred souls, nestled in a natural terrace halfway up a rocky ridgeline. Most of the residents were Nava’ai, and the vast majority were farmers or shepherds. There was a blacksmith who specialized in repairing farm equipment and firearms, and a general store run by an Arusai couple originally from Massis. The merchants were musicians: Atam played the zurna and Zouart played the oud, and together they entertained the village on lazy evenings. Four Mak’ur families lived on the northern edge of town, close to the dirt road that switchbacked over the highland crags toward Vayots Dzor. Three of the Mak’ur households were shepherds; the fourth lacked steady income, and was mostly supported by the charity of the village.

It was a small place, with small problems. There was a local school, but it was seven kilometers down the road, and most of the families didn’t have motor vehicles – so Parouhi ran classes for the village children who were too young or too busy to make the hike every day. The nearest hospital was in Vayots Dzor, so Mayda ran a clinic next door to the local Voghjuyn shaman; together, they handled the sprains and flus that were the everyday stuff of village life. Ari bought local wool and handicrafts for the Fair Trade Commission, and managed the reinvestment of profits from their resale into the community. At the moment, most of those profits were going toward Eric’s precious bridge, which was intended to replace a ramshackle wooden structure that forded a deep streambed at the base of the ridge. Eric had built most of the half-finished project with his own hands, using surplus steel girders and local stone.

The four Esperancers lived together on the second story of the house that Mayda and Parouhi had inherited from their aunt; Mayda’s clinic took up the ground floor. The fifth member of their team, Security Force sergeant Madteos Demirian, rented a spare room from the blacksmith, Vasag. A former militis’iayi, Madteos mostly kept himself to himself.

But Parouhi and Mayda and Eric and Ari shared everything. They worked long hours together seven days a week, and got drunk together off the local liquor – distilled from mulberries and blindingly potent – in the evenings. They put up with Eric’s complaining and Ari’s incessant fussing. They collectively nursed Parouhi when her fragile health cracked from overwork, and made gentle fun of her once she had recovered. They competed to see who could invent the most ludicrously melodramatic stories about Madteos’ past, about which the sergeant never spoke. They commiserated over the universal woes of Esperancer life: the difficulty of finding a spouse or raising a family, the absurd requests of locals who occasionally confused aid workers for miracle workers, the constant lack of funding for necessary projects that was justified with Esperance slogans along the lines of “Adapt, Improvise, Succeed!” They knew each other well enough to finish each other’s sentences, and there were times when the mere sight of each other was infuriating enough to ignite firestorms of argument over nothing at all.

They were a family, in other words. And if they were an overworked, underpaid, and constantly stressed family, then they were also a competent and loving and proud one.

Theirs had been a good life, Parouhi reflected. And of course, she had only realized as much once it was gone.

Things had started to fall apart right after the bombing of the Hin K’are. Three days after the news of the bombing reached Ayrum on the radio at the general store, Vasag’s son and the two boys from the poor Mak’ur family at the edge of town had disappeared. After that, on still nights, the Esperancers started to hear the fighting in Vayots Dzor: a cold north wind carried the echoes of explosions over the silent highland crags. The children of the Mak’ur shepherds stopped showing up to Parouhi’s classes, and she had to visit the parents’ homes in order to persuade them to let their kids go to school. Mayda abruptly started to drink more of the local rotgut than she ever had before; Ari stopped drinking altogether, and watched Mayda with sad eyes.

The militias mostly left Ayrum alone. It was too small, too out-of-the-way, for them to bother with it when there was a battle to be won in Vayots. Once, and only once, a half-dozen Nava’ai militis’iayi rode into town in a battered pickup. They left with the two teenage sons of a local farmer. That night, Mayda drank half a bottle of liquor and stormed over to Madteos’ room above the smithy to ask the sergeant why he hadn’t tried to stop the rebels. Madteos had chuckled blackly and said: “I’m waiting on a slightly more productive way of getting myself killed.”

Night after night, the distant echoes of the fighting in the city grew louder and more constant. Ari started to have trouble sleeping. Eric refused to go down to the site of the bridge, two kilometers outside the village, unless Madteos accompanied him. He said that he could hear armored vehicles rolling by just beyond the creek, where the dirt road from Ayrum met the main paved road from Vayots Dzor to Tatev. Madteos slipped out to scout the situation one night, and quietly confirmed the following morning that he had seen Imperial Shalumite troops massing about ten kilometers north of the village.

And then it happened. The previous day, just after Parouhi had sent her students home for lunch, the mountain on which Ayrum sat had begun to vibrate like a plucked lyre string. There was an endless thunderous roar, and smoke rose from beyond the northern horizon in a vast, apocalyptic cloud until it filled half of the sky. And then that great grey haze turned the color of dried blood, ruddy with flame reflected from an inferno somewhere beyond Parouhi’s sight.

The younger children screamed and wept. It took all the self-control Parouhi had to resist joining them. That evening, three families loaded their possessions onto oxcarts and left the village. Eric watched them go, and grimly prophesied: “Soon enough, we’ll be wishing we had done the same.”

He didn’t have to wait long to be proven right.

The morning after the distant bombardment, Parouhi – always a light sleeper – was awoken just before dawn by footsteps on the stairs that led up to the second story of the Esperance house. The young schoolteacher sat up in bed, heart pounding, and she saw Ari already standing in front of the staircase door, holding an iron skillet in one skinny hand. Parouhi reached out her own hand, about to tell Ari not to do anything stupid –

- and the staircase door opened. Madteos Demerian stepped into the room, his lean frame half-hidden in the predawn gloom. The sergeant’s dark eyes glittered with amusement as he looked Ari up and down.

“Get everyone up,” Madteos growled at Parouhi. “We need to talk.”

And so it was that the five Esperancers found themselves gathered in the back room of Mayda’s clinic, clustered around a folding table amid the shelves of antibiotics and sterile wipes. The first light of dawn, weak and grey, streamed in through the room’s single window. It looked as faded and tired as Parouhi felt.

“Last night,” Madteos announced briefly, “the government and the Shalumites abandoned Vayots Dzor.” The sergeant was a tall man of about forty, dark of hair and eye, leanly built, but with arms and legs like iron bars. He wore cargo trousers and combat boots and a grey fleece jacket, and an EA45 was strapped to his leg. “The army is falling back to Tatev, accompanied by whatever civilians can find space on the Shalumite trucks.“

Madteos leaned on the table; the grey light illuminated his hands, and Parouhi for the first time noticed faded stripes of deliberate scar tissue worming their way across the sergeant’s knuckles. “I need you all to understand what I am saying,” Madteos explained grimly. “The city is gone. It’s rubble. The militis’iayi won. The road south is gone. The government is gone. No help is coming. We are on our own.”

For a long moment, no one said anything. Parouhi watched Mayda stare blankly at the table. She watched Eric sit down hard and put his head in his hands. She watched Ari, and saw Ari staring back at her, and as their eyes met Parouhi realized that Ari had no more idea what to do than she did.

Finally, Mayda spoke. Parouhi’s sister was a short woman of thirty-four; her face was square-jawed and pretty and stubborn, and she kept her pale brown hair in a ragged bun. Mayda wore jeans and hiking boots and a moth-eaten sweater. Now, her voice was toneless, and she did not look up from where her hands were clasped on the table.

“We have to help the people.”

At that, Eric did look up. The Shalumite was very tall – well over six feet – and skinny, with short red hair and a long face that looked older than his thirty-two years. He wore jeans and boots and a flannel shirt and a canvas jacket and rimless glasses. “What people?” he asked.

“Vayots Dzor,” Mayda replied hollowly. “Thirty thousand people.”

“I came here to build a bridge,” Eric protested.

Mayda didn’t seem to hear him. “They will all be fleeing,” she continued.

Eric shook his head. “To build a bridge, Mayda.”

“They will die unless we help them.”

Eric snapped. “For Christ’s sake!” His voice was shrill as a dog whistle. “I came here to build a bridge!”

“We’ve heard,” Ari muttered. The Menassan was as short as Eric was tall, and so bony that he looked almost malnourished. He wore slacks and a white band-collar shirt and a ratty tweed jacket. He was twenty-eight, and looked it: his beard was spotty and his face acne-scarred. Ari’s fingers tugged at the fringes of the tallit that he wore over his shirt and under the jacket.

Eric glared at Ari. “To build a bridge,” he repeated. “Not to do emergency relief in a goddamn warzone.” The engineer’s gaze swept around the room, appealing for support. “This was not our job. This wasn’t why any of us came here.”

“Well,” Mayda observed drily, “things have changed.”

“Yes,” Eric agreed, much too fast. “Yes, they have. And now we need to leave.” The Shalumite stood and turned to Madteos. “In a warzone with insufficient resources and security, EI policy is to evacuate. Right?”

Madteos nodded silently. Parouhi shook her head in disbelief. At thirty-one, she was the younger of the two Kenosian sisters, taller and thinner than Madya; chronic poor health had scorched the fat from Parouhi's face and emphasized her broad cheekbones and high forehead. The teacher’s dark blonde hair hung loose to her shoulders, and her eyes were a brilliant Arusai green. She wore grey slacks and a white blouse and a leather jacket, and her nails were bitten down to the quick. Incredulously, she asked Eric: “You read the evacuation protocol?”

Eric had the decency to look a little shamefaced, but he made an effort at brazenness. “Sure. When you come to a country like this, it’s common sense.”

Madya looked up from her hands for the first time. “And what does that mean?” she asked in a deadly calm voice. “'A country like this'?”

Parouhi gave Ari a worried glance, and the little Menassan opened his mouth to try to calm the situation. But before he could speak, Madteos waved a hand. “It doesn’t matter,” he growled. “We can’t evacuate.”

Ari blinked. “What?”

“The road to Tatev is going to be overflowing with refugees as it is. We’ll never make it that way. And everywhere else is hostile territory: militis’iayi to the south, kun’al to the north.” Madteos shook his head. “There’s no way out. We’re safer where we are.”

Eric sat down hard for the second time in five minutes and stared out the window. “Jesus,” he whispered.

“Yes, that does kind of put things in perspective,” Ari half-quipped. A faint smile flickered across Madya’s face.

“No.” Eric’s voice was hushed. He was still staring out the window. “No, that’s not what I mean.”

Parouhi slowly turned to face the window. And she saw it.

The road into Ayrum was filled with people. They thronged the narrow dirt track for as far as the eye could see. There were men and women and children. Some hobbled on makeshift crutches; some were dragged on stretchers. The old and sick rode in wheelbarrows or on oxcarts or on the backs of their younger, stronger kinfolk. They pushed shopping carts and dragged suitcases and swathed themselves in all the clothes they could wear. They were hollow-eyed and shambling and tending to blood-caked bandages. And there seemed to be no end to them.

“Oh,” said Ari.

Mayda planted her palms on top of the table and shoved herself to her feet. “We have to help the people,” she repeated - like the words were a self-evident truth. A mantra, or a creed.

Parouhi hesitantly touched her sister’s arm. “There are five of us, Mayda. I don’t know what we can do to help with – that.”

Mayda stared across the table at Madteos. Parouhi felt rather than saw some unspoken communication pass between them. After a moment, Madteos nodded once.

Mayda turned to Parouhi and said, “I don’t know either. But I’m going to find out.”

Parouhi looked out the window, and wished she hadn’t. She looked into Mayda’s grey eyes, and saw something there that made her nod the way that Madteos had nodded. She took her sister’s hand and squeezed it hard.

Ari clicked his tongue, and then rapped his knuckles on the table. “Sure,” he announced with strained cheerfulness. “I’m in. Why not? We’re stuck here anyway, apparently. Might as well do some good.”

Eric let out a deep breath, and closed his eyes, and nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah. May as well do some good.”

“Okay.” Madteos’ tone suggested the mild interest of an anthropologist cataloguing a strange tribal ritual.

“Okay,” Mayda agreed.

And with that, the five Esperancers hurried out of their house into the grey dawn light, and approached the seemingly endless crowd of refugees. Mayda pulled out her cordovan-bound credentials and waved them in the air and shouted: “I’m Mayda Kenosian. My friends and I work for Esperance International.” Mayda took a deep breath. “How can we help?”

[Shalum]

With the Shalumite Alpine Detachment
10 km North of Siunik, Nalaya

“Of course, ma’am.” Stevens replied seriously and nodded, hands folded behind his back as he regarded her. He was under no illusion that the Nava’ai soldiers they would be facing were stupid, and willing to leave the refuge of their city to engage them in the more desirable, open ground. But it was worth a shot nonetheless, given how much damage the combined force could cause if they succeeded.

“Even if we can’t lure them out, there is the hornet’s nest, as you said. Drawing their attention to this area could certainly further our goals as well, in my personal opinion. Cluster them up,” the idea immediately made him think of the artillery at their disposal. “Whatever the case may be, my men and our armor have your people’s back the whole way through. We’ll be as much your sword as we are your shield.”

“Indeed. These Spice bombs are quite useful, one of the many modern marvels we have in our arsenal. I am quite a big fan of them myself, the only real downside is that we trade a lot of explosive firepower for the ninety-nine percent accuracy rate,” he shrugged. “I can get a drone up to survey the city and mark targets, unless you already know the targets you want to hit. Normally, the targets are pre-programmed onto the bombs navigation systems before they’re deployed, so our fighters can drop them and bug out before they even get close to the combat zone. They can also be deployed during the battle, but we’ll have to have a forward air controller paint the target,” he explained.

“My men are ready to fight, as you probably saw when entering our camp. Just say the word, and they’ll be ready to form up with your ranks,” Steven grinned a bit. True to modern warfare, they would find him among the Shalumite ranks with a rifle in hand, he was much too valuable for that. Instead, he would man the command post, and dispatch orders from there. Even so, the man could dream about the thrill of battle and rush of adrenaline.

Swallowing, Stevens nodding slowly. “Of course, I understand completely, ma’am. I had no intention of using anything more than that, chemical wise. I...I couldn’t even imagine myself dispatching that kind of order honestly, sarin and mustard gas are horrible weapons,” he replied seriously. While it was left unsaid, the Shalumite alpine troops did have such chemical weapons at their disposal, though they were stored up in Annu. Rikker had requested High Kommand in case the situation became dire. “Actually, I don’t even have any sort of shells that potent. Just high explosive, white phosphorous, and tear gas.”

Back on the topic of assaulting the city, he hummed for a moment in thought. “I think that would work just fine, really. Hitting them from the north would be the most direct route, given the location of our camp. Early in the morning would be good as well, catch them while they're tired. Perhaps even while they’re changing guard shifts,” he smiled a bit. “How do you feel about a pincer movement, on the other hand? Hitting them at a second point, to divide their attention?”

“There is only one thing that comes to mind at the moment. One piece of air support that I didn’t mention earlier was our gunship assets. We have a group of five Mil Mi-24V Hinds at our disposal. They’re attached to our air assault group, but drawing them away from Tatev wouldn’t be especially risky,” he shrugged. Stevens figured that Kella’s people would appreciate the helicopters, given that they had been described as ‘tanks that can fly’ in combat. “My men have an area north of our camp cleared out for these helicopters to land and rearm as the battle progresses. We would have them already waiting here, but we were concerned that they would have been detected. They’re not exactly silent, or even small for that matter,” he chuckled.

Looking down at Kella, he finished. “Other than that, I can’t say that I know what else to propose at the moment. I’m new to the area, and well, this is your show to run. Rikker told me that I’m supposed to follow your orders, he trusts you to command us as you see fit,” Stevens explained. In Rikker’s eyes, it was him extending an olive branch, showing Kella that he trusted her enough to order his troops to and fro.

---

Quellarin Syr’thaeryl
Maerimydra, Nalaya

It was a question that Faisal had been hoping would not be asked. Their next course of action was known within their tight-knit group of warriors, but he didn’t wish to reveal it to the Ilharn, and rest of the city for that matter, unless it was absolute necessity. He was certain that the locals would not appreciate foreigner feet trekking to their most holy of cities. Before he could answer, however, something much more pressing caught hold of his attention. Poor Pella to his side, visibly wavering on her feet as she did her best to translate.

Turning to face the young girl, Faisal laid a hand on her. His eyes were gentle and compassionate as they studied her face, but the way his fingers tightened around her arm was anything but light. If need be, he was willing to hold her upright, rather than let her crash to the ground. The poor lass was exhausted, and didn’t deserve that kind of fate. “Are you alright?” He asked, deep baritone voice normally commanding and firm, now quiet and kind.

Turning their attention away from the teen, the trio of justicars observed the play-by-play between Sabal and the Ilharn curiously. With their translator out of action, they were once again out of the conversational loop. The good thing was, at least, that the Ilharn didn’t seem rebuking. He sent them no dirty looks, nor did he raise his voice, which seemed like good signs to them.

“Thank you for your kindness and hospitality, Ilharn,” Faisal finished demurely as he nodded to the man upon the throne. Of course, he didn’t expect to actually be understood, but it was the sentiment that mattered he liked to think. Turning, he kept a hand on Pella’s arm, guiding her along with the rest of the group as they were led to their quarters.

“Guess we don’t have to feign exhaustion now,” Joan murmured as she walked alongside Sabal. With her peripheral vision, she observed the way her leader led the poor teen along, and couldn’t help but smile a bit. Faisal was protective person, that much was for certain, and she couldn’t help but feel sympathy for Pella. The Shalumi woman was bone tired as well, running on fumes, and forcing her feet to propel her forward. The notion that sleep awaited them at the end of the trek seemed to be enough of an incentive to convince her aching leg muscles that it was worth the effort.

When they finally arrived at the common area that led to their rooms, Michael let out a low whistle of appreciation as he took the sights in. The place was nice, much more pleasant than anything they had gotten to experience as of late. The house they had operated out of in Armavir had been much more modest than the Hin K’are hotel, and just about anything beat sleeping in the wilderness or in the back of a rugged transport truck. “All for us, huh? The Ilharn must be kinder than I thought,” Micahel observed as he wiggled his long toes in the plush carpet underfoot.

“Yeah...poor lass,” Joan murmured as she gazed down at the sleeping teen. For the last few days, she had regarded Pella as a woman, one of them; but here and now, she was able to see just how young she was again. Barely more than, what, eighteen? And already spoiled by this dark world, she thought tiredly as she brushed a few tresses out of Pella’s face in a motherly fashion. “Think she’ll be alright, one night on her own?”

“I’m certain of it. Couldn’t think of a safer place for her to be right now,” Michael replied. As if for confirmation, he glanced over at Sabal for a moment, before nodding and returning his gaze to the couch. He would have been lying to say that he didn’t want to spend the night with her in here, but the idea of sleeping in a real bed was all too tempting, suffice to say. “Besides, we won’t be sleeping far away,” he shrugged.

“Man has a point,” Faisal added quietly. Looking over at Sabal, he gave her a smile as he she began to retreat towards a bedroom. “Sleep well, talk to you in the morning,” he said. Looking back and forth at the others, he smiled tiredly. “Well, I don’t know about you two, but I am dog-fucking-tired. I’m going to crash in the other bedroom, anyone bunking with me.”

Michael and Joan glanced at each other for a moment. “Eh, I’ll split the room with you,” the former declared without a second thought. “It’ll be just like boot camp,” he chuckled. “I’m gonna poke around, see if I can the bathroom first though. Surely they have to have one of those around here,” he commented. Turning away, he walked deeper into the common area, peeking into the third door, before smiling in success and letting himself in.

Glancing back towards the only remaining conscious female of the group, Faisal queried. “You alright with splitting a room with Sabal, or are you going to crash in here?”

Joan pursed her lips for a moment, before glancing towards the door that led to Sabal’s room. “I think I’ll crash with our resident yath. These couches may look comfy,” she paused to glance at the nearest unoccupied piece of furniture. “But I think that I’ve earned a comfortable night’s rest,” she smiled tiredly. “See you in the morning, brother,” she patted Faisal on the arm before trekking off.

Slipping into the dark bedroom, Joan eyed the sight of a sleeping Sabal for a moment, before nearing the bed. Even in the dark, her movements were fluid, as she slowly tugged off her purple sari. Folding it neatly, she placed it on a nearby desk, before slipping into bed wearing only her more form fitting undershirt. It wasn’t a nightgown, but the closest thing to it.

Under the comfortable blankets, she let out a quiet sigh of contentment. For a few long moments, she basked in the warmth of the bed, and softness of the blankets. She had earned this, a nice period of rest, the hard way. It would not last, she knew all too well, which was all the more reason to enjoy it now why she could. Turning her back to Sabal, she curled up on her side, and rested her head on one of the available pillows. Within minutes Joan had fallen asleep, and within another ten or so, her brothers-in-arms had as well. For the first time in days, they truly got to rest.

---

Forward Operating Base ‘Vendetta’
Massis, Nalaya

For some time now, the focal points of those observing the internal conflict in the Military Protectorate had likely shifted away from the southern Arusai Heartlands, and instead towards the Nava’ai Highlands where the vast majority of the fighting seemed to be taking place. Places like Sissak and Alaverdi were hotspots now, not to mention any number of small towns and villages that would have gone otherwise unnoticed if not for damned civil war. That did not, however, mean that the Imperial military had completely forgotten about the city of Massis. Far from it, really, given that was where the 13th’s primary forward operating base, and staging area, were currently located just a few kilometers north of.

There was nothing particularly special about the layout of the recently established Imperial military installation. Rectangular by design, the outer walls that kept the base’s innards protected were HESCO bastions, a type of modern gabion made of collapsible wire mesh container and heavy duty fabric liner. Originally designed to act as rapidly deployable flood control levees, these solidly pre-fabricated constructs had proven to be rather durable defensive barriers-- able to withstand small arms fire and explosive blasts alike. Spread along the top of these barriers to further dissuade attacks on the FOB were long strands of razor sharp concertina wire, courtesy of army combat engineers.

The inner workings of the forward operating base were divided up into zones and sections, though there wasn’t anything that clearly defined each area. The soldiers stationed here had a good understanding of where everything was, and that seemed to be enough. Most of the sleeping tents, canteens, and armories were in the southern part of the base. In the central hub was the command and control tents where, understandably, much of the southern theatre’s operational organization were dealt with-- at least for the Shalumite Expeditionary Force.

There were also a few, solidly built, mobile trailers off to the side. where Shalumite special forces and intelligence operators could be found patiently waiting for an assignment. They weren’t the types that liked to sit and wait too long, especially when there was a war going on. And finally, at the northern section of the base, there were more clearly designated areas for maintenance and motor pool companies -among many other support units- to work out of. At the moment, there were a dozen or so armored and utility vehicles lined up in a queue, needing to be worked on before they could be put back out onto the battlefield.

Only a few hundred yards away from the FOB Vendetta, was a flat tract of land that the Imperial military had claimed for themselves, to use as an advance airfield. Helicopters of various makes -attack, troop transport, and scout-types primarily- were being kept in reserve here, parked in neat rows. They didn’t sit fueled up or armed, but that could change in a matter of fifteen minutes, if the ground crews were ordered to get the craft combat ready. The airfield had been established by the Shalumite commanders in an attempt to lessen the strain on Massis’s airport, which was already being forced to accommodate the fixed wing Shalumite fighter craft and bombers.

As far as troop composition went, the local commanders weren’t quite content, but they had to make do with what they had been given, and pray that they would get more assets as the war drug on. At any given time, there were only two infantry battalions and an independent armor company charged with protecting the Shalumite assets in the city, which translated to roughly 950 soldiers and around fifty armored vehicles. Of course, when support units were accounted for, there were well over 2,500 Imperial soldiers present, but the logistical troops weren’t exactly outfitted to do anything more than protect themselves as they made their way along supply routes.

There was some good news, though it was only of the temporary kind on that front. Shalumite High Kommand had authorized additional reinforcements to be sent to Nalaya, not only to replenish those who had been wounded and killed in battle, but to also give the 13th more breathing room as they pushed deeper into the country. The first waves from the army would be departing soon enough, regardless of if Sissak was won or lost.

Upon that, there were five-hundred marines already on the ground in Massis, who had been flown in over the course of several days, while their heavier gear and vehicles were boated in. They would be tasked with hitting Alaverdi, but no one knew when that green light would be given. The warriors were eager to get into the thick of it, but until word was passed on, they were stuck in the FOB.

Tied up at the port of Massis was the INHS Eir, one of the three Pomoc-class hospital ships currently in service with the Shalumite navy. She was a huge ship, a former oil tanker that had refitted to act as a hospital ship. With multiple treatment wards and trained doctors, not to mention enough beds to handle as many 1,600 patients, she was ready to respond to the humanitarian needs of Nalaya. At the moment, she was merely sitting, the majority of her doctors idle. There were no more than thirty patients on board at the moment, the worst of the wounded from Sissak who need more intensive surgery than the field hospitals there could offer.

Elsewhere, the intelligence assets that Shalum had in Massis were beginning to get into gear. For the most part, they were members of the Special Intervention Unit (SIU) who handled the behind the scenes, direct action missions that the Empire undertook in foreign lands. They were among the Imperial elite, and this was by far the largest foreign deployment that they had carried out in recent history, with a hundred operators on the ground.

There were thirty operators directly attached to the 13th SEF’s main body, and the rest were only now being organized to the point where they could strike back against the Nava’ai. Of course, some would be tasked with keeping the areas already conquered by friendly forces under lock and key...while other teams would be allowed to go hunting in enemy lands.

---

Shalumite MARSOC Raiders
South of Alaverdi, Nalaya

"I'm sorry, son, but that's a mistake I can't let you make. Look, you seem like a nice kid and I know you want to do right by this girl. But if you can't be sure that you're the only guy she's been with, then I tell you you're being a fool. There are plenty of girls out there who are looking for a free ticket to the nice life, and will take the first sap they can find. You don't want to be him, stuck raising some other guy's child."

"But she's not like that…"

"I'm sure she's a real nice girl, but times like these means we all make decisions we wouldn't otherwise. Nice girls end up with their heads turned by guys that promise them gifts, dinner and the bright lights of Aragon, only to find out later he's already got a wife back home. And nice guys like you find themselves doing things with girls that they thought they'd only be doing after they were married – am I right? If you can't be a hundred percent certain that the baby is yours, then do you really want to be with a girl who wasn't exactly faithful to you?"

"I… yeah I’m certain it’s mine, sir. I don't think its was like that. I don’t think she’s like that. I love her."

"You're young, kid. You can expect to fall in and out of love at least another couple of times before you find the right girl. I suggest you wait until your service, especially this deployment, is over. Then can go home and plan to settle down with whomever you want."

And with that his superior shuffled some papers on his desk, signaling that the conversation was over.

That scene had played out for Lance Corporal Samuel Gordon a week and a half earlier, and it still stung him as if it were a fresh emotional blow. The same day that he had learned his beloved girlfriend was pregnant, was also the same day that he had received his marching orders-- he would be bound for Nalaya with the rest of his unit within forty-eight hours.

The rest of that day was a hurried blur of disappointment, to put it shortly. He had proposed to his lovely lady, with every intention of giving her and their child every ounce of love, and by some miracle she had said yes. Something he left unsaid from his stumbling proposal was that, if by some misfortune he was to die on the field of battle, she be able to collect his life insurance money as his spouse. Unfortunately, because he was only twenty, a year below the minimum age an active duty Shalumite soldier could marry without consent from their commanding officer, they hadn’t been able to simply run off to the nearest courthouse and get the deed done.

Instead, he had been forced to get in touch with his commanding officer, a grizzled drunkard of a man who was in an even worse mood than usual due to the fact that he now had to deal with all the paperwork involved with sending his boys out to fight in a war they had no real wish to fight in. He hadn’t seemed to give a rat’s ass about Samuel or the child in his fiancee’s belly, and in short order had shot his request down. No time to fill out the proper marriage request paperwork, the most Samuel had been able to do was spend the rest of his time in Shalum with his fiancee between the sheets, hugging her and telling her he would be just fine. When his time ran dry, the young marine collected his gear with a heavy heart, and headed to the nearby military airport, where his unit and transport craft were already waiting.

“Colonel Abernathy just radioed in. Looks like we may not have to stick around this shithole much longer,” a voice grunted out.

Blinking away the memories, the Lance Corporal took a moment to refocus himself. The young man in those daydreams wasn’t gone, he had simply stepped away, and there was an reluctant but diligent warrior filling in for him during his absence. Samuel had to be that man -the latter of his two personas- if he wanted to survive this conflict. “Oh yeah?” He asked as he glanced over at his comrade, adjusting his forest camouflage covered boonie to protect his eyes from the midday sun. “Did the 13th take Sissak?” He asked, knowing that was about the only way that the city they were currently observing out would get any real attention.

“Negative, at least not yet. The line’s been abuzz about some General Blackburn meeting with the enemy commander, but I haven’t been keeping the radio on unless I need to,” the other MARSOC marine shrugged as he adjusted his sniper rifle. His sniper rifle was pointed towards the city, but they were well outside of its effective range. They were just scouting at the moment, after all. “Apparently the 103rd sent a detachment to come and play, they’re down in Massis at the moment. We’ve got some SIU operators headed our way too, they’re going to make it hell for both sides in Alaverdi,” he went on, and then motioned towards the contested city.

Samuel couldn’t help but grin a bit. SIU boys were tough as nails, the kind of people stories were made out of, and their presence would mean less work he would have to do. “Oh yeah? When are they supposed to head our way?”

The other marine sniper just shrugged a bit. “No idea, probably a day or two at the very least. About how long it took us to drive out here from Massis. They’ll be here before the main group of marines is all I really know,” he shrugged.

---

The Duel
Sissak, Nalaya

While he may have been younger than his opponent, and physically strong from hours upon hours of intensive training, there was no way around the fact that James had begun to tire quite some time ago. His muscles ached from exception, and skin burned painfully as warm blood sluiced down his arms and chest. His focus had begun to slip, and he knew that he had to make the most out of every action. Even so, he was surprised when a forceful jolt shot up the blade of the sword he wielded, and into the grip, practically rattling the bones of his hand. Apparently, James had generated more force than even he had been expecting, and had cut deep into his opponent's side.

As Norazn fell tumbled to the ground and ended up in a bloody heap, the Shalumite general could only pant as he stared down at his opponent. James almost couldn’t believe it, but somehow, he had managed to snatch victory away from his opponent. Going into this duel, he had almost expected to be the one lying on the ground, waiting for the final blow that would end his life. And on more than one occasion, he almost had. There had been too many close calls for his comfort, ones that hurt so much he didn’t dare to describe them in words, and would certainly end up marking his skin with scars as long as he lived.

The notion of continuing the fight didn’t even seem to really click in James’ mind, at least right away. It was over, his opponent was down, what more had to be said. And then the man’s second called out for the fatal blow to be committed, and James’ heart sank. Somewhere in the back and forth of the duel, he had managed to forget about the fact that he had to kill the enemy commander. His mind had scaled it down to a simple matter of survival.

James couldn’t help but grimace as he gazed down at Norazn on his knees. The sight wasn’t a pleasant one, his body mangled from their duel. Once a proud enemy soldier, and respectable man, now reduced to such a state as this; and it was all James’s fault. Now, it was up to him to finish the job, though no part of him wanted to do this. He had never wanted to be a killer, see combat. It was why he had opted to join up with a unit far away from any violence at the first opportunity. Yet, here he was, about to end a man’s life.

Lifting up his own sword was not as easy as he would haved. His arm was injured, fingers twitching now and then. But it didn’t stop him, he had to do this. At the very least, he owed Norazn an honorable death, one that was hopefully quick and painless. <<You fought well today, met me on the field of battle to fight an honorable fight, Ter Norazn. It would have been as much an honor to be defeated by you, as it is to best you. My men owe not me their gratitude, but you Ter Norazn. I pray that you find peace in the embrace of Allah, and paradise. Truly.>> James’ words stumbled out more quickly than he would have liked, due to a mix of tiredness, and a the fact that he knew far less about Islam than he probably should have. It was something that had never been taught to him, given how Catholic Shalum was.

With that, James raised up his sword, and prepared to deliver the killing blow. His mind frantically raced through any number of options, seeking for the option that would have killed Norazn the most quickly. No part of him wanted to end this man’s life, but if he had to, it had to be swift-- his conscience would accept no less.

While he really didn’t know anything at all about Nalayan dueling customs, the final strike that James chose wasn’t dissimilar from the favorite of the locals. Slashing down from the collarbone, and into his chest was the goal of it. He wanted to take out the man’s heart in one fell swoop. He figured that stabbing would have been more direct, but there was no guarantee that he would accomplish his goal like that-- he was no doctor with a fine understanding of human organ placement.

So, with a long and shaky breath, he raised up his sword. Glancing over, he met Norazn’s eyes for a moment and nodded, before returning his gaze to his target area. He refused to miss or falter. Forcing down the bile that wanted to rise from the depths of his stomach, he committed the act. Bringing the blade down with the same efficiency that he had wielded it during the duel, he cut deep into Norazn’s chest cavity, hitting his heart and killing him almost instantly. That much was certain by the way he went limp, and likely would hit the ground again if his second did not continue to hold his body up.

It was finished.

---

The Gate of Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

“Unfortunately, I must admit to you Most Honored, that I am not as versed in what the Nava’ai have done to your people. I am relatively new to this country, and have not had the time to properly sit down and learn of the inner workings on this land’s people and history. Most of my experience so far has been with the Imanalov’, given that my base is located deep within their people’s land.” He replied calmly, staring back into Nadal’s eyes.

His own cerulean orbs were steely, and almost challenging. It was likely that he had an inkling of what was to come of this conversation. ‘Scarcity of options’ was a hint in itself, the bloody wolf wanted to use Tatev for her own devices. “Even so, I am a supporter of your people’s crusade against Karagazion. My country has pledged itself against him and his followers, and that is enough for me and my own soldiers to raise up arms against him, quite frankly. In fact, we’ve already begun to march against him with a force of our own,” Rikker went on. That was about as much into detail as he would go, for the moment. His alliance with Kella was still a secret, at least to some extent.

The Shalumite commander gave the yochlol the time to lay out the different options, never opening his mouth to interrupt. It was almost as if he was being addressed by a superior officer for a moment, as he stood ramrod straight with his hands behind his back, and his eyes focused intently on the ku’nal representative. When talk shifted to the absolute destruction of Tatev, and the people around it, however, it was not hard to miss the way the muscles of his jaw twitched, and his eyes became distant and dark for a moment. Normally he was a kind man, who Imanalov’ child enjoyed playing with just as much as they did Mauser, but he was seemingly not present here and now; replaced by something much less friendly, more stern and guarded.

Clearing his throat, he slowly began to speak. “Understand this. Never once have my men ever threatened the lands of ku’nal, nor have they ever infringed on their right to worship and do as they please. We have always wanted peace, but that doesn’t mean we haven’t prepared for war either. They all know the stakes here, as well as you and I do, if not even more so. My troops are willing to lay down their lives for this city, they will die standing if they are ordered to hold a position. We don’t fear you, nor do we fear the Dread Wolf or her armies.” Even though it was a plain statement, there was an almost unsettling tone to it.

There was a pause for a moment, before he went on. “With that being said, I made a pledge. The same one that every Shalumite makes. That I would protect the Empire, as well as her allies and friends in their time of need. That pledge extends to every Nalayan, for we’re allied with your nation, whether you like it or not. I made a pledge to protect Mak’ur as much as I did to protect Nava’ai and Arusai; Vantai and Imanalov’ as well. From both threats external-- and internal.” It was the most polite way of saying that he would rise to crush the Nava’ai as much as he would the ku’nal if they chose to become to contend with the powers at be that he was aligned with.

Across villages and towns in Imanalov’ territory, he had troops stationed, if only token forces. Something to show that his people would protect them. Similarly in Tatev, he had a good bulk of his force, ready to protect the city and the denizens within. His actions would determine the fate of all of them, whether they would live or die, and it was not something that he took lightly. Rikker understood what kind of power he wielded, not that he had ever necessarily wanted it in the first place.

He had come to this country as the commander of a couple regiments of infantry, and now he wielded control over a brigade sized forces, and hundreds of square miles worth of land, if not more than that. Dominic hoped that this yochlol understood just how ready he was to defend every inch of it, too. Even more so, he believed that his troops would win if there was war, they were well trained and had much heavier firepower than anything the ku’nal could throw their way. There was nothing stopping him from order missiles to be launched at Dyvynasshar if he got to feeling frisky.

Silently, some part of him was deeply offended that this man would accuse him of burning the north to the ground over a matter of pride; but he left that subject alone, at least for now.

“It is because of that pledge,” he continued. “That I am willing to consider this. The people of this city have enough to worry about as it is, the ku’nal would be a heavy burden for them to bear. To see them displaced, or killed in their homes, would be a great tragedy. And it would lie in the hands of no one but your people, regardless of what you may want to believe, or what you tell me now. It would be your troops forcing them out of their homes, gunning them down in the streets, and destroying their city. And it would be mine, holding the line at the gates, too stubborn to let you do anything without first shedding your blood to do it.” By this point, Rikker suspected he was rambling, but he honestly didn’t care. If he had the privilege of Ilharn status, he damn well intended to use it.

The Shalumite Gebirgsjager commander stopped for a moment, and breathed in and out, mind racing over options. There were different paths before him, and none of them were black or white. Only grey, a mix of both, with consequences that were both good and bad. As an Ilharn, he recognized that he has a duty to protect the citizens of Tatev, but to also understand that he was representing the coalition of the Tigress and Shalum as well. They had given him one hell of a catch-22 situation.

Finally, he got to the real meat of the discussion: what he would do. “While I am not keen on letting any of your troops into my city, there is no doubt about the fact that at the end of the day, we fight a common enemy. The Nava’ai. To fight each other would be to weaken our overall cause, would it not? We don’t have to share common banners to be enemies of my enemy, now do we?” He posed the question, though didn’t actually give Nadal time to respond. It was rhetorical. “As we speak, there are Shalumites in Sissak and any number of towns and villages fighting back the Nava’ai, laying down their lives to put an end to the violence and crimes that they have committed.”

Rikker actually grinned now, in a moment of dry macabre humor. “I would not mind meeting with the Dread Wolf herself someday, perhaps made out of the bones of dear Karagazion,” he paused for a moment. “So yes, the Dread Wolf can use my city to move her troops, but there will be stipulations that must be met. If her forces are to expect such kind hospitality under my roof, than I expect them to follow my house rules as well.”

This time as he paused, his eyeballs went up, as if looking through his brain for notes or to confirm information already there. “First of all, I do not wish for violence to occur in my city, at least at the hands of your troops. I know that you said that the people will not be harmed, and that is what I expect, no less. Of course, I know you are people of honor, as our my own,” he nodded. “Second, while this point can be debated more later, I am not certain that I want your people marching and camping in Tatev proper. My own troops are pushed for space as it is, we’ve been doing our best to not interfere with the daily lives of the citizens, unless it is unavoidable. Perhaps something like explicit zones for ku’nal troops at the edge of town, where my men can more easily keep track of you. Not that I question your honor, but in this world, I can never take enough precautions.” Rikker left it unsaid that he wanted to limit the chance of enemy agents being able to penetrate Tatev’s walls.

“While there may be more points later, this is the final one. If your people decide that they wish to take up arms against my own in the future, I want them to first withdraw from the city, so that we may meet you on the field of battle more readily. I don’t consider attacking us from the inside, as we sleep or try to live our lives, as honorable. I’d prefer to keep fighting away from Tatev, if it is at all possible.” He wasn’t one to shy around the fact that there was a good chance his forces and the Dread Wolf’s would come to blows in the future, perhaps within days or hours.

“Those is my initial reply, and demands. I think they are fair,” he finished. After all of the talking, he certainly desired some of the water from the canteen on his hip. “Before you deliver it, however, would you like me to consult with Hramatars Bagrunti and Narekatsi? They are my brothers-and-sisters in battle, with their own views and forces. Perhaps they might have something to add?” He questioned Nadal. Part of him believed that they would see the pragmatism in his stipulations for such a large trade; and another believed they would be angry with him for making such an executive decision, but either way it would be better to be safe than sorry.

Especially when he shared a base with an apparent sharp tongued Dragon.

As he waited for the yochlol's reply, Rikker couldn't help but notice something out of the corner of his left eye. Tilting his head slightly, he tracked the movement of an unknown quartet of people; one of whom was in a wheelchair, and being wheeled around by a tall looking woman. None of them were faces that the Shalumite commander recognized, but given that he hadn't really had the time to become intimate with the city of Tatev, that wasn't all that surprising. Dominic only paid them so much mind though, he figured that they were just passersby hoping to catch a glimpse of an infamous yochlol.

---

The Site of the Murder
Tatev, Nalaya

Arnold was trying. He really was. But every time that the little monk translator spoke, he found himself growing more and more confused. Yet at the same time, she did make some sense, even if it was in twisty ways that took him much longer than he would have liked to decipher it all. Once one pulled the layers of poetry away, she made good, somewhat logical sense. Perhaps that was how Mauser understood her so well, or perhaps it was because the man had simply gone native. An amusing thought, but not one he could linger on too long at the moment, with much more pressing matters to attend to.

“Indeed it is, I am afraid. Sometimes hiding in plain sight is the best way to conceal the most evil of deeds. I think that is how a lot of the world’s worst and most gruesome killers get away with their crimes for so long. No one suspects them, at least as being as bad as they truly are until you learn of what they have done,” he frowned for a moment, before covering his mouth with a hand in contemplation. “Just because a spider is large and powerful looking, does not mean that it's actually dangerous at all, the tarantula for example. On the other hand, however, the black window and the brown recluse are small beings; yet they can kill a man or animal with ease, and then scuttle off to their miniscule cracks never to be seen again, much less detected by others in the first place,” Arnold observed.

Generally speaking, the average Shalumite took divinations seriously, though they did not pray to the trees or the earth as some religions did. Instead they prayed to saints and angels. Asking for divine intervention, protection in battle, or even just for simple guidance as they navigated life’s wayward ways. “Then that settles it, I suppose, we’ll start interviewing those who work around here. Hopefully someone will know or have seen something. If we can just find the first crack, that first strand of webbing, then we can follow it back to the source, and have a little chat with our spider.”

“Well, looks like we’re going to have to save that for tomorrow morning. I think most people have already taken off for dinner at this point, though I may be mistaken.” Dara pointed out as she nodded towards the other office areas. Arnold just nodded in acknowledgement and agreement.

As far as the Shalumites felt, none of them were especially perturbed. Murder and death wasn’t a new concept to any of them, they had all handled it before. In this case, however, they just had to keep their wits about them. No one wanted to wanted to be the next Tsavagian.

They did glance at each other for a moment, at the mention of a ‘bu’idu wandering the halls.’ While it might have been something that Rikker and Mauser knew about, they on the other hand, were ignorant of local beliefs and religious practices. It did sound supernatural related, however, from the context of the sentence. “Prayer...prayer is what we need right now, if we’re going to have a chance of finding out culprit.” Arnold said quietly as he looked down at Nasaqu. No reason that he needed to rain on her parade, hell, she might of even been onto something. Looking over at his people, he added. “Feel free to take a look around, see if anyone is still in their offices. Never know what you’ll find,” he shrugged.

[Nalaya]

Office of the Protector
Sevan, Nalaya

Khavar handed over the glass. “The situation is...intensifying,” the Protector said, swirling the amber liquid in her own glass. “Zhirayr Karagozian is a Nava’ai tribal leader, one of many, but a particularly virulent strain. For months—years, actually—now, he has been antagonizing a former warlord turned religious leader who is colloquially referred to as the Dread Wolf. Now they have pushed each other over the edge, though I suspect Ter Karagozian was the one doing the majority of the shoving. Between the two of them, they’ve managed to tear the western half of the country nigh to pieces.”

She shrugged a little bit. “At present, our Shalumite allies control the area between Massis and Sissak. Soon they may also control Sissak. They also have a detachment in Tatev and have been in communication with an ally of mine, another warlord who is Vatani by ethnicity. The Vatani are keeping things predictably complicated, splitting themselves into two factions with entirely different goals in mind. It is not unlike herding cats. Rabid ones.” Khavar smoothed out the map on her desk as she spoke, indicating each area.

“I do not at present know what the Dread Wolf’s intentions are towards my own people. I suspect that at this point, she intends to secure a route to Armavir that maximizes her advantage. She could do that by combat or by negotiation. I have no desire to instigate an open war with her, provided she extends me the same courtesy, but it is at present a situation beyond my control. Right now, the government’s forces are massing at Aragatsotn for a push on Armavir. We do not expect this to be quick or easy. The people we have in Armavir right now are vastly outnumbered and outgunned. The last time we heard from their commanding officer was shortly after this mess started. Theirs is not a sustainable, nor a survivable position,” the Protector said. She didn’t sound nearly as grim as any of the others would have, but she was serious.

Khavar sipped her brandy, distant green eyes focusing on Vivi. “I do not know where Cacerta intends to invest its resources. I am aware that I have enjoyed something of the Queen’s good graces in the past, and that is appreciated. But I am also aware that when things fall into the fire, all bets are off. Were you to settle on my side, I would welcome your assistance either in Tatev's operations or Sissak's. Whichever arena you chose, there would be most certainly be conflict and the end game would be Armavir. But I cannot order, merely make requests.”

The Protector moved to sit behind her desk, leaning back in her old and worn chair. She was not ignorant of what had occurred about Vayots Dzor, but she had only so much care to go around. It was a war. People died. More than just those displaced in the north would if this was allowed to become a full inferno, as far as she was concerned, and that meant Armavir was her number one priority. She was betting heavily on the fact that the Shalumites could handle Sissak and whatever the hell would happen at Tatev. If Cacerta could help at either of those critical junctures, it would relieve a huge amount of strain on her people. Reports from the front had been very clear—Hravad’s forces were taking the brunt of the fighting right now from Karagozian’s allies in the Nava’ai, which made it difficult to advance on the city.

Heartless though it made her, she had been quite serious when she said she would bomb Armavir. It wasn’t precisely that she wanted to, though hitting the Nava’ai in the teeth with explosives would be eminently satisfying. It was more that Khavar T’avish had never been one to flinch from what she considered necessity. However, out of respect for the dead, she had allowed Hravad his window to reach the city—a window that was closing rapidly as the hours ticked by. Perhaps it had been an unreasonable time limit. She preferred to think of it as…motivational.

“Tell me what you need from me, Siruhi, and I will do my utmost,” Khavar said. “I would be grateful for armed support at certain flashpoints. Even Aragatsotn may come to need assistance in the days to come.”

---

With the Shalumite Alpine Detatchment
10 km North of Siunik, Nalaya

Kella pulled her lower lip in between her teeth, worrying at it thoughtfully as she considered Stevens’s suggestion. “A pincer attack would be worthwhile, I think,” she said finally with a nod. “If you have forward observers, I would request permission to bring them with my people into the city so that we can target precisely. I do not want to destroy Siunik or the munitions held therein if it can be avoided, as I have said. As for your gunships—they will be useful to have in reserve, particularly for if we can draw them out into the open. Perhaps send for them once our people are in motion?”

She gave Stevens a nod. “I will endeavor to ensure that Paron Rikker’s trust is not misplaced,” she said. “I will discuss matters and particular target assignment with my people, operating under the assumption that your own forces will be largely in reserve until we can draw the Nava’ai out.” When one of her other men approached, she turned her head and smiled approvingly. “Ah, just the man I was thinking of. What do you have for me?”

“Arzhani, we have identified areas that are the least heavily secured, but we will need more time to ascertain when the guards change,” he said smoothly in excellent English. In a past life, Kaliq had been a professor of comparative literature in In Salāḧ. It was a strange road that had brought him to his current position. He bowed to Stevens. “Paron.”

“Paron Stevens, this is the man in charge of my scouts, Kaliq bin Ridwan,” the warlord said by way of introduction. “Kaliq, you already know of our Shalumite friend here.”

“Knowing is my business,” Kaliq confirmed with a smile. He was a thin, dark, delicate-looking man who possessed a deceptive strength and a very quick knife. His mustache and beard were short and carefully trimmed. He shaved almost religiously every morning with an old-fashioned straight razor to keep himself as neat as possible. Kella had seen him do it even when his position was in the thick of things. He was not a man easily distressed. “Among other things.”

“Do you think you can get quietly through the lines?” she asked.

“They are using the local radio station as basis for their communications,” Kaliq said. “It is possible that myself and a few men could reach there and cause difficulty for them, Allah willing. We could, of course, demolish it, but using it to interfere and antagonize might be far more interesting and productive towards our purpose. I am here to inquire if there were perhaps any Shalumites inclined towards stealth who would be willing to participate in such an endeavor. Captain bin Ghayth has already given his approval.”

“I have no objection,” Kella said with a grin. “Do you know where Ter Jaghayan is?”

Kaliq presented his commander with the field radio he had been carrying. It was Acrean in design, but then again, so was much of the old equipment used by the Nava’ai. “Allah has been most generous, Arzhani,” he reported with a bow of his head. “You and Paron Stevens may find it of use. From what our monitoring has established, we believe Ter Jaghayan is at the old base where much of the equipment and munitions are held. The scouts and our few agents inside the city made mention of tanks and large guns. Old ones, but they could still be problematic.”

“I think we may have an answer to those,” Kella said, accepting the radio. “We will wait until your men have established when guard changes. Then we will go. Please keep myself and Paron Stevens up to date on the situation you observe.”

He gave both of them a sweeping bow. “It will be done, Allah permitting,” Kaliq said. His eyes flicked to Stevens and he smiled widely. “So, Paron, do you have anyone who might be interested in community radio?”

---

Quellarin Syr’thaeryl
Maerimydra, Nalaya

Sabal and Pella both slept well through the day and into the evening. The yathallar was the first to rise, though it did take her almost ten minutes to work up the motivation to climb out of bed. She glanced over at the still sleeping Joan and smiled a little bit. It was good to see the justicar getting some well-deserved rest. The Mak’ur woman headed to the baths, not because she needed to, but because soaking in a warm, tiled pool wouldn’t be an option out on their road to Dyvynasshar. Besides, her muscles still ached fiercely, though they were better once she stretched and began moving about. It would be a few days before she felt back to normal again. Sabal stripped and slid into the water that was currently otherwise deserted, thoroughly pleased.

She wasn’t alone for very long.

“May I join you?” Sorn asked politely from behind her, unwrapping cloth from around his body. His approach had been very quiet, but she’d still caught it. Being a yathallar meant a sort of native perceptiveness, born by the caution of living out in the wilds or on the fields of battle.

“By all means,” Sabal said. Her eyes didn’t open now that she knew who it was. She wasn’t particularly worried about Sorn attempting to do her lethal harm. If anything, he was more inclined to be amorous. Ever since she had been responsible for his training, Sorn had pursued her in his own way. Neither of them were looking for anything permanent or exclusive, but it had become a fairly regular pattern every time she was in Karsoluthiyl. It was easy. Sorn was always interested—he wasn’t the type to settle—and she chased her passions where they ran, even if the ones she felt for him were not the abiding kind. Sabal valued her friendship with the man and enjoyed their times together, but he wasn’t going to be her everything. She was still waiting for that. In the meantime, fun was fun.

He slipped into the water beside her. “These heretics of yours…” he said, allowing the words to trail off into a thoughtful pause. “…how do you know that you can trust them?” He was still not certain how they could have earned a place in Sabal’s confidence. She had been so averse to their kind for as long as he had known her.

“I feel it,” Sabal said, looking over at him. She looked pensive as she considered his question seriously. “I did not always feel so. When first I met them in Armavir, I thought them no different than any other heretical missionaries. And yet…no one else cared like me about the missing the way they did. What was grudging, forced tolerance became natural cooperation. And when I asked Faisal to help me save the ku’nal when Karagozian’s brutes attacked…he and his agreed without hesitation. Perhaps they agreed only so that I would take them to Dyvynasshar, but that is not how it feels in my heart of hearts. They have had many chances to harm and have taken none of them.”

Sorn frowned deeply. “The Dread Wolf will not be pleased to know that they have walked that sacred path.”

“There is no rule which states the pilgrimage may only be undertaken by the faithful. It is a purification of the spirit. Some find their faith on the road itself,” Sabal pointed out. It was a technicality, yes, but she was trying hard to justify her own position to herself, even if it meant resorting to the letter of the law rather than the spirit. “Even the tests may be passed with the guidance of spirits rather than knowledge of the faith.”

“Tradition—”

She cut him off with a look. “Tradition has its place,” she said. “But this is not it.” Sabal had always wanted this kind of purification by fire. She had prayed and wished for it with fervent hope. She very much believed that this was the only way that Zhirayr Karagozian and his cronies would ever be stopped. No amount of negotiation had halted their persecution, after all. But something about what Faisal had said lingered in her thoughts. What about the innocents caught up in the middle? Sabal had never been good at bridging the worlds described in the Linath. She struggled sometimes with the idea of the gentler passions described, with maintaining that difficult balance in her heart. Her youth had been an angry one and while time had begun to polish off the roughness of that edge, she still considered herself very much a warrior at heart.

She wanted justice, but she found her thoughts never straying far from the ku’nal who were not warriors who would be caught up in the chaos and the war. While one part of her would always remain certain that no one knew better than the Quarval-sharess, a quiet voice in the back of her thoughts reminded her that the Dread Wolf was still in some part human. It was a jarring, uncomfortable juxtaposition. She still didn’t know which side would come to rule her heart in the end.

“The last time heretics were in Dyvynasshar, the Fane was destroyed,” the yathrin said, his dark tattoos lending his face a particularly somber cast.

“The Quarval-sharess will know what is proper,” Sabal said, turning her hazel eyes on him. She had to believe that the Dread Wolf would know best, that perhaps the Quarval-sharess would feel room in her heart for love too if her attention was drawn to the plight of her people. “I am placing myself and them at her justice and mercy. Whether this is prudent or not in their opinion, I cannot say. But it is what course of action I intend to follow, and I hope that you will honor it as such.”

There was a long pause and then he finally said, “So long as I do not have to like it.”

“I would never ask that of you,” the Mak’ur woman said, her expression softening slightly. “You have known pain at the hands of outsiders. You have every reason to distrust. I appreciate that you came and spoke to me about it rather than acting in violation of hospitality.”

Sorn shrugged a little bit. “You usually know what you’re doing,” he said with a sigh. It would have been so much easier to kill these interlopers, but so long as Sabal was vouching for them, he would refrain out of deference to her. He studied her for a long moment. “You were never one to let the world beyond our own influence you.”

“The nature of the world is change,” Sabal said quietly. She leaned back against the edge of the pool. “I am sorry my actions are those you cannot approve of.”

“Who knows better than the Quarval-sharess? Still, you must do what your conscience demands,” he said with a shrug, echoing her own doubts about her current course of action. Sorn saw the flicker across her face and knew she was conflicted. Even though he and Sabal spent little time together any more, he still knew her well. The powerfully built man leaned in to kiss her and was surprised when she turned her head, his lips brushing against her cheek rather than her own. That was most certainly not like her. “Sabal—”

“Perhaps another time,” she said, offering him an apologetic, faint smile. She wasn’t entirely certain what had prompted her to pull away, but the feeling of wrongness was there and she had heeded it automatically. “I should go.”

“I brought you clean clothes,” he said to ease the awkwardness, accepting the refusal for what it was even though it clearly puzzled him. He didn’t let it bother him too much. Sabal clearly had heavy things on her mind, and while she normally would have welcomed a distraction, he could understand her desire to focus on them.

Sabal pulled herself up out of the bath and dried off. “Thank you, Sorn,” she said. She meant it on multiple levels. He was one of the very few people who would take what she was doing on faith. The clothes he’d brought for her were red with gold patterns, partially sheer fabric that would show more of her tattoos and body than the clothing the Ilharn had provided. It was a little more in keeping with the Yath tendency towards pride in the symbols across their bodies—generally speaking, the more visible those tattoos were, the more comfortable the particular cleric was. She approved of his choice.

Dressed again, she ventured back towards the rooms, though she made sure to find the appropriate staff and lodge a request for food. Ryld was still absent, undoubtedly finishing arrangements for their journey. She was grateful for the yath’abban and his attentiveness to her requests. Ryld had always been very conscious of his duty to aid other Yath, something that sometimes the younger and more hot-headed yath’abban were less inclined towards. They needed to be reminded that their scope did not include the duties of a yathrin or a yathallar sometimes.

Sabal managed to acquire a couple of bottles of wine on her way back. Ryld was waiting for her in the common room with a sleepy-eyed but awake Pella. She set her prizes down on the table and fetched glasses from a side cupboard. Two of the bottles were a familiar Highland dry red, but the third was a light ice-wine from near Dyvynasshar that she’d only tasted once in her life before. It had left an extremely good impression, so she hadn’t been able to pass it up. After all, she might never have this opportunity again, depending on how the pilgrimage went.

“There you are,” Ryld said with a smile. He was amused by the wine, but not surprised. Sabal tended to indulge after her more exciting experiences. It was a way of blowing off any residual stress. “I assumed you’d be caught up with Sorn.”

“We talked,” Sabal said a little bit vaguely, pouring herself a drink. He and Pella were the next glasses. The Mak’ur had a very permissive attitude towards the young drinking, operating under the principle that familiarity bred responsibility. Besides, the first hang-over was usually an instructive experience, in Sabal’s opinion. The key was that their drinking was kept in appropriate, safe circumstances. She wasn’t worried about Pella getting into trouble here, not with both Yath and justicars around. “Anyone else awake?”

Ryld raised an eyebrow at her, but he knew better than to ask what was bothering her. Sabal shared things in her own time and pushing usually only ended in a less-than-playful snap of teeth. “Only you and Pella have emerged,” he said. “I took care of everything you would traditionally need for the pilgrimage, Sabal. Food and water are settled, at least for the first leg. Clothing is as well. You’ve done this before many times…I think everything will be fine.”

“Heaven-sent man,” Sabal praised gratefully, pecking him on the cheek before she gave him his wine. She seemed back to her normal self again.

Ryld looked pleased with the acknowledgement of his work. “Do you intend to take Pella with you?” he asked curiously. “She would be safe in Maerimydra, like the others.”

Sabal handed Pella her glass and then sat down on one of the couches. “She is old enough. However, I expect her to decide for herself, guided by her mind and soul alike,” Sabal said. She looked to Pella. “It is not a decision to be made lightly, Pella. Take care to consider it tonight and tomorrow. I intend to leave tomorrow night, so you have until then.”

“Understood, Most Revered,” the girl said with a nod. She wanted to agree to come immediately, but she knew it was something to be carefully considered even if she had practically already made up her mind. “I will give it much thought.”

Sabal smiled. “That’s my girl,” she said approvingly.

---

The Duel
Sissak, Nalaya

Norazn’s second kept the Ter’s body from falling to the ground, and instead pulled Norazn back until he was lying flat on his back on the blood-stained but still green grass. The man respectfully closed his commander’s dark eyes so they would no longer look sightlessly up into the dome of azure above. <<Erysian will honor your agreement with the Ter, Paron,>> he then said to James. <<We will cease hostilities and then withdraw after the funeral. The Ter made his wish to be buried here in Sissak known before your duel.>>

He waved over to a couple of the other men who had been lingering in the area and watching James’s men with wary eyes, who approached rapidly to collect Norazn’s body. One got on the radio to relay the news to Norazn’s second-in-command. The Nalayan commander was lifted up in their arms and carried back towards the mosque.

<<You may follow in time, after your wounds have been tended. The Samaa’i is open to you,>> the second said to James. He bowed his head to the Shalumite commander. <<We will likely not meet again. Be well, Paron.>>

The effect across the city was rapid when the call went out. The milits’iayi did not surrender, but they broke contact and withdrew abruptly towards the mosque wherever possible. Those pinned down stopped returning fire and simply waited in their positions until they too were able to leave. Some of them called to their enemy, <<It is finished!>>, but they doubted they would be understood. The Nalayans were heavily relying upon James’s honor to make it known to his people. Mortars and grenades suddenly stopped falling. Plunging sniper fire evaporated. Smoke cleared. The city quieted. To the Shalumites, the sudden cessation of hostilities was probably unnerving, but it was true: Magar Erysian had every intention of honoring Norazn’s wishes, which would come as no comfort to the government forces at Aragatsotn. After all, a Shalumite victory here meant only that Hravad Ardzuni would have considerably more on his plate in the near future.

James was left to return victorious to his people, while Norazn’s body returned to his own.

A deep current of grief ran through the heart of every Nava’ai in the city. Norazn was not a perfect man, but he was a beloved man despite his flaws and had lead the tribes in Sissak for more than ten years now. He would be missed. His daughter was among many weeping quietly in the mosque. There were no wails or shrieks, no torn hair or clothes, but instead a more muted and controlled tone. Desil, his wife, was silent except for the occasional little choked breath, tears rolling down from her eyes even as her face remained immobile. She kept her arm wrapped tightly around her daughter’s shaking form, trying to maintain strength even in grief. Desil knew that if she allowed herself to try to speak, it would come out as a scream.

Almost as soon as Norazn’s still form arrived back, the medics set to work stitching him back together again so that his body could be washed by his sons. The funeral would, both out of custom and necessity, happen as soon as possible.

---

Hramatar Narekatsi’s Office
Tatev, Nalaya

She was alone for the first time in weeks. Ada carefully and quietly shut the door behind herself, barring away the world. She pressed her back against the door and let gravity finally take over, dragging her down to the ground. The suffocating pain that she had done her best to bury was back. She curled up at the foot of the door, holding it closed with her body. There was a horrible sound, an animal sound, choking and clawing its way out of her throat as the tears welled up and flooded down her face.

The sound of her own voice reciting the Hippocratic Oath long ago played on a vicious loop in her roaring ears. ... Most especially must I tread with care in matters of life and death. If it is given me to save a life, all thanks. But it may also be within my power to take a life; this awesome responsibility must be faced with great humility and awareness of my own frailty. Above all, I must not play at God....

Ada slammed her fists against her thighs and rocked back and forth slightly under the force of the sobs. She was a doctor. Her job was to save lives, and yet she had withdrawn even when her conscience was screaming at her to stay until the bitter end. And what of Vayots Dzor was there even to go back to? Only a smoldering ruin that she had torched. Yes, she had saved the lives of her men, of some of the civilians, of the Shalumites who were relying on her, perhaps even of those at Tatev who would need defense. But at what cost?

What had she told James about her father, so long ago that it felt like centuries? They called him the Dragon because he seemed to bring the end of the world... How was that different than what she had done? How was she any better than him?

She felt the staring eyes of the yathallar on her again as she wept. If it has the fangs of a dragon and the fire of a dragon and the eyes of a dragon, what can it be but a dragon? A beast cannot change its nature to please another any more than rivers can refuse to run to the sea. You are not above that which came before you, Narekatsi. Remember that.

She was that same creature that had wracked Nalaya with nightmares. The black blood of Casimir ran in her veins like a venom. The same evil that had brought her into this world stained her deep within, a brand of a special circle of hell burned into her heart. To say she hated herself for it would be wrong. There wasn’t a word strong enough for the loathing, the revulsion, she felt. It was a cancer growing to eat away at her, but she couldn’t even cut it out, because one could not live without a heart. Well, perhaps that was not true. The monster that had sired her seemed to have done quite well for himself.

How horrified would her mother have been if she were alive? Or would those dull eyes just have looked at her own grey ones with the resignation of a woman whose long-held expectation had finally been met? Certainly, the rest of her family would not be surprised. She had always been the rotten apple threatening the Rshtuni barrel. She had spent her whole life trying to convince herself that they were wrong, that there was good in her somewhere despite the horror that had created her, that she could be something other than a dragon like Casimir. But…they were right. They had always been right.

It was her fault.

Ada kept rocking, her body shuddering and shivering as images of Vayots Dzor and its people flashed behind her eyes. She could still hear the cracks of gunfire and the barking booms of mortars. She could still smell the smoke. She could taste the blood and dust. They were laying in her arms, everything bleeding away from them, everything lost in fire and smoke. She’d done this to them.

She wanted to blame Rikker and the Dread Wolf for forcing her back to Tatev. She wanted to blame Emin and the Protector for not sending supplies or reinforcements. But the cold, hard truth was that when it had mattered, when it really came down to it, it had been her call. No one else’s.

Eventually, the pieces of Ada Narekatsi on the floor slowly pulled themselves back together again, not because they wanted to or they even felt like they could, but because they had to. Grim duty and necessity kept her operating like an automaton even though she’d broken down just this once. Her face, tear-streaked and grimy, slowly returned to calm as her breathing turned from sobs wracking her whole body to ragged inhales in an unsteady but quiet pattern. She looked down at her hands—a physician’s hands that itched to be washed until they were raw—and felt her heart crack when she saw the glimmer of gold on her left ring finger. Somehow, she’d forgotten she was still wearing her mother’s ring, the same ring that a grinning James had slipped onto her finger, one knee still on the ground.

The tears started again as that moment, so far removed from this world, so innocent and heartfelt and carefree, ghosted across the surface of her mind in memory. She could still remember the way she’d thrown her arms around his neck and laughed through delighted tears. These droplets coursing down her cheeks were a bitter, pale imitation of any such human emotion. She blinked hard, trying to bring the world back into the focus of her aching eyes and started to move her trembling hands until she felt what was left of her heart tear slowly, agonizingly, in half when she slid the ring off her finger.

This was a world gone horribly, horribly wrong. She was a part of that wrongness, that discordant cacophony that drowned out everything right. And even if she had been willing to inflict herself on James now, she knew that if he had a conscience, he wouldn’t take her. Not when she had done so grievous a wrong and would surely do worse to follow. She was not the woman that he had fallen in love with. That was a life she had burned to ashes the moment she had agreed to leave Vayots Dzor. Creatures like her father, like her, were not capable of happiness. They existed only to breed more of their own kind into the world by whatever evil they saw fit. If there was a way back from this place, she couldn’t see it.

Ada stood up. She couldn’t bring herself to throw away the beautiful ring she held in her fingers, but it was too painful to touch. She set it down in the middle of her desk and forced her eyes away from it. Heavy steps brought her to the small bathroom adjoining her office. She shut the door with the same care as she had her office door, stripped, and stepped into the cramped shower. The water that ran down the drain carried with it dark dirt and brown flakes of dried blood. She had to scrub to get the grime out from under her nails. By rote, she stepped out and dried off. She was dressed again before she even really realized what she was doing, her fresh uniform clean and pressed, in sharp contrast to the ragged, stained one from Vayots Dzor. She put her hair up into a regulation bun, pinning it in place as her dull grey eyes stared dead ahead. The emptiness to her gaze was vaguely familiar. She’d seen it before, when she was very young.

Like mother, like daughter.

She left her office clean and composed, though no more ready to face the day than she had been before her shower. She would do it anyway, however, because other people were still relying on her.

But somewhere, deep beneath the surface, a fire burned in the heart of the Dragon.

---

The Gate of Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

Nadal did not interrupt Rikker, but his look was certainly appraising. There was something to the man’s reputation, it seemed. The Ilharn and Ilharess would be pleased, even with the restrictions placed upon their forces’ movements. It would be satisfactory to the Dread Wolf as well, if she could crush Karagozian as a result of this agreement. Someday in the near future, they would likely meet Rikker on the field of battle as an enemy. It would be a very different kind of battle than that with the thing in Armavir. “The course of action you have proposed is within the range of terms that have been deemed acceptable, though I must relay the message to the Ilharn and Ilharess Nasadra for their final approval,” the yochlol said. He smiled faintly, a better sign of approval and respect than a full grin. “You are an interesting man, Ilharn Rikker. Few would be so brave as to think to treat with the Dread Wolf. I must also secure the consent of the Dragon. It is known that her soldiers are fewer than your own, but it is sometimes spoken that where a Narekatsi goes, the Arusai will follow.”

He turned his head, noting the four EI personnel. Few things escaped Nadal’s notice. However, they were not attired as soldiers, though the tall female in the ball cap looked like one and even carried a firearm. Still, he was not accustomed to discarding people out of hand, not when they had the audacity to even approach him. Nadal doubted that Rikker was imbued with the same symbolism—though he would be someday, perhaps—and yet he expected that not everyone could simply expect Rikker to give them his utmost attention. Clearly, then, these were people who were either foolish or important or both. “It would seem there are others who wish an audience, Ilharn,” he said. “Would you care to send one of your men to fetch the Dragon? Perhaps it would be beneficial if you and I inquired as to the nature of the message of these…observers.”

Without really waiting for a response from the Shalumite, Nadal turned and inclined his head to the small group, a minute sign that his attentions had now come to rest upon them. “Come,” he called to them in his harsh way, not quite a bark of command but not far from one either. It was Nadal’s natural setting: he was a creature of power, though he had not forgotten the time in his life where he was not one. The Linath was ever to be taken to heart.

Further back towards the city, the gate serzhant opened Drada’s booklet to check her ID. He gave her a sharp nod. With the yochlol’s attention elsewhere, he was not wound quite as tightly. Furthermore, he had no objection to Esperance International. It seemed as though they were always in and out of Miak Amrots’, doing the difficult but necessary work required to make the world a better place. “You are permitted to pass, Siruhi. Be careful and have a good day,” he said, offering her a brief salute. Beyond him lay the halls where the investigation into their dead man was still ongoing.

---

Ayrum Village
28 km South of Vayots Dzor, Nalaya

It was strange, in a way, how quiet the refugees were. Panic had burned itself away over the course of the past twenty-eight kilometers, over the course of days fighting for survival. They were desperate, most certainly. Doggedly pushed forward through exhaustion, hunger, thirst, and wound by the sheer need to survive, most certainly. But there was little room in their world now for panic. For many of these people, it was not the first time they had been forced by war to an extreme, though their situations were very different. Some who had been warriors were now parents with fussing children who needed safety. Some were simply too old to fight. Some were too young to understand what was happening. But now, their trudging steps had brought them to Ayrum, the first sign of safety they had touched since even before the sky fell on Vayots Dzor.

People collapsed onto the ground with the things they had brought with them—which was sometimes nothing at all. They thronged the streets of the village, too many for Mayda to address as a whole. A young Nava’ai man did approach her, however, carrying a concussed young woman on his shoulders. The blast of Vayots Dzor had rendered Arshaluys insensible and blown half her clothing off, cracking bones and rupturing eardrums, but Medzarents didn’t really care. His friend was alive, and that was what mattered. “We need water,” he said to Mayda through cracked lips, his dark eyes centuries old as they looked at her from hollow sockets. “Some of us are dying. We need space to say goodbye.”

Behind him, further in the back, Ildan was still alive. He was bruised and cut all over from blown debris, but his bold black and red tattoos stood out as vibrantly as the day they had been inked. The serpentine smile that marked his cheeks in that distinctive color combination seemed grim as he conferred with the ku’nal warriors who had come south as well. The Nava’ai now controlled Vayots Dzor and he did not know where they would begin their hunt next: north or south, east or west. His people had split, many of them heading north to the Har’oloth and safety in Maerimydra. Others, like himself and Medzarents, had chosen to accompany those fleeing southward as something better than bandits. There were only maybe sixty of them left in total, however, not subtracting those who were wounded or unable to fight because they were attempting to minister to the wounded. He himself was supporting two teenage boys who had been fighting alongside him, both of them reeling like drunks from the damage to their ears.

A small conference was forming in the knot of people around Ildan. <<Say nothing of who you are,>> the yathallar advised. <<We will defend the faithful here from the predations of those who feed on refugees. That is the best that we can do now.>> He knew there would soon be a crushing desire for vengeance, but he was a temperate man when his wrath was not roused. Blind anger at this point would gain them less than nothing, tempting though it was.

<<What of you, Most Revered? You cannot conceal your nature,>> a woman named Nanar said. She was carrying a baby in her arms, the child of another woman who had died on the way. The hardened ku’nal warrior had slung her rifle and rocked the infant to sleep for the moment with soft cooing sounds. Without food, however, the peace was going to be quickly lost. Nanar’s tattooed brow was furrowed with worry as she looked down at the sleeping baby. Her left index finger was trapped in a tiny, pudgy fist.

<<True,>> he said with a shrug. <<It will be what it will be.>>

<<There will be milits’iayi here as well, wounded,>> Nanar’s brother said, looking around. Their conference was quiet, but then again, so was everyone’s. It was as if the bombardment had hammered the sound out of everyone.

<<Another battle, another day,>> Ildan said wearily. <<They will be few here. Too few to try anything immediately. We will have to be more worried about the Nava’ai once they have grasped power firmly in the remnants of Vayots Dzor. They will come looking. That is why I say to you: hold your peace.>>

All of them nodded, and the word went out. The big, shaven-headed Mak’ur man helped his two charges to sit down. His throat ached for lack of water, but he knew he was better than everyone else here by sheer virtue of his comfort with adversity. The wind that burned flesh had slightly more trouble piercing his thick hide. Hunger and thirst and want of sleep were powerful foes, but he had been trained to work through them since the time he was very small.

He did not know what aid could be found here, in this little town, but he had to hope there would at least be water. They would need to keep moving south, if such a thing was possible. The problem was that to the south lay Armavir, which would not be a desirable place to go for any refugees, let alone the ku’nal. It was a city that might be able to support them, but one destined to come under fire soon, perhaps even from a number of directions. It was merely a question at this point of how one wanted to die, as far as he could tell. But some would survive, perhaps even many. It was the nature of life to exist even through the worst of adversities, in Ildan’s experience. Not that this erased the fact that if the ku'nal went any further south, they would be exterminated by Karagozian. Even here was not necessarily safe if the man decided to turn his eyes their way.

The yathallar blotted blood away from one of his deeper wounds with the square of emerald silk his lover had given him as a token of affection. It ruined the fabric, but he knew that Ryld wouldn’t have minded. Hell, he might have been scolded for not doing so sooner. There would be no physician here, at least not for him, but these wounds could close on their own. Most were shallow, superficial cuts that would scar but not show much more for the wear. The one in his side was deep, but mercifully no organ had been damaged. It hurt, but Ildan was used to pain. He embraced the sensation with an inhale and then released it with an exhale.

For the moment, there were no hateful eyes on him, even from those who were inclined to side with the milits’iayi. The aches were too fresh, the exhaustion too powerful. Ildan was just another face among the sea of faces, albeit one who generated nods of respectful—or perhaps fearful—acknowledgement wherever he went.

Still, whether they loved him or hated him, he would protect them. It was what he did.

---

Town Square
Alaverdi, Nalaya

They had breathing room. Not much, but enough for Jaelryn to be praising the divine. The yathallar had laughed and smiled when she saw the last few milits’iayi within the town proper come walking forward with their hands extended wide and their rifles laying in the street. She was Mak’ur and one of the almost nonexistent Yath in the south. Her particular arlathil was not a common one—the orbb, known to others as the spider—and so many of even her own people did not know what to make of the two legs tattooed onto each limb or the six other stylized eyes tattooed on her face that saw what her two natural ones could not. Her kind were said to be cautious and wise, the most patient among the Yath.

Disturbing rumors had come from further south. People taken in the night, stripped from their families. The Shalumites’ doing, it was whispered. Eventually, those whispers had made their way to Jaelryn’s ears. Now that she was done with her interrogations of those prisoners—who were being well kept in one of the cellars of the houses, fed and watered despite her natural inclination to kill—she had time and energy to focus on these rumors.

Caution was well and good. She would be most assuredly practicing it in the days to come, but there were times where one could not simply sit idly by. If the Shalumites were as these rumors lead her to believe, she would make them bitterly regret the day they set foot anywhere near Alaverdi. That was how she found herself taking a deep breath here in the square, watched by the gathered eyes of faithful warriors and faithless civilians alike as the new owner of Alaverdi.

“It is done. There will be no more quarrel,” Jaelryn said in a loud, clear, final voice. “Go to your homes, you who are not hunters of men. We have worked our wrath and now it is done. No more Nalayan blood will water the soil of this place. Tend to the wounded, bury the dead. It is done.”

The relief was palpable in the air and people set out to carry out her order, even those who were not technically under her banner. Some among the ku’nal still looked displeased, however. She had not satisfied the gnawing hunger for justice among them wholly. The Shalumites would be a future problem, but there were more pressing problems as she stepped down off the edge of the fountain that still burbled away at the center of town, the damage to its statue—a spirit of the water—largely cosmetic in nature. Surely the sprite didn’t require both arms, Jaelryn reasoned. She would have thought it more humorous had she not had more on her plate.

She crooked a finger at the faintly glowering male yathrin at the center of the group, Navasard. He was a Nava’ai man, which was probably the problem: he felt he had more to prove, which brought him to cruelty. She saw the apprehension flicker to life in his face at her summons. “Yes, Most Revered?” he said respectfully, stepping forward and bowing his head.

“In this battle, you acted with courage,” Jaelryn said. When he started to smile, she was quick to cut it short. “You also acted with cruelty of selfish kind, something that should be well beneath one of the Yath.”

“My anger was righteous, Most Revered,” he protested with widened eyes, clearly feeling the sting of that bite. It didn’t work to appease her. She knew him too well, just as she knew he was not the only one who had committed this particular sin.

“Your anger that these people once mocked you and cast you out? Your demand that your own wounded pride be satisfied by their deaths, this was righteous?” Jaelryn said. Her tone was not scathing—it was carefully measured and calm. She raised her voice so that she would not be misheard. “Listen, all of you! There is no place in this act of devotion we have all surrendered ourselves to for thoughts of vanity and selfishness. There is no place for excess, for cruelty. We are carrying out what is necessity, what is an act of devotion to our brothers and sisters. The divine sees every act. One day, perhaps one day soon or perhaps one day many years from now, we will all be called upon to account for our actions at the feet of the primal and nameless. What does the Linath say? No excuses or deceptions will shield me from wrath if I have done wrong. Words will not save you from the account of what you do—the divine sees all!”

Navasard narrowed his eyes slightly. “The Quarval-sharess—”

“She has called for blood?” Jaelryn said sharply, expecting what he was going to say by way of retort. “Yes, she has. And now the weapons of the wicked have been turned to our purposes, their wielders given over to Death, their blood staining the earth. The divine has its justice from those who have wronged.”

“Every person here played their part, Most Revered,” Navasard snapped even though he knew it was dangerous to use that tone. “How many of them turned a blind eye when our people were assaulted in the streets?”

“And are we to become them?” Jaelryn shot back. “You are all warriors of the holy, divine-sent! You are all held to a higher standard than any other soldiers in this world. I expect you, all of you, to behave as is fitting such instruments of the holy. I expect you to hold to the virtues that were once instilled in you. Some of you came to me as robbers and thieves, yes. Hear me now: you are that no longer! The divine demands better!”

Her audience looked down and away almost as a one, some ashamed by their own actions and others ashamed by their comrades.

“We will soon face an army the likes of which you have never known,” she said. These ku’nal were all either Nava’ai or Arusai or some mix of the two. They were not familiar with invading armies of places beyond Nalaya’s borders the way the Mak’ur and Vatani were. “Shalumi, come down from the north. Among them are creatures less than men, those who bind others to their will with chains of slavery. When they come, when we dig our fangs into their flesh, you will still behave as the righteous. Whatever they are, it does not mean that so too must you be, else we have lost this war! Am I understood?”

The response was a thoroughly chastised, but heart-felt sound of accord from the group. Jaelryn smiled thinly. Now it was time to begin worrying about the Shalumi. The milits’iayi weaponry left by their foes would serve admirable purpose. She was particularly looking forward to use of the incendiary shells. Yes, if these Shalumi were what she thought, they would most certainly come to regret it.

---

The Site of the Murder
Tatev, Nalaya

Nasaqu nodded. “She fetches things for the bu’idu. She returns after now,” she said calmly before sauntering off, barely noted by anyone. Imanalov’ got a strange sort of pass from at least the local people once they were inside of all the security checks. They were generally regarded as harmless, if odd. A few of the Nalayan soldiers themselves were Imanalov’, though many of them had specialized training. Many made excellent snipers, mostly because they had the patience to endure what was often hours of mind-numbing boredom. Others were unflappable medics or engineers. The one place one didn’t generally see them, however, was communications. Even trained Imanalov’ had difficulty abandoning their old ways of speaking.

The offices were not completely abandoned. Some diplomatic corps hopefuls were bent over a shared desk as they studied protocol, a group of three young men of Arusai and Nava’ai descent. They were smoking and drinking coffee as they worked over food and text books, oblivious to the murder investigation currently taking place. During the day they were assistants and aides to the TRC and older diplomatic staff, while the evenings were reserved for their own work. They would be sitting for their exams soon. There was the bespectacled Samuel Hanesian, a dark haired young Nava’ai man with blue Voghjuyn markings on his hands that spoke to a past life handling the dead. Van Kasilian was his best friend and another Diplomatic Corps runner. He looked barely more than seventeen even though he was twenty-five and couldn’t grow a beard to save his life, entirely the fault of the Imanalov’ hint in his largely Arusai ancestry. Perched on the last chair, eating some Quenminhese food his wife had made, was Sahak Indgeyan, Valantin Andzevatsi’s aide. He was a pudgy young man with soulful brown eyes and a ready smile.

All of them were there because they loved their jobs, even if Van and Samuel did live in perpetual envy of Sahak, who got to enjoy Valantin’s good graces. She could be a demanding boss, but that was by virtue of the sheer workload rather than any malice. She trusted her people to do their best and kept her hands fairly removed from Sahak’s work unless he needed or wanted her input. By contrast, their own boss was a busybody and a crotchety old man at that. Kachazor Shareshian wielded by far the most seniority within all of the Diplomatic Corps—he had been working as a negotiator between the warlords for decades before Vaneni had unified the country and made his position official. It was amazing that such a sour man was such an effective liaison, though for the most part he just shuffled paper from his inbox to his outbox these days. There were still Nalayan embassies in other countries that he oversaw, but they were all in a bit of a lurch with the domestic situation as it was.

Their voices carried out into the empty hallways as their conversation strayed away from their studies a bit. “…and now he wants us to create an entirely new filing system from scratch,” Samuel said grimly before shoveling food into his mouth.

“Can we trade bodies, Sahak? Or bosses?” Van asked mournfully.

“You’d get nothing done,” their friend said with amusement. “Siruhi Andzevatsi distracts you already.”

“I have a pulse. Of course I’m distracted,” Van muttered. There was a lot to like there, and he knew he was hardly the only young man in the office who nursed something of a crush on her. “If she wasn’t married…”

“She is,” Sahak pointed out helpfully. “Though I am sorry that you’re stuck with Old Man Mountain.” He heard feet in the hallway and leaned back in his chair. It allowed him to poke his head out to see the Shalumites down the corridor. He returned his seat to its normal position. “Did you see those folks snapping pictures? Looks like they’re still out there.”

“I heard they’re Shalumite RV,” Samuel commented. “Looking into that dead guy.”

Van perked up slightly. “Does that mean they think it’s murder?”

Sahak shrugged. “They must,” he said quietly before lowering his voice further. “I heard someone say it was poison.”

“Sure it wasn’t exposure to Shareshian? I saw him stop and talk to the old man,” Samuel said, adjusting his glasses. “There’s toxicity for you.”

“Focus, guys,” Van said, waving at the books spread out on the desk. “I don’t want to be filing my whole life, which means getting on with this.”

[Syara]

Mijat wasn't one to know much about grand tactics and strategy. Most of his life he had just been a single operative, little more than a cog in a much larger machine that sent him to and fro with little more than a set of orders and the means to carry out the task. Usually it was a rifle or some other weapon. Back alleyways and roads less traveled were something he had experience in, and so he took some odd comfort in knowing that would be his path to his destination.

Mijat didn't know whether he was a good. He had certainly done it before, with great variances in success. When he failed it often times meant blood would have to spilled. Even when his lies were perceived as truth, the end result sometimes remained the same, albeit in a different manner. He accepted the items from Magar, examining them with his own hands, turning it over with his fingers to examine the details. The symbol was foreign to him as were most things in this country, and the letter was as well. Still, their usefulness would probably reveal the backstory to both in due time. Mijat tucked them away safely and awaited further instruction.

When the boy appeared however, Mijat paused for a moment. He couldn't be older than 16, the hints of approaching manhood still overshadowed partially by the remnants of youth. The rifle slung over his shoulder, the color of his skin, the way he talked all serve to bring back sudden rush of memories to the Syaran, few of them pleasant. Crawling through dirt and mud, trying to ignore the sting of insects and the cries of animals, suddenly coming face to face with a young boy. Eyes full of fright and mouth about to unleash an alarm before a reveal of steel across the neck ensured silence.

Mijat suppressed a shudder. He nodded respectfully to the boy and went over a few finer details with Magar before bidding him farewell and thanking him for his hospitality. To the boy he said simply "Lead the way." When he was ready a few minutes later.

[Shalum]

With the Shalumite Alpine Detachment
10 km North of Siunik, Nalaya

Colonel Stevens nodded in affirmation, and paused to glance over his shoulder and towards the encampment where his warriors were waiting patiently, before he returned his gaze to Kella and her officers. “Certainly, that won’t be a problem. I have a couple of ETACs around here on loan from the Imperial Air Force ready to go, I’ll just need to have them fetched,” he replied and nodded. Secretly, he was actually happy to send them into the fray, forward air controllers were known for being solider frontline soldiers-- they had to be given the situations they were often thrown into. Much like high ranking officers, they were often the target of enemy troops, given the kind of power that they had at their disposal.

“Securing the munitions and weapons undamaged are number one priorities, Arzhani,” Stevens went on crisply. As much as he would have loved to roll out the big guns, he knew that it wasn’t something that was simply done. There was more at stake here than simply conquering a city, they needed its contents as well. “My troops are going to be told to use extreme prejudice with any heavy weapons they deploy, we want to ensure as little destruction as possible,” he said seriously. Of course, if something were to happen to those weapons, it would be his head that Rikker would drop the punishment on.

“I’ll pass that along then. Gunships will likely launch a little before we move out, since they need time to fly down here from Tatev. At worst, they’ll divert to the advance airfield we’ve established to wait on further orders.” He added after a moment. Stevens was really hoping the Mi-24V’s would get their chance to shine, they were truly beasts of destruction when allowed to unleash their full payloads.

Glancing over, the Shalumite colonel studied the newly arrived Kaliq curiously for a moment. He was a respectable looking man at first glance, with the crispness that one like himself liked to see in troops, even down to the cleanly cared for facial hair. As a general rule, in comparison, the average Shalumite soldier didn’t have facial hair. They were young, and it didn’t necessarily jive with the strict rules of soldiery conduct and appearance. Everyone was expected to have a certain uniformity to them, and personal preferences such as hairstyles were rarely matching. “Pleasure to meet you, Paron Ridwan. Colonel Joseph Stevens of the 7th Mountain Infantry Division at your service,” he greeted with a pleasant tone, and outstretched his hand to formally shake.

Respectfully silent, the Shalumite commander observed to the back and forth between Faliq and Kella, hands clasped behind his back. Early in life, he had learned from his father that one could learn more by listening than they could speaking, and the military had refined him into a rather patient creature. Not to mention, he was genuinely interested in what this scout leader had to say. His own recon troops had not reported in yet; given their imposed radio silences, and he’d considered it a waste of resources to send up a drone to conduct scouting missions just yet.

Finally, a grin creased Steven’s lips, and he nodded. “I think I could scrounge up a few soldiers for such an operation, Paron. In fact, I’ve already had some of my scouts probind around Siunik for the last couple of hours, but we haven’t really heard back from them yet. From what I understand, they’ve been practicing a something of a radio silence so far. Just give the word, and I can have them recalled back to base so that they can help your men out with playing deejay,” he chuckled.

Glancing back over at Kella, he added. “I will let my men know that we’re going to be holding tight for now. Give them some extra time to rest, change their own perimeter guard shifts, and even work in an extra meal before the battle gets underway. As to those enemy tanks, if they happen to have any, I can send in my own armored forces to counter them. Alternatively, Shalum has been using a cheap, single-shot rocket-propelled grenade recently that are quite effective. We have crates of them sitting around. I am sure we could pass some out to your men,” he smiled at her. What harm was there in sharing resources with a key ally, afterall?

---

Quellarin Syr’thaeryl
Maerimydra, Nalaya

For all intents and purposes, Joan was dead to the world as she nestled her body in the space between the cozy blankets and comfortable mattress underneath. After so many days on the run, with little in the way of opportunity to rest; much less eat and relieve oneself, it was understandable that she was exhausted. Not even the energy to twitch in her sleep, though by the time Sabal had awoken, the female justicar had shifted somewhat consciously.

She had gone from her back to the yathallar, to her arms and legs wrapped around one of the pillows she had been sleeping on earlier. On the other pillow she had been provided, her head rested precariously on the edge of it. Her lips were parted, and dribbling down the side of her chin was a small amount of saliva that had begun to soak into the fabric. When the Mak’ur woman extracted herself from the bed, the Shalumi didn’t so much as stir. She was still fast asleep, and would be for some time more.

When Joan finally did come to, the process of emerging from bed was a slow one. With a groan, she slowly pushed the covers away, and sat upright. Unsurprisingly, her eyes did not want to cooperate, and she spent a good few moments rubbing the sleep away from them, brushing the crust away and mutter incoherent words under her breath. Licking her lips, she grimaced in distaste. She had been, and likely always would be, a mouth breather. A major downside was that she normally woke up with a nasty taste in her mouth that wouldn’t go away till she downed a glass or two of water, and brushed her teeth for good measure.

Though she knew it was in vain, Joan couldn’t help but glance around the room for a moment, eyes searching for a clock. She wasn’t able to locate one, but didn’t let it bother her too much, it was safe to assume that she had been asleep for quite some time. She wouldn’t have been surprised if it turned out she was the last one to awake. “Time to face the music,” she muttered to herself, sliding out of bed. Joan was keen enough to pull on her purple sari again before she trekked over to the door. While it wasn’t much, she wanted to be as presentable as possible-- she was a representative of Shalum and the Council of Christ, or so she had been told many months ago upon departure from the Empire.

Stepping into the common room, the redhead blinked at the sight. She had been expecting Pella and Sabal, certainly, but not this new man who was drinking...wine with the rest of them. “Ah, hello,” she smiled in the way of greeting, tone perhaps still a bit sleepy. While it didn’t bother her in the least, she wondered how she appeared to them, hair ruffled and undershirt ruffled from sleep.

“How long was I out?” She couldn’t help but ask as she entered the room, immediately making her way to the nearest unoccupied seat. Looking over at Ryld, her smile turned sheepish. “Ah, my apologies, I didn’t mean to be rude. Justicar,” she paused for a moment in thought. “Joan Couturier dal Henry at your service, Paron,” she said respectfully. Bowing her head to him for a moment, she straightened up, her eyes looking over the other two women in the room, as well as the glasses of wine on the table.

It wasn’t long before the other two justicars emerged from their room, looking just as sleepy-eyed as Joan had. It wasn’t hard to miss the way Michael walked slower than Faisal did, putting more weight on his left leg and doing his best to not grimace whenever he used right. “What happened to you?” Joan questioned with a raised eyebrow as she surveyed her brother-in-arms.

“Ah,” Michael grunted out as he entered the room. Quickly finding a seat, he eased himself down. “Fell out of bed. Woke up to a damn charlie horse,” he replied back more properly as he began to rub at his calf in the hopes of easing the tension there.

“It was kinda funny,” Faisal couldn’t help but say. Try as he might, the de jure leader of the justicars couldn’t help but smile a bit in bemusement for a moment.

Michael just rolled his eyes, and turned his attention to the rest of the group. It was only now that he realized that they had one more person more than he had been expecting to find. Straightening up to a more formal stance -at least as much as he could muster in his sore state- he regarded Ryld with a formal looking. “Ah, hello there, Paron.” He said with a nod of the head, trying to sound more formal.

---

The Duel
Sissak, Nalaya

It took quite some effort on James’ part to stay erect, every breath he took sounding more labored, and each exhale sounding pained. His body ached and hurt in more places than he even thought was possible. Both his chest and arms warm with blood, a mix of both his own and the now deceased Norazn. He could still feel in many places where he had been punched and kicked during the melee, hard strikes that would certainly leave bruises.

Atop of all that, however, there was the undeniable fact that he -James Blackburn- had just ended the life of another human being. He had simply cut down a man on his knees, unarmed and badly injured, without even attempting to figure out if there was another way to avoid this. One of the more horrifying thoughts among the many others that swirled in his mind, was whether or not the man had any children. Surely he couldn’t have been much older than James was, and it was very well possible that the man had a wife and children out there somewhere. The very notion that he could have had orphaned children was...horrifying, to say the very least.

Tearing his eyes away from the lifeless body of his opponent on the ground, James focused on the man’s second again. He was almost grateful for the distraction the man provided him. <Ah, thank you, Paron. I will make sure to inform my own men of the new developments,>> he managed to get out. Though he really didn’t realize it, one hand was still tightly gripping the dueling sword, as if his very life depended on it. Slowly bowing his head in respect, James returned the sentiment. <<And the same to you, Paron. Go with God,>> he replied.

It was as if all he could hear was the sound of his own breaths as he stood there, bloodied, and gripping the weapon he had just used to slay a man in cold blood. His brown eyes, normally warm and full of life, seemed darker and even glazed over now as he watched the other Nava’ai men carry their fallen leader back to the confines of the mosque. He wasn’t certain how long he stood there, but apparently it was long enough to cause one of his own soldiers to slowly approach him. “Sir, are you alright sir?” The young lance corporal asked, voice concerned as he placed a gloved hand on James’ shoulder.

General Blackburn’s reaction was belated, as he turned his head to gaze over at the trooper. Swallowing, he slowly shook his head, momentarily altering the course of the trickle that came down his forehead, caught at the eyebrow, and flowed just off to the side of his right eye. “Not really, no,” he admitted to the trooper. “I don’t feel too hot.”

“You don’t look it either, general.” The corporal replied back, looking James up and down a couple of times. He grimaced at the apparent nastiness of some of the wounds. Without asking permission, he gently eased an arm up the general’s free one, supporting him though it was likely the commander could walk back under his own power. Better safe than sorry though, especially if he were to go into shock. “Come on sir, let’s get you to a medic,” he said as he turned them back towards the side of the city square that the Shalumites had set up at. “Er, can I take that for you?” The corporal asked after a beat, glancing down at the sword still clutched in James’ hand.

“Uh,” James paused to look down at the weapon. It was covered in blood, all of it being his opponents. Part of him considered simply dropping it where he stood, but from an objective standpoint, it was a beautiful piece that didn’t deserve to be simply left on the ground. Perhaps it could even be considered historical, not that James’ muddled mind cared that much at this very moment. “Sure, here,” he finally said, passing the weapon to the awaiting corporal.

As it turned out, the rest of the Shalumite soldiers were not quite content to simply sit back and wait for their commander to be brought back to them. As quickly as they had set up, the members of the Battlefield Media company packed away the few pieces of gear that they had brought along. Though they had witnessed a man die before their very eyes, some part of both war correspondents seemed pleased with the footage they had gotten.

Meanwhile, the other soldiers had packed away what gear they had, apparently trying to make enough room to lay the commander down on the floor of the Puma comfortably. They were lucky that among them, was a proper combat medic. The wounds James had suffered probably exceeded the basic medical care training that each soldier got during boot camp.

“Make a hole guys,” the medic grunted as he hurriedly popped open his kit. Once they had gotten James properly laid out, and everyone back on-board the vehicle, they had told the driver to get them to the nearest field hospital as soon as possible. Shit, that is a lot of goddamn lacerations. the medic thought as another soldier tore away James’ shirt so that that had less things to work around. “Don’t worry, sir, you’re going to be just fine.”

“I better fucking be,” James groaned as he stared up at the plain metal roof of the armored personnel carrier. He could only grimace in silence as they raced down city streets, bumpy and broken from fighting that had taken place here the day before. As they hit one particularly bad spot, James made a pitiful sound, and immediately clutched his stomach. “Shit, think I am going to be sick…”

“Anyone have a spare helmet?” The medic asked hurriedly, really hoping to prevent any further mess. It was only in the nick of time that he got what he was asking for, before the sounds of retching filled the enclosed cabin. “Goddamnit,” he could only curse, getting back to work sterilizing wounds and doing what he could to make James more comfortable. He was going to need a proper medical team to be put back together, that much was for certain.

While James was being rushed to the field hospital, all across the city, Shalumite positions suddenly fell silent, weapons being lowered and soldiers nervously observing enemy controlled positions. During the time of the duel itself, orders had been passed around the front to engage the enemy only in self-defense, and to never advanced beyond their defense lines. Begrudgingly, the Imperial soldiers had acknowledged this order, and had carried it out to the best of their abilities.

Of course, it was not as if all of the battles simply ended during that time, the enemy was too decentralized to pass that kind of ceasefire-like message to, and none of the Shalumite soldiers were brave enough to leave their positions and inform the enemy that they did not want to fight while diplomacy was handled elsewhere by their commanders.

So, once the outcome of the duel was confirmed across all the military radio channels, the Shalumite forces scaled back, with the hopes that the enemy would honor the agreement and do the same. A few more daring soldiers crept out of their defensive positions and waved at the enemy insurgents, informing them that it was safe for them to fall back. Contrary to the popular belief of people like the Acreans and Azzies, not even the Shalumites were dirty enough to shoot them in the backs as they retreated, though some may have half-heartedly contemplated the idea of putting the wayward Nalayan insurgent here or there down as they pulled back.

Some time passed before there was any more action, at least on the part of the 13th Expeditionary Brigade. While many of the Shalumite soldiers had been surprised to learn of General Blackburn’s actions, and the consequences that would come of them, it almost all sounded too good to be true. No one was quite convinced that the Nava’ai forces would simply pull back if their commander was to perish, not with the kind of advantages they had on their side as a skilled insurgent force. Yet, against expectations, it appeared that they were.

It wasn’t until orders came down from General Malcomson himself, which stated that they were clear to subdue the city in a peaceful manner, that the Imperial forces slowly began to push into the city once more. They moved both on foot, and in the safety of their armored vehicles, hands tightly gripping their weapons as they swept city streets. Block by block, they began to take control of the city, unnerved by just how simple it had become. Earlier they had been fighting for every square inch, but now the loudest sound was that of the rumbly, heavy diesel engines of their vehicles.

While many units worked their way through the city at a cautious, there were other groups that were much more frantic, racing to one location or another. Among them were the men and women of 2nd Battalion, who belonged to the 41st Infantry regiment. The moment he had been able to think clearly enough, they ended up personally dispatched by General Blackburn to ensure the safety of Samaa’i Mosque and those inside.

Along with them were personnel from the 52nd Independent Medical and the 20th Special Troops Battalion, whose medical teams were already sufficiently tasked as they were, but were not about to shy away from the humanitarian needs of the city. While the armed soldiers ensured that the mosque’s perimeter was secure, the medics and what translators that were present stood ready to handle any wounded there may have been in the mosque. Given the prior fighting, they expected there to be many, and had the necessary trucks available to get the worst off to the field hospital just south of town. They had heard of a hospital not far away from the religious complex, but had not located it yet.

---

The Gate of Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

In all honesty, Ilharn Rikker had not been expecting the yochlol to accept his counter stipulations. While they may have seemed fair to him, it was Nadal and his faction that were in the more advantageous of positions, at least for the moment. While they may not have been the best armed, they certainly hard a fair amount of manpower, backed up by a fierce zeal that not even the greatest of generals could hope to muster in the hearts of their warriors. A truly respectable force to fight, all things considered.

Masking the surge of surprise and relief that rose up from the pit of his stomach, the Shalumi leader nodded slowly, and returned the faint smile with one of his own. It was a genuine one, pleased of the result, but he didn’t dare to grin unless the other man didn’t. “That is good to hear, Most Honored. Hopefully the Ilharn and Ilharess find it acceptable as well. And you are quite fascinating man yourself, Yochlol Nadal.” He replied back, dipping his head again in respect to the older man.

Titling his head to follow the gaze of Nadal, the Shalumite colonel spied the quartet of civilian looking figures that had momentarily gotten his attention earlier. It did not seem as if they had moved an inch since the last time he had gazed upon them, and he figured they were likely just trying to get a better view of the big shots whose hands the fate of Tatev lied in. He couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow when Nadal said that they should engage these strangers in conversation, but it was a request that he saw no reason to really decline either. He had spent hours upon end talking over the last couple of days, what would another ten or twenty minutes hurt. “Of course, just give me a moment to get one of my troopers sorted out to fetch Hramatar Narekatsi.”

Rikker was only away for a few moments, stepping out of the social zone around Nadal as he grasped the radio that was clipped to his belt. In short order, he got the attention of one of his lower ranking officers, and had that man dispatch a runner to fetch the Dragon herself. Apparently she had been in the office spaces, reportedly chewing out Hramatar Bagrunti for one reason or another, and no one had seen her leave the area. They suspected she was there, and that was where the runner would start his search for her. Returning to Nadal, the Shalumite colonel eyed the unknown people again. “Do you happen to know who these people are, by chance?” He asked curiously. As a man that worked up in Annu, the yochlol’s guess was as good as his own.

As this went on, a Shalumite runner quickly navigated the interior of Miak Amrots’ in search of the infamous Dragon. He had only seen her on one occasion, when her people had first arrived at Tatev, but he figured that she wouldn’t be hard to find. When he finally did come across the woman, he immediately snapped a salute. She was much more presentable looking than he remembered her being, but that wasn’t the issue at hand. “Hramatar Narekatsi,” he declared formally. “Colonel Rikker is requesting your attention in the courtyard, ma’am. Apparently something has been worked out with a visiting...yochlol, but they need your confirmation first before they go forward with anything.” He declared formally, young and alert eyes focused on her.

---

The Site of the Murder
Tatev, Nalaya

No one was quite certain what their little monk had in mind, but they figured that whatever she had in mind was likely a little on the odd side, given how the rest of the day had gone so far. It was decided that it would be best to let her handle things herself, the Imanalov’ always seemed to mean well at heart. Arnold decided that he would remain at the actual scene of the murder, or at least where the body had been found, taking photos and doing what little was possible to gain information. This left agents Malcolm Henderson and Dara Jaworski to poke around the offices of the remaining diplomatic staff. Not a bad combination to work with: an attractive female agent, backed up by a more brawler looking type of man.

It took a few minutes before the pair of agents stumbled across the trio around the desk, due to the fact that they wanted to poke around every office in the area. They wanted to make sure that no one present could slip through the cracks. “Looks like we’ve got something here, three Nalayan males,” Malcolm explained to Dara as he peeked into the room. He sounded more professional than he had all day. Reaching up, he knocked on the open door a couple of times, before he pushed it open the rest of the way. “Excuse me gentlemen, I hate to bother you all, but may my partner and I speak to you for a few moments?”

He actually let Dara enter the office first, considering it a moment of chivalry in his own mind. The fair skinned female agent gave the three men a faint smile, pulling up her BDU shirt in a way to show off both the badge and sidearm clipped to her belt, as well as hinting at her toned abdomen. “I am Dara Jaworski, and this is Malcolm Henderson,” she said as she glanced at her partner. “We’re with the Imperial Army Criminal Investigation Command,” she explained. It was the long way of calling herself a member of the military police.

Clearing her throat, she looked around for a moment. Taking in the sights of food boxes and paperwork, classic signs of office drones like their poor victim. “We are currently looking into the death of Paron Tsavagian, and were wondering if any of you happened to know anything about that, or had any information that could assist us in our investigation.” She explained, cocking one hip to the side slightly as she looked at them.

[Esperance International]

Near the Gate of Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

Tran Thi Xuan waited with her colleagues, and watched the meeting between Rikker and Nadal.

She could not actually hear what was said, of course; the Esperancers had retreated beyond earshot of the two men’s conversation. But Xuan had represented Esperance International for almost fifteen years, and in three countries. She had gotten pretty good at discerning body language, even from a distance.

There was the yochlol: an enormous man with greying hair, powerfully muscled, clad only in a gold-patterned wrap of crimson cloth. His skin swirled with silver and green tattoos of holy script. His lips moved calmly and unwaveringly, and there was a kind of rooted predatory stillness to him that reminded Xuan of a tiger laying in wait.

There was Rikker: another huge man, broader than the yochlol, with the rigid posture of a lifelong soldier. He barely blinked, and never broke eye contact; Xuan thought that she could almost sense his muscles vibrating with controlled intensity. He spoke for a long time, and he seemed to relax a little as he went; at one point he managed a ghoulish grin, and later he glanced up as if searching the heavens for inspiration.

Hera fidgeted. Aileen scanned the perimeter. Kapriel sat in his wheelchair, his breathing shallow and even.

Ultimately, the yochlol smiled slightly, and Rikker seemed to relax. Xuan leaned toward Hera, stood on her tiptoes to whisper in the Nalayan’s ear, and said: “They just agreed on something.”

Before Hera could reply, Nadal inclined his head toward the four Esperancers and barked: “Come.” There was instant authority in his voice, tempered with respect. Xuan felt her feet move almost of their own accord.

“Okay, then,” Aileen muttered under her breath. “About time.”

The little group moved quickly forward into the courtyard; Aileen’s long strides put her a few paces ahead, while Xuan kept pace with Hera and Kapriel. The Security Force captain gave the courtyard a brief, professional survey and then gave Kapriel a tiny nod.

The office chief’s weary brown eyes moved from Rikker to Nadal and back. “Colonel Rikker. Most Honored.” Kapriel drew himself up a little straighter; he spoke in English for Rikker’s benefit, fluently and with the slightly Schottic accent of New Prospect rather than the lilt of Nalaya. “Thank you for seeing me. My name is Kapriel Maksudian. I am the head of Esperance International’s Tatev Office. These are my colleagues: Tran Thi Xuan and Hera Padrakouni of the Mediation and Diplomacy Commission, and Aileen Cananach of the Security Force.” Hera bowed, and Xuan somewhat awkwardly followed suit; Aileen gave a professional nod.

“We have received instructions from Sevan,” Kapriel continued, “to facilitate the evacuation of civilians from Tatev if fighting becomes immanent.” The office chief waved a deformed hand. “This city may have strategic importance, but its population does not; you do not need them, and if they are still here when the shooting starts, then they will die for no good reason at all.”

“So I have come to ask for your help in protecting the people of Tatev,” the office chief concluded. “We cannot care for them without you. We need to know what your plans are for this city. And if those plans include battle, then we need your help in ensuring that thousands of innocent lives are not destroyed.”

---

Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

Drada gave the gate serzhant a nod and a polite smile. “Thank you,” she said, and walked quickly into the fortress.

If learning to notice was an important part of any Esperance investigator’s job, so was learning to filter. Drada deliberately ignored the half-open doors, the plastic-sheathed maps streaked with oil pencil, the urgent conversations overheard in tantalizing incompleteness. People lived their lives shouting their sins to high heaven, and so did institutions and governments and armies. But Drada had learned a long time ago that if you tried to investigate everything at once, one of two things would happen. You would break yourself, or the world would break you on its own.

Just look at Kapriel.

So Drada kept walking, quickly and determinedly, until she rounded a corner near the offices of the Truth and Reconciliation Committee and saw what she was looking for at last. Three Shalumi, two men and one woman. They all wore military uniforms, and they certainly looked like soldiers; one man was genuinely huge, while the other was smaller but heavily muscled, and the woman appeared just as tough as either of them. But there was something more to them: the fluid way they shifted their weight when they moved, the constant tracking motion of their eyes. Drada leaned casually into the shadow of a doorway, and watched, and noticed.

These were no simple soldiers, no matter what their uniforms claimed. There was something rotten afoot for certain.

Drada kept her position in the doorway, knowing that the foreigners would see her watching and not particularly caring. She saw a little and heavily robed figure accompanying the Shalumi, just as the gossip had claimed: an Igigi monk. As Drada watched, the monk turned to her companions and announced: “She fetches things for the bu’idu. She returns after now.”

Drada almost chuckled. Fetching things on behalf of ghosts. If that wasn’t the most Imanalov’ explanation possible, the investigator didn’t know what was. It simultaneously made complete, obvious sense and no sense at all.

The Shalumi more-than-soldiers were obviously standing in the middle of a crime scene, though two of them left after a moment; Drada heard them asking questions in a nearby office, and she caught the words “Imperial Army Criminal Investigation Command,” and “Tsavagian.” At the feet of their remaining colleague were a few scattered notes scrawled in mostly illegible handwriting, and a chalk outline of a fallen body. From the size of the outline, Drada was pretty sure that the victim had been a man.

The location of the crime scene was interesting. If the place of death were in public, in the middle of the hallway, then a lot of possible causes of death suddenly became improbable. The killing would need to have been silent and swift. That meant a knife, up close, which was only possible in the press of a crowd. Or it meant poison, either fast-acting – if it were administered by a pinprick in the crowd – or slower-acting, if it were administered orally or dermically some time earlier.

Drada’s pale eyes flickered over a tiny spot of dried blood on the wall, about six feet from the floor. The victim had cracked his head on the stones. So he had collapsed, his fall uncontrolled. So the murder weapon was probably not a knife, then; a man knows damn well when he has been knifed, and he tries to control his fall. Uncontrolled collapse suggested sudden, overwhelming surprise. And that meant that the pain the victim felt had not been commensurate to the effect upon his body. He had not realized that he was dying.

That sounded a lot like poison to Drada.

So: a man had been poisoned in the heart of Miak Amrots’ so that he died in full public view. The mere fact that the victim had been in the fortress suggested that he was some kind of government employee, which meant that the killing was almost certainly targeted. And within hours of the event, three Shalumi spooks had showed up and started what looked like a highly unconventional investigation of their own. That suggested that the victim had some kind of underworld or intelligence connection, because why else would the Shalumi care?

And in Nalaya, “underworld” and “intelligence” meant one and the same thing: the Unkndirnei.

I knew that something was rotten here.

Finally, as for the monk from the mountains? Well, not even Drada’ observational skills could provide an explanation for that.

Her scrutiny complete, Drada detached herself from the doorway where she had been leaning, and she strode quickly down the corridor toward the Shalumite who had stayed at the crime scene. The investigator paused outside the limit of the crime scene – she hadn’t received permission to disturb the scene, though she wondered whether the Shalumites had been cleared to do so either – and she produced her cordovan-bound credentials, with the golden eye of the Commission of Inquiry prominently displayed.

“My name is Drada a’Nadros,” the lean Mak’ur woman announced, her voice brisk but quiet enough to keep any nearby office workers from overhearing her. “I am a human rights investigator for the Esperance International Commission of Inquiry. I am here looking into the death by poison earlier today of a gentleman connected to the Unkndirnei.” Drada cocked her head and kept her eyes on Arnold; her gaze was calm and unwavering. “I think that it is not too great a stretch to assume that you are here for the same reason. If you are prepared to be as honest with me as I have thus far been with you, then I think we may be able to help each other.”

[Esperance International]

Ayrum Village
Nalaya

For a long moment, Parouhi Kenosian stood stock-still and said nothing. Medzarents’ sunken eyes held her motionless, breathless, possessed. There was Hell in them, and there was nothing at all. Abruptly, the young teacher felt the bottom drop out of her world, and she realized that she had known this feeling before.

She had felt thus when her parents had died.

It was really happening, then. The war was back.

As she had all those years ago, Mayda recovered first. The elder sister gave a single, jerky nod and said: “Water. We can do that.”

Mayda turned away and started walking toward the center of town. Eric hurried after her, and his long legs soon brought him abreast of the shorter Arusai woman. “Mayda,” Eric murmured, “we do not have enough water in this village to support that number of people.”

Mayda shook her head. “Dig another well.”

“We’re on a ridgeline. The only well we have is two hundred years old and goes down thirty meters to reach the water table. It’s not possible.”

Mayda stopped walking. “Find the water, Eric,” she said flatly. “We don’t have another option.”

Eric shook his head despairingly and stared at the heavens as if searching for inspiration. And then his eyes alighted on something high up on the mountain to the slopes of which Ayrum clung, something that gleamed like quicksilver in the dawn light. And as he looked at that glimmer, Eric cocked his head, and then he nodded slowly.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I can do this. But I’ll need help.”

"All you have to do is ask," Mayda told him.

Eric nodded, cracked his knuckles, and hurried off.

Mayda turned to Parouhi and Ari; Madteos had already vanished into the crowd. “I need to start doing triage here, but by tonight, we’re going to need to be able to shelter and feed these people.”

Parouhi glanced out over the sea of refugees, and swallowed hard at that prospect. Ari chuckled nervously, but nodded. “Yeah. Sure. Okay. I’ll see about shelter, then.”

Mayda glanced at her sister. “Pari?”

“Food.” Parouhi nodded. “I’ll do what I can.”

Mayda nodded in return. Parouhi saw her square her shoulders a little. The teacher grabbed Mayda's hand and searched for something to say. Mayda smiled and squeezed her little sister’s hand, just a little.

Parouhi took a deep breath, and got to work.

* * *

From that point on, the five Esperancers barely saw each other for the rest of the day. Mayda ran back to her clinic and retrieved a wheelbarrow-load of medical supplies, pausing only to hammer on the door of the local Voghjuyn shaman to tell him to paint the runes on his hands and meet her at the village center as quickly as possible. Then she dragged her equipment back to where she had met Medzarents, and she knelt in front of the young man.

“Paron, I understand that you want time to rest and time to grieve, and I want to give you both, but I cannot. Unless you help me, many people here will have far more cause to grieve in the days to come.” Mayda hauled on a pair of nitrite gloves. “I am a doctor. I need to know who in this crowd has ever had any medical training, or worked in a hospital, or even been a veterinarian. We need to triage the wounded today, and hopefully before noon, or a lot of people who could have been saved aren’t going to get treatment in time.”

Mayda didn’t say that, without a hospital, the only purpose of triage was to avoid wasting time on hopeless cases. She didn’t have to. Her face was set as stone and bleak as winter.

The doctor handed Medzarents a bottle of distilled water from her medical supplies. “Drink up, and then find me anyone who knows enough medicine to help.” Mayda flopped down on the ground next to Arshaluys and began briefly assessing the young woman’s condition; Mayda’s practiced fingers moved Arshaluys gently, searching for signs of bone fractures and internal bleeding and traumatic brain injury. “I’ll look after her,” Mayda promised Medzarents. “Now go!”

Meanwhile, Ari ben Oved had an idea. He too returned to Mayda’s clinic, but only to unhitch one of the two mules that Eric used to drag supplies to and from the bridge side. Leading the mule, Ari squeezed through the crowd of refugees, muttering: “Pardon. Excuse me. Thank you so much.” He trudged down the two kilometers of dirt switchbacks that led down the mountain to the site of Eric’s precious bridge. There, Ari found the bridge itself: half-finished, and swathed – along with the stones and girders yet to be used – in a dozen huge tarpaulins, each ten meters by ten meters.

Ari rubbed the back of his neck. “Eric is going to kill me,” he told the silent streambed – and then flinched, for his voice sounded very loud, and hadn’t Madteos said that Shalumite soldiers had passed within a hundred yards of this place?

Well, there was no point in leaving the tarpaulins for the Shalumi, now was there? “Sorry, Eric,” Ari muttered. He grabbed the first rough sheet of fabric and, after a great deal of trial and error, managed to get it folded into a rough cube about four feet square. Ari grabbed the folded tarp and, with a wheezing grunt of effort, wrestled it onto the mule’s back.

Panting, he rested for a moment. The mule watched him. It looked amused. Ari waved a thin arm. “Oh, go to Hell, Shoshanna.”

It took two trips up and down the mountain and another three hours of makeshift construction involving laundry lines, fenceposts, carpenter’s nails, and twine, but by just before noon, Ari had managed to hang tarpaulins over what looked like a kilometer of relatively grassy pasture near the edge of town. In many places, the tarpaulins sagged until they were only four feet above the ground, but at least the black fabric radiated heat in the chilly Highland weather, and there was enough covered space for fifty people to lie down – albeit crowdedly – under each tarp. In total, it was temporary shelter for about five hundred people.

“It’s not much,” Ari told the mule, “but it’ll keep the weather off, right?”

The mule glanced significantly back at Ayrum, where the refugees packed the village streets so thickly that they barely had room to stand.

Five hundred beds’ worth of shelter wasn’t going to be remotely enough.

“Well, shit,” Ari muttered. And with that, he grabbed the mule’s halter and hurried back into town.

Elsewhere again, Parouhi was rummaging about in the cellar beneath Mayda’s clinic. The four Esperancers had agreed always to keep as large a food surplus on hand as possible; the uncertainty of farming and herding meant that it was always possible for the village to end up on the edge of starvation. Now, Parouhi carefully inventoried the available food, and came to a stunning and inescapable conclusion.

To keep the refugees from starving, the Esperancers were going to have to cook their entire food reserve in about two days. And that didn’t even begin to touch upon the question of how to prepare that much food that quickly.

Nevertheless, Parouhi did what she could. She spent the morning hauling sacks of barley and dried peas, and tubs of yoghurt, and bales of plastic-wrapped lavash up to the ground floor of the clinic and stacking them just out of sight of the street; while Parouhi did not want to believe that the refugees would steal from Esperance International, she couldn’t blame them if they did.

People who were starving and desperate had to be judged by different rules. It was a lesson that the world had taught Parouhi at an early age, and then the world had taught it to her again and again and again for good measure. She wasn’t likely to forget it now.

Once all of the available food had been moved upstairs from the cellar, Parouhi paused, took a long drink from her canteen, and asked the empty clinic: “Now how am I going to cook this?”

The answer seemed obvious: not by myself.

For his part, Eric had followed a narrow shepherd’s trail about a kilometer up the mountainside south of the village until the trail intersected Ayrum’s stream above the village. Here, far upstream of the site of Eric’s bridge, the creek’s water was clear and fast-moving, bubbling and shimmering as it ran over smooth stones.

Eric turned to face down the mountain, and held out his arm like a surveyor with an invisible plumb line. He tracked a path, switchbacking here and there, down a narrow defile that began near the stream and that ended in a patch of low-lying scrub on the outskirts of the village.

“That will work,” Eric muttered. He turned back to the stream. “Dam here – water will run down there – clear the brush at the bottom and build a stone wall to hold the water in. Aqueduct and reservoir. Yeah.” Eric nodded again and smiled. “Yeah, that will work.”

The Shalumite dusted off his hands and hurried back down into the village. There, he found Parouhi and Ari speaking in urgent, hushed voices in front of Mayda’s clinic.

“Two days?” Ari was saying. “We thought that we had stockpiled enough food to feed this village for at least a week!”

“We’re not just feeding the village anymore,” Parouhi replied. “And I’m not even sure how to cook the food we’ve got. We don’t have the facilities, the equipment.”

Ari nodded wearily. “I get it. I took the tarps from Eric’s bridge – “

“What?” Eric demanded.

Ari was too tired to jump. “Oh, hi, Eric. Yeah, sorry about that. I needed them for a shelter. But it turns out, they’re barely going to cover a tenth of the people we’ve got here.” Ari shook his head. “I have no clue how to provide shelter for the rest.”

Parouhi rubbed at her forehead. “We can talk to the villagers, try to get them to take in some of the refugees as house guests.” She glanced at Eric. “Where are we going to get water?”

Eric pointed up the mountain. “See that defile running down from the stream to the briar patch south of town? I think I can dam the stream so that it runs right down that gully into the village, and turn the briar patch into a reservoir. We’ll drink the stream dry eventually, but it buys us a few months, maybe even a year.”

“We’re not going to be here for a year,” Ari said reflexively. Parouhi just closed her eyes and shook her head, too tired to pretend optimism.

“I need manpower to build the dam and clear the reservoir, though,” Eric added. “A lot of hands. And I don’t know where to find them.”

“Then you’re an idiot.” Madteos appeared out of the clinic, now wearing body armor and carrying an EA6 battle rifle. The Security Force sergeant jerked his head in the direction of the surrounding crowds of refugees. “Thousands of people just showed up in town with nothing to do, and you’re worried about manpower to build a dam? Or to construct shelters? Or to cook lunch?” Madteos shook his head and turned to Parouhi. “Do you know what was the first thing your sister did this morning?”

Parouhi shook her head. "I don't remember."

“She started trying to find medically-trained refugees.” Madteos looked hard at Parouhi, then Ari, then Eric. “We are never going to be able to do this alone. We are only going to be able to do this with help. It is not our job to save these people. It’s our job to help them save themselves.”

The three aid workers stared at their boots. “Right,” Ari muttered after a moment.

“Okay.” Madteos jerked his head. “Follow me. I think I’ve spotted someone who might be able to get you the help you need.”

* * *

Five minutes later, Parouhi and Ari and Eric had followed Madteos through the crowd until they arrived in front of a big man, dressed only in a wrap of dark cloth about his hips. He was bleeding from a dozen small wounds, and his head was shaved, and his face was tattooed with the image of a serpent in red and black ink. Around him was a cluster of men and women carrying rifles.

Parouhi suddenly understood why Madteos had gotten out his body armor and his EA6. Ari gave a very forced smile and whispered: “This is so not where I had hoped this was going.”

Madteos inclined his head politely to Ildan. “Most Revered. Welcome to Ayrum. I am Sergeant Madteos Demirian of the Esperance International Security Force. My colleagues have spent the morning trying to provide for your people, but have predictably found that they cannot do so without help. They’re here to ask for your assistance.” With that brusque introduction, Madteos stepped to one side and nodded at Parouhi.

Trying to appear less worried than she was, Parouhi stepped forward. “My name is Parouhi Kenosian. I am trying to feed everyone,” she explained. “We have enough food on hand to provide for you for two days, but I need help to cook it: I think the only way to feed this many people is to dig big cooking pits lined with coals and use them as ovens. I need – I think I need about twenty or twenty-five people to help with that. If you can find them, I can get everyone a hot meal by nightfall.”

Eric was next. “Eric Holzmann. I’m trying to provide water. There’s a stream near here – you crossed it when you arrived. Its source is above the village, up the mountain. I think I can dam it and divert its course down into the village to give us enough fresh water for everyone, at least for a while. But I need a lot of hands to do it. A hundred would be good. As many as you can find, basically.” Eric nodded with what he hoped was professionalism, and stepped back.

Ari was last. “I’m Ari ben Oved, from Menassa. I’m working on shelter. I found enough tarps to keep the weather off about five hundred people, and the old and the sick and your children can go there now – I set up the tarps in the pasture near the olive grove west of the village. But we are going to have to find other ways to shelter everyone else. If you have any ideas, I would definitely like to hear them.”

“Oh!” Parouhi said suddenly. “And my sister is looking for people with medical training to help her triage and treat the sick and wounded. So if you have anyone who can help with that – yeah. That would be great too.”

“There you have it,” Madteos told the yathallar drily. He drifted off through the crowd, his rifle held low in a patrol carry.

Parouhi glanced up at Ildan. “Thank you,” she said quietly. The young teacher gestured hesitantly at the wound in the yathallar’s side. “Mayda – my sister – can help with that, if you want.”

[Esperance International]

Sissak
Nalaya

“Well,” Jaako Pekkanen remarked drily as the body of Norazn Sarkissian was dragged away, “that was remarkably civilized, all things considered.”

“That was a human dogfight,” Cate Okeke replied briefly.

Jaako crooked an eyebrow. “Maybe.” He pointed at the city, where the sound of the guns was already beginning to fade. “But look at what the death of one brave hound can buy!”

Jaako Pekkanen was a project director for the Conflict Management Taskforce. Yulia Koracheva had personally picked him to head up relief and evacuation operations in Sissak. He had spent the last three days transferring fifteen hundred Esperance personnel to his command, hiring another thousand local Nalayan auxiliaries, and amassing a hundred tons of food, water, and medical supplies – some of it locally purchased, some of it flown in from all over the region. He had used Yulia’s refugee camp in Massis as a staging area – helping to set up hundred of trailer-style homes in the process – and then he had moved his personnel and his supplies by road to just behind the Shalumite lines southeast of the city.

And then he had heard that General James Blackburn was going to fight Ter Norazn Sarkissian to decide the future of Sissak. And even if Jaako agreed with Yulia Koracheva that the duel’s result did not have a snowball’s chance in hell of being respected in the long run, Jaako still felt strongly that a duel between generals was still a show not to be missed.

To Jaako’s – admittedly slightly bloodthirsty – Alemarrian taste, the fight had not disappointed.

And at least for now, both parties appeared to be respecting Blackburn’s victory – though the Shalumite himself didn’t look particularly pleased as he was rushed to the field hospital. Nevertheless, the sounds of battle were fading. And that meant that Jaako had a job to do.

The project director turned away from the dark stain that was all that remained of Norazn Sarkissian, and pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt. “Time to get to work,” he told Cate.

“Shouldn’t we wait to brief Malcomson?”

“Beg forgiveness, ask permission.” Jaako keyed his radio. “All team leaders, this is Pekkanen. Green light. Green light.”

Jaako turned to Cate, who shook her head in exasperation. The Alemarrian smiled. “Now we talk to Malcomson.”

* * *

And that was why, five minutes later, Jaako was using his Esperance International credentials, his rank badge, and a letter of introduction from Razmouhi Danayan to wheedle and bully his way past General Dieter Malcomson’s security detail and into the command center of the Thirteenth Shalumite Expeditionary Force.

“General!” Jaako cried. “Good to see you. Jaako Pekkanen, Esperance International Conflict Management Taskforce. I’m sure we’ve met, only in passing, no reason you’d remember, don’t worry about it. You’re a busy man, blowing cities to hell left and right.” The project lead’s rapid-fire patter and constant smile made it hard to tell whether his accusation was meant seriously. “Glad to see that this one was a partial exception.”

“Anyway, I’m the head of relief and evacuation operations for Sissak. I am here to let you know that, since a ceasefire has been secured on the streets of the city, more than two thousand Esperance International personnel are moving into Sissak as we speak. They are clearly identified by blue armbands and headgear, carry no weapons beyond small arms, and have no vehicles except for supply trucks, ambulances, and construction equipment.” Jaako inclined his head. “Please be so good as to tell your men not to shoot us, and if you have an officer in charge of civil affairs operations, you might want to put him in contact with my number two here, Cate Okeke.”

Cate’s smile was an embarrassed attempt at professionalism. “General, so good to meet you.”

“Oh!” Jaako snapped his fingers. “And when your men reach the Samaa’i Mosque, tell the people there that it’s safe to go home. It would be insanity to turn that place into a refugee camp without need.”

“Now, General, that’s what I can do for you. What I am doing, in fact.” Jaako spread his hands. “Do you any questions? Anything else I can help you with on this fine day?”

* * *

Sure enough, even as Jaako spoke, Esperance International was moving into Sissak.

This was the first organized, preplanned relief operation since the fighting had begun; it was the first time that EI had been given enough time to marshal its resources and do its job properly. And initially, the effect was suitably impressive. Twenty-five cargo trucks shuttled Esperancers into the city, pausing only to disgorge crowds of grim-faced aid workers dressed in winter coats and blue armbands and EI ball caps before rumbling back to accept another load of humanitarians. About a dozen construction vehicles - mostly tractors and excavators useful for clearing the debris of collapsed buildings in search-and-rescue operations – also rolled into the city. And so did five fully equipped ambulances, each with the Esperance flame-and-laurels logo gleaming on its side.

It was a lot of people and a lot of vehicles, and it certainly looked like a mighty force when it was rolling along the highway into Sissak. Which was why Dr. Kanni Ovayan was so surprised when she and her five-person medical team hopped off their truck about three blocks from the Samaa’i Mosque, walked one more block to set up a triage station for people in the neighborhood near the mosque, and found not a single other Esperancer in sight for as far as the eye could see.

As numerous as the aid workers had seemed when they were together on the high way, once they dispersed into small work groups, Sissak swallowed them whole - all twenty-five hundred of them.

But that did not mean that the Esperancers were ineffective. Almost a hundred qualified doctors and nurses showed up at the Sissak hospital en masse, streaming from five cargo trucks and dragging crates of medical supplies. A lean Acrean surgeon named Boris Ulanov walked briskly up to the nearest Nalayan doctor and announced in perfect Nalayan: “We are from Esperance International. My name is Dr. Ulanov. We are here to help. I need to talk to whomever is in charge here. Our triage stations are about to start moving critical cases here from all over the city, and we need to get ready. But when it comes to the patients that you already have, just tell us where you need us.”

Just as Ulanov had warned, five-person Esperance International medical teams began setting up triage stations on street corners all over the hardest-hit areas of Sissak. Each team put down plastic sheeting to cover the ground and set up a dozen cots with IV support to accommodate the worst cases. Large signs magnetized to telephone poles or nearby walls announced: “Esperance International: Free Medical Care Available Here.”

The triage stations worked quickly and efficiently. Walking wounded – Code Green cases – were given basic first aid and stitched up, and were then sent home with extra bandages, topical antibiotics, painkillers, and bottled water. Unaccompanied children were evacuated to the Sissak office’s temporary headquarters: a collection of aluminum trailers outside the city. The children's personal information was noted down; within a week, Jaako was planning to start a major public-information campaign to reunite missing children with their families.

Code Yellow cases – those who had to be seen within an hour – were evacuated to the hospital; either their families took them, or they were loaded onto the EI cargo trucks that ferried aid workers, civilians, and supplies across the war-damaged city. Battered as the hospital was, it still had electricity and a few functioning operating rooms, and it was by far better for patients who could be transported to be treated there.

Code Red cases – those that required immediate resuscitation – were either evacuated to the hospital using the two available ambulances with life support systems, or were treated at the triage stations themselves. The triage staff used IV drips, blood transfusions, inotropes or vasopressors, and chest drain tubes in an attempt to manage shock and stabilize patients enough for transport. If they stabilized to Code Yellow status, they were moved to the hospital by truck. If they did not stabilize, they died.

Code black cases had no hope of recovery. The triage staff gave those patients a bed and a ketamine injection to ease their suffering. Death usually came swiftly. The bodies were returned to the families of the deceased. The Esperancers had all been briefed that the bodies of people who died of trauma rather than disease did not constitute a major health risk; the last thing that Sissak needed was for EI to start burying its fallen in mass graves.

The dead whom no family claimed were trucked out to a plot of land a kilometer from the Shalumite headquarters, where thirty Nalayan volunteers buried them in plain sight of the foreign soldiers.

While medical care dominated the work of the Esperancers who arrived in Sissak on that bloody afternoon, it was not their only role. Field kitchens provided hot meals and bottled water to civilians who had for days been trapped in their homes by fighting. Mediation and Diplomacy representatives answered questions about the outside world and contacted local community leaders. Engineers installed generators and restored full power to vital buildings, starting with the hospital.

Three Explosive Ordnance Disposal teams had been flown into Massis from the Conflict Management Taskforce’s headquarters on New Prospect; from there, they had come by truck to Sissak. With quiet, systematic care, the teams contacted local residents in order to locate unexploded weaponry – mostly mortar shells, belonging to both sides – and then evacuated everyone in the vicinity of the shells to a cautious distance. After that, the bomb squads used remote-controlled robots and tiny explosive charges to detonate the leftover munitions safely. Once more, the sound of explosions echoed over Sissak – but this time, they were a sign of safety rather than danger.

Finally, search-and-rescue teams led by qualified engineers and architects fanned out across the city, helping families to search for loved ones lost in collapsed buildings, and compiling lists of missing persons. The teams used their tractors and excavators and expertise to help move rubble in a carefully controlled manner, seeking to rescue civilians buried in the ruins of their homes without causing cave-ins that could crush them to death. When men and women were found alive, they were rushed to the nearest triage station, and Dr. Ovayan and her colleagues took responsibility for them.

It was a good system: carefully planned, and executed with sufficient manpower and funding and equipment. But for all of the Esperancers who found themselves confronted with the visceral evidence of Sissak’s suffering, it still seemed like far too little, far too late.

[Acrea]

☭ Лояльный и непоколебимая ☭
Управление канцелярии Советской Федерации

Recipient Zhirayr Karagozian
Sender Aleksandrina Kirova, Premier of the Soviet Federation | Viktor Katin, Prime Minister
Security Priority Only - Приоритет только

Mr. Karagozian,

The current plan for action on delivery of our supplies to Nava'ai forces will require significant coordination, as well as great accuracy and discipline from those under your command, a feat surely achieved with ease, no doubt.

The plan that has been explained to me by the Minister of Defence is as follows. Supplies, cargo, and men will be airdropped, via cargo aircraft disguised and designated as commercial aircraft with destinations in Nalayan international airports. As a result, they will be unmolested, and all 'illegal' cargo having been airdropped over Nalaya to Nava'ai forces. It is imperative that those forces on the ground are there to receive the drops, lest other unsavory groups or individuals reach them first.

I have approved to send, among other things, significant numbers of AT-14EM anti-tank guided missiles and according launchers, which according to our estimates have the capability to penetrate the frontal hull of the Feurig 2A2 tank commonly used by Shalumite forces. Likewise, significant numbers of 9K32M Strela-2M shoulder-launched anti-air missile systems and more advanced 9K60M Drotik shoulder-launced systems. The latter, unlike the Strela, is capable of locking on to an aircraft at any angle, and provides great capability against both helicopters and planes alike, especially when used en masse. Accompanying these will be more of the same sort of weapons you are familiar with- mortars, rifles, machine guns, ammunition, grenades, mines and the like- and the men and women capable of training your troops in their use.

With your permission, we would also like to accompany this with the deployment of very small numbers of GRU operatives and VDV paratroopers to advise your troops during combat and train them.

Though we do possess more capable systems, the current situation at this time does not permit us the deployment of heavy equipment or weapons, such as vehicle-mounted SAMs or tank destroyers. We do, however, believe that the above mentioned with greatly aid in your valiant and courageous struggle for the security and safety of your people and your land.


Signed,
Aleksandrina Dmitriyevna Kirova, Premier of the Soviet Federation of Acrea
Александрина Дмитрийевна Кирова


Viktor Mikhailovich Katin, Prime Minister of the Soviet Federation of Acrea
Виктор Микхаилович Катин

Near Voronezh
Acrean Soviet Federation

The Acrean Military had an odd tradition; it never quite gave a name to its military bases. Often, this was because bases could actually be dismantled and rebuilt elsewhere on the border. Not this one. The large, the massive complex that served as the home base for the 182nd Shock Special Task Group (Spetslevaya Gruppa)- a smattering of units from various Shock and elite units of the Acrean Army, primarily a combination of VDV and Vityaz troops- was meant to remain where it was for a long, long time.

It was cold. Snow hat settled, covering everything in a fine, pure white dusting that brilliantly reflected the sun that shone down, unimpeded by the clear sky. It was a beautiful day, but that mattered little to the large group that sat in the main briefing room of the designated 'Operatsii Stroitel'stvo'- the Operations Center.

The smell of cigar smoke from the older officers filled the room, and windows were open to try and alleviate the scent of the fumes. The modern Soviet society didn't much like smoking. Not that that mattered to the old, hardened VDV officers that sat at the front of the briefing. The acrid smoke burned the nostrils of Alexander Kolotov. Known quite affectionately to his comrades as 'Sasha', the 21-year old senior sergeant had absolutely no idea what he was doing there. The young man was one who cut a lithe, lean figure, with well defined muscles. He was overall clearly in shape. In the past ten years the Acrean military overall had gone on a drive of strictness regarding physical fitness, making units with already extremely strict physical requirements even more demanding. The VDV was one of those units.

Operation 'Proniknoveniye'- 'Pervasion'- as it was currently being called, was outlined quite well for them on the massive touch screen at the front of the room. They all had their eyebrows furrowed at the screen. It was a fairly unconventional plan, to say in the least, and they knew full well what they would be doing as 'advisors', even if the Nava'ai didn't. Of course, they were only being explained what they would be participating in directly. The full scope was left to the operation's planners. But the men- and few women- of the 62nd Guards Airborne Regiment would come quickly to realise, as the plan was disseminated from briefed officers and NCOs to the troops they commanded, that this was a plan for conflict rather than military aid. Their high command fully anticipated- and if Alexander understood correctly, even encouraged- the direct engagement of Shalumite and Nalayan government forces by Soviet Airborne Troops alongside their Nava'ai allies.

The enthusiasm in the briefing room was tangible. In their eyes, it was finally time for them to show the Shalumites that their oppressive intervention and imperialism would not be tolerated any longer. That the Acrean nation, the lone Soviet state, saw it in the interest of the region to fight back the Bison once more. For many, the Operation would be a baptism by fire. Their first taste of real combat. For others, namely most of the officers, it would be one of culminations in their significant covert combat careers.

★ ☭ ★ ☭ ★

[Cacerta]

The Office of the Protector
Sevan, Nalaya
Intensifying had been a specific word that Queen Anelyn had told Vivi to listen for. The Queen had spoken very little during her briefing prior to her trip to Nalaya -- she seemed rather intense, almost sickly -- but she had made it a clear point to inform her if Khavar felt the war was growing. It would also help to hasten the decision making process for Anelyn and her councilors’ in regards to what resources the Kingdom would be willing to commit if need be. Although at this point, as the young woman continued to listen to the Protector speak, it was slowly growing into more of a question of when will we as opposed to a question of should we.

Hearing the mention of Shalum was good news. Cacerta and Shalum had been fostering good relations for several years at this point, so much so that her older sister had been strongly advocating the Queen to pursue a more formal military alliance with the Empire. In the very least, Shalumite troops in Nalaya could already be considered friendly forces and it may be to everyone’s advantage of Cacertian military forces were committed to bolstering the Shalumite military firepower that was already present. It was no secret that the Shalumites were better footsoldiers than Cacertians, but the Kingdom could easily provide reliable naval and air support -- especially taking into consideration the proximity of Andria. It would work to the Queen’s advantage, needing to focus more of her attention on the logistics of air and sea and let Shalum handle the ground.

Vivi took note of Khavar’s stressing of Armavir. Unfortunately for the Cacertians, their best form of deployment had always been via the sea -- it was already immediately understood that elements of the Cacertian Armed Forces proper would likely not make it to Armavir in time to do anything to reinforce the current government forces there. However, it provided an interesting opportunity for Zodiac troops to HALO drop personnel, equipment, and supplies if need be. Whether or not it would help or simply be a waste of resources would be something on Valeriana’s side of the court. It was not Vivi’s call, but it was an option to consider; albeit one that required serious conviction and considerable risk -- something her sister was well known for.

The foreign representative allowed the Protector to finish before speaking, “Her Highness wanted me to assure you that as long as you represent a force to unite the people of Nalaya, you have her support. Now, what we -- the people of the Kingdom -- can and cannot do is not my call; it is the Queen’s alone. With that being said, I can tell you what options we can provide for you.” Vivi took a moment to take a folded map out of the inside pocket of her military coat and asked for Khavar’s permission before spreading it across the desk, taking a moment to flatten the creases. “As you well know, Cacerta is a naval-centric military. We have ground and aerial assets, but if you require any prompt military assistance it would -- understandbly -- take some time and an open port or beachead.”

“The Royal Army’s 5th Amphibious Assault Division is stationed here, in the Kingdom’s military protectorate of Andria,” Vivi indicated the small island to Nalaya’s southwest. “Alongside them we have the Royal Navy’s 5th Amphibious Strike Fleet, 6th Battleship Strike Fleet, and the Royal Air Fleet’s 3rd Expeditionary Aerial Battle Group. The very nature of the military protectorate keeps these battle groups on a constant state of alert and -- ironically -- since we do currently have plans to follow through with our biennial naval exercise, there are a number of other CRN units and divisions en route.” She paused to assure herself that Khavar was listening. “The Queen, as the sovereign ruler of Cacerta, is capable of deploying all of these battle groups at a moment’s notice. Should aforementioned units need to be deployed, they can be within striking distance anywhere between two to three days.”

“I don’t think, unfortunately, there is much we can help you with in Tatev -- at least from a formal armed forces standpoint. We could probably provide off-shore missile support, but without a carrier group in the area, it’s not likely we could even provide formal air support. We do have two carrier strike fleets in Fumicino as we speak, but it would take almost nine to ten days before they could be close enough to launch a flight.”

Vivi paused. “Now, from an informal military standpoint, OZ has several battalions of commandos and light armor in Andria and the means to deploy them. Zodiac troops have been specifically trained for HALO drops for personnel and HAHO drops for light armor, if you believe you need immediate reinforcements in Tatev or Armavir, we do have the capability of deploying something. However, I must warn you, that it may not be much and outside of exercises with our PMCs and some tours in the Triple Continents and Shalum, Zodiac troops are almost entirely without actual combat experience. Perhaps would be more advantageous to deploy them in support of your troops massing at Aragatsotn?”

“And, I must state this -- for the record if nothing else -- should you desire to speak directly to Her Highness, she did want me to give you that option.”

[Hospina]

Lerrnayin International Airport
Armavir, Nalaya

Ever since the outbreak of civil war in the Military Protectorate, there had been a noticeable slashing of civilian air-traffic both into, and out of the country’s international and regional airports. There was nothing that could guarantee the safety of a flight, or the passengers on board, from things like land based anti-aircraft weapons and missiles, as little used as they had been thus far. Armed forces like the invaders from Shalum didn’t do much to help the situation, as their constant military flights and airstrikes likely made insurgent forces on the ground inclined to believe that every aircraft above was associated with the Imperials, or the Nalayan government based out of Sevan.

However, just because there were some companies and groups that held back from flying into Nalaya, did not mean that it was a rule of thumb or anything like that. There were some that saw profit in the conflict, and a way to even expand their own influence. And as often was the case in history, where there was money and glory to be earned, there was also someone willing to fill the void. It just so happened that in this case, the Hospinan government was the one volunteering to take action in Nalaya. And the poison they dealt were weapons systems, both large and small.

Like with any relationship, it had taken Hospina some time to foster relationships with rebel groups and warlords in Nalaya. For the most part, the Dominion remained isolated from a good deal of world affairs, but when what few agents that they had in the area had begun to report that civil war was brewing, it hadn’t taken long for the Hegemon and his military men to become interested in taking action. They saw profit in the upcoming war, a way to increase their own wealth, and even expand the influence that Hospina wielded if the cards were played correctly.

The first major breakthrough had been when they had come in contact with prominent human slavers. They were the type of people that the Dominion really came to respect in Nalaya, for it was the same business that many Hospinans profited from in their own country. Men to work the fields, and women to warm beds and perpetuate future generations of laborers, or so the the Hegemon had said at one time or another. Once they had begun to sell them arms, they had sought out further deals, with the likes of the Nava’ai, and whomever else was interested.

Really, the only group that they weren’t keen on arming were the Arusai, and that was only because of who ruled from Sevan. Hospina saw Khavar as a stumbling block to their future, and someone who needed to be eliminated. They would have likely been willing to take up arms against her, but the wretched Shalumites had already gotten their claws into the country, and were on their well to establishing solid positions in the south. So rather than try and oppose them there, the Hospinan military had opted to support forces in the center of the country. Perhaps if the Arusai and Shalumites lost enough people, they would lose the will to fight, and the Nava’ai would have a proper chance.

The flight between Hospina and the Nava’ai Highlands was often referred to as the ‘Gauntlet’ by Royal Airforce pilots. Ever since previous flight paths had been executed without any major incident or interdiction, it had become clear that it was not an especially dangerous journey to make. But there was no doubt about the fact that it took some time, a good twelve hours at the very least. Even the autopilot features helped only so much, given that it was protocol for one pilot and one navigator to be manning their stations at all hours. Someone was always tired by the time they touched down half a world away, and only if they were lucky did they get to stay long enough to sleep and relax.

There was nothing special about today, as a formation of Hospinan transport aircraft entered Nalayan airspace. They were a hodgepodge of different makes and models, Ilyushin Il-76s and Antonov An-124 Ruslans being the largest and most heavily loaded of the transport planes. Some broke off towards airports in Vantai territory, places like Salah, while the rest of this formation headed towards Armavir. The Nava’ai were going to be getting some new toys to play around with today.

Nervously, the first Hospinan pilot brought his aircraft in for a controlled landing another hour later, eyes focused squarely on the runway as the heavy aircraft touched down and locked up its breaks. The last time that he had brought his ‘baby’ in for a delivery, she had left with a few bullet holes to non-critical areas of the plane. They had gotten caught in a crossfire, or something along those lines, and it had not been a pleasant experience. Perhaps it was why he had a larger complement on-board today as well; a squad of infantrymen from the 4th Guards Volunteer Infantry Division whose eyes were steely, and grips were tight on their weapons. Of course, they could have very well been expecting a payment of slaves as well today, and needed more security to keep watch in the back bays. No one ever advised him on what kind of goodies they would be bringing back with them.

Once they completed landing procedures, and the main cargo door of the An-124 Ruslan slid down, the first Hospinans to exit were actually the soldiers. It was always that way, but there were notably more warriors than usual today as they formed a perimeter around the aircraft. Nothing would happen until their commanding officer, a Major by the name of Navarro Arcos, confirmed the delivery. “Do we have some surprises for you today,” the older soldier laughed as he motioned towards the plane, where laborer-caste men were readying equipment and themselves to unload the plane. “I think they’ll put a damper on the damn Arusai and Shalumite’s war effort once they come toe-to-toe with what we brought,” he grinned, very accented and perhaps hard to understand at times.

It took some time to unload everything from the plane. There were a good number of crates, and mobile storage containers towards the rear of the plane, which had to be unloaded first before they could get to the bigger and more expensive pieces. It did not help that, now and then, a Hospinan soldier would remove a weapon from a crate to show to his Nava’ai counterparts. No one really took the time to count out every piece and system, but the Major assured the Nava’ai warriors and workers that the manifest was correct and one-hundred percent accurate. So much so that it had been checked three times before the plane had departed from Hospina, which may or may not have been a lie. In any case, it was clear that the Hospinans were equipping the rebels to fight a more proper war.

Combined Airborne Shipment Manifest

Small Arms

5,000 x P-38 Wanad Pistols
2,500 x AEK-971 Assault Rifles
2,500 x AK-12 Assault Rifles
200 x SVD Dragunov Sniper Rifles
1,000 x M14 EBR Battle Rifles
750 x PKP Pecheneg Medium Machine Guns

Heavy Weapons

75 x DShK Heavy Machine Gun
200 x M3 Carl Gustav Recoilless Rifles
100 x RPG-29
25 x 9K38 Igla Man-portable surface to air missile launchers
5 x ZU-23-2 Anti-aircraft Autocannons
50 x 9M113 Kornet Anti-Tank Guided Missile Launchers
8 x Panhard AML-245 Armoured Reconnaissance Vehicles
2 x 2K22 Tunguska Self-Propelled Anti-Air Guns
5 x 9K33 Osa Short Range Surface to Air Missile Systems

As the unloading process came to a close, the Hospinan soldiers present began to excitedly chatter in their native tongue about whether they would be happened to be paid in the way of people this particular trip. As members of the Elite Hospinan Guard, they got certain benefits, including first dibs on slaves when they went up for auction. In the past, slaves had been purchased for all intents and purposes before they had so much as left Nalayan airspace, it was just a matter of getting the legal paperwork settled once they arrived home.

The labor-caste men, on the other hand, were just ready to get this all over with so that they could return home. Seeing guard troops so eager unsettled them, and it was not as if they could afford slaves in the first place. Some of them had been so close to financial ruin in the past that they had almost been sold off themselves.

[Nalaya]

With the Shalumite Alpine Detachment
10 km North of Siunik, Nalaya

Kella nodded to Stevens. “We will gladly take some of your rocket-propelled grenades. They could be quite useful when we move. Kaliq, thank you for your hard work.” She checked her watch thoughtfully. “Shall we say 0300 hours for our offensive? Not tonight, but tomorrow night?”

“That would give me ample time to prepare and our people time to rest, Arzhani,” Kaliq said. “I will of course confer with bin Ghayth to confirm, but I imagine he will approve.”

“Then let it be so. In the early hours of the morning, we will advance from either side of the city quietly. Kaliq will take a small group to secure the radio station ahead of the main force, the rest of us will disable communications and work our way towards the center of the city where the old base is. I would like Ter Jaghayan alive if possible, but it is not necessary,” Kella said firmly. “If possible, they will not even know that we are here until too late. This is of course the hypothetical perfect situation, but one must hope for the best while planning for the worst.”

Kaliq bobbed his head to show that he understood. “Of course, Arzhani.”

She flashed Stevens a brief smile, determination and a sort of calm acceptance of fate easily readable in her expression. She would do her best, her people would do their best, and either they would succeed or they would not, as Allah willed it. Kella’s view of the world was not a complicated one, on the whole. She believed with the firmness of granite and that had carried her this far through life. “And now, Paron Stevens, I am going to retire to pray and contemplate.”

She coughed hard—a horrible wet hacking sound—into her black handkerchief and then spit into the dirt. The stain on the ground was dark and red. “Pardon me,” she rasped. “I will be with my people should you require anything of me. Good day, Paron Stevens.”

The next day was full of people bustling about preparing. Men checked loadouts and did rough counts of ammunition. The Vatani all had older equipment, much of it Acrean or Hospinan in origin, but much of it was in surprisingly good condition for having lived through years in the desert. They took care of their weapons almost obsessively. RPGs were issued to some of them in each unit in preparation for encountering the less modern tanks or similar problems left over. Many of them actually did have body armor, though theirs was a bit heavier and bulkier than more modern pieces, probably ten years out of date. They didn’t have a uniform, more out of the habit of insurgent warfare than a lack of clothing. The one identifying piece of apparel they all had was a standard issue, military-grade gasmask. Every Vatani soldier put theirs on as they readied, except for Kaliq’s team. Yes, the gasmasks were hot, but they kept the eyes clear and if there was going to be tear gas or worse, better safe than sorry. They covered their heads and exposed skin, each one of them checking to make sure there was nothing reflective. Here and there, soldiers could be seen jumping up and down to note how much noise they were making. While a certain level of rattle was basically guaranteed, it was minimized wherever possible. Some soldiers smoked, their silver-blue cigarette smoke reeking like someone had lit a wet dog on fire. Vatani tobacco was particularly potent and objectionable stuff when it wasn’t blended.

Kaliq’s team was certainly no exception to the rule that was a desire to move quietly. He was even more stringent about what was acceptable than the others. All of them were carrying suppressed weapons, not that it would make a huge difference in volume. A few of the group with him were checking the edges on their knives, all of them plain and utilitarian, the blades smoked over a fire so they would have no gleam. They were older soldiers, three male and two female besides Kaliq, and all of them had the same sort of serious eyes. They smiled, but the eyes remained somber. They spoke in rapid, soft Arabic to each other when they did speak, brief snaps of sound breaking the otherwise quiet air. None of them smoked or fidgeted and they kept largely to themselves as they readied to go. They would be moving in radio silence, ahead of the main body of the group. It was impossible to read the faces of the women, considering each of them was wearing a black niqāb.

The ache was back in Kella’s chest as she approached Kaliq on the outskirts of their camp. They were right on schedule to leave—his people, if they departed on time and everything went well, would be reaching the radio tower at about 3:15 AM. “Ready?” the warlord asked her old and faithful friend, her voice just a touch strained.

“As soon as the Shalumites give the word, we will go,” Kaliq confirmed. He bowed his head to her. “It has been an honor, Arzhani. I am certain we will meet again on the other side.”

“You are a good man, Kaliq bin Ridwan,” she said fondly, giving him a nod in return. “I am sorry I cannot go with you.”

“Someone has to command the little pieces,” Kaliq said dismissively. “Allah willing, we will all be through this soon and then all the nonsense will be over.”

Captain bin Ghayth arrived, radio in hand. "We are ready, Arzhani," he reported. "I told Paron Stevens that we will depart the moment he gives the word that his own men are ready."

"Excellent," Kella said.

Ten kilometers to the south, Siunik was sleeping, but it wouldn’t be for long.

---

The Office of the Protector
Sevan, Nalaya

Khavar sighed. “Please let Her Highness know that her support is appreciated,” the Protector said. “Regrettably, the conflict is largely at the interior of the country, which makes naval power a good deal less potent.”

She listened carefully to Vivi’s explanation, mulling things over in her head. She was confident in Hravad’s ability to hold Aragatsotn, but she knew he would be trying to force his way through a current to get to Armavir—Karagozian would not make it easy for them. What she didn’t know was where the hell Qasim and Idir had gone, which was somewhat concerning. The bastards knew how to disappear, even outside of their native deserts. Nalaya was not foreign territory to them. She had a sneaking suspicion that if they were to be a thorn in anyone’s side, it would likely be in Shalum’s.

Did she want support at Aragatsotn or Sissak or Tatev? That was the real question. Hravad likely wouldn’t be terribly pleased with troops lacking combat experience if he was going to have to fight through the bloodiest route. Dropping them into Armavir would just get them killed. That city was going to be a nightmare. Khavar reflected that bombing it would be so much easier than what Hravad wanted, but she still had an obnoxious feeling of obligation to him and Vaneni. Then a thought occurred to her, her memory supplying her with Kella’s brief note with her intent to take Siunik.

“From my point of view, Siruhi, your OZ commandos and light armor in Andria might be most useful in the north, not in Tatev, but in Siunik. I received a message a few hours ago from Arzhani bint Diya al Din, the warlord working with the Shalumites I mentioned earlier. That would put us on three sides of Karagozian. He cannot defend all of them equally. This would also embed your forces with veteran fighters. Arzhani bint Diya al Din’s people lack armor of any kind. If your people could fill the gap, even if only light armor, it would be a huge help for them. They may be able to take Siunik prior to your arrival, but holding it and advancing from there could be problematic without a little bit of additional support.”

She offered Vivi a faint smile. “We will take whatever support Cacerta deems feasible to give. At present, the Shalumites and my people have air superiority, but there is no guarantee that this will last as we push deeper into the Highlands, according to my own advisors. Formal and informal are both equally welcome. Again, please convey my thanks to Queen Anelyn and inform me of the course of action you decide to take. I will do everything in my power to facilitate.”

---

Quellarin Syr’thaeryl
Maerimydra, Nalaya

“I slept for about ten hours,” Sabal said, glancing up at the clock. “You have been out about eleven, I think.” She noted the sheepish look and laughed, amused as she smiled at Joan. “Forgive me, you have not met. This is Yath Ryld Tlin’orzza dal Ranaghar. He is a very fine friend who graciously agreed to help us.”

Ryld smiled. “Welcome to the world of the waking, Siruhi. I apologize if we disturbed you. Though Sabal is being remarkably tame for a woman celebrating survival…” In his heart of hearts, he was glad the yathallar was a little less high-octane than usual in such a situation. They couldn’t exactly afford for Sabal to make a mistake now. He was already worried, but he knew that telling Sabal not to do something was rarely the best way to get her to avoid it. If he had been honest with himself, he would have admitted that there were relatively few ways to stop Sabal from doing something she wanted to do, particularly when she was under the influence of alcohol.

“Give me another few drinks,” Sabal murmured with a particularly catlike smile.

Ryld felt a tremor of premonition there as he poured wine into three more glasses that Sabal retrieved from the cabinet. He was no seer, but he knew trouble when he heard it. <<Just don’t do something you’ll regret later, Sabal,>> he said.

She raised an eyebrow at him. <<An ideal I hold to all my days, Ryld. Why are you so worried?>>

<<Because you have a very under-developed sense of shame,>> he said so despairingly that Pella giggled.

When Michael emerged limping, Pella was a little worried, but it turned into a smile that she hid behind one hand when he explained what had happened. She agreed with Faisal—it was a little bit funny. Food arrived a few minutes later, an assortment of breads, cheeses, vegetables, meats, and fruits cooked in varying ways. All of it was designed so that it could be eaten with the fingers and some of it would have looked familiar to the justicars after their time in Armavir. It wasn’t a heavy meal, but there was plenty of it and it boasted selections from around the Homeland. It was a good combination and Pella was quick to eat. The tastes were a little different than the rest of Nalaya—a little more sour in places and a lot more heat in others. There was nothing ridiculously spicy on the plate, but it was still the part of the country where blisters on the tongue probably wouldn’t come as a surprise to non-natives who’d tried the cuisine.

Pella was quick to warn them what might be too hot, specifically pointing out the peppers as something to try with extreme caution. She, Sabal, and Ryld could all eat them without a hint of problem, which could easily give the wrong impression of their power. “And don’t try to fix it with water if you get something too hot,” the girl said helpfully. “It just spreads the burn. Wine will cut through it better.”

Sabal smiled a little at that. She wanted to add that the fire would build character, but she felt like she should save her amusement for if someone did manage to burn themselves. “It cures head-colds, too,” the yathallar said instead. She had always had a love of spicy things, even for a Mak’ur.

Ryld wasn’t one to stand too much on formality and he didn’t really tense up in response to the justicars. He was too laid-back of a man, a characteristic he cited often as reason why he would have made a terrible yathrin or yathallar. Sabal was inclined to agree with him. Ryld was too gentle for it. He was quick to follow Pella in conversation, doing his best to put the justicars at ease. “You have nothing to fear from me,” he even assured them. “I have known Sabal since we were both very young. If she vouches for you, that is sufficient for me.”

He was keeping a definite eye on Sabal, though. He knew how she could get, and she was halfway through her third glass of wine. It was puzzling that she hadn’t run off with Sorn. That she hadn’t dragged him back made sense—Sorn and these justicars together in a room would have likely ended in a fight, albeit probably one between Sorn and Sabal because of the rules of hospitality. But at the moment, Sabal seemed quite placid. More smiling and amused than usual, but not particularly trouble-inclined. Pella was just giggly despite everything, or perhaps because of it. Now that they were in Maerimydra, they were safe.

At least, for a certain definition of safe.

---

After the Duel
Sissak, Nalaya

It was as if the city let out the breath it had been holding. People—timidly, cautiously, scarcely at first—started to poke their heads out into the streets. The moment everyone realized it was safe, that tentative trickle became a flood. The inhabitants of Sissak suddenly resumed their normal lives, almost as if nothing had happened, as if buildings weren’t demolished and there were no enemy soldiers in the streets. People gave the areas with explosives wide berth and helped their fellows to the medical stations. The vast majority of the wounded were combatants, as Norazn had been very careful to keep his civilians out of combat zones whenever possible. The deal with James had allowed him to preserve a solid half of the city and a significant population of people.

Nalayans did not go into shock when the guns came out, nor when the fighting faded. Life went on, even ordinary things. You didn’t stop going to the grocery store—you just learned to duck and weave when you went out for milk. Now, children raced down the lanes towards the school, dodging Esperance International workers. They would be inside again well before the Shalumites rolled into the half of town where the milits’iayi were preparing to withdraw. The kids knew to stay the hell away from soldiers, and classes demanded their attendance. Chastising teachers could be heard down from that area, clucking their tongues and calling attendance. Not every student was there, but that could just mean that they were trapped in the areas where fighting had still been happening. Elsewhere, adults claimed their dead with quiet solemnity, many of them still dry-eyed. What could one do? Death comes to us all, the saying went.

Many funerals would be held within the next 72 hours. It did no good to leave the dead lying about. For some, that would mean a burial. For others, that would not be sufficient—Voghjuyn ceremonies ending in cremation were the only answer. If the body was not completely destroyed, there would only be torment.

The hospital was swarming with people. It wasn’t a massive hospital, as it was only serving a city of 60,000. The sudden influx in staff was almost more disconcerting to the doctors and nurses than the flood of patients, as virtually all of them had lived through the ‘past unpleasantness’, as the most venerated of the charge nurses referred to it. It took them a little while to reconfigure their rotations and find enough space for even a fraction of the people working. If it had come with more warning, it might have been less awkward, but then again, wasn’t that the case for the whole war? There was certainly a demand: there were enough wounded to overflow the hospitals capacity, most of them trickling in from Shalumite-held areas by way of the triage sites. Some, like the young man holding his stomach that was swollen from internal bleeding as he was rolled back into emergency surgery, had actually been just dragged in by their friends and comrades. The evidence of their passing lingered as spatters of blood on the white linoleum floors.

On one street corner, a man gesticulated furiously at an unexploded mortar round that was laying right in front of his shop window. “You cannot detonate this here!” he was shouting at the EI ordinance disposal team as well as the world in general. A few girls—half of them smoking cigarettes that their parents would have killed them for having—watching from down the street giggled. A few blocks down, a hooded Imanalov’ man swung a small, silver censer burning myrrh over the bodies of his family, chanting softly in his own language as he carried out his joyless task. His breath caught every now and then, but his voice didn’t tremble. Up the street, a woman frantically called amidst the wreckage for her dog and was greeted by a leaping, panting canine that was covered in dust and yet incredibly enthusiastic about seeing her.

James’s people arrived at the mosque at about the same time as the call to prayer sounded out over the city. In the streets, a substantial number of people stopped and immediately rolled out prayer rugs. Those of other faiths either stopped and prayed as well in their own way or carried on with their business. The mosque itself was still a beautiful, serene island in the middle of somewhat organized chaos. There was repair work going on, families calling each other on cellphones to try to locate one another now that it was safe, people handing out food to each other, neighbors who had homes still intact welcoming their friends who did not have such a blessing in to stay. The EI workers became just some of the many working to pick up the pieces and restore order.

The Shalumites were not greeted with cheers or any such welcome. Directed at them was a tense, if measured silence. People kept their distance, always watching, just in case. No one knew exactly what the new victors would be like, but people were ready. Even if the milits’iayi left, they were not defenseless. These were not guests. They were invaders. That meant being prepared to fight to the last if they proved as unkind a conqueror as some in the past had. But because of Ter Sarkissian, because of the Samaa’i, people kept themselves in check for the moment. It was no guarantee of lasting peace, but it was more than the Shalumites had probably expected.

People didn’t stop and talk on the main streets as the Shalumites rolled through the city. They clustered in alleys to conduct their business or discuss what all this would mean. Beneath the veneer of life as usual, there was a definite fear of and anger towards their new occupiers. This was not like being back under the control of the Protector. However objectionable many found the Tigress, she was at least still Nalayan. What would happen if the Shalumites decided they wanted to keep their newfound territory? Could they be expelled then? They kept their speculations and plans in soft whispers, quick to disperse whenever the foreigners approached.

The milits’iayi kept to the north edge of town, many of them waiting for their wounded to be stabilized and returned to them. They were protective of their own. The bulk of the forces would withdraw by nightfall into the canyons and surrounding area, headed towards Aragatsotn, where they would begin to hammer away at the flanks of General Ardzuni’s forces—much to the grim and growling general’s displeasure, no doubt.

---

The Gate of Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

“These people are not known to me,” Nadal said with a shake of his head when the four approached. “Tatev is a strange city to me. I had not left the Homeland in my life before now.”

The introduction piqued Nadal’s interest in some small way. “Esperance International,” he said, tasting the words on his tongue. It had a foreign sound to it. His eyes roamed from one face to the next. The cripple in the wheelchair was a broken man and the others were people suddenly made aware that the sea could easily swallow their ship should the wind rise even a little. “How fortunate for you that fighting is not necessarily imminent, should the Dragon be as gracious as Ilharn Rikker here has been.”

It was not very long before Ada Narekatsi made her appearance, as she had been on her way to investigate the situation at the Gate when she was caught by the messenger. “Understood, soldier,” she told the young man. “Dismissed.” She moved quickly, as anyone who heard the word ‘yochlol’ might. The only difference from the norm was that she was moving towards one, rather than rapidly away.

Nadal saw her coming. It was not readily apparent that Ada was Casimir’s daughter—her skin was fairer and her hair was cinnamon-colored rather than dark—but Nadal knew her in an instant by those grey eyes. They were ageless. The yochlol offered her a slight bow, which she returned. “Greetings, Dragon,” he said. The smoldering temper was there in those storm-cloud eyes. “Ilharn Rikker and I have discussed a settlement you might find appealing.”

Ada raised an eyebrow at both him and the small assortment of people. “Oh really?” she said just a touch dryly.

The yochlol chuckled. “My people would be permitted to pass on our journey towards Armavir, in exchange for treating your people in accordance with the Tenet of Reserve,” he said smoothly.

Ada understood. They’d keep their distance, but they wouldn’t make war…for the moment. “I see,” she said crisply. It was a better deal than they’d had any hope of expecting from the Dread Wolf, which made her deeply uncomfortable on some level. This meant that Lledrith had handed control of her forces over to someone calculating. Ada was grateful, but wary. “I trust your people will be supplying themselves. Tatev is currently already feeling a strain and I expect there will be more of one as refugees from Vayots Dzor head this way. And Rikker, I assume this deal has specifics that we’ll need to sit down and work out later.”

“Of course,” Nadal said.

Ada gave him a stiff nod before looking over at the Shalumite commander. “We need to talk about the refugees, Rikker. If we’re not going to have a dust up with the Most Honored’s people here, we might be able to set up a corridor that doesn’t immediately lead to Armavir.” She looked over at the Esperancers, not certain what to make of them. They weren’t familiar faces despite the fact she’d been stationed in Tatev a long time now. When things were going well, there had been very little reason for her to bother them. “We also need to be prepared to move people when Armavir itself comes under fire.” She knew she didn’t have to tell anyone how horrific it was going to be to deal with a city of 5.4 million people under fire. Armavir was the largest city in Nalaya and a battle there was both unthinkable and inevitable.

---

The Refugees
Ayrum, Nalaya

Ildan’s face was difficult to read as he studied the EI workers who had come to him. The tattooed faces near him did not crack a smile. They were tense, waiting on his words to act, and some were conflicted. Any offer of help almost seemed too good to be true, and for many, that meant one could assume there would be strings attached. A certain amount of cynicism had protected many of the ku’nal outside the Homeland from their neighbors. Nanar no longer held the infant—she had surrendered the tiny boy to a woman who had lost her own baby in the battle. Now the woman was nursing the rescued child a few feet away, operating largely without thinking. At least the rote movements and noises of comfort kept the woman going after such a devastating loss.

None of them said that two days would not be enough food. Why waste breath bitching about something that was beyond their control? They would have to take what they could get and be content. They had known that Ayrum would not be a good answer. It was simply just a better one than Vayots Dzor. Nanar, a Nava’ai woman in her mid-thirties with a tattooed face, sighed and shifted her weight. She was the first among them to move or make a sound after they had been approached. “We have forty-five who can police and direct, Most Revered,” she said. “The rest are injured or dead now. We can get the workers that they need together. Even the og’elenden will listen. There are plenty here who are still able.”

“If our people are occupied when Karagozian comes—” Nanar’s brother started to warn.

“If everyone has died of hunger and thirst, that will be a moot point, Dzagik,” Nanar said calmly. That was one thing Ildan could say for his people: they didn’t panic. “Besides, we have days before such a thing happens. What would you have us do in the meantime, sit around counting ammunition?”

The yathallar’s eyes focused on the few EI workers in front of him. They were so few, but they were here to try. That had more meaning in it than all the empty promises the world might have made. “We have a duty that cannot forsworn,” he said in a level voice, drawing the attention of his people back to their cores. Everyone under him had made the vow to protect the faithful however was possible when this war had begun. They knew without having to speak that Ildan was invoking it now. Yes, not everyone here was faithful, but Ildan had never been a creature overly concerned with the letter of the law. Its spirit was good enough for him. “Nanar, Dzagik, take the others and collect as many as you can for these projects. They are to report to Siruhi Kenosian, Paron Holzmann, and Paron ben Oved respectively. Let us accomplish these things as swiftly and well as possible.”

“At once, Most Revered,” the siblings said, bowing their heads to their leader before immediately heading off to do as he had asked. Nanar waved her arms to draw the attention of the other ku’nal warriors who had dispersed somewhat and called out in the Mak’ur tongue to draw them back to her. More than a dozen in the immediate area rose to their aching feet and converged on her a short ways away for their instructions. The wheels of progress were set in motion as the call went out like a ripple through a pond.

“Housing will be a problem, Most Revered,” an old Arusai man standing with the yathallar said respectfully. Shirak was the oldest of the warriors, probably in his late fifties. He was still in good shape, however, and of a mind concerned with eternity over his present life. With such an outlook, it was easy to understand why he had immediately answered the Dread Wolf’s invocation. “I do not know what can be done. The tarps are a beginning. We may also be able to divide up area between buildings with blankets and cover them with scrap wood or metal where they are built close together. And there may be sheds or barns.”

“Assist Paron ben Oved,” the yathallar said. “Whatever he needs of us, you are to do.”

“Of course, Most Revered,” Shirak said with a bow. He offered the young Menassan man a nod. “I am Shirak Asjian, at your service.”

Ildan knew that peace was not going to last forever. Even before Karagozian’s people made their way north to deal with the ku’nal who might have slipped south—Ildan’s people—there would undoubtedly be some score settling. If they could accomplish these things before people fractured, that might save many lives. And when Karagozian’s people arrived, well, Ildan knew what would happen then. Any Nalayan did. It had happened so many times before. At least Karagozian would be discriminating where people like Tadevos and Casimir had not been. Karagozian relied on the other tribes, who would take affront if he simply laid waste to the area, and so it would be methodical and controlled. Ildan did not have the forces necessary to defend his people from such a thorough death, and that knowledge was a painful twist in his gut. The ku’nal were not difficult to spot, even those who were not warriors. They were all marked, even if not on their faces. There was nowhere to hide and nowhere to go. They were trapped in enemy territory, something he had known full well would happen if they went south. But who else was going to keep the smaller bands of milits’iayi from preying on refugees?

It was written in the Linath: Love is the sacrifice one makes that cannot be erased. Ildan was willing to make many sacrifices for love. That was the motivation that had brought him onto the battlefield and would rule him off of it.

He gave Parouhi a small smile, just enough to avoid showing his fangs. “I am certain your sister will have many patients,” Ildan said. He was a little bit lightheaded, but the bleeding had stopped. He moved carefully to avoid breaking up the clots that had formed as he approached the EI workers. He was a tall and somewhat intimidating man, but he did not intend to hurt anyone here if it could be avoided. He certainly did not want to hurt any of the people trying to help them. “I will wait my turn. Do you require anything else of my people, Siruhi Kenosian? We are here to serve, until we are no longer able.”

Around them, the mobilization of people was beginning to take root. Desperate, anxious energy suddenly had a purpose, an outlet. The immediate danger that still loomed in people’s minds kept them moving together with the help of ku’nal warriors’ prodding. It was less threat and more someone using an authoritative tone of voice. It was easier, more natural, to do something together as a group even if their respective ethnic groups and religions had just been fighting. It would break down eventually, but for the moment, the chaos had given birth to something more cohesive.

---

Diplomatic Corps Offices
Tatev, Nalaya

Van had an immediate smile for Dara, but he had always had a weakness for pretty women. Samuel’s expression was a little bit more cautious, but still friendly. They weren’t quite as fluent in English as Sahak, of course. “Hopefully we can help you, Siruhi,” Van said, offering the Shalumite woman a smile. “I’m Van Kasilian. The gentleman in spectacles is Samuel Hanesian, and next to him is Sahak Indgeyan.”

“We are sorry, Siruhi, but we did not know this Tsavagian,” Hanesian said apologetically. “The dead man—it is very sad, no?—he was a stranger to us. I had not seen him in Tatev before, to be certain. He spoke with a handful of people in the area, then he died. Someone said it might have been poison.”

“What is the world coming to?” Sahak said, shaking his head as he cleared off the table. He rose to his feet to offer his chair to Dara. There wasn’t really enough room in the office for all five of them to sit and talk, but he was willing to stand so that she could sit. “People will be very upset. Poison is…it is not good.”

“He spoke with Shareshian,” Van volunteered helpfully. “Ter Kachazor Shareshian. He’s the big boss of the Diplomatic Corps here in Tatev. He and Siruhi Andzevatsi run everything around here. I imagine that if Tsavagian had words for both of them if he wanted something done in our offices. They are like a right hand and a left hand.”

It was a truer analogy than he realized. People tended to forget what one hand was doing while the other held the spotlight. Shareshian, with his foul moods and unyielding demands, occupied much attention. Valantin was pretty, but she was also pleasant and never demanded anything from anybody. She was the master of the soft sell, the warm smile, the sympathetic ear. Sahak knew she preferred being out of the limelight for the most part and had always attributed it to modesty. Valantin’s job was to facilitate, not to lead. He had a fairly rosy view of his boss, though he knew she wasn’t perfect. Her personal life was where the cracks started to show a little bit. He would never, never tell Van or Samuel or anyone else in the office that. Valantin would work through whatever it was that was going on in her own time. He suspected it was probably just a marital rough patch. Long hours of demanding work didn’t make for the best home life, in his experience. He and Linh had struggled for a while.

“Coffee?” Sahak asked their guests, his brown eyes friendly. He had found two more cups and had a hand on the large thermos full of coffee his wife had made, far superior to the instant kind the Shalumites had brought with them. The northern interpretation of coffee was, quite frankly, nonsense. For the prized beans, God had intended a much higher purpose than to be so grievously mistreated. “We have cream as well. We have foreign guests sometimes, like yourselves, who take it with their coffee.”

“The last thing they might want is a drink, Sahak,” Hanesian said with a chuckle, adjusting his glasses.

Sahak’s friendly eyes went a little bit wide. “Yes, of course, I am sorry,” he said, much to the amusement of his fellows.

Van patted him on the back. “Don’t worry, my friend, poison would not be your weapon. Perhaps a particularly acerbic letter or a hostile tea luncheon?” he said in amusement. “Besides, we are all drinking the coffee too, yes?”

The phone rang and Van answered it automatically in Nalayan, well trained and conditioned. The almost sheepish smile that crept across his face was a good indication of who was calling. After an exchange of a few words, he reluctantly held the phone out to Sahak. “It’s Siruhi Andzevatsi for you, Sahak.”

He flashed the Shalumites an apologetic smile. “I should take it,” he said. “But I’ll try to be quick.” The young man took the phone and moved to the far side of the cramped office, trying to be as quiet as possible so he didn’t disturb the interviews of the people he was quite certain were law enforcement, even if of the military variety.

---

Andzevatsi Household
Tatev, Nalaya

“Lasia Khngeni Andzevatsi, leave your brother alone,” Valantin said, using her daughter’s full name to demonstrate her displeasure rather than raising her voice. She had never been one to shout, particularly not when she was on the phone. She didn’t want to deafen Sahak or give the impression that her home life was hectic. It really wasn’t for the most part.

Her daughter sighed, rolled her eyes, and stomped off into the other room. How very thirteen, Valantin thought, almost amused. Lasia had been more and more temperamental lately, but plenty of that was probably just the tension that had settled into Tatev. It was enough to turn a normally model girl into a frustrated, nervous wreck. Valantin had been as soothing as she could, but neither she nor Nshan had ever been a particularly warm, close parent and so it hadn’t helped as much as it might have in another family. They both loved their children, but work was a dominating factor in their lives…particularly in times like these.

Rafayel vanished through the door opposite to the one his older sister had used, leaving Valantin alone in the dining room. He was such a quiet boy, which was a good thing, except for the fact that he let Lasia walk all over him. “Thank you for locking up, Sahak. I’ll forget my own head next. Have a good night,” she said, leaning back against the table as she hung up. She did her best not to keep anything in her office that might cause problems, but it was an inevitability since she couldn’t keep anything at home. She wasn’t exceptionally nervous about the Shalumites poking around her office. The odds of them actually noticing anything that was important were low—they didn’t speak the language, for one—though it was still certainly possible.

She heard the front door open and raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. Nshan was home, which was a definite surprise. He should have been in Sevan. She wasn’t certain why that wasn’t the case, but she wasn’t going to create a fuss. She moved over to the back door that was standing open, taking a deep breath of mountain air once she’d returned her cellphone to her blazer pocket. It was hanging on the back of a chair right now, as she generally shrugged off the trappings of work as quickly as possible. She’d left her heels in the other room, so Nshan would know she was home as well. That was unfortunate, as it meant slipping out to call her contacts would be difficult.

Valantin heard his approach well before he slipped arms around her from behind and kissed the side of her neck. Nshan smelled faintly of cologne and cigar smoke. She leaned back slightly into his thin frame, allowing herself to fall into the habits she’d cultivated over the course of the past fourteen years. “I missed you,” he murmured against her ear.

She sighed. “I missed you too.” It was the right thing to say and Valantin Andzevatsi was very good at saying the right thing at the right time. Keeping her lives—and lovers—separate was challenging, but she had done well so far. Eventually she would be caught, but she was hoping to keep that in a distant future. Nshan would be devastated, she knew. He really did adore her. It was unfortunate that he had to be in Karagozian’s pocket.

Killing Nshan would strike a definite blow at that particular pestilence, but it was honestly more useful to keep him around. He wasn’t nearly as careful as she was, so it wasn’t too difficult to pick out hints of the truth. There was also plenty of misleading information that could be fed to him if he stayed alive and well. It was also significantly easier than getting rid of him with no one asking any questions. She would do it if she was asked to, but so far the power that she answered to preferred to let her run her own operation, which suited Valantin just fine. There were certain comforts in her present arrangement that she might not have gotten to keep if scrutinizing eyes were on her.

She knew what she was doing, dangerous as it was. She’d been in the business a very long time and she wasn’t about to stop now, when she was needed the most.

Eternity called.

[Cacerta]

The Office of the Protector
Sevan, Nalaya
“Of course,” Vivi responded. As a woman who had served in the Cacertian Royal Navy, she was well aware of the fact that the CRN’s naval doctrine was far different than that of other modern nations. However -- with that being said -- it did not mean that the Royal Navy’s assets could not be of some use. The Navy’s destroyers and missile cruisers had extremely long effective ranges. “The Queen and Grand Admiral had figured as much, but wanted to recommend the deployment of one -- if not several -- of our battlegroups to at least secure the seas around Nalaya, if not provide direct support to troops in the nation’s interior.”

“As for the positioning of our Zodiac Commandos, I’ll be sure to relay said information to my sister -- the Duchess.” The Nalayans were no strangers to war and fighting any of the Nalayan factions would prove almost suicidal to units who had not seen combat, despite their training. Ravensword and Praying Mantis were very effective corporations with great training programs, but -- despite their veteran staff -- they could not transfer their experiences to their trainees. “Assuming we start launching sorties tomorrow, we could have our light armor and skirmish infantry units deployed within the next few days. Much of the vehicles issued to Zodiac units are no heavier than light tanks. I do hope light tanks, armored personnel carriers, and infantry fighting vehicles suffice.”

“As I’ve mentioned before, Madam Protector, we do have veteran ground units stationed in Andria,” Vivi stated, referring to the men and women of the 5th Amphibious Assault Division. They had fought in the Triple Continents as part of the spearhead of the Cacertian contingent and -- besides the 1st Amphibious Assault Division and several armored units -- were probably the most elite trained ground forces the Kingdom had to offer. “As we understand, Shalumite troops control Massis. We could move our 5th Amphibious Assault Division into the city to help secure it within a day, freeing up Shalumite and Nalayan forces for the push north. And -- if need be -- we can follow up with our 3rd Armored Division and 2nd Recon Regiment as well. But, understandably, they would take considerably longer to deploy.”

---

Sarissita Mansion
Cesena, Cacerta
Anelyn had decided to retire from Vichenza upon learning of her pregnancy, electing more to surround herself in the more natural and relaxed feel of Cesena as opposed to the Cacertian city that never slept. She was sitting on of the mansion’s many balconies, enjoying a cup of tea and overlooking the city below. Spending her time here almost felt appropriate, the Royal Physician had told her she was approximately eight weeks pregnant -- that meant that she most likely conceived here during Tyler and Allison’s winter vacation.

She fondly recalled how often the three of them had made love.

Anelyn had not particularly been indulging her carnal pleasures the last month -- focusing most of her energy on what action the Kingdom would take in Nalaya -- which meant that the Imperator of Shalum was most likely her child’s father. Considering the ongoing active role that Shalum was playing in the Nalayan civil war, the Queen had been having a difficult time deciding whether or not to let Tyler know.

Of her close friends around the region, Anelyn had been quick to inform Toni. The Prime Minister of Gylias had grown to be one of her closest friends since they had first met. Outside of Toni, though, the Queen had been doing her best to keep the news under wraps. It wasn’t that she cared all too much about the media attention as opposed to a preference of not letting her children be under the constant scrutinizing eye of a global society.

She hadn’t decided on a name yet. She hoped it was a girl.

Mari returned with another cup of tea and the Queen’s cellphone, asking if she required any further service. Anelyn made a motion for her servant to join in her enjoying the evening view before searching through her contacts to fast-dial Allison Holland. Perhaps it would be easier for Anelyn to break the news to her than her husband.

[Shalum]

Mobile Command Center of the 13th SEF
South of Sissak, Nalaya

At the moment, the encampment that the Imperial forces had established in order to provide support to the units attacking the city, was now in the process of being packed up so that it could be relocated again. While the order had not officially been passed down the chain of command for the troops manning this position to do so, none of them were stupid enough to think that this would be a more permanent position.

No, there had been talk of engineering units establishing more proper FOBs in Sissak once it was wrestled under control, and now that the objective had been achieved, it was only a matter of time until construction got underway. The only fixtures that were expected to remain longer term were things like the field hospital, which could could only be relocated at the expense and discomfort of the patients staying there. So while shrewd quartermasters and armors took stock of their inventory and waited to have it loaded onto trucks once the time came, ambulances came and went. Occasionally, medical evacuation helicopters would come as well to ferry the worst of the wounded down to Massis, where Shalum had better-equipped and more permanent medical facilities established.

One of the last areas of the camp that would be relocated when the time came, was the series of tents and rapidly deployable buildings that made up the 13th’s mobile command center. As the brain and central nervous system for the expeditionary force, none of the command staff or generals wanted it to be out of commision longer than necessary. Of course, there were mobile command vehicles that could be used during the interim movement period, but they were known for being uncomfortable, and designed to handle the scales of brigades better than they did divisions. So, at the moment, the 13th’s headquarters looked set to say where it was for a while longer, as personnel came and went, and guards patrolled the area regularly.

Inside the central tent, the walls were lined with banks of tactical computers that managed blue force tracker information, and a map of Nalaya was laid out on a large central table along with various markers showing known friendly and enemy positions. In the corner, an air conditioner hummed at all hours, accompanied by the loud whooshing sounds of an industrial sized fan to keep those working cool. This was one place that was never abandoned, though the staff that handled nighttime operations were usually little more than a skeleton command and security crew. It was also the place were the commander of the 13th could often be located, when he wasn’t out among his men or resting.

Charged with acting as overall commander of the Shalumite forces in Nalaya, at least for the foreseeable future, was a man by the name of Dieter Malcomson. A marine officer by trade, he had never been known for being a particularly caring man, and his characteristics only seemed to help cement that kind of sentiment. Tall and broad shouldered, his build was one of more brute strength than anything else. He wore a few scars in places, though the only one that was visible whenever he wore longsleeves was on his upper cheek, from where he had cut himself shaving many years ago. He was bald, though it was a matter of choice rather than genetic condition or age, meaning that he had to shave regularly.

This particular afternoon, his mood could have been more positive-- not that he was ever an especially happy man to begin with. While his own troops were celebrating the victory at Sissak, he was not, instead stuck here tasked with sorting everything out so that they could be returned to full combat efficiency as soon as possible. It did not help that he was currently down a brigadier general, someone who he could have delegated some of the workload off to had he not been out of commission.

As he shuffled some requisition papers aside, that would be faxed to Aragon within the hour via military grade encrypted lines, there was a small commotion outside the main entrance to the command tent. Glancing up, he listened to the disgruntled voices of his marine guards, who apparently were trying to stop someone from entering. Apparently they were overruled, as a stranger who he had never laid eyes before entered the tent.

The first thing that Dieter chose to do, before the newcomer had so much the chance as to open his mouth to speak, was to narrow his eyes at the man. In the past, his pair of emerald orbs had been described as predatory, and he hoped to use that to his advantage. Whoever this man was apparently had the proper paperwork to push past the marine guards, but that didn’t mean that Dieter had to extend his hospitality to the man openly. There was a system of arranging meetings in place for a reason that he would have been quite happy to honor, but whoever this man was had not chosen to honor it.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Paron Pekkanen.” General Malcomson replied, though his tone gave no indication that his words were actually anything akin to sincere. Putting on a humorless smile, he glanced down at the map of Nalaya, which he stood next to. “I’m glad that you’re so approving on my work, if you liked Sissak, then you’re going to love Armavir. I’ve got a real fireworks show planned,” he replied. None of the nearby equipment specialists could tell whether or not their commanding officer was joking.

“Nevertheless, pleasure to have EL present. I hear y’all do mighty fine humanitarian work,” he added after a beat, almost approvingly. Really, he was just happy that the work they were going to carry out would lessen his workload, if only slightly. He was a warrior, not a healer, and that sort of thing really didn’t suit his own skillset much. Though, it was necessary in order to rebuild their allies, and humanitarian assistance would improve their standing among the locals. That was the theory, anyways.

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes at the mention of his troops gunning down aid workers. The idea had not been veiled particularly thickly, and he took some offense to that. What did these Esperancers think his people were? Moraless barbarians? Dieter did his best to not let it both him too long, though. “Of course, I will have it passed on down the line. I can assure you that my men would ask questions first before shooting, we’re not as undisciplined as you’re so inclined to believe,” he replied dryly. The more he thought about it, the more he was keen on kicking this man out, there was so much sensitive information around here that he could easily grab if given the opportunity.

Looking over at Cate, the general’s expression did nothing to lighten into anything more welcoming. It was nothing in particular towards the Esperancer, Dieter was just too disgruntled to care. “Nice to meet you as well. If y’all are looking to get in contact with my civil affairs manager, or at least the closest thing I have to one at the moment, the man you’re looking for is Brigadier Joseph Burke. He’s the man that is in charge of the 4th Expeditionary Fire Brigade. They handle our military policing, battlefield media, and so on. They also have the 100th Ordnance (EOD) Company attached to them, who have been tied up with disarming improvised explosives for some time now. I’m sure he would appreciate your help.” There was a pause. “I’m afraid I don’t know where he is at the moment. Last I heard, though, he was at the field hospital.”

Turning his attention back to Jaako, he shrugged. “As far as the mosque goes, that is in the hands of General Blackburn and his staff to handle. I’m not getting involved with it either way. Too much damn trouble,” he grunted. Not to mention having one of the highest ranking men, Joshua fucking Blackburn himself, breathing down his neck about the mosque not being harmed. He respected the nobility less every damn day. Not only had they worked one of their own into his ranks, but they were trying to play back-seat commander to. Not respect for the chain of command.

Glancing down at the map of Nalaya for a moment, which had one of Sissak spread out next to it, the general thought for a moment before he replied. “Well, I have a few points. First of all, I do welcome your people’s aid here, it's going to be needed to tend for the wounded and displaced. Down in Massis, there is a Pomoc-class hospital ship from the Imperial navy, the INHS Eir to be exact, parked and is pretty much empty, aside from the doctors on board. Its meant to handle the worst of the wounded, civilian and military alike. If you need to use it, just let me know, and I am sure they could clear some room out to accommodate your people and patients.”

He motioned towards the map of Sissak. “Believe it or not, one of our goals is to get the city back in working order as soon as possible. We genuinely want the people here to be alright and somewhat self-sufficient, it's not like we’re not going to be around forever, so we want them to be back on their feet. So if we could get to work on reestablishing the city government, aid services like police and fire, getting utilities back on line, and other things like that back in working order? That would be great,” he stated. “Clearing out some space would be great too, but that is a matter my people can handle. Shalum intends to establish an FOB or two in the city, not to mention checkpoints and such.”

Whether he liked it or not, Dieter knew he was going to have to work with EL in the future, so he couldn’t just spoil the pot. They were likely the regional’s most powerful, private entities, with people across the globe. “I suppose I should be asking you in return, what can we do to help your people get their job done?” The words were almost bitter in his mouth.

---

Maldorian Section of 13th SEF Encampment
South of Sissak, Nalaya

As it turned out, even the notoriously ferocious auxiliary tribal warriors who served under the Imperial banner had some modicum of emotions, beyond the range of simple anger and hatred that was normally expected of them. As the fog of war slowly began to dissipate; as if carried away with the wind, and it became apparent that they could now walk the streets without being shot at, they began the process of pulling themselves back together like any other force would.

Formation by formation, commanding officers conducted inspections to get a more accurate understanding of how many men had lived, and how many were either dead or wounded to the point where they would be unable to get back into the fight anytime soon. Compared to other units, their casualties were actually not that bad, all things considered. This was likely due to the fact that they had been held in reserve position for a while, saved for one of the last offensive pushes to occur before James met Norazn on the field of battle. When a proper report was sent back to General Malcomson’s staff, it was stated that the worst off unit had only been reduced to around seventy-percent combat efficiency-- something that could easily be corrected once additional replacements were brought in from Massis.

As far as body handling went, the tribal warriors were a tad different in their than their Shalumite counterparts. While the Imperial military made it a point of seeing that its soldiers were buried in their homeland, with full military honors; the same could not be said for Maldorian warriors, who had been raised in a different culture than their German and Polish neighbors to the north.

For them, death was a matter of the spirit passing onto the afterlife, while the body was considered something more akin to a vessel to be used to carry out the work of the heavens. Even better, every fallen Maldorian had perished in battle, so they had died in the most honorable way possible as far as their families should have concerned. In respect to the people living in Sissak, they kept the funeral ceremonies outside of town. Many small funeral pyres were erected, and the bodies of each fallen warrior were burned, while the comrades of the deceased watched on solemnly with bowed heads.

Later, once the fires had all burned themselves out, slaves from Maldorian support units were sent out under guard to gather the ashes and put them into cedar boxes from their homelands, to be shipped back on return flights to the Empire. While it was a matter of the soul, not the body, some families might have wanted something to put in the ground themselves so that they could pay some sort of remembrance to the ones they had lost. While the fallen may not have been good people by any means, there was still the fact that many: fathers, brothers, cousins, and sons wouldn’t be returning home.

As it turned out, the funeral ceremonies had been conducted later in the day, the last of the fires burning out around the time of dusk, leaving just enough time for the compliment of slaves to carry out their collection duties. By the time the Maldorian soldiers returned to their section of the Shalumite encampment; which had already begun to shrink in size, courtesy of the combat engineers and their orders to relocate the cantonment to the newly founded FOB much closer to Sissak proper, night had fallen and the moon was beginning to illuminate the sky with tendrils of light. Of course, that wasn’t nearly enough for any of the soldiers to see properly, so soon enough, mobile LED work lights were powered up, along with even a couple of fires inside of fifty-five gallon drums that had been scrounged up one way or another.

It did not take long for the Maldorian soldiers to start celebrating the fact that they had managed to achieve victory in the city of Sissak. Like many soldiers, they wanted to unwind after such a battle, and much to their luck, some of the men among them had managed to scrounge up bottles of liquor; likely seized at some point point before they had been wholly withdrawn from the city, and told to wait at their encampment for further orders. The distribution of the intoxicating drinks was not exactly even, as it was poured into canteens, glasses, and cups of vastly varying sizes, but everyone got at least a taste of what was being passed around.

Similarly, things like tobacco and marijuana were passed around the same way, though there were greater amounts of these substances when compared to alcohol. The Shalumite army didn’t really want its soldiers drunk on the job, but it would look the other way if its soldiers wanted to smoke something in order to feel better. Of course, the Maldorians were in something of a gray area as far as far as jurisdiction went, given the province they hailed from was ‘semi-autonomous’ by legal definition.

When Colonel Arvark Pomerok emerged from his tent, a few whistles and hollers of approval could be heard from among the troops as their attention shifted to him, and it quickly became apparent why his men were reacting in the way that they were. Their commander, who was grinning wolfishly, was gripping the arm of Dzia Varazhnuni -the Arusai slave that he had captured several weeks ago- so tightly that it was likely she would wear bruises there the next morning. Similarly, a few of his most trusted officers had other ‘war prizes’ like her in their grasp, or under close watch. Given by the state of their dress, or lack thereof, it wasn’t hard to imagine that some horrific brutalization had already occurred to these poor souls. Unfortunately for them, it was only going to get worse.

“Men!” The Maldorian colonel barked out, actually managing to get them quiet for the first time the entire evening. As he gazed around at them, his grip never lessened on his property. Not that he expected her to make any attempt at escape, she was likely too broken by this point to try that, but he wanted her to know what kind of power he had over her.

“Over the last few days, you have fought well, above and beyond every expectation I had of you! You struck down the enemy with a ferocity that will be remembered for generations. Yes, we lost many of our brothers-in-arms, but we shall make sure their deaths were not in vain,” there were cheers of agreement at that statement. “The war is far from over men, do not forget that. So tonight? We shall celebrate that we’re alive,” his laugh was a dark one that could have sent chills down the spines of lesser men. Looking over at the other Nalayans that had been captured, he felt no real pity for them, they were simply collateral damage as far as he was concerned; and he intended to take advantage of the situation, just like any other man would. “So grab a smoke, a drink, a girl, or whatever else suits your damn fancy. Tonight, you’ve earned the right not to answer to anyone.”

That was the statement that opened the proverbial floodgates, another round of cheers coming from the assembled troops. They all knew what was coming, this wasn’t the first time that they had gone through this drill before. With eager eyes, they observed the officers let go of the slaves they had been charged with overseeing and simply step back, leaving them to the devices of the awaiting warriors.

It wasn’t as much a mad dash like one might have expected, but there were those who were quick to make their way over to the women and grab at them, some groping them where they stood, though most were simply relocated. The tops of rapidly deployable worktables, the dusty ground underfoot, and whatever else may have been available. It was clear that, as the soldiers tore away what little clothing the girls had been given to wear, and worked to free themselves from belts and trousers, that comfort was not what they were especially concerned with at the moment.

Much of the night was likely this, whether one liked it or not. The soldiers got drunk or high, many times a mix of both, and indulged in the pleasures of the flesh that was being provided at the expense of the populace they had invaded. The Arusai remained the favorite among the troops, who flocked to what few were available; though a couple of Imanalov’ that they had managed to get their hands on were popular as well. Of course, it wasn’t that they complained about any of the provided slaves, they would take what they could get during times like these.

Unfortunately, the ratio of men to women was quite disproportionate, so there was plenty of ‘work’ to be done as one soldier so eloquently said as he observed the queues. If it was any consolation to the women, they ended doped up as well along the way, forced to gulp down large mouthfuls of tea before they had been sent out from the tents, as well as along the way to stay hydrated.

The warm tea was very likely nothing they had experienced before, if only due to the fact that the Ardenberry plant fruits that it was made of originated in the Cacerta. The four meter evergreen shrubs were known as a cash crop there, and though Shalum hadn’t been importing the product for very long officially, the first instances of its use and propagation in the Empire were recorded in the mid 16th century-- in the hills of the Maldoria region, in fact. It had been established many hundreds of years ago that the berries could be used in many ways, but tea was the most popular method among the tribals do the sake of simplicity and ease.

In Cacerta, the Ardenberry had been documented long ago as something for religious ceremonies, or even recreational use. When the nutrients and antioxidants began to be processed by one’’s body, they began to feel either rather excited. That was all well and good in the Kingdom, they only used it for well-meaning reasons; but in the course of history Maldorian slavers had taken great advantage of the berries. They had learned that like a drug, the more you used of the stuff, the more under its spell you were. Enough tea would make even the most rebellious of slaves complacent to the orders their master; willing to do their bidding even. There was a reason watchdog groups in Shalum wanted the product to be regulated much more tightly than it was already, the aphrodisiac had become quite popular with date-rapists and opportunists in general.

The first grim example of just how potent the drugs were, was when Dzia ended up all but begging for Pomerok’s attention, regardless of the fact that they really couldn’t understand each other. She had been tugging on his clothes, running her hands over his chest, and giving him -those- kinds of looks in general. The rugged soldier had just laughed, and wrapped an arm around waist possessively, knowing she had to be well out of her mind by this point. He began to walk back towards his tent, but not before looking over at his officers and bellowing with a grin. “Well, are you coming or not? I’m not a greedy man, I can share. And from the looks of it, she’ll be happy to have more than just me around,” he had sounded nothing less than amused.

Like with all things, the festivities had to come to an end sooner or later. Stores of liquor slowly ran dry, herbs and smoke dissipated into the air, the soldiers themselves grew tired, and so on. As they began to slowly stumble off to their tents, laughing and chuckling, many cleary well under the influence of numerous substances, the support slaves were once again sent out by the few Maldorian warriors that had been told to stay sober and keep watch. Some of them were tasked with cleaning up and making the camp more presentable, while others were to retrieve the female slaves and clean them up after the night’s activities. It was grim work, and it showed on the faces of the men and women who had to do it, but it wasn’t as if they had the right to complain about their assigned tasks.

The pair that were sent to collect Dzia from the colonel's tent were an older, tired looking man and a much younger, paler skinned one. It was likely that the elder of them was a Maldorian himself, while the younger could have very well have descended from Azurlavaians oor Acreans. They find most of the officers passed out, to frankly describe their state, with the exception of Pomerok who wasn’t -quite- through with the poor Arusai girl just yet. Once he was, he grunted and all but pushed her into the two slaves arms, and walked deeper into the tent, presumably to collapse on his cot.

Blanching, the younger slave looked down at the red headed woman. She was definitely worse for wear. “Come on,” the elder slave said in the Maldorian tongue. The language barrier was something that had prohibited him from speaking to her in the past -as another slave of Pomerok, he was tasked with watching after her- but he had been working on teaching her a limited number of words the best he could. Things like food, water, bathroom, etc. “Let’s get her back to the washing area before he thinks about making her stay longer,” his words were quiet, and reaching down, he picked her up bridal style to carry her back.

It was a silent night after that, really, once the soldiers had gone to bed. It wasn’t as if slaves weren’t allowed to talk to one another, but what could they say? They had just witnessed horrific crimes against people who had done nothing wrong but be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was horrific to think that people could even carry out such atrocities. But there wasn’t anything they could do, power had been taken from their hands long ago. So now, the most they could do was be gentle with the newest of the captives, washing them with care and soap, offering words of sympathy or compassion though it was likely they were not understood.

---

With the Shalumite Alpine Detachment
10 km North of Siunik, Nalaya

Colonel Stevens nodded in agreement. “0300 hours sounds quite agreeable to me, ma’am. That is more than enough time for my troops to rest, eat, arm themselves, and so forth. Not to mention, that’ll give the pilots up at Tatev plenty of time to make sure their aircraft are mission worthy,” he replied. “My men are your men, Arzhani. One final thing I will say is that if we are to be quiet, that we move by foot first, and only send the armor in once we’re known of. The diesel engines are loud, and the cannons even more so,” he grinned.

The Shalumite did blink in surprise when she coughed up blood, and immediately he wondered if she was sick. If so, he had not been informed of that by Rikker. “Of course, Arzhani, be with them as I will be with mine. I will surely confer with you later.” He replied and nodded quickly. When she was gone, he turned and headed towards his command tent to dispatch the proper orders and messages with the help of the few communications officers he had with him.

For the Shalumite infantrymen and armored vehicle crews, the following day was a busy one as they readied for battle while trying to minimize noise as much as possible at the same time. Weapons were checked, double checked, cleaned up, and everything else possible to keep them in best working order. Ammunition was passed out liberally to the troops, thirty-round clips having to be loaded by hand; or in the case of the heavier machine gun teams, hundred and two hundred round belts. Only so much could be done for the vehicles without starting them up, such as check the fuel, and make sure secondary weapons were fully loaded. The four artillery crews had the town well within their sites, and the chemical rounds were ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice.

Some Shalumites showed their Vantai counterparts how to use the single shot RPGs, not that it was hard to do to begin with. Type 25s were used to engage enemy armor with their tandem HEAT warheads, and Type 26s were meant to destroy cover and take on enemy infantry due to their thermobaric nature. Meanwhile, other soldiers donned their gas masks, making sure everything was in working order. Compared to their allies, the Shalumites almost felt guilty with how new their gear was, much of it had likely gone from the factory straight to storage until only recently when it had been issued to them.

By this time, the Shalumite scouts that had been deployed were back at the encampment, relaying what they had learned about enemy positions to their commanding officers, Shalumite and Vantai alike. Out of the fifteen or so of the vanguards that there were, only five of them were being sent along with Kaliq’s team to provide support. They had been told it was going to be a hopefully small, and quiet mission, so the fewer numbers was actually in their favor this time. These were the few of the Shalumites who had actual suppressed weapons. The kits they wore were different as well. Instead of woodland and desert camouflage, they wore ‘sniper smocks’ as the industry had so aptly named them, long pieces of dark colored fabric that covered most of their bodies, and had a hood that would be conceal everything but their faces. Almost like what ghillie suits were made of, without all the attached pieces of woodland material.

At three in the morning, every Shalumite soldier was awake and alive, bedecked in their armor and ready for battle to commence. Vehicle crews sat ready to start up their machines of death at a moment’s notice, and squads had formed up. With some of Kella’s forces, there were also airforce ETACs intermingled, ready to call down Spice bomb airstrikes as directed. When people spoke, it was quietly, as if they were preparing themselves for the upcoming night operations. Meanwhile, Stevens grabbed his small radio, and got in contact with Ghayth not long after the man had spoken to Kella. “Kapitan, this is Stevens, we’re ready to move. Let us commence this battle.”

That was the official order to commence operations, of course, but there was only so much movement from the Shalumites. Aside from the people with Kaliq, and the forward air controllers, many of the Shalumites were being held in reserve. They would act as the heavy hitters, so to speak, emerging from the darkness with weapons blaring when they were called upon. Perhaps, if they were so lucky, they wouldn’t be needed at all, if the enemy was to be cut down before they even realized it. However, Murphy's law was never kind on the battlefield, so they would have to wait and see. Until then, they could only wait eagerly, stroking their fingers against weapons, and watching the city in the distance from their vantage points.

---

Quellarin Syr’thaeryl
Maerimydra, Nalaya

Joan could help but look surprised at the information, and whistle through her teeth, still white and relatively shiney despite the lack of care she had been able to give them while out in the wilds of the Mak’ur homelands. Really, it shouldn’t have come as such a shock that she had rested as long as she had, but it did. Normally, she only ran on six or seven hours of sleep on any given day, she was too much of a night owl for her own good. “That long, huh? If so, I haven’t been out that long since my first leave from the Imperial military, at least when I exclude injury and drug induced events,” she replied with a small smile.

Looking over at the Yath, she dipped her head in respect to him. Had she been standing, a bow would have been more proper according to cultural dictates. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Paron Ranaghar. Do not worry, you didn’t wake me, I’m up of my own accord. Honestly, I’m surprised Sabal didn’t wake me when she left our room, normally I would have been a light enough sleeper to notice,” she chuckled. “Any friend of Sabal’s is a friend of mine,” she added after a moment. It wasn’t exactly a genuine statement, she suspected many a Yathallar would want to see her killed, but it was the sentiment that mattered.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you’re a drinker, Sabal.” Joan commently with a sly grin as she accepted a glass of the wine, and watched as two more were poured for her recently emerged brothers-in-arms. She swirled the sweet red liquid around in her clear glass for a moment, before taking a sip. It was a good stuff, that much was certain. And that was the opinion a Catholic, who was well acquainted with different wines and their qualities. “Where was this made? Ijevan?” She asked curiously. It was the only wine-producing city that she knew of in Nalaya.

The rest of the group got settled in short order, Faisal taking the open seat next to Joan, while Michael actually opted to sit on the floor so that he could stretch out his legs and hopefully ease their ache. They all drank wine and talked happily, the justicars not viewing the Ryld with much suspicion-- the way they viewed him wasn’t dissimilar to that of Joan’s. The trio were also quick to dig into the food, deftly picking up piece-after-piece and popping them into their mouths casually. If this was a breakfast, they were certainly going to take advantage of it, none of them were the types to decline meals. “Surely it can’t be that bad,” Michael said as he glanced at one of the spicer articles on the big meal plate.

“I wouldn’t risk it,” Faisal cautioned his friend, sounding amused. With some exotic blood running through his veins, he was the only Shalumite here who could handle the spicy foods that the locals consumed, though he generally avoided them anyways. Whatever the kick may have been, he really wasn’t keen on the havoc spicy foods could cause one’s stomach and intestines if they consumed too much of it. “If you do, you’ll just end up regretting it later, my friend.”

“Actually Michael, you should try it,” Joan spoke up and grinned widely. She made no move to really touch anything spicy, and instead took a bite of cheese before going on. “Maybe it’ll give you that kick you need to get the day going. Don’t forget to drink plenty of water too,” she chuckled. The other justicar just stuck his tongue out at her, before rolling his eyes and going back to eating.

“That is good to hear, Paron,” Faisal said as he glanced at Ryld. His gaze was nothing but kindness, not a hint of hostility in his pair of chocolate orbs. “It is a pleasure to have you among our company,” he added after a beat with a smile, before taking a sip of wine. He figured that if the vast majority of Yathallars would have rather struck him down, at least there would be one or two of them out there who didn’t have completely horrid things to say about him or his own knightly order.

Even with the new member of their little company, as temporary as he may have been, the justicars were quite laid back in their mannerisms and speech. They talked, they laughed, teased one another, ate snack foods and drank wine. After how much time they had spent either running or fighting, they were content to enjoy the moment. They had no illusions about the fact that their lives could end very shortly, and while it may have unsettled them, they did their best to not let it bother them. They were looser even, Joan letting her fingers linger on Sabal’s for a moment as she accepted a glass of wine from the Ma’kur to refill her own glass, while Michael glanced at Pella now and then. Even Faisal, their normally unshakable leader, couldn’t help but notice the curves of their resident female Yathallar as she leaned over at one point.

---

After the Duel
Sissak, Nalaya

If there was one thing about the day that ended up taking the Shalumite soldiers by surprise, it was just how easily the Nalayans around them reverted back to civilian life, as if there hadn’t been an intense battle raging only several hours earlier. None of them were quite able to discern whether it was impressive how durable the locals were, or depressing because they were simply this used to warfare. Either way, it was nothing they had quite experienced before. Many of the had seen combat against Azurlavain forces, especially on Iron Island, but in every case during that relatively short conflict, the cities had been long abandoned by the time battles occurred there.

As a general rule, the Shalumites did not interfere with the lives of the city’s citizens, and they expected the same in return. Many of them were still worn out from battle, and didn’t want any trouble. Due to the standard operating procedures of the Imperial Military when they captured a population center, they were forced to carry out patrols, though they knew that they didn’t have to expect much in the way of fighting as long as everyone remained calm and put their trust in the agreement forged between James and Norazn. Smaller, light armored vehicles and MRAPs rolled down the narrow city streets now and then, usually accompanied by a squad of ten men and women or so. Every soldier openly carried their high-powered assault weapons, but they didn’t hold them tightly, as if expecting to be ambushed at any moment.

Across the city, recovery teams from Special Troop units had been formed as well. They were tasked with combing the city, and recovering the Imperial soldiers who had fallen in battle, so that they could be shipped home and received a proper burial. It was grim work, but someone had to do it. Whenever they would come across the corpse of a local, civilian or insurgent alike, they would remove their broken forms from the wreckage, and fetch body bags for them. Given that many people didn’t have proper identification, they couldn’t tag the bags like they normally did. Instead, the best they could really do was either leave them out neatly in the street, or deliver them to the closest morgue. The latter was the more preferred option, as overflowing as they suspected it to be.

At the local hospital, the Shalumites were willing to do what they could to ease the burden of the doctors there. They were aware of the fact EL had a much larger and workable medical group available, but they also understood it would need to be all hands on deck to save lives. At the very least, the 13th was willing to share medical supplies with the hospital if things got that bad. They had plenty to spare, and with the siege lifted, fresh waves of stock could safely be trucked in from Massis.

Additionally, the Shalumite field hospital could take on some of the wounded if need be. They were trying to clear up space whenever possible. Already, they had sent some of the better off Nava’ai insurgents back to their fellows on the other side of the city via transport trucks and ambulances. There were some that were in too critical condition to move at the moment, and none of the Shalumite doctors were certain how patient the milits’iayi, nor were they keen on finding out. But they had to look after their patient’s health above all else.

Speaking of patients, General James Blackburn had just been released from the hospital long ago, with very clear cut instructions from multiple doctors to take it easy in the coming days. He had suffered a fair number of injuries, and had practically become a teaching instrument for doctors new to administering stitches. Norazn’s sword had done a good number of clean slices, if it was any consolation, but none of them would be quick to heal. James had been given pain medication and had been escorted to his tent by a medic.

It did not take long for him to send for a runner and a staff member, so that he could get an idea of what was going on in the city now that it was under friendly control. He was also interested in attending the funeral of Norazn, if possible, to show respect for the man. While no one may have noticed, he was doing whatever he could to keep himself busy, and avoid sleeping. He had half a mind to pen Ada a letter, but the words just wouldn’t come to him.

It did not take long for the troops around the Mosque to disperse, it apparent that the only thing they would do was disrupt the prayer service going on. While none of them may have been Muslims, the Shalumite soldiers did have a respect for other religions, and weren’t about to interfere with one’s right to worship. They moved on to patrol the areas around the Samaa’i, riding in and on armored vehicles as they rested their legs. Meanwhile, the combat engineers moved towards the northwest of the city, where they began to clear out an area to set up a more proper forward operating base for the 13th. The sooner it was established, the sooner the troops -themselves included- would have a place to rest, relax, and get ready for the next fight.

---

The Gate of Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

“Never before, huh? Kinda the same for me, I guess. I never really left Shalum until they assigned me to the Annu base,” Rikker replied as the quarter approached. While this man could have still be described as the enemy, or at least a future adversary, small talk never really killed anyone. The colonel would try to converse with the man when possible, if only to build towards a positive repertoire. Nadal was a direct link to the Dread Wolf, after all.

Looking over the four civilians, Rikker nodded respectfully towards them. He was in a relaxed military parade rest stance, feet apart and shoulders squared, hands behind his back as he regarded them. “It is a pleasure to have you among us. Your organization does good work, I’ve seem them helping the less fortunate in downtown Dresden before,” he smiled a bit. Though he had grown up in one of the apartment complexes not far from the major industrial areas of Shalum’s manufacturing capital, his family had never gotten assistance from El workers. His father was too prideful to accept it, as much as they may have needed it at one time or another. “I was actually unaware that Esperance International had an office in Tatev,” he admitted.

“As the Most Honored pointed out, it doesn’t seem likely that Shalumite or Federal troops will be clashing with the ku’nal anytime in the near future. We’ve outlined some basic terms that would keep us out of conflict and ensure the safety of those in the city. It will just require the consent of Hramatar Narekatsi before we move forward any further, however,” Rikker explained for the benefit of the El representatives. Looking over his shoulder, he spied the Dragon in the flesh for the first time today. “And there she is now.”

“Hramatar Narekatsi, a pleasure to have you join us,” Rikker greeted her more formally. He offered her a salute, though it wasn’t with a stiff stance, just a sign of greeting. So here she was, the women whom he had risked so many men to save. What about her was so important that she was deemed worthy of the resources? If he knew anything about backroom politics, he would never know. “I am...not actually certain what the Tenets of Reserve dictate, but I advocated for fair terms,” he explained to her.

He was silent for a while after that, content to let Ada and Nadal have their back and forth. He didn’t expect to be a big player here, really. Even though he had a large force in Tatev, his base was located in Annu. It didn’t really make him an Ilharn of the city, he thought, but he was not about to contest it either. If anyone deserved the title, it was likely Ada or Emin. Every now and then, he would glance at the El representatives, as if gauging their reactions.

“Of course, Hramatar, that is something that must be done,” he replied sagely in reference to refugees. There were going to be plenty of them from Vayots, he knew, due to actions Colonel Ulrich had been forced to take. He was still waiting for the full report, but didn’t expect it for a couple of days at minimum. The man had a lot on his plate at the moment, and a lack of proper paperwork wouldn’t end the world. “I would be in favor of a corridor. There are a lot of people out there who will need aid. A set path in the direction of Armavir would make for quicker troop movements as well, I believe.”

In regards to the refugees, he paused to look at the El representatives. “I believe they would be better to refer to than myself. I am a soldier through and through, ma’am, not a medical doctor such as yourself.” He looked back over towards Ada. “Anyway I can be of assistance, just let me know.”

---

The Hallway, Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

While he never would have admitted, some part of Arnold really did want to give up on investigating the death of this poor soul, so that he could pass the task onto someone more competent for the job than himself. Sure, he had some experience with paramilitary matters; but at the end of the day, he was much better geared towards direct action operations. He was a soldier by trade, not an investigator; regardless of what his cover in Tatev may have been. The only one really capable of making any sound judgements was: Dara for her medical experience, Elijah who was nowhere to be found now, and Nasaqu for whatever reason Mauser had sent her.

When the Mak’ur woman appeared, seemingly out of the woodwork, the STG agent in disguise couldn’t help but jump in surprise, one of his hands going to rest on belt near his sidearm for a moment. It wasn’t that he had any prejudice against the woman, he was just on edge. Anyone could have been the enemy at the moment, and he didn’t want to take too many chances. However, that didn’t mean that he was completely out of his mind. One could generally those from the El organization, they were known for being rightstanding folks. Perhaps just a yearly tax deduction for him when he sent donations, but they seemed to put the money to good use somewhere.

“Apologies, Siruhi,” he said after a moment. Straightening up, his stance became more relaxed as he regarded her. He was not huge like his comrades, but he was certainly in shape, with broad shoulders and muscular legs. Not the straight up brawler looking type like Elijah or Malcolm, but the apex predator that wouldn’t tire while hunting its prey down. Dead once he got his proverbial fangs and claws into you. “We’ve all been on edge lately with the war, myself included,” he explained.

He was silent for a moment in thought. Did he work with her now, or get in touch with Elijah to see what his commander said? Protocol would have likely said the latter, but his gut said the former-- it was only one of those that kept him alive in the field. “I think you’ve found the right place, ma’am. My team is looking into the death of a man by the name of Tsavagian, your standard office drone analyst.” He paused for a moment to look around, and make sure they were still alone. Beyond a select few, no one was supposed to know about the cause of death yet, really. “The cause of death was confirmed to be poison, cyanide to be more exact.”

Reaching up, he ran his fingers through his shortly cut hair. Something he did when he was nervous, along with scratching the back of his neck for no good reason. “I am going to go out on a limb here, and say we can work together. You, myself, my team and so on. Never worked with a civilian before, not sure how that affects protocol,” he explained. Truthfully, he didn’t have to worry about such things with the STG, but a MP like he was supposed to be would have been more concerned. “If you’re willing to work with us, we’ve been working out some leads and such that should hopefully point us towards our subject, or at least build her criminal profile a bit more.

---

Diplomatic Corps Offices
Tatev, Nalaya

Malcolm had a pocket sized notebook in hand, the kind that could easily be stored or retrieved when one was in a hurry. Along with this, he had a pen to take notes, and immediately went about scribbling down the names of the three office lackeys.

Meanwhile, Dara gave them a wide, award winning smile as she tucked a few strands of brown hair behind her ear. There were other ways of getting information besides brute force and intrusive probing. Perhaps if she just got these boys talking, it would be enough to gather all the information she could from them. “Anything you can provide would be appreciated, gentlemen, really. There are a lot more questions than answers at the moment. And with the war going on, we’re a bit on the understaffed side of things at the moment, I am afraid,” she explained as she frowned softly.

As she nodded and listened to the men, Malcolm drifted off to a corner of the room, content to observe the situation while his more intelligent partner gathered intelligence from these drones. She had more of the people trait than he did. Perhaps it was her beside manner training, or perhaps it was the fact she had a decent chest and a round backside. Glancing back and forth between the trio of Nalayan men, the towering male of an STG agent crossed his arms over his broad chest and listened.

“Yes, his death is quite tragic. It is a shame whenever someone passes in the way he did. Tsavagian was still a young man, with a good deal of life ahead of him,” Dara replied sagely. Honestly, she had never so much as seen the man till he was on the morgue slab, but it seemed like at least a kind thing to say about him. “Poison would be very bad, yes. There are many ways it can be administered, so that would make people a bit leery of one another. However, I cannot comment on the cause of his death at this time. That is something only my superior officer can do, I’m afraid,” she added as she looked at them. “Surely you know how that sort of thing goes,” she smiled at Van.

Giving Sahak an amused smile, she reached out her hands to the man to accept her cup. Similarly, Malcolm moved forward as well, apparently going to accept the offer. “I would love some, thank you,” she chuckled. “Don’t worry, none of you strike me like the killer types, I think I would be rather safe in y’all’s hands.” She added with a warm expression, doing what she could to turn up the charm a bit. Dara was rather out of practice with this, not that ‘enemy entrapment and induction’ was part of her specialty.

Of course, she knew she was safe, given that her suspect was supposed to be female and blue-eyed. Which these men were certainly not. And at worst, her death would be quick, and Arnold just outside the door would be quick to respond.

She declined any cream or additions, unless they happened to have honey. She wasn’t a huge coffee drinker to begin with, but if she was going to do this, it would be the way the locals did it. “Of course, Paron Sahak, take your time,” she nodded towards the man who had been summoned. Looking at Van and Samuel, she asked. “So you mentioned a...Ter Kachazor Shareshian, yes? The big boss of the diplomatic corp?” She repeated the information for verification. “If Tsavagian did speak to him, I would certainly like to meet this man. Do you know where I could find him, or get in touch with him?”

---

Imperatorial Palace
Aragon, Shalum

It was not all that often that the executive couple got to sit down and really rest together. There was always something on their plate that needed tending to: community or business leaders that had earned a moment of their time, meetings with special committees that were tackling issues the Empire faced both at home and abroad, so on and so forth. More recently, there had been a good number of war meetings with the High Kommand of the Imperial Armed Forces, so that they would be up to date on what was going on down south. Allison Holland could see how they weighed on her husband particularly hard. He had dedicated a good portion of his military to a cause he thought was right, and even if the tides were in their favor, every casualty count unsettled him to some degree he would never let her see. He had been a soldier at one time, so she knew those were more than simple statistics to him. There had been a time when he would have been one of those men, on the ground slugging it out with the Nava'ai and whoever else.

When the latest count from Sissak came in, the Imperatrix knew that something needed to be done to ease her husband. He had not reacted overtly, just a solemn nod, but simply touching his arm had given her an idea of how tense he was at the moment. As he retreated to his office, saying he had some things he needed to review, she concocted a simple plan. Summoning his two Hostillian concubines -one of whom she approved of, and the other she thought was too stuck up for her own good- she had them do a few things for her. Fix a nice meal for him, fetch a couple of bottles of wine...and put on some things he would love to see them prance around in. Knowing Tyler, it wouldn't matter anyways, the lacy fabrics they wore would end up on the floor of his office anyways.

About a half-hour into their little celebration, the Imperatrix heard her personal phone ringing, the one saved for her closest group of friends. "Baby, give me a minute, I need to answer this," she told her husband before giving him a quick kiss on the lips. Tyler didn't give her an answer, just grinned lazily and nodded. He had other things to keep him busy at the moment, by the name of Xumin and Hatara.

Quickly on a pair of jeans and nothing else, Allison stepped out into a deserted hallway of the palace as she looked down at her ringing phone. Her perfectly sculpted, blonde eyebrow rose at the caller identification. It was Queen Anelyn herself, one of her best friends, and someone that she and her husband had secretly shared a lover with for close to a decade now-- as hard as it was to imagine. While she had never really come to admit it, she loved Anelyn, and she was certain her husband did as well. The first few years of their relationship had been fun, but she liked to think it had grown deeper with time. She couldn't help but grin as she answered the call.

"Hey Anelyn!" She greeted enthusiastically. "I was wondering if you were going to call, or if I would have to do it myself. Congratulations on the baby!" Allsion went on warmly, shifted on her heels. It had been the talk of the palace the last couple of days. Neither her or Tyler had taken into account who the father could have been, they knew that their Cacertian friend got around quite a bit, and figured she was too careful to let something like this simply slip.

[Acrea]

Ashland Passage
Aragon, Duchy of Harford, Shalum

Steam rose up, moisture covering every surface of the bathroom. It was like a sauna in there, the only sound that of the water running. Behind the polished transparent glass of the shower door, frosted with steam, water ran down the back of the young, dirty blonde figure that stood leaning back against the wall.

She let the water run down, taking comfort in its warmth. It was her time of peace, her time of thought. She was young, certainly looking no older than her late teens. Nineteen, perhaps. She was certainly very attractive; high cheekbones and finely angled and sculpted features. She might have been of Nordic, or even Rus descent. Her body was not quite that of a dedicated athlete, but that of an individual who was certainly athletic and aimed to keep a very tight, toned figure. Well proportioned, and a tad on the tall side, at around 173 centimetres.

Kaitlyn Shaw had little control of what she thought about in this peaceful, morning lone time. Her mind simply wandered, and refused to listen to her command. This morning, she thought of home. Home, for most people like her, was simply where they slept. Where they laid their heads at night, and dreamt good or bad.

She stretched out a hand, writing a single word into the steam that had accumulated on the glass door, the word standing out clearly.

Родина

Rodina. A word that had so much meaning, yet to Kaitlyn was a paradox of such great meaning and so little meaning at once. Her phone buzzed on the granite sinktop, muffled slightly by the discarded tank top that it sat upon. Lone time was over.

But her thoughts still had so much to say, and they spoke loud and clear as she went through the motions of the rest of her morning routine. Pictures flashed. The airport, Frankfurt, the fields at Voronezh, the handgun that sat under her pillow. She blinked hard, staring at herself back in the mirror. Focus.

She had done her hair in a professional, yet alluring and sexy way. It fell down in light waves, down to the middle of her breasts, the right side brushed back behind her ear and shoulder. Her makeup was simple but effective. She had brought special attention to her eyes, a piercing blue green, and a subtle pink colouring to her lips.

Shaw. She was Kaitlyn Shaw. Colonel Kaitlyn Shaw. Damn young to be a Colonel, by the looks of her.

The daily wonder of what to wear was not an issue that morning, it seemed. She had a message on her phone. It was Graham. Odd instructions, but with him there was always a reason. He had taken special interest in her recently. Something that both intrigued and worried her at the same time.

The clothing she chose was not her usual office wear. Rather, it was very unusual. A dress. A very provocative dress. It was tight- that was for sure- and black. The bodice section hugged her shapely, curved but slim figure like a second skin, exposing into a sheer black section just above her dress that covered her upper chest and her arms, decorated with a floral-like lace pattern. The dress was dangerously short, ending just below her shapely rear. She would certainly have to be careful. She slipped on a pair of heels- black, platforms, and five inches- and grabbed her bag, which she slung across her body. Black sunglasses went over her eyes. An ID badge was clipped to the bottom of the dress. It was time to certainly cause a stir at the office.

---

Headquarters of the Shalumite Special Tasks Group
Aragon, Shalum

Located deep in the central nervous system of the Bison’s Empire, was the sprawling complex where the STG was headquartered out of. At two-and-a-half million square feet, it was truly a gargantuan complex. There was, of course, a good reason for that, and all of the investment that had gone into the agency. The men and women that worked out of here had various tasks: direct action, intelligence gathering and countering, internal security, and so on. But they had a singular goal: protecting Shalum from threats both internal and external. With neighbors such as their own, it took a lot of manpower to ensure the Empire’s continued sovereignty.

Charged with overseeing the group’s activities was General Dianne Beckman, also known more simply as the Director. Given that she couldn’t possibly hope to manage everything that went on with her agency, she had to delegate her work off to others. It was why the agency was split up into many subdivisions and groups. Her de jure second in command was a man by the name of Langston Graham, a rugged SIU veteran. It was in his office that Caleb Mason found himself in today.

“A new partner, sir?” Agent Mason asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He was an intimidating man, visibly aged by his work. Though no older than thirty, he had that almost tired look that you would have expected from a lifetime soldier. His blue eyes, once full of life, seemed duller and as if they had seen too much. His body wore scars, and he kept his hair cut short with the fear he’d go gray one of these days too soon before his time. He was dressed simply, in a three piece suit that could have used a proper visit to the dry cleaners.

It wasn’t to say that the STG’s deputy director was any less of a man. He was a visibly older, darker skinned man in his mid fifties, who had long since gone bald or just shaved his head altogether. His eyes were cold and lifeless, as if he was ready to give the order that would kill thousands at any moment-- which could very well happen, if the top tier of the chain of command ever fell into his hands during an emergency situation. At the moment, he seemed nothing more than indifferent to Mason. “Yes, a new partner. It's time you get back on the horse, colonel. Shalum needs you.”

A year prior or so, Mason’s partner had bit the bullet, and he had been working ‘capital duty’ ever since. No one had any leads as to who had done it, but all fingers seemed inclined towards Acrea. Since then, he had been working counterintelligence operations and paperwork, light tasks that wouldn’t pressure him too much. But those days were at an end. Being the good agent he was, the man kept his mouth closed. “What is going on, sir?”

“We’re getting a team together,” the older man grunted. Standing up, he moved to gaze out his window, upon the Aragon skyline. “There is word of Soviet activity in Nalaya, and if that is true, we want those rats hunted down and put out of their miserable existence.”

“Acreans in Nalaya, sir? What could they possibly want there?” Caleb asked with a raised eyebrow. For some time now, Shalum had been active in the Military Protectorate, but only now was the Ruskies making a move?

“Yes, apparently so. It is unsettling, to say the least.”

“And why aren’t assets on the ground handling it?” Caleb asked curiously, falling back into a parade rest position. As far as he knew, there were already a hundred or more SIU operators on the ground.

“They’ve got other missions and targets to handle, plus they are direct action. Not counterintelligence like you are. They hit targets, but you’re the kind of person that identifies them. So on and so forth. We’re putting together a team to start running ops down south, really.” Graham went on. “I am putting you in charge of it. Furthermore, you’re going to be tasked with building up your new partner up into a proper agent. She is a young gun. Fresh out of the farm.”

“She? A young gun? You’re giving me a green agent for something this important?” Caleb asked with a raised eyebrow. Normally they were saved for less...trial-by-fire type missions. If they died quick, Shalum didn’t get back the money invested in the agents at the very list. It really did become a numbers game with the STG at times, objective, as if humanity was completely stepped away from.

“Indeed I am. She has some of the best marks I’ve seen in quite some time. Almost as good as mine,” Graham smirked. “She should be here any moment now…”

Just then, as though on a cue, the door opened, and Shaw stepped in a bit tentatively. She didn’t enter much farther than the door, letting it shut behind her, simply standing straight with her feet together as she looked over the occupants of the room. Her bag was gone, and she resisted the urge to pull her dress down under the scrutinising gazes of the others. She gave a simple nod to Graham. “Sir.”

Turning away from the window, Graham gave the young agent an approving smile, and nodded at her. “Agent Shaw, a pleasure that you could join us,” he replied. Walking back to his desk, he snatched up a water bottle, and unscrewed the cap. He motioned towards Caleb before taking a quick sip of water. “This is agent Mason. He is going to be your new partner, Shaw. He’s one of our best.”

Mason took a moment to look over the newcomer, and quite honestly, he wasn’t sure what to make of her. She was young, too damn young for the rank on her ID card. It was hard to miss the fact that she wore her dress damn well, though he wasn’t sure if openly approving of it or not was allowed. He had never seen a female agent wear anything of the like, at least while at the ‘home office’ as the STG headquarters was often referred to. Looking up to meet her eyes, he tried to be objective. “A pleasure to meet you, agent Shaw.” He said as he extended his hand to her.

“And the same to you, Agent Mason,” Kaitlyn replied. She didn’t quite smile, but the expression on her face was amicable. She met his eyes as well, though tried to hide the fact that they had given him a thorough once over as she’d approached him to shake his hand. “I look forward to working with you.”

“Same here. I’ve heard nothing but good about you so far, it should be interesting having you at my side.” He replied with a pleasant tone, shaking her hand. Compared to her, his own fingers were much larger. Mason could have likely crushed her hand if he felt so inclined.

Off to the side, there was a small bouncing sound against the hardwood floor, followed by rolling. Frowning, Graham motioned towards Shaw’s feet. “Sorry, I am such a clutz. Could you grab that for me, agent?” He asked politely.

Giving Graham a smile- she knew him much better- Shaw turned and reached down, bending to grab the bottle cap that Graham had dropped. Once she managed to finally grasp it between her fingers, she stood straight again, fixing her dress and turning back to Graham- away from Mason- and handing him the cap.

Deputy Director Graham couldn’t help but smirk at the sight of Shaw, wearing such a lovely dress, bent over in his office. She had such a lovely pair of legs, and a fine rear to go with them. The kind he wouldn’t have mind taking a shot at. But alas, he was passing off such a duty to Mason. At least she would be kept in good hands. “Thank you, Agent Shaw, you’re so kind,” he smiled at her.

Even agent Mason looked at least partially interested, though only for a scant number of moments. While he had worked with female agents in the past, he had made a point of never getting involved with them, and he had no intention of going back on that now. The death of his last partner was something to only reinforce that, truly. Shaking his head for a moment, he looked down at Shaw. “So, have you been briefed on the situation?” He asked her curiously, trying to get back on topic.

“Aye, I have,” Shaw confirmed, crossing her arms under her breasts as she looked up at Mason. She tilted her head at him, silent for a moment, as she observed. She glanced at Graham. “I suppose you wanted to get started right away, then?”

Graham glanced at Shaw and nodded, moving to take a seat behind his desk. There was more work to be done, there always was. “Of course,” he nodded seriously. “Time is of the essence here, I can’t have the KGB running any more rampant than they are may be. I do want Agent Mason and yourself to take the proper time to train and get to know each other, first, however. It will take some time to get the team prepared to depart for Nalaya.” Pausing, he looked at Mason. “Do you have any questions, Colonel? I need to speak to Shaw alone for a moment, but I’d hate to rush you out.”

“No sir, I am quite alright at the moment. I’m sure the more proper briefings will cover everything we’ll need. I’ll just be waiting right outside,” Mason said. Nodding, he stepped away, walking towards the door, and letting himself out.

Once Mason let the door shut behind him, Shaw turned towards Graham. Casually, as she was more comfortable without Mason at the moment, she took a seat on the side of his desk as she looked down at him. “What did you need, Sir?”

Graham resisted the urge to frown. He had been expecting that she was smart enough to know what he had been wanting her to do, perch her pretty little self in his lap. Instead, he stood up, and slowly walked around the desk, letting his hand come to rest on her shoulder as he stood behind her. “Oh, nothing in particular,” he murmured as he gently brushed a few strands of her hair. Leaning down, he tilted her head in a way that he could press a kiss to her lips, rough and in a claiming way. “I just want to remind you that there are stakes here. You’re a fresh agent going on a job that veterans would be falling over themselves for. I don’t want you to dissapoint me, doll. That would be...unfortunate,” he whispered into her ear.

Kaitlyn inhaled sharply through her nose as he kissed her. She forced herself to respond to it, knowing just what this might get her. The feeling of his hands on her body, the way he looked at her and spoke to her. She forced herself to like it. “Understood, sir…”

“The dress is a nice touch. Though, I must admit, it looked a lot better on my floor this morning,” Graham pressed, smirking all the while. A few more kisses, along her neck, and finally he backed away. Turning, he returned to his desk, perching himself behind it. “Now, as to our boy Mason, treat him well. His last partner got gunned down by some fucking Soviet scum on the border, he’s not been in the best shape the last couple of months. He’s one of the best we have, at least when he is in working order. Any questions?”

Shaw forced herself to go the extra step. She stood, walking over to where he sat and bending down so that she was eye level with him. She let her hand brush over his groin while she leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his lips. “None at all, sir.”

This was the kind of behavior that Graham expected of her. The kind of thing that he, and marks alike would approve of. “Very good,” he grinned at her. Turning her around, he gave her a sharp swat on her rear as an ushering. “Now get out of here, I’ve got real work to do. My place later tonight, though?” He asked with a certain eagerness as he got settled behind his desk, booting up his PC.

“I’ll see you there,” Shaw replied, forcing a smile and licking her lips teasingly as she walked back to the door, letting her hips sway a little. She let it close shut behind her as she stepped into the hallway, beside Mason. She opened her mouth to speak, before her elbow knocked over a mug that rested on a mail cart. Cursing, she bent down to pick it up.

“Oh, hey Shaw, go well in there?” Mason asked pleasantly enough as he looked at her. Before she could reply, however, the mug was already tumbling to the ground. Thankfully, it appeared to be empty, and nothing spilled. The handle ended up breaking off in the process.

Walking up to the cart was Adam Shepherd, the owner of said mug. He was actually one of the agent’s assigned to her team, who was set to meet with Graham after Mason and Shaw did. Seeing the sight, he couldn’t help but frown, until he realized who was bending over to pick it up. “Hey there, everything alright?” He asked, coming up behind her, resting a hand on her backside and letting it linger as he peered down at her.

Shaw was startled at the sudden voice to begin with, but her legs and upper body visibly stiffened for a moment as Shepherd rested his hand on her- right on her ass. She didn’t move from where she was, though something told her she should have, and stuttered for a moment. “Y-yeah, everything’s fine.”

Shepherd looked pleased with himself, but Mason was anything but. Immediately, the older agent grabbed the man’s forearm and jerked it away. “Not funny mate, scram before I shove my boot up your ass,” he said in a warning tone. It was blunt, but wholly genuine threat that caused Adam to rapidly retreat. “You okay, Shaw? That dude has always been a creep.” Mason stated with a frown.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Shaw replied, her tone a tad harsh, as she stood straight again, placing the now-broken mug back on the cart. She found herself nearly pressing back against Mason, and looked up at him over her shoulder. Her eyes softened. “Thank you.”

Without thinking about it, Mason had rested his hand on the shoulder of Shaw, It was a stance of protection, and he looked around a couple of times quickly, as if he were expecting Shepherd to pop up again at some point. “Don’t worry about it,” he replied after a moment. “I was a member of an investigational unit that uncovered an unsettling amount of harassment in the STG. That shit needs to stop. If anyone ever messes with you again like that, come and tell me. Deal?”

Shaw remained silent for a moment. Her eyes bore into Caleb’s, and she swallowed, nodding a few times in response. She shifted on her feet, fixing her dress. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.”

She looked at the direction that Shepherd had left, and took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

Nodding, Caleb removed his hand from her shoulder, and began to lead her towards the elevators. The floor they were on was rather high up, so stairs weren’t recommended. As he jabbed the ‘down’ button, he asked. “So where are we going, kid?”

“Kid?” Shaw replied, raising an eyebrow at him, and tilting her head a bit. She rolled her eyes at him in a teasing manner, and crossed her arms. “To the analysts, I suppose. We need a lead to start from somewhere.”

---

Later that day

The sun was beginning to set by the time that Agents Mason and Shaw left the large complex of buildings that was the STG’s headquarters. It had been a long day, at least for Mason, of taking in abundant amount of information about the situation in Nalaya, as well as putting his new partner through her paces in one of the training warehouses. As it turned out, he couldn’t care less about what her instructors had said about her skills, he wanted to see how she handled herself personally. She had actually managed to wear him out, a feeling he had not experienced in quite some time. The trainers were good and unpredictable, but one could build up a tolerance.

Slinging his gym bag over his shoulder, Mason walked with Shaw out towards one of the large parking lots where his sedan was waiting. “So kid, how do you feel? Ready?” He asked, using the same teasing nickname from earlier.

Once again, Shaw rolled her eyes. She had her bag still in the locker, and it felt a bit odd to be back in these clothes. Her heels clacked against the asphalt as she walked, handbag slung over her shoulder as she glanced at Mason. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Mason had a fair amount to walk before he got to his car, one of the downsides of arriving late-- the parking sucked. Worse than his college days, even. “So Shaw,” he asked as he went. Reaching into his breast pocket, he grabbed a pair of sunglasses and slipped them on. “What, ah, got you into this line of work?” He asked curiously.

“The government pays well when they pluck you out of college,” Kaitlyn replied, smiling and looking up at Caleb. She ran her eyes over him once again. Wear him out she had, hadn’t she? She shrugged. “And you?”

“Military service is a family tradition,” Mason shrugged honestly. “I went into boot camp thinking I’d get sent to the air force or army, nowhere cushy, ya know? But apparently I did well enough on my entry exams that the STG liked me. I could solve problems quickly, and I had to build to match,” he went on as he patted his broad chest for a moment. “Plus, you know, secret agent stuff. Pretty big in popular culture, I thought it would help me with the ladies,” he chuckled.

“Help you with the ladies, huh?” Shaw teased. She chuckled at that, her eyes scanning the parking lot. And that was when she saw him. Graham. Standing there, looking over at the two of them with what looked like an amused expression on his face. She realised they had stopped at Mason’s car.

The sedan that Mason drove was several years old, but looked as it could have very well just rolled off the lot. Freshly washed and waxed, it was an expensive vehicle with ‘AMW’ markings on it. “Here’s my ride,” Mason said as he popped the trunk to his vehicle, Without a second thought, or even noticing Graham, he gave Shaw a quick smile. “So, guess we’ll see each other tomorrow? I gave you my number right, in case something comes up?” He asked as he closed his trunk and leaned against it.

“You did, yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Shaw said. She found herself returning his smile, genuinely. It simply sprung up to her lips. She turned on the ball of her foot, and began walking away from Mason, taking an indirect path to where Graham was. The genuine smile faded, replaced instead with a forced one.

Graham watched with amusement as Mason drove away, and Shaw began to make her way over. It was understandable that she took an indirect path towards him, trying not to be too conspicuous. What they did wasn’t necessarily prohibited, but it was certainly frowned upon by at least some. Thankfully, he often outranked those types. “Have fun?” He asked, grinning and arms crossed over his chest once she got close. He was leaning against his personal car, the driver already inside and engine running.

“Naturally,” Shaw replied. She didn’t hesitate this time. She placed a hand against his chest, leaning up and planting a kiss to his lips as she hiked a leg up a bit on his side.

This was the kind of actions that Graham wanted from her, encouraged her to do even when they were together. Without any sort of hesitation, he returned the kiss, wrapping one arm around her waist, and using the other to grip her leg and hold it against him. His grip was forceful, but then again, it normally was whenever they were having their bonding time. “Such a bubbly one you are,” he chuckled when they broke apart. “Ready to go home?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Shaw replied, running her hand up and down Graham’s chest. No hesitation, and no flaw in her facade.

---

Headquarters of the Shalumite Special Tasks Group
Aragon, Shalum

When Kaitlyn Shaw returned to work the following day, it was in her own car. Her morning routine freshened her up once again. Though she was visibly a bit drained, perhaps not physically but certainly to some mental capacity. She did what she did because it granted her the ability to do her job. Nothing more, nothing less.

Her clothing today was more of the practical sort. The much more practical sort. Her hair, normally in waves, today was pulled back into a loose yet attractive ponytail, with several locks remaining to frame her face nicely. She wore a tight, grey cotton tank top hat outlined her body nicely, and dark khaki ripstop trousers that hugged her legs well similarly, hanging low on her waist and exposing just a teasing ring of skin between the trousers and her top. She had a light pack slung over one shoulder, her coffee in the opposite hand that she sipped as she walked in.

Mason had texted Kate to meet him at his office, with the subsequent information to help her locate the room in question. It was in one of the auxiliary buildings, with a skybridge that connected to the central STG center. The place was not huge, though not small either, a comfortable working space for an agent of his rank. His office was more personal than others would have been, with a few personal effects in the way of pictures, diplomas hanging on the wall, and even a small portrait of Andrew Holland-- the Imperator that had ruled Shalum from late in the Northern War to the mid 1980s. Judging by the pillows and blanket stored neatly to the side of his couch, it looked as if he were ready to crash on his couch as needed.

As far as dress went, Caleb was less professional than he had been the day before. Instead of a suit and tie, he had gone with the more simple, business casual. A pair of dark colored dress pants, a dark blue dress shirt that he had tucked in and rolled up to his elbows, and a light blue tie. The watch on his wrist looked expensive and tough, made of military grade materials, with an urban camouflage pattern on it. “Hey there Katie,” he smiled as he watched her walk in. “How are you?” He asked as he sipped on a coffee, leaning back in his chair.

“Fine,” she said, downing the rest of her coffee in one go before she dropped her bag on his couch, plopping herself down on it as well as she looked over at him expectantly. She had little in the way of extra amenities, aside from some simple earrings and her military-grade watch. “What’ve we got today?”

“Eh, nothing too much,” Mason replied as he tapped away at his laptop. Whatever he was doing, his fingers seemed to flow quite fast, a rapid tap-tap-tap sound filling the air. It didn’t seem to slow him down from talking, as he looked over at her. “Until the team gets put together, we’re pretty much just sitting idle, ya know? Unless something comes up, anyways. I was thinking some training though, unless you have something else in mind?”

“I don’t have much in mind myself. Some training sounds good,” Shaw pointed out, kicking up her boots on her bag as she laid out on the couch. As she looked up, her eyes found the various items mounted on display on the wall.

There were any number of things hung up. His degree from the University of Dresden in forensics and criminology, a flag of the Shalumite Empire, even a couple pictures of his younger days of boot camp when he still wore a proper uniform. Bright eyed and bushy tailed, no longer the man he now was. “Hand to hand, or with firearms? Have a preference?” He asked as he closed out his computer. The former was his own favorite, but it was only so applicable in the field.

“I don’t know, dearest partner of mine,” Shaw teased to begin with, looking over at him with a smirk. She clasped her hands together and put them under her head. “What do you think that we should do?”

“Honestly?” He asked with a laugh, leaning back in his leather chair.”I say we hit the mats. They’re pretty comfy...and I can’t hit the broadside of a barn with a pistol,” he admitted, though smirked all the while. “But you and I both know I’m the superior hand-to-hand person here, so guns may be more fair,” he teased her.

“Oh really now? Is that a challenge,” Shaw replied with a grin, chuckling as she sat up. She used her hands to support her body, cocking her head at Mason. “I think that’s a challenge.”

“A challenge? Heavens no, Katie! I don’t make challenges, just state facts,” he smirked back at her.

[Esperance International]

The Gate of Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

Nadal heard out Kapriel’s speech, and then drily noted: “How fortunate for you that fighting is not necessarily imminent, should the Dragon be as gracious as Ilharn Rikker here has been.”

Before Xuan could ask what that meant, an Arusai woman in Nalayan officer’s uniform marched into the courtyard. Nadal and Rikker greeted her, and then explained the deal that they had apparently just struck, whereby the kun’al would be allowed to pass through Tatev in exchange for Nadal’s vow to exercise something called the Tenet of Restraint.

Xuan stood on her tiptoes to whisper in Hera’s ear. “What is the Tenet of Restraint?”

“We leave them alone, they leave us alone,” the Nava’ai Esperancer responded briefly.

Kapriel studied Ada. His gaze was unblinking, and his gnarled fingers clenched hard on the padded arms of his wheelchair before slowly relaxing. The office chief closed his eyes for a long moment as he listened to Ada speak about the need to deal with the refugees.

Whatever he heard seemed to reassure Kapriel of something, for when Ada finished speaking, the crippled man opened his eyes. “Hramatar Narekatsi, I presume,” he said heavily. “I’m glad to hear that you are thinking along those lines. My name is Kapriel Maksudian. I am the Tatev office chief for Esperance International. The bureau headquarters and my office have been planning an evacuation from this city for more than a week. Now that we have breathing room, we can adapt those plans to deal with the survivors of Vayots Dzor – with your help.”

Kapriel shrugged painfully. “As for Armavir, the whole Armavir office of Esperance International is still inside the city.”

“For now,” Aileen warned ominously.

Kapriel’s gaze moved back and forth between the yochlol, the colonel, and the hramatar. “We are a neutral aid organization,” he told the warriors. “We work with whomever is in power. If you want to keep that city from turning into a bloodbath, then you have to find a way to contact people inside Armavir. We are your only chance at doing that.”

Xuan stepped forward. “We are also grateful to you for taking us into your confidence concerning the future of this city,” she announced diplomatically. “And we are very glad to hear that there will not be any fighting, at least not immediately.”

Kapriel took the hint: this is not the time or the place to set up a refugee management plan. “I hope that we can schedule a meeting,” the office chief said, “to discuss how we can work together to help people here and in Armavir. I’m sure you know where our office is; it’s in the old chapel, just a block from here. Please come by at any time at all, any time you can. None of us get that much sleep anyway, these days.”

“And we are eager to work with you,” Xuan added. “We hope to see you soon.”

---

Diplomatic Corps Offices
Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

Drada had been right. She had been right about everything. She worked hard not to smile.

For one thing, the Shalumi jumped when he saw her, but he didn’t lose his cool; he dropped his center of gravity, and one hand went instinctively to his sidearm. Those weren’t the reflexes of any kind of policeman. That was the response of a killer.

For another thing, the Shalumi accepted Drada’s offer of assistance after only a moment of thought. That meant that, despite his talk of leads, he was desperate. Fast on his feet this man may have been, but he didn’t know his way around a crime scene. He was playing a part for which he was ill-cast.

Then there was the fact that the Shalumi didn’t give his name. That was a dead giveaway: it revealed a reflex to secrecy no less deeply ingrained than the way in which the man’s hand went to his gun.

But the foreigner also confirmed Drada’s theory about the crime scene. He did not deny that the victim had been Unkndirnei, although he clarified that the man – named Tsavagian – had been an analyst. Tsavagian had died by poison, and the Shalumi assumed that this indicated that his killer had been a woman.

Before responding, Drada walked carefully into the crime scene. She pulled out her phone and snapped a photograph of the blood on the wall. She snapped another photograph of the chalk outline of the body. Then, just as Nasaqu had done an hour earlier, Drada walked out of the crime scene, turned around, and walked back toward it. Her stride was longer now, imitating Tsavagian’s longer legs. For the Shalumi’s benefit, she thought out loud.

“Based on the way the body fell, I am walking down the hallway from this direction, away from the diplomats’ offices. I’ve been poisoned. If I had inhaled cyanide gas, I’d already be dead. So I ingested it, or somebody pricked me with a needle. Either way, I didn’t notice at the time.” Drada paused. “But now my head hurts. I feel weak. I feel dizzy.” Drada started to stagger, weaving back and forth across the corridor. “So people would notice me behaving strangely. I move over to the wall; I want to grab onto something for support. Do I cry for help? I do, as long as I know anyone here, as long as I work here. If I don’t, what’s the point?” Drada raised an arm. “I try to grab the wall, but my legs won’t hold me. I collapse.” The Mak’ur fell to her knees. “I hit my head on the wall – here. I fall to the ground, head pointed the direction in which I was walking. And I cross the desert of ebon sands, and reach the River.”

There was a long pause. Then Drada picked herself up off the floor and turned to Arnold. “Paron, I think that you are doing this the wrong way. You’re trying to learn more about the suspect. You should be trying to learn more about the victim. Someone wanted this man dead. If you can learn why, you’ll be able to figure out who killed him.”

The investigator dusted off her trousers. “I have a hunch that he didn’t work here. This outline shows the body right where it would have fallen. If Tsavagian had worked here, if he had known people, someone would have tried to resuscitate him, and the body’s position would have been changed. We need to confirm that.”

“Second, cyanide is fast-acting. Tsavagian was poisoned within minutes of his death, not hours. So it happened in this building, probably right here in the Diplomatic Corps offices. We need to know what he was doing here, and with whom he met.” Drada’s English always became scrupulously correct when she was excited. “If we can reconstruct the last five minutes of his life, then we will know who was responsible for his death.”

Drada tucked her credentials back into a pocket of her denim jacket. “I’m going to join your comrades and speak to the witnesses. I suggest that you call anyone you know at the Unkndirnei.” Unspoken in the air hung Drada’s assumption that Arnold knew people at the Unkndirnei, and all of the implications of that assumption: I know that you are no simple military policeman.

“Find out where Tsavagian worked,” the Esperancer advised. “Find out who his boss was. Find out if he was married, if he was in debt, if he had a history with the Sev Dzerrk’i. Find out where he lived, and if it wasn’t Tatev, then find out where he was staying in town. Above all, find out what the hell he was doing here when he died.” Drada paused, and then managed a sardonic smile for her new, apparently nameless colleague. “A pleasure working with you, Paron Shalumi.”

With that, the investigator walked quickly into the office that she had seen the other Shalumi enter. There she found them; the woman was taking notes, while the big man stood in a corner and glowered. A bespectacled Nava’ai man with Voghjuyn ritual markings on his hands and a pale, patchy-bearded fellow were talking to the foreigners, while a pudgy young man spoke quietly into the telephone in another corner of the room.

Drada leaned against the doorframe and listened. She gathered that, sure enough, Tsavagian had not been a common sight in Tatev. He had appeared, spoken to a few people, and then dropped dead. The young men thought that Tsavagian had probably met with Kachazor Shareshian and Valantin Andzevatsi. Neither of the senior officials was an immediately promising suspect.

Why was he here? Drada asked herself. What the hell was this spy doing here?

The investigator produced her credentials again. “Drada A’Nadros," she told the room at large. "Esperance International Commission of Inquiry.” Drada glanced up at Malcolm. “Your colleague in the hallway said that we could cooperate.”

Then, Drada stepped forward and spoke in Nalayan to the two young men. “I need to ask you some more specific questions now," she explained, "and I understand that you may not have all of the answers. But I need to ask anyway."

"Do you know where Paron Tsavagian came from? What brought him to Tatev? Did you see him in person? Did he seem afraid, stressed, angry? Was he in a hurry? Did he meet with anyone else?” The investigator’s gaze moved from Van to Samuel and back again. “I’m trying to figure out exactly where Paron Tsavagian went and what he was doing just before he died. If you have any details about that, I would greatly appreciate them.”

[Esperance International]

Ayrum Village
Nalaya

Parouhi shook her head as Ari returned Shirak Asjian’s bow. “We don’t need anything else right now, Most Revered,” she said. “Just your help, and you've already given us that.” Parouhi paused, and quietly added: “Thank you.”

There was no time for speeches. It was enough.

“First off, we need wood,” Ari was telling Eric. “Parouhi needs to dig some pits and burn the wood down to charcoal, to cook enough food. You need it too, for your dam.”

“Nope,” Eric said. “Stone.”

“Okay, scratch that. But I need it for shelters.” Ari nodded at Shirak. “You are right; if we can roof over a few alleys, that’s space for another couple hundred people. After that, we’ll have to go door-to-door, asking villagers to take in a family each.”

Parouhi shook her head. “It won’t be easy.”

Ari grinned. “That’s why we start with cutting wood.”

Fifteen minutes later, Ari and about two hundred of the most able-bodied refugees – though even these were dead on their feet with fatigue – were up in the forest above town. Ari had spontaneously purchased Vasag’s entire supply of axes, and the woods rang with the hollow thunk of steel biting into wood. After the enough trees were felled, the branches were trimmed and the logs split to provide sturdy beams capable of framing a roof over the narrow gaps between the village’s ancient homes. Three of the largest trees, on the other hand, were split into fire logs.

Parouhi, in the meantime, was back down in the village. She and about thirty of the refugees were sweating in the meadow near Ari’s makeshift tent city, digging three shallow pits about ten feet long by four feet wide by two feet deep. Parouhi was careful to explain not just what she wanted, but why it was important; she was determined that the refugees would be partners, not merely strong backs.

Eric collected about thirty more refugees and led them down to the site of the bridge. Stripped of their tarpaulins, his piles of stones and girders had begun to crumble, but they were all still there. Eric set up a chain of hands that moved the stones up the mountainside and into Ayrum proper. Then he set his workers to clearing brush from the low-lying briar patch that would become the reservoir, and he guided them in how to build a deep stone wall around the future pond - to hold the water in. The tall Shalumite pulled his own weight, too, hauling a basket of heavy stones on his back like everyone else.

Mayda, for her part, gathered a motley crew of medical personnel – one pediatrician, two nurses, the Voghjuyn shaman, and a veterinarian – and set up her triage station properly under the tarpaulin. Without a hospital to take the worst cases, she used a variation of the standard EI four-color code system. Green cases were walking wounded or lightly sick, and Mayda treated them immediately, giving them stitches or antibiotics and sending them on their way so that they wouldn’t take up space. Red cases were incapacitated but treatable, which usually meant burns or shrapnel lacerations or crushing injuries; if you didn’t die of those in the first twenty-four hours, you would probably live. Mayda gave the red cases bed space – meaning that she wrapped them in blankets under the tarpaulin - and showed her staff how safely to dress their wounds. Black cases were beyond Mayda’s help: a man with his belly ripped open and septic shock already begun, a woman concussed by artillery and hemorrhaging into her skull cavity, a child whose chest cavity was pulverized by falling masonry and who was dying from a double tension pneumothorax. Mayda set aside one of the tarpaulin-tents – the one furthest from the village, near an olive grove and a patch of wildflowers – for the dying. There, the family and friends of the worst cases could say goodbye in peace.

The living, on the other hand, needed food. By the middle of the afternoon, Ari’s crew were dragging fire logs down the mountainside to the cook-pits. They passed Eric and his workers on their way, who were dragging stones up the mountainside to wall in the reservoir. The two foreigners waved as they passed, and Ari felt a sudden surreal joy – because as desperate as the general situation was, the work was somehow, unbelievably, still getting done. And step by step, things were getting just a little bit better with every passing moment.

Parouhi and her pit-digging cooks lined the bottoms of their craters with wood and then set them on fire; Parouhi used a jerry-can of gasoline to get the blaze going quickly, knowing that the fumes would burn off long before the wood was reduced to charcoal. Soon, the pits were infernos; flames leaped into the sky higher than a tall man’s head, and a great cloud of woodsmoke ascended into the heavens.

Madteos Demirian glanced up at the plume of smoke. “Someone is going to see that,” he muttered to himself. Shaking his head, the sergeant pulled his rifle tighter against his body and strode on.

While the wood was burning down to charcoal, Ari and his crew started roofing in the village’s ancient alleys. First, they swept the alleys for stone and garbage, and stamped down the ground into a packed-earth floor. Then, Ari and his workers clambered up onto the roofs of neighboring houses, and used their freshly-cut wooden beams to erect a framework covering the alleyways between the buildings. The gaps in the frameworks were filled in with branches and covered with blankets or bark stripped from the felled tree-trunks. At Shirak Asjian’s advice, blankets were hung from twine to divide the newly roofed alleys into smaller dwelling-places for particular families.

It had been a good idea, and it worked well. By the time the sun was sinking toward the horizon, Ari suspected that they had doubled the roofed living-space available for the refugees; at least a thousand people would have some kind of newly built shelter that night. Sitting on the roof of the general store next to the final completed covered-alley, Ari turned to Shirak Asjian. “Do you drink?" the Menassan asked. "Because I think we’ve earned one today.”

Parouhi, meanwhile, found that she had several hours to spend while the wood in the cook-pits burned down to coals. She spent this time in hurrying from door to door in the village, trying to explain to residents why thousands of refugees were now building a stone wall around the low-lying briar patch, clambering all over the roofs of local homes, and digging gigantic smoking pits in the meadow west of town. Ultimately, Parouhi simply told the locals: “Come out to the fire pits after nightfall. We’ll have a meeting. Everyone will have their say: Ayrum people, Vayots people, everyone. We’ll find ways to help each other. Come out after nightfall, and we’ll talk.”

By the time she had finished spreading the word, the flames of the cooking pits had died down, leaving behind deep beds of red-hot coals. Parouhi hurried back to the meadow that had become the center of Ayrum’s nascent refugee camp. On her way, she passed Mayda, who was splinting a teenage girl’s mangled leg.

Parouhi’s older sister looked up, her eyes dull with fatigue. Parouhi attempted a smile, and said: “So, I organized a town meeting. Tonight, while the new arrivals eat.”

Mayda nodded, and returned to her work, carefully tying off a length of bandages to hold the splint in place.

“I think we should plan what to say,” Parouhi continued.

Mayda glanced up. “I think we should plan to listen,” she replied.

Parouhi flinched as if she had been slapped. She nodded and turned away.

“Pari?” Parouhi paused and glanced back over her shoulder. Mayda smiled, just a little. “It’s a good idea. Well done.”

Parouhi smiled too, and her white teeth flashed in the twilight. Then she hurried back to the cooking pits.

In the end, Parouhi and a few of the refugees had come up with a plan for how to cook for several thousand people. They took a big handful of dried barley and a small handful of dried peas, and mixed them with water and a little yoghurt – for protein – until they formed a lumpy paste. This roughly fist-sized lump of mush was then mixed with a little dried mint and sumac, and wrapped tightly in a length of burlap torn from one of the sacks that had originally contained the barley and peas. Each burlap-wrapped bundle was then buried in the ashen coals, where it quickly cooked into a slightly sour, savory porridge-like bread with a surprisingly high level of nutritional value.

Parouhi was proud of herself. The burlap-wrapped yogurt-bread was a good use of her limited resources and nonexistent cooking equipment. It was probably efficient enough as a recipe to stretch the Esperancers’ food reserves to three or four days rather than two. And no one would die of malnutrition from eating it.

But food for three or four days was nothing like a long-term solution. Parouhi was going to have to ask the villagers to share their fields and flocks. There was no way around it. The young schoolteacher shook her head helplessly.

This was not going to be a pleasant meeting.

As the sun sank below the horizon, Parouhi sent some of her helpers to gather all the refugees to the cooking-pits for dinner. Ari’s roofers arrived, picking splinters from their palms; Eric’s reservoir-builders brushed stone dust off their trousers. Soon, long lines of refugees were winding past the pits, as Parouhi and her partners pulled steaming burlap-wrapped bundles from the coals and handed them to the waiting men and women and children.

In the gathering dark, stars began to wink overhead, and the crimson glow of the coals shone a deep and ruddy light over the still meadow. From far in the distance, in Vayots Dzor, the occasional explosion could still be heard. But closer to hand, cattle lowed and goats brayed, and the song of hardy crickets hummed from the disturbed forest. The food was hot, and not bad for what it was, and hunger always made the best sauce. Buckets of fresh streamwater complete with dippers were passed around, providing communal refreshment. With blankets spread all over the meadow and families speaking quietly as they ate, a stranger could be forgiven for mistaking the scene for some kind of mass picnic.

The five Esperancers stood quietly together, munching contemplatively on the same burlap-wrapped porridge that the refugees ate. Eric shook his head in disbelief. “We did this in twelve hours.”

Madteos wiped his mouth. “And the food is actually pretty good. What did you put in this, Parouhi?”

Parouhi grinned happily. “The trick is the dried mint. I found a sack of it in the cellar and thought, why not? What else were we saving it for?”

Ari nodded. “Yeah.” He craned his skinny neck back to look up at the stars, glimmering in the darkening sky. “Yeah, this was a good day.”

“I’ll finish the reservoir tomorrow,” Eric said. “And I’ll have the stream dammed in one more day, maybe two. Not more than two. We'll have a water source in the village forty-eight hours from now.”

“The day’s not over yet,” Mayda warned. “In forty-eight hours we’ll be out of food if we can’t get the villagers to share.”

“And there’s the issue of shelter,” Ari added, wolfing down the last of his dinner. Parouhi was always amazed that such a small man could eat so quickly. “By my calculations, if we can get each household to take in one family, and if we can get the farmers to open their barns and sheds, then we should be able to put some kind of roof over everyone’s head tonight. If not….”

“It’s a cold night,” Madteos muttered.

“Yeah,” said Ari quietly.

“All right, then,” Mayda announced. She wiped her mouth. “Let’s go talk to our neighbors.”

[Esperance International]

Mobile Command Center
13th Shalumite Expeditionary Force
Sissak, Nalaya

Jaako blinked slightly when Malcolmson addressed him as “Paron” – the Alemarrian Esperancer had not expected to be mistaken for a Nalayan. Cate Okeke swallowed hard as Malcolmson spoke of the “fireworks” that he had planned for Armavir. She wasn’t surprised at the general’s hostility; Jaako was hardly the most congenial of men himself. When Malcolmson mentioned Brigadier Burke, Cate took it as an opportunity to vacate the tent.

As a result, she missed Malcolmson’s slight softening when he spoke of how Esperance International could help his operations. Jaako leaned over the general’s map of Nalaya as Malcolmson described his hospital ship and his efforts to restore Sissak to functionality. The Esperancer nodded, and there was a new respect in his voice when he replied. “I doubt we’ll require the INHS Fir. Before coming here, we started organizing a major refugee camp in Massis – a precaution, in case Sissak comes under threat again and requires evacuation. We can use the medical facilities at that camp in case of overflow from the Sissak hospital. But if you can spare a few helicopters, air transport would make the evacuation of overflow cases from here to Massis a lot easier and safer. At the moment, our only option is putting dying people on a truck for six hours.”

“As for restoring Sissak to working order,” Jaako continued, “I wouldn’t worry about that too much. People here are tough. The city government will be meeting again within a few days all by themselves – those that have survived, at least. The police and the fire department will go back to work; what else are they going to do? Our main job should be to facilitate recovery, not to organize it.”

“I’ll have my people talk to local leaders and learn what support they need in order to get public services and utilities running smoothly again. My guess is that most of what we’ll be doing is patching sewer pipes and power lines, rebuilding damaged buildings, and replacing wrecked equipment.” Jaako shrugged. “From what I’ve read, Sissak has been through worse than this fight. If we give them a helping hand, the people themselves will get this place up and running again in no time.”

“When it comes to what I need” – Jaako caught himself and smiled a little – “well, thanks for asking. Mostly, I have everything I need to do my job; and how many people in my line of work can say that? Anyway, I could use the loan of a few medevac choppers, to get the worst cases down to Massis. And otherwise, I’d like you to keep your troops well away from my operations; to be totally honest, not everyone here trusts you, and it’s hard to maintain the appearance of neutrality when Shalumite troops are right next door to your aid stations.” Jaako smiled drily. “Just let us do our job, and we’ll let you do yours. How does that sound, General?”

---

Maldorian Encampment
13th Shalumite Expeditionary Force
Sissak, Nalaya

Gamal bin Rashid was a liar.

But then again, who could blame him? He had grown up as an orphan on the streets of Ra’s Tanurah. He had lied for his daily bread. He had lied to find a place to sleep at night. He had lied to spare himself from the hard hands of grown men. He had lied to keep himself sane when that failed.

And then, one day, a lie had come true. That street kid had walked into the local Esperance International office, and he had said that he was named Gamal bin Rashid, and that he wanted to make the world a better place. Desperate for Vatani personnel, the Esperancers hadn’t asked questions. And so, just like that, a son of Vatan had joined the kēnar. When all was said and done, after sixteen years of sleeping in gutters and eating at the mosques’ charity kitchens, a paycheck guaranteed for a quarter-century could outweigh an awful lot of xenophobia.

But in the years since, Gamal had learned a valuable lesson about lies: live one for long enough, and it becomes reality. He had pretended to care about human rights, and awoken one morning to realize, to his surprise, that he actually did. He had feigned respect for his coworkers, until one day he found himself bringing soup to a sick colleague. He had invented a false name, and now he had trouble remembering a time when he had ever been called anything but Gamal.

So Gamal bin Rashid was a liar, and a good one. And in his line of work, that was a valuable trait: for Gamal bin Rashid was a Commission of Inquiry war crimes investigator for the Conflict Management Taskforce. And he had come to Sissak to lie his way to the truth.

When the Shalumi had first arrived in Nalaya, the first thing that Gamal had heard was that the Maldorians were barbarians. He had dismissed the rumors, of course; that was the sort of thing that colonizers always said about the colonized, and Gamal had supposed that the Shalumi were no different.

Then he had read the Commission of Inquiry file on Maldorian war crimes: looting, extrajudicial killings, trophy-taking. That was normal; after a decade as a war crimes investigator, Gamal knew that just about every army had committed those sins at one time or another.

But the file didn’t stop there. Mass abductions, it said. Slavery. Systematic rape.

That was different. Even when a lie became reality, there were some old truths that a man could not forget: truths about power, and its abuses. To survive those abuses, Gamal knew, was not just a gift. It was also a responsibility.

Which was why Gamal bin Rashid was walking into the Maldorian encampment outside Sissak, lying his way to the truth once again.

Maldorians were dark-complexioned, and so Gamal could blend in among them, at least at night. He wore military-surplus trousers and combat boots and a grey tank top; it wasn’t a uniform, which meant that Gamal couldn’t formally be charged with impersonating a Shalumite soldier, but it made him look just like every other half-dressed and intoxicated Maldorian trooper. The investigator’s dark hair was close-cropped, his face was stubbled, and his gait was a lazy, weaving stagger that spoke of a deep but amiable drunkenness. Now and then, when a Maldorian got too close, Gamal waved and slurred a few words of the foreigners’ language; Maldorian was close enough to Gamal’s native Arabic for the Vatani to pronounce it easily.

In point of fact, of course, Gamal was stone-cold sober. A camera rode in one trouser pocket; a digital recorder was in the other; a tactical folding knife was clipped to the back of his belt, underneath his A-shirt. As he went on his weaving way through the debris of the encampment, past soldiers sprawled on the dirt amid empty bottles of booze and discarded joints, Gamal’s eyes moved steadily in search of the telltale signs of trouble: men who didn’t sway when they walked, men who carried weapons even in camp, men with watchful eyes.

Gamal had already experienced one close call. As he had approached the camp, already shambling like a drunk, a Maldorian sentry had appeared from the darkness and barked a challenge in English. Gamal had responded with an obscene gesture and a few slurred words of Maldorian: “S’okay, s’okay, fuck you.”

Lying well was not about hiding things. Gamal had learned that almost before he could walk. Lying well wasn’t about sneaking about in the shadows. It was about making yourself so utterly ordinary that no one would give you a second look. Complete, mundane normalcy was better camouflage than even the darkest night.

Put another way, the sentry had mistaken Gamal for an acquaintance, called out a Maldorian name followed by a few expletives, and then waved the Vatani Esperancer through.

Now, on the outskirts of the encampment itself, Gamal came to a halt; he stood still, and rocked gently back and forth, and let his gaze sweep over the darkened tents. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, amid all the debris of the Maldorians' victory celebration. Something out of place. Something that makes my eye stop. I’ll know it when I see it.

There. Electric lights glowing faintly through flimsy prefab windows. Who was indoors and awake at two in the morning on a night like this? All the Maldorians were either passed out, cleaning up the encampment, or wandering aimlessly like Gamal seemed to be doing. So why were there lights on in that prefab with the miniature water tower next to it?

Someone is still awake in the washing area. Someone is awake after all the soldiers have gone to sleep.

As leads went, it was as flimsy as a moth’s wing. It was also a lot better than nothing.

Mumbling to himself in slurred Maldorian, letting his feet drag slightly over burned cigarette butts and broken bottles, Gamal bin Rashid started off toward the washing area to see what awaited him there.

---

Scenes From the Streets
Sissak, Nalaya

Over the next several days, as life returned to normal in Sissak, Jaako Pekkanen and his team expanded their operations from emergency relief to reconstruction, and Dieter Malcolmson’s vision of a city “back on its feet” again began to inch slowly toward reality.

The triage stations initially remained open, though their numbers reduced. By forty-eight hours after the end of fighting, Jaako and his headquarters team assessed that most of the civilian wounded in the city had either died or received medical care; very few remained unaccounted for. Accordingly, the personnel assigned to the triage stations were consolidated into neighborhood clinics, which dealt with the continuing medical aftermath of war: they supplied burn victims with salves, checked on hospital patients who had been stabilized and sent home to make room for crucial cases, and taught basic physical therapy methods to the many locals who had suffered broken limbs or muscle trauma. While the Esperancers made it very clear that they would probably be unable to sustain such large-scale medical operations for long in Sissak, in the short run they worked hard to set the city back on the path to health.

At the hospital itself, Boris Ulanov and his team worked around the clock in an attempt to save the critical cases that poured in from the triage stations. The Shalumite medevac helicopters that Jaako had requested were constantly touching down behind the hospital to ferry the most desperate patients to the hospital of the refugee camp near Massis. But as the flood of critical cases slowed to a trickle, and stabilized patients began to be released into the care of their families and the EI neighborhood clinics, Boris and his team deliberately began to scale back their role. When all was said and done, Sissak was a Nalayan city, and the Nalayans had to be able to run their own hospital. Once the immediate medical crisis was over, the Esperancer doctors began to fade away, returning responsibility for the hospital to the local staff.

Now, the first priority of the Conflict Management Taskforce became the Sissak Missing Persons Registry. In the aftermath of any modern conflict, thousands of families were left searching for missing loved ones, not knowing whether their parents and spouses and children were alive or dead. Jaako set up a large tent near the Samaa’i Mosque, and rotated administrative personnel so that it was staffed by several dozen Esperancers twenty-four hours per day. Those administrators took down the names, ages, and descriptions of people who were reported missing, and uploaded that information to an open online database so that the public could contribute to the search for them. The Missing Persons center was also issued with lists of all patients who had been treated by Esperance personnel, all unattended children who had been temporarily relocated to the Massis refugee camp, and all the dead who had been identified and catalogued by EI search teams. Slowly but surely, the office began to return children to their families, to direct residents to hospitalized loved ones, and to give closure to people whose kinsmen had perished.

As the medical crisis diminished, the effort to repair Sissak’s infrastructure began in earnest. Esperance reconstruction teams met with what was left of the Sissak municipal government, hired local electricians, and then moved systematically through the city repairing broken power lines; Sissak’s power plant remained mercifully undamaged. Other teams hired local plumbers and, in a similarly systematic fashion, began repairing broken sewer pipes and water mains. Most of the damage to those systems was shallow and fairly easily repaired; Sissak had not been battered by the kind of heavy artillery that could rupture pipes deep underground. Within a few days, most of the leaking sewage and busted fire hydrants had been fixed, and the streets were growing clean and dry once more.

The Esperancers came closest to disaster when they moved on to repairing the mains that provided natural gas for cooking and heating. On the western side of Sissak, where the fighting had been fiercest, a reconstruction team led by Hrahad Iskenian was working to contain a gas leak when it discovered an unexploded 155-millimeter artillery shell buried beneath the sidewalk directly adjacent to the neighborhood’s primary gas main. The shell was a decade old – a legacy of the last civil war, long buried and paved over. Since the shell couldn’t safely be detonated in place without setting the entire gas main ablaze, an ordnance disposal specialist named Neill Talmhach had to climb down next to the pipe and defuse the shell with little more than a pair of pliers and a steady hand. The entire neighborhood watched from a safe distance, and hundreds of people breathed a collective sigh of relief when Neill emerged triumphant and unscathed.

Finally, the Commission on Democracy and Civil Society sent out a general appeal over the radio for city government officials and public employees to return to work. They set up regular meetings with what was left of the municipal government, and with key local dignitaries like the imam of the Samaa’i; Jaako had the minutes of those meetings stapled to the walls of his headquarters, and instructed his team leaders to use them as a blueprint for their activities. As the days passed, civil society liaisons called in reconstruction teams to repair the damaged Sissak jail, and ordered new ambulances and fire trucks to be flown from New Prospect to Massis and then driven up to Sissak for delivery to the municipal government. In time, Jaako Pekkanen made another unannounced visit to Dieter Malcolmson, and quietly advised the general to have his men scale back their aggressive patrolling as soon as possible – so as to let the Sissak police take back responsibility for law and order.

Few of the EI projects were enormously expensive. Fewer still were dramatic or headline-making, and when they were, it was usually a sign that something had gone wrong: since nobody was really to blame for the near-disaster at the western gas main, Jaako contented himself with blaming everyone in reach until Cate Okeke forced him to eat a solid meal and get a full night’s sleep. But step by step, through days of unglamorous meetings and tedious, repetitive work, conditions in Sissak began to improve. And for most of the Esperancers working in the city, the knowledge that they had contributed to that improvement was reward aplenty.

[Esperance International]

Esperance International Office
Armavir, Nalaya

“I think I shall call you Antonio,” mused Frederico Donati. “And you? You shall be – Paolo. Yes, you look like a Paolo to me.”

“Please tell me you’re not actually going to call them that,” muttered Nyah Ekwensi.

Frederico turned away from the window through which he had been contemplating the militis’iayi who kept watch across the street from Esperance International’s Armavir Office. “It depends,” the Cacertan-born human rights investigator explained cheerfully. “If they keep their noses clean and are good little boys, I may spare our guards the agony of my wit.”

Vartan Tigranian shook his head and grinned despite himself. “And if not?”

Frederico held up his hands. “I make no promises.”

Tamar Meghrouni sighed. From behind her desk, the Armavir office chief fixed her chief investigator with a gimlet gaze. “You know what your problem is, Freddy? You’re going stir-crazy, and it’s giving you a death wish.”

Vartan snorted. “Join the club.”

Tamar raised an eyebrow. “I did not intend that as humor.”

“It’s called observational comedy, boss.” Frederico flopped down in an armchair. “You’re a natural.”

There was a moment of silence. In the room next door, Frederico heard voices arguing politics in Nalayan, shrill and desperate. Vartan studied his hands. “It sounds like we’re not the only ones going stir-crazy.”

Immediately after the bombing of the Hin K’are, when all hell had broken loose in the streets, people had mobbed the gates of the Esperance office compound. Armavir was an important town with plenty of real estate, and so the Armavir office was headquartered in a gigantic repurposed office building: there was an interior courtyard, an attached parking garage, a huge basement area used for storage, and more than fifty thousand square meters of office space on seven floors. The office’s Security Force captain, a former Azurlavaian rebel named Ansgar Holgersen, had made a snap decision and let the locals into the building.

As a result, the following morning Tamar Meghrouni had arrived at work to find seven hundred extra people crowding the hallways of the office headquarters. Some of the refugees had been politicians, enemies of Karagozian who had failed to flee the city and who had sought sanctuary with Esperance International instead. Many were ordinary people from Shrjani Nshanneri, who had braved the bloody streets to flee with their families to the Esperance International headquarters. But there were others, too. There was a Mubatan expatriate businessman who had arrived at the headquarters with his Arusai wife, fearing reprisals for his country’s actions against Nalayan villages on Yolenga. Vartan had told him that nobody was watching international news that carefully, but he still wouldn’t leave. Hell, there were about two dozen Imanalov’ who had pragmatically strolled in and taken up residence in the basement; Frederico always saw them moving unhurriedly through the building, speaking their strange language in low voices. On that bloody night, anyone who knew the address of the local EI office and who felt that he might be a target for the militis’iayi had taken refuge in Tamar Meghrouni’s old office building.

That had been weeks ago now, and the seven hundred refugees were still trapped in the Armavir office. It was a long time for them not to be able to leave the building. It was a long time for them not to be able even to look out a window, for fear that the militis’iayi outside would catch a glimpse of ritual scarring or tattoos that would give away the presence of the hidden families. It was a long time for Tamar and Frederico and their colleagues to smile and lie when militia officers showed up at the gate. It was a long time for the office’s Nava’ai employees to sneak enough extra food into the building to feed seven hundred people. It was a long time for Frederico to wonder when one of those employees would crack under the pressure and say the wrong thing to the wrong man at a tavern. It was a long time to watch the militis’iayi stand sentinel outside the office, one group of gunmen following another every few hours with the solemn regularity of a changing of the guard.

They were waiting for the Esperancers to slip up. They were waiting for Nyah to get too scared, for Frederico to get too drunk, for Ansgar to get too angry. They were waiting for somebody to make a mistake. And they had all the time in the world.

The argument over politics in the next room ended with the slam of a door. Frederico glanced out the window. The Nava’ai militiaman whom he had dubbed Paolo lit a cigarette and stared back at him through the window.

“They know where your office is,” Frederico told Tamar.

“I know,” the chief replied.

“They’re watching your window. Yours in particular.”

“I know.”

“We’re okay on food,” Vartan announced, apropos of nothing. He was trying to change the subject. Frederico could have kissed him. “As long as our local auxiliaries keep bringing two lunches apiece to work instead of one, we have enough extra supplies for everyone.”

“We’ll have issues with that soon enough,” Tamar said grimly. “The Shalumi and the Tigress are getting closer. Once they surround the city, the markets will run out of food.”

“Once they surround the city,” Nyah said quietly, “we are going to have bigger problems than food shortages.”

Frederico glanced at the Mubatan aid worker. He didn’t know Nyah Ekwensi that well. He knew that she had been a political organizer, an anticorruption activist driven from her home country. He knew that she had spent most of her career in Armavir meeting members of the Sulhanate in taverns to persuade them to campaign for greater democratic accountability. He knew that she had taken primary responsibility for communicating with the seven hundred civilians trapped in the headquarters building, and for persuading them to make the sacrifices necessary to stay hidden.

Frederico also knew that Nyah hadn’t left the office compound in three weeks. She was sleeping on the sofa near her desk. Tamar was doing the same thing. For his part, Frederico still walked the kilometer and a half to his apartment at the end of every day, and slept in his own bed. He believed that the only way to control fear was to defy it.

The problem was that there was no real way to be proactive. There were ways of pretending to be proactive, but that was different. The Armavir office still ran dozens of schools and clinics throughout the city. Thousands of Esperancers still showed up to work each morning at those projects. Classes went on as normal; medicine was still practiced. To be sure, the teachers looked hollow-eyed and the stockpiles of prescription medications were running low, but the work was still being done. Frederico even snapped the occasional covert picture of militis’iayi patrols using the pen-camera in his breast pocket; the photos rarely proved much, but they helped to reassure Frederico that he was still doing his job. Mostly, he spent his days interviewing the people sheltering in the office about the crimes that they had witnessed during their flight from their homes.

But in the end, none of that added up to actually being proactive. None of it changed a goddamn thing. In the end, Frederico and his colleagues were still waiting for the world to play its next card. Maybe the Shalumites would carpet-bomb the city to rubble, and the office with it. Maybe Karagozian’s patience would run out, and he would send his fighters to storm the compound. Maybe the Dread Wolf would come howling down from the north and slaughter everyone in Armavir alike.

Glancing out the window again, Frederico saw Ansgar down by the office’s main door; the burly Azurlavaian leaned on the doorframe and smoked a pipe. The Armavir office’s fifty-odd Security Force troopers were scattered around the headquarters compound, most of them standing guard at windows with good fields of fire. Ansgar had them on constant alert; they wore body armor and helmets, and carried battle rifles, and slept in shifts so as to maintain a continuous watch.

It freaked Frederico out. Frederico was pretty sure that it freaked everybody out. He had asked Ansgar once what he intended to do if the militis’iayi tried to storm the headquarters. Ansgar had grinned a very disturbing grin, and said: “Kill them.”

Which was simultaneously a completely reasonable answer, and a totally insane one. It had certainly been enough to shut Frederico up.

“We should watch movies,” Nyah suddenly announced.

Frederico blinked, shocked out of his reverie. Tamar leaned forward and said, totally deadpan: “You’re going to have to run that one by me again.”

“Movies. For our guests.” Nyah gestured vaguely. “Look: they’re going – how did you put it, Vartan? – stir-crazy. Right? Because they can’t go outside; they can’t even look outside. They’re cut off from the world. But what if we bring the world to them?”

“Movies,” Vartan said, in a tone of dawning recognition.

“Right. At the very least, it would help them pass the time. Most of them haven’t had anything useful to do in weeks.” Nyah shrugged. “It couldn’t hurt, right?”

Tamar cocked her head. “Anything can hurt, given the right circumstances,” she intoned sternly.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Frederico announced.

“We do have a morale problem,” Vartan noted quietly. “At this point, it’s only a matter of time before someone has a breakdown and does something stupid and – “

“Gets us all killed.” Tamar nodded reluctantly. “I see the point. What movies did you have in mind?”

“Foreign films,” Nyah replied immediately. “Movies about people with other problems, a long way away.”

Tamar considered for a moment; Frederico saw her dark eyes flicker back and forth, and he was struck – not for the first time – by the sheer analytical genius that lay beneath Tamar’s brusque social awkwardness. After that moment of cogitation, the office chief nodded. “Okay. Set it up.”

Nyah smiled and stood. “Thank you, chief.”

Frederico stood as well. “Mind if I help?”

Nyah blinked in surprise; then, to Frederico’s own surprise, she smiled. “Not at all.”

“Good.” And with that, Frederico waved farewell to Antonio and Paolo, and set off to find a film projector.

[Nalaya]

With Mijat
Leaving Sissak, Nalaya

The road towards Mijat’s target lead out through the slowly stilling chaos of the streets of Sissak and out onto the back roads that wound their way through rocky ground, many of the smaller side roads dirt and washed out from the occasional flashflood. A serpent—the local variety of asp—watched them, soaking in the sun lazily on its rock. It made no move to attack as they passed by, though the boy gave it a wide berth just in case. It didn’t pay to play with such creatures.

They had to crawl low through brush at some points to avoid eyes, even though two people moving through the orchards and pastures around Sissak would probably not be noticed. There was plenty of cover and concealment for the whole way and the bulk of Shalumites in the area were now focused on the city itself, not the surrounding area any longer. The boy had lived his whole life here, in the valleys and rises around Sissak, and he had lived through a time where it was important not to be caught. In the old days, warlords had clashed viciously for control of Sissak and they cared little who got in their way.

The boy had been a soldier then, too. They reached a high overlook point among the rocks with a narrow trail leading down in steep switchback patterns, concealed from view by heavy brush and green growth fed by a waterfall.

“Hospital,” the boy said, pointing to a large rectangular complex with many entrances and exits, bustling with activity. There was an area where ambulances parked at the front and a large open field at the back for medevac helicopters. There was traffic going into and out of the area, but the frenzy of activity had slowed slightly as the battle for Sissak went through its death throes. It was going to be chaotic, and perhaps in that chaos there was opportunity.

The boy patted Mijat on the shoulder. “I wait a while, then go,” the boy said. “You with God go.”

Somewhere down there, Yeraz Tashjian could be found and with her all the secrets that years of work had extracted from the movers and shakers in Armavir.

---

The Assault
Siunik, Nalaya

We do now the work of the righteous, Kella told her people just before they moved out. The words lingered in Kaliq’s mind as they crossed the ten kilometers to the south. All of the Vatani moved with their gasmasks on, careful and conscious of all light and noise. The moon was full and bright, casting a surprising amount of light on the dark earth. It made for hard, deep shadows that would easily hide them as they approached Siunik among ridgelines and broken ground. Vatani scouts who had been waiting near the city converged with the main group, reporting in to their respective commanders in hushed Arabic. Even if they were ostensibly out of earshot, the Nalayans were keeping their voices low.

It was hard for the Nava’ai to watch the whole area, so they did their best with roving patrols and controlled access for vehicles. Long, winding arrangements of barricades allowed them plenty of time to take shots at approaching danger. Signs of heavy weapons were reported to Vatani and Shalumite by word of mouth and runners rather than radio: machine guns and mortars, primarily. The occasional sniper’s nest could be seen on nearby rooftops along with sirens. Motion detectors with alarms had been set up at regular intervals along the less manned parts of the line. It was Wisal who spotted them with binoculars when they stopped to look. She reported her finding in soft Arabic to Kaliq. That was an obstacle that they would not be able to circumvent, which meant going through. <<Poor camera coverage,>> Wisal continued. <<I count only one for this whole stretch of building, and it’s not looking here.>>

There were floodlights, but they didn’t cover everywhere, and currently the guard were right at the point where they were the most tired. “I have a plan,” Kaliq said, motioning for the Shalumites to duck back behind some of the rocks. They were far enough ahead of the main body that they had some time. “We set off the motion detector’s alarm. We set it off again, and again, and again, until they turn it off because it is malfunctioning. Wait here.”

Husayn was the fastest runner of the Vatani, so it became his task to set off the alarm. The man sprinted out across the open field, only to have the still of the night air be shattered by a shrill alarm going off. However, the Nava’ai were spread thin. By the time they came to investigate, he was hidden in a small hollow in the rocks closest to the fenceline. After a half hour of it going off about every five minutes and them seeing nothing, Wisal spotted a few milits’iayi switch off that motion sensor, arguing in Nalayan as they did.

Kaliq grinned and motioned for his new allies to follow once the guards had deserted the area.

A small group darting through the shadowy part of the line wasn’t noticed, though they did have to scale a tall chain-link fence and clip razor-wire to get through. Kaliq lead the way fearlessly, his eyes intently focused on the darkness. They said not a word. The Vatani knew each other well enough to either naturally intuit where they needed to be or communicate with hand signals. They just trusted that the Shalumites would hold up their end in their own way.

Their dark, dust-dappled clothes blended in perfectly with their surroundings, breaking up their outlines. Kaliq had been to Siunik before many times, so he had at least a rough estimate of the right route to take. He knew where the radio studio was. It was just a question of avoiding the roving patrols. He led the way down dark alleys and side streets, avoiding the main roads. Trucks weren’t a common sight at this hour, but one or few idled with their lights on, casting illumination down the road. Now and then there came the sound of voices, usually from above, drifting down from open windows. A lover’s spat, a worried parent and their surly teenaged child, milits’iayi members sharing cigarettes out on the fire escape—these sounds were rare, but present.

The knives came out as they made their way down one alleyway where a lone pair of sentries stood, one of them with a flask in hand. Kaliq instantly shifted from refined gentleman to quiet killer, moving for one as Ruqayyah, one of the women, caught the other. They muffled their victims’ screams with their arms or their hands and used their long knives with a cold, practiced efficiency. Kaliq went down behind the collarbone while Ruqayyah forced her blade between the ribs. Neither of them stopped stabbing until their victims slumped limply in their arms, which meant more than a dozen wounds on both enemies. They had rifles slung—that was more than enough indication to Kaliq that they were enemy soldiers. Both Vatani lowered the corpses to the ground, as if they didn’t even want to make a sound by allowing them to fall.

The station wasn’t much further. There were sentries here, patrolling the perimeter of the building. Others lounged just inside the open doorway, drinking and listening to loud music. Kaliq counted to himself quietly, marking the time it took for the patrol to walk around the building. He looked over at his Shalumite counterparts in the dark. They were lingering in an alley out of sight and out of the light. He leaned in close to the Shalumite team’s leader. “If we can get inside the building before we shoot, that will decrease the threat of noise,” he said. “There is a gap between the two patrols, but it is less than a minute. Thoughts?”

---

The Office of the Protector
Sevan, Nalaya

“Then I look forward to seeing your light armor and skirmish infantry, Siruhi,” Khavar said with one of her faint, only-there-for-an-instant smiles. “Having someone secure Massis as well or supply Malcolmson and his people would be a great relief and a great boon for everyone. Whenever you are able, we would welcome the assistance. This will be a difficult business. Nalayans seldom do things half-way, and that includes fighting.”

There was a soft knock on the door and then it opened slightly to reveal her secretary. “Arzhani, I do not mean to intrude, but Arrajin Kethyliis Zornakyan is here for your intelligence briefing,” he said politely. “She says it cannot wait.”

Khavar made a sound of displeasure, but nodded. “A minute or two, Sahrad,” she said reluctantly. “I am sorry, Siruhi, but if it is urgent, it is related to the war. Inna mentioned to me that you might want to have someone observe on one of the fronts. Tatev and Aragatsotn are both open to your observers, within reason, and I will request that Malcolmson extend the same invitation in Sissak. I am certain Hramatar Narekatsi and Hramatar Bagratuni will be obliging in Tatev, and at Aragatostn, General Ardzuni will likely be his normal grim and growling self, but a hospitable version.”

Another lightning smile appeared, so quickly gone that it was almost as if it had never been there. “Do not worry about being a latecomer to the war, Siruhi. One seldom regrets being the last to jump into the flames. Now please, enjoy your stay in Sevan and contact me or my office if you require anything. I’ll do my best to put you in touch with Narekatsi and Ardzuni as well, though both of them can be hard to pin down on days like this one. If my morning briefing was accurate, they’ve become quite busy. Have a good day.” With that, Khavar settled in behind her desk for the next piece of news to come her way. She wasn't expecting it to be good, but if it was coming from Keth, it was coming from Shrike.

That meant it involved the Dread Wolf, and it was significant enough that their operative was willing to risk being caught just to pass on a message.

---

Quellarin Syr’thaeryl
Maerimydra, Nalaya

Ryld chuckled at the use of his more impersonal name. “Just Ryld, please. I will take no offense,” he assured them. “I have never been one to stand on formality. And the wine is from the Artsakh Valley near Ijevan, yes, except for the ice-wine. That is grown just north of Dyvynasshar, near the glaciers. It can get quite cold there. I’m impressed you managed to find some even here, Sabal.”

“It’s a gift,” Sabal said airily. She was slightly distracted by the touch of Joan’s hand against her own. This was the first time she’d felt any indication of attraction from Joan other than quickly hidden glances. It stirred up familiar, unwise feelings. Of all the justicars, it was Joan she spent the most time with and ended up teamed most frequently with. That made for a certain degree of closeness, or at least that was how Sabal felt. She had no idea what Joan felt.

Even without wine, Sabal was an uninhibited person most of the time, though she’d gotten better about holding her tongue around the justicars. There was still a little of her characteristic arrogance that reared its head now and again, but she was putting in some degree of effort because she really did feel a genuine affection for them these days. It had grown slowly, like a tree in the desert, but its roots of trust ran deep. They were people who had her back, and there were few things more attractive than that…except maybe Joan’s pout and the lovely view in the baths.

Maybe that was why she decided to do something about that interest. As Ryld had pointed out, she did tend to feel very little embarrassment or shame when the inhibitions dropped. She wasn’t drunk, of course, but she was certainly feeling warm and relaxed. Even if Joan turned her down, she could amuse herself by seeing how much of a blush she could get out of the justicar. Sabal stretched lazily before she rose to her feet and padded over to Joan’s couch, taking a seat next to her friend—it felt natural these days to think of her allies in such a positive, close light—closely enough that their shoulders touched. She draped her legs over Joan’s lap, settling in perfectly comfortably. “Having fun? I know I am now. Though we could be having a lot more,” she murmured close to Joan’s ear, voice just a touch huskier than it usually was. It could easily be waved off as Sabal being friendly if one didn’t hear the content of her whisper to Joan, but she wasn’t this touchy with anyone but a lover. She had always been standoffish, even with her own people. It made her an unusual Mak’ur.

That was certainly why Ryld’s eyes widened a little bit in definite surprise. He wanted to say something, to remind her of the rules of reserve that the Yath abided by around foreigners that came straight from the Linath, but he was startled enough that the words just didn’t come. This was Sabal. She was the most cautious of og’elend that he’d ever known. Apparently being in Armavir so long had changed that. He had a sneaking suspicion that maybe it was better to keep his peace. If Sabal had turned Sorn down in favor of the justicar, that meant…well, he didn’t really want to admit what that meant, but he didn’t want her to be angry with him either way.

It was a lot more comfortable to believe Sabal wasn’t serious.

Pella didn’t think nearly as much of it, since she was used to friends being a lot more demonstrative all the time than Sabal’s baseline. She just smiled at the sight of an actually relaxed Sabal. She was used to the yathallar being stern and perpetually tense, but maybe that was just Armavir. Being surrounded by the unfriendly eyes was certainly grounds for caution and defensiveness. Besides, the girl wasn’t particularly perceptive, since a few glasses of wine had left her giggly and relaxed herself. She certainly wasn’t going to pay too much attention to Sabal’s body language, which was currently all but screaming, ‘I want you’.

Ryld finally managed to get his thoughts together and his tongue working. “Sabal, leave the poor woman alone,” he said.

“If she says so,” Sabal said with amusement, not looking away from Joan. She wanted to be able to gauge a reaction if there was actually interest, or at least see the blush start.

That actually relaxed Ryld a little bit. He had no doubt in his mind that a Christi warrior, particularly one so devoted to their religion, would put the brakes on any potential liaison fast enough to give Sabal whiplash. Other religions weren’t exactly known for being keen on the tattooed, ferocious Yath. One needed only to look at the destruction of the Fane for evidence of that. It’s harmless, he told himself. She’s always been like this after battle and a few drinks. It means nothing.

The problem with that explanation was that he knew Sabal. Like she had said, she lived her life as best she could with the aim of creating the fewest number of regrets. That was evidence enough in his mind that she tended to do only things that she meant one way or another.

If he knew one thing for life for certain, it was that the Dread Wolf was not going to approve of that kind of conflict of interest.

---

Norazn’s Funeral
Sissak, Nalaya

Once the funeral of Norazn began, only half a day after his duel, the streets suddenly fell deathly silent again except for those right by the Samaa’i. Hundreds of people packed in to the courtyard of the mosque and the surrounding streets until there was barely room to breathe, all of them solemn and quiet as the prayers for the fallen warrior. Muslim or not, people had come to pay their respects. It was almost unnerving, how hushed the scene was despite the crowds. No one carried weapons, out of respect.

<<…admit him into the Garden, protect him from the punishment of the grave and the torment of the Fire; make his grave spacious and fill it with light…>> Arshag prayed in Arabic at his father’s side, eyes fixed on the still form of his father. He was a fourteen-year-old boy who was studying to become an imam and had been chosen to lead the last few prayers of the funeral. His younger brother, Veradzin, was only twelve and stood next to him with uncomprehending tears rolling down his cheeks. The two of them, helped by Magar Erysian, had washed Norazn’s body. Desil stood by her sons with one arm wrapped around her daughter, pulling Kayiane into her side and holding her. Her daughter was still trembling and crying, less able to keep a strong face than Desil or Arshag since she was only ten years old. Both mother and daughter wore sky-blue hijabs, the color of mourning in Nava’ai culture. It was a wish that their loved one’s soul had reached heaven.

Do not be warriors as I am, his father had told the two boys that morning before going to his duel. Norazn had explained, There are enough sword-swingers in this world. Be someone who spreads light. Now, Arshag understood why. What was the Christian saying? Those who lived by the sword…. He wanted to be angry, but he couldn’t find it in himself. Arshag was still in shock, feeling strangely numb and disconnected as the words came out of his mouth.

The body had been washed and wrapped in a plain white cloth shroud, laid on the steps up to the edge of the deep ritual cleansing pool at the center of the mosque’s courtyard. The murmur of people praying in echo of Arshag’s raised voice could be heard in an untidy unity streets away. It wasn’t that they were shouting, but that there were so many.

Desil touched her husband’s cloth-covered hand as the procession towards his burial site began, walking close to him for the last time. As she passed through the crowds of people with her children and the body of her husband, she heard thousands of prayers said for him and for her family. It was enough to make her feel a world less alone. Other people had known Norazn, other people had loved him, and they knew that he had died to secure Sissak’s future in peace, even if they didn’t agree with him. That touched her, even if it could do nothing to ease the ache in her chest. Their path took them right down the main street of Sissak past Shalumite soldiers and EI workers alike. The city had come to a complete stop for this. The sword that Norazn had wielded in life would be passed on to his eldest son, even if Arshag wasn’t ready to even look at a sword now. His mother would give it to him when he was older. She would have given them both, but the other had disappeared. It was likely in the hands of the Shalumi, by her estimation.

The grave was in a small grotto where a stream coursed down from the mountain spring to the north and turned into waterfall that was about fifteen feet tall, watering a grove of olive trees that whispered in the wind as people approached, long green grasses swaying only to be flattened by footsteps. The grave had been dug deep into the earth while Norazn’s body was bathed. Arshag got down into the grave first so that he could position his father’s body. They lowered Norazn’s still form in carefully, laying him on his right side to face the Qibla. It was Arshag who tucked packed balls of soil beneath his father’s head, chin, and shoulder. His father’s friends helped him back out of the grave.

Desil was the first to come forward, as was custom, to pour three handfuls of soil into the grave. <<We created you from it, and return you into it, and from it We will raise you a second time,>> she recited the Quranic verse with a solemn voice, loudly enough for mourners to hear. Then she stepped off to the side, allowing Kayiane and Veradzin to add their own handfuls, both of them reciting prayers for their father. Then they moved to one side, allowing others to pick up handfuls of dirt to pour respectfully into the grave. Anyone in attendance was welcome to, though many had stepped back to allow the warriors to pay respect to a fellow warrior. Desil would remain at the grave through the night, a tradition begun long before Islam was introduced to Nalaya, allowing a spouse or lover to say all the things they wished they had said when their beloved was alive, free of prying eyes and eavesdropping. It was as much for the living as for the peace of the dead.

Once the last handful of soil was in place and the grave was full, Norazn’s two boys patted the earth over the grave until it was firm. The only marker of his grave would be a large, irregular river rock with nothing engraved on it and flowers left by his family or other mourners. People came forward to offer their condolences and Desil listened with something between gratitude and pain.

Slowly, the mass of people began to filter out of the grove and back into the city, resuming their lives as normal.

---

The Gate of Miak Amrots’
Tatev, Nalaya

Ada bowed slightly to the group of Esperancers. If Kapriel was accepting of her, she was certainly relieved to deal with them. Someone else would have innocent victims of war high on their list of priorities. She was under no illusion that she could protect anyone on her own. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll contact you as soon as possible about Armavir. There has to be something we can do.”

Nadal looked over at her. “We have our own way of settling these things, Dragon,” the yochlol said impassively. “We do not require the intervention of you or Esperance International.”

Ada turned to face him. “This isn’t just your war anymore, Most Honored,” the Arusai woman said sharply. “It’s ours. And there’s a right way to do it.”

There was a long moment where grey eyes met gold in fearsome, silent struggle. Nadal stepped into Ada’s personal space and she didn’t backpedal, glaring up at his bulk. Just because they were abiding by a truce did not mean she approved of the Dread Wolf’s methods. Finally, realizing that she wasn’t going to relent, Nadal inclined his head in such a way that it was barely perceptible. If there was one thing Mak’ur respected, it was force of will. The Dragon apparently had that in spades…just like her father.

“I would gladly debate philosophy with you, Dragon, after I have informed the Ilharn and Ilharess Nasadra what has been discussed here,” Nadal said. He didn’t react outwardly, but he was somewhat impressed that she had the nerve to take that tone with him. She would be a problem for Nasadra to deal with, when they saw fit. “May we meet again, either beneath branches of olive or upon ebon sands.”

Ada tipped her head back to him in response to his little nod, feeling a tightness in her jaw that had everything to do with stress. She looked back at Rikker, expression softening slightly. “In my medical opinion, Paron, you could use a break. Go get a drink or a meal or something. I’ll set up an appointment with the EI here and keep the brakeless clown car that is whatever the hell we’re doing on something approaching a road.”

She let out a sigh once Nadal had left and pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. Her ‘to do’ list was only getting longer, but she could handle it after years of working long shifts. From what she’d heard, Rikker had been going non-stop for at least the whole day. She’d slept a little bit on the ride from Vayots Dzor, not that she had any desire to ever sleep again.

---

The Refugees
Ayrum, Nalaya

Shirak chuckled when Ari spoke as they sat on the edge of the roof, watching the bustle of people below. In answer to the question, he produced a hip flask from the side pocket of his BDU pants and unscrewed the cap, handing it to the Menassan man. It was full of a Mak’ur liquor that burned like white lightning and tasted faintly of spice. “We are doing better, Paron. Not perfect, but better,” he said.

Over at the impromptu hospital area, Nanar had come to work alongside Mayda and the others. She had been an emergency medical technician before the war broke out, so she fit right in among the non-tattooed people working hard. She kept her attention on the most desperate cases, though at one point she found herself just holding a mother screaming for her little boy over in the black zone, letting the woman sob into her shoulder, rubbing the woman’s back with one of her bloodied hands. She was a silent worker, since bedside manner was not exactly her strong suit, but she knew what she was doing.

As the sun began to sink behind the horizon, the ku’nal in the group clustered together just outside of the main body of people, kneeling in the dirt facing north. Heads bowed and hands clasped. Some of them pressed their foreheads into the dust. The sounds of their prayers could be heard, but only from close—they were soft words, barely more than whispers, intended for more-than-mortal ears. Ildan was not with them. He had gone over to the dead ku’nal who were laid out under the growing night, praying for each soul. His baritone chant was audible to some of the people in the group, which seemed to make them more uncertain than comforted.

The locals in Ayrum quickly split into two camps on the subject of the refugees. All of them believed in hospitality, in helping those who needed it most. Shelter was no problem…except for one hang-up. “We are not taking them!” Anastas barked, pointing at the ku’nal. He was an older, grey-haired Nava’ai man. “They are killers. They will cut our throats in the night and take what they want. It is not safe. Let them continue south.”

Mak’ur tempers were not hard to set off. Perhaps that was why Chalithra, one of the local Mak’ur teenagers, was quick to snap. “You don’t even know them! If you send them south, they will die!” she said accusingly.

“Chal, hush,” her father said firmly. He was a man well into his fifties, soft from comfortable living, but still tattooed as one of the faithful. Duagloth had a reasonably cool head, even though he agreed fervently with the assessment of his daughter.

“It’s not fair to help some and not all!” she said, tears stinging her eyes. She stubbornly refused to let them fall, no matter how angry she was. Chalithra had always been a hothead, prone to speaking her mind. She was smart, but she was sensitive to any and every slight that came her way. A strong sense of justice was not always a good thing.

“Life isn’t fair,” Anastas said shortly. “They chose to become what they are. They are not refugees, they are murderers. Besides, how many of these people can we feed anyway?”

“If we could contact one of the cities, I am certain they could send us aid. Perhaps Tatev?” Kalig said. He was a quiet young man who had been born lame. He moved around the village with his crutch most of the day, but he was an excellent musician. He had been taken in by the Topalian family, a sweet elderly Nava’ai couple who had no axe to grind with anyone.

“It is a gamble at best. If the Dread Wolf makes war on them, they will have nothing to spare,” Taniel said. He was firmly on Anastas’s side. “Besides, helping them puts us all at risk if Karagozian’s men come here.”

“Which they will,” Anastas said sharply.

“You help us,” Duagloth said. He had not been able to provide well for his family, too caught up in trying to care for his wife, and so they relied on the others in the village heavily. The transition to the south had been particularly difficult for his wife, Elerra. She was a sickly, depressed woman and the feeling of isolation that crushed her in the south had done little for her mental health. It was hard to believe that she’d once been bodyguard for a member of the C’rintrin. Currently, Elerra was absent—she had agreed that the debate would probably push her into a nervous breakdown and was staying at the house. “Do you think Karagozian will be any more charitably disposed to us? Will you turn us away as well? You know that we are ku’nal just as much as these people.”

“You did not take up a rifle,” Taniel pointed out in a heated tone. “You did not go make holy war in Vayots Dzor. If anyone is to blame for what happened there, it is them. We had a peace until they came. I will not extend my hospitality to an enemy. I did not invite them here—they are no guest of mine.”

“Taniel—” Kalig started.

“If I wanted empty dreams, I would ask you, Kalig,” Taniel sniped. “You have no home to open to these people. You would take none of the risk.”

It was enough to hush Kalig, who looked hurt now.

They were not the only ones arguing but they were the loudest and perhaps most influential members of the debate. The Mak’ur families listened to Duagloth despite the unfortunateness of his situation, and the others generally fell behind either Anastas or Taniel. “We will take the refugees, but not them,” Anastas said stubbornly.

“You have to!” Chalithra insisted. “There are fifty of them. We can’t take them all. You’re just going to let them die?”

Anastas and Taniel both did not look like they intended to listen to her even a little bit. “We have families to think of, Chalithra. Our own children to protect, including you. Snatching food out of your mouth to give to killers…that would be wicked,” Taniel said more patiently.

Chalithra made a sound of frustration and stormed off into the night. Normally, Duagloth would have chuckled and said something about fifteen-year-olds, but there was no humor in his expression now. He looked grim. “I understand where you are coming from, Taniel,” he said finally. “But I am not going to be the one gives the ku’nal word of your decision. I would suggest you run it through our EI friends. They will perhaps know the best way to break the news.”

“Probably Madteos,” Anastas said. “He has a gun.”

Duagloth’s eyes were sorrowful, but he said nothing. He had to hope that their EI friends could convince Anastas and Taniel to reconsider in a way he himself could not. They were more neutral parties.

Medzarents sat nearby with his friend, well within earshot of the conversation. The words hit him like punches to the gut, forcing his breath out of his lungs until he felt like he was drowning. Arshaluys had woken up long enough to pass Nanar’s check-up, but she had been in so much pain that she passed out again quickly. Her external wounds were contusions and cuts from broken glass, but Nanar had said she was certain that Luys had a case of blast-lung to match her broken bones and at least something of a TBI. His friend remembered nothing of the blast that had taken her down. Her prognosis was not good—she was well into the red zone, and he wasn’t certain she would actually last through the night.

She looked so young now that she was asleep. It was easy to forget what a monster the war had turned her into. Medzarents saw only the girl that he’d grown up with. It was hard to stay angry at her no matter what she’d done. She’d always had his back. It didn’t feel right to abandon her now.

But they were all going to die. Heading south to Armavir…if the elements and lack of water or food didn’t kill them, the milits’iayi most certainly would. He squeezed his friend’s hand a little tighter.

---

Diplomatic Corps Offices
Tatev, Nalaya

Sahak came back over once his conversation was finish. “She just wanted me to lock up,” he said when Hanesian gave him a questioning look. Sahak smiled at Dara and Malcolm as Hanesian passed her a squeeze bottle of honey. “I’ll be right back,” he said before bustling across the hall to the TRC’s offices.

“The TRC handles a fair amount of private information,” Van explained for the benefit of their guests. “Don’t want victims’ or whistle-blowers’ identities being leaked. Siruhi Andzevatsi must have had a rough day if she forgot. Then again, everybody’s a bit shook up with a man dropping over dead in the hall. I heard poor Anie just about had a heart attack when she realized he wasn’t breathing.”

When Dara mentioned a desire to talk to his boss, Hanesian winced a little bit. “Shareshian’s a crotchety bugger,” he warned her. “You can get ahold of him by phone or drop by and visit his house. It’s a few blocks west of Miak Amrots’, near the cathedral. It’s close enough to closing time that he’s probably still up and puttering around. Can’t imagine he’d be sleeping anyway. Keeps hours like an insomniac vampire. I can’t count the number of times he’s called me at one or two in the morning demanding I look up a file for him.”

Van chuckled. “Samuel usually gets the short end of the stick on that one,” he said. He leaned back in his chair, searching his memory for anything else that might have been of use. “Maybe Anie? Sweet girl, really, but she gossips like you wouldn’t believe. She was the one that went over when this guy dropped over. Then again, if she knew something, everyone would know something.”

Sahak frowned slightly at the mention of Anie. He knew she had good intentions at heart most of the time, but sometimes she could let nasty rumors fly. He worried about people getting on the wrong side of her sometimes.

“I’d be careful if you talk to Anie,” Hanesian said with a wry smile. He’d been on the receiving end of that gossip before. “She’s as much a source of misinformation as information. You sort of have to sift out the kernels of truth from the wild speculation.”

“Still, she does have dirt on most of the office,” Van said.

“Yeah, but that really only helps if you want to know who’s sleeping with who,” Hanesian pointed out to his friend. “I think these charming people have more important questions.”

“She can sometimes be a bit cruel, too,” Sahak said in a reluctant tone. He didn’t like to cast aspersions on anyone, but he felt that Dara and Malcolm should be warned. He didn’t want to see anyone so undeserving get into trouble. “But she does know things.”

“I’ll keep an ear out too,” Van said. He smiled at Dara. “Is there a number I can get ahold of you at?”

“Van,” Hanesian groaned.

“Hey, never hurts to help,” his friend said with a shrug, still smiling.

They all looked up when Drada came in. “Welcome, Siruhi,” Sahak said warmly. He had a great deal of respect for the EI, and he knew that in the past, the TRC had worked closely with the Commission of Inquiry for help locating and prosecuting war criminals after the Unification War ended. Valantin didn’t have a bad word to say about them. “I am sorry, but I did not see Tsavagian. Samuel did for a few moments, I think.”

Hanesian leaned back in his chair, searching his memory. “He came in and asked to see my boss. I sent him in,” he said. “I heard them talking, but it was muffled. It…well, it sounded a little like it turned into a quarrel, but Shareshian is a busy man and he snaps at people who bother him. He—Tsavagian—seemed nervous. He kept looking around. He was definitely in a hurry. But I did not see him with anyone else.”

“I saw him near the main gate, asking for directions to our offices,” Van volunteered. “But I was out to get lunch. So was Sahak. And Samuel joined us a little bit later.”

“I didn’t want to stick around to be the whipping boy,” Hanesian admitted. “It was nothing unremarkable. Many people flood in and out of the offices during the day, even soldiers. He looked rough, though. He was covered in dirt. I think he came from Vayots Dzor just ahead of Hramatar Narekatsi’s people.”

---

Phone Message for Rikker
Tatev, Nalaya

”Hello, Paron Colonel, this is Valantin Andzevatsi, from the TRC. I was hoping I could meet with you when you have some free time, maybe for dinner? I have a few questions for you pertaining to my work, but I also thought you might like a bit of a break. And as always, if you have any questions about the locals or anything here in Nalaya, I’m here to help. Take care and have a good night.”

---

The City Streets
Armavir, Nalaya

It was like a scene out of the history books, and not distant history either. For too many, the sight of Nava’ai milits’iayi prowling the streets was a flashback to the Unification War that they couldn’t pull themselves out of. Without Kapitan Sasuni to enforce it—the woman had been grabbed days ago by Zhirayr Karagozian’s people, along with the RV under her command, and drug off to be publicly executed after their operation smuggling people out of the city was discovered—the Protector’s law and order had dissipated. It wasn’t as hard to turn neighbors against each other as people might have thought. There had always been tensions simmering under the surface between the ethnic groups, only inflamed by the attack on the Hin K’are. It didn’t matter if they were ku’nal or not anymore. In a city where the overwhelming majority were Nava’ai, anyone who didn’t fit became a target. Even the Arusai, who had been congenial neighbors since the war ended, weren’t safe anymore.

And who was going to stop them?

There was a deathly hush among those who knew what was happening, even those who were sympathetic, because they knew they could easily become the next Sasuni and quite literally lose their head in the middle of downtown Armavir, in front of everyone. They could lose their families, their loved ones, and no one else was doing anything. For others, perhaps even a majority of the population, it wasn’t clear what was happening. There was only chaos in the Shrjani Nshanneri and people disappearing. Perhaps they had simply fled, many told themselves. It was the assaults in the streets in broad daylight that seemed the most wrong, but what could they do about it? How could they help? Try to run off a soldier with a rifle and it would end only with two people shot instead of one.

Some helped, hiding families in their basements or hidden spaces just as Esperance International was, but they were too few and had to work in secret, which meant that other people didn’t even have any outward indication that it was okay to help. The worst part was that Zhirayr had given no order to harass or harm anyone. It was a matter of implication and insinuation, of engineering a situation and allowing things to happen. The people who were attracted to the power he offered openly were the most inclined to abuse it, and with no need to fear repercussions, abuse it they did. Even Esperance International wasn’t much of a deterrence. No one in the wider world cared what would happen and if Karagozian became Protector, no one in the Nalaya itself would be able to do anything either.

The milits’iayi weren’t shy about their activities, occasionally committing assault even in plain view of the Esperancers. If anything, they saw it as a way of making sure that those workers would stay in line. After all, it could easily be them. The milits’iayi hassled them, though they hadn’t really injured anyone or made too many threats. Again, it was more unspoken, though they’d roughed up some people in a milder way, demanding to know if the Esperancers had seen ku’nal in the city.

Slowly, inch by inch, the milits’iayi were purging the city of their favorite victims and anyone else with open sympathies that leaned towards the Protector or the Dread Wolf who tried to help. In many ways, it was only a matter of time before they found what they were looking for.

Across the street from the Esperancers, Grigoris Saatjian had an Imanalov’ woman forced up against a wall. People made detours to avoid approaching him or the handful of men under his control who were watching warily around with rifles. She was struggling, but a 5’2” waifish woman was no physical match for the domineering and brutish Grigoris. He pinned her wrists above her head easily with one hand and used the other to rip down her hood. She was lovely in that strange, pale Imanalov’ way, though her eyes were very strange—they had been replaced by smooth, featureless glass or maybe lustrous stone. It was hard to tell. She was blind. That was why she hadn’t seen him coming.

“Oh fuck,” one of his men said, recoiling back a little. “Grigor, not her.”

Grigoris laughed. “Why not?” he said before leaning in to whisper in her ear, “I like it when you struggle. I’m going to make you scream, little girl.”

“Grigor, that’s one of those fucking Anur. Seriously, man, don’t go there,” Dovin said nervously. He was the man Frederico called Paolo. If anyone had the power to place a curse on someone, it would be those goddamn freaks. He didn’t know which one this was, but they supposedly all had the souls of ancient gods and that was a kind of magic he didn’t want to mess with. Then again, Grigoris wasn’t known for having a lot of tolerance for insubordination and Dovin didn’t want to get the shit kicked out of him.

“Never fucked a goddess before,” Grigoris aid with amusement and a heightened interest. His body was shoved up against her, rendering her kicks ineffective. She’d managed to catch him with one knee, but not in the groin. She’d hit the sensitive inside of his thigh, which had only solidified his resolve.

“Grigor, come on, they’re a bitch to undress,” Zadig said, also known to Frederico as Antonio. He sounded bored, smoking his cigarette and glaring at the Esperance International building. He didn’t know why their boss hadn’t let them kick in the door there—he was sure they were hiding something. Fuckers, he thought irritably. Always think they know best.

“That’s what this is for,” he said, flipping out a wicked looking karambit. It would be relatively easy to slice through her clothes with it. He might cut her as well, but he really didn’t care. Bleeding or not, she was still going to be a lot of fun. And after that? Well, he hadn’t decided whether or not he’d let her live.

All across the city, similar scenes were playing out. On one narrow avenue, a Mak’ur man was stomped to death, his face crushed in by combat boots. A woman’s scream pierced the air from a dark alley and no one on the street stopped. Not when that omnipresent anxiety, that trembling fear, permeated the air. What could one do? Who could one trust? People had already started informing on each other. That was how Sasuni ended up tortured and beheaded. She’d trusted the wrong people. No one wanted to go that way.

Down in the basement of the Esperancer office, Yasrena was one of the few Mak’ur who had made it out of the Shrjani Nshanneri. She and her little brother were all that was left of their family after the Ramoth, as they were calling it—the Nightmare. She knew she would probably never feel safe again, but she had to contain herself because her six-year-old brother was looking to her for comfort. He had been inconsolable for the first week after everything happened, crying for their parents until she shushed him forcefully for fear he would call the attention of the milits’iayi. She was still terrified herself, well aware that nowhere in Armavir was really safe. They were both fortunate that they’d been shopping outside of the Shrjani Nshanneri when it happened. She had no way of knowing if her parents and older brother were still alive. There was a rumor that some people might have escaped, but that seemed like a pipe dream at best when she was confronted with the columns of smoke rising from her home district.

They were packed into the basement with not enough room and no privacy, which had everyone on desperate edge. Yasrena had to be hushed herself when nightmares struck in the middle of the night and she started to scream. It did nothing for her nerves when she woke up to a hand covering her mouth. She was fifteen and totally on her own for the first time. She didn’t even have her best friend with her. Pella was…gone. Yasrena’s friend had been in the Shrjani Nshanneri, right at the center—Pella had agreed to keep vigil at the orthae qu’ellar. Yasrena was not one of the people holding out much hope. She could feel a knot in her stomach, like her friends and family were already gone.

The others knew that this—safety—was temporary. She could hear it in the way they talked. Everyone’s minds were fixed firmly on the sword above their heads, held by a crimson thread that could break at any moment.

“Food, Yas,” her brother said, plopping down next to her with the food that had been doled out to him. He was too young to understand what was going on. He just knew that he missed his parents and wanted to go home.

She wasn’t hungry. She hadn’t really been eating for days. It tasted like ashes in her mouth, like the smoke blowing across Armavir that rose from the embers of what had been their home. “Thanks, Dro,” she said anyway, taking a piece of bread from him. She knew it would make him feel better. “You want to read to me?”

He brightened up visibly. “Yeah!” he said with excitement, immediately scrabbling over to his backpack. He triumphantly pulled a tattered, thick hardback book packed with stories of knights, dragons, and heroes. They were old myths, some from every corner of Nalaya. Dro curled into Yasrena’s side, distracted for a moment from all the fear and uncertainty.

Maybe it was an illusion, but at least for a little while he could feel like things might be alright. Yasrena just wished she could indulge in it herself.