Chapter 8 – Messages
The sun broke over the horizon as Demara walked across the camp of the 32nd Army of Romitu. The night winds had left a thin coating of yellowish dust across the tents giving them a muted tone. A few birds started as the wildlife finished its active period and began its search for shelter from the sun. Contrary to the logic of nature, the people of the camp were just beginning to stir and make ready for the day.
Demara hiked her skirts up again, resettled her bread basket, and continued her march. This was only a temporary camp, and she didn't have the luxury of a permanent bakery. Not that the magically erected temporary ovens of the army weren't that bad. It is just that they lacked the solid structure of a building to shield the heat, hold the variety of implements she was used to, and all those seldom used, but serendipitously vital ingredients.
But the 32nd was on civic duty. This time building a canal. Once a week, like clockwork, they spent a day moving the camp a few miles down their newly created trough. And, each time, they erected another monolith.
The Kemet liked them. They were traditional. Of course, the traditional use was to mark the majesty of potentates, and to venerate the gods. The first Romitu Empire had put an end to the potentates. Even, as it contracted and Kemet gained independence, it was ruled by a council rather than a single, all powerful ruler. The gods were the gods, though. Monoliths to potentates tended to get recarved every few reigns or so in honor of the current ruler flexing their muscle. Monoliths to the gods tended to last.
At least until now. Demara furrowed her brow. She still hadn't come to terms with the massive deicide. On one hand, the gods had been given a reasonable offer by Romitu, and it was their own obstinacy and unwillingness to change that lead to their downfall. On the other hand, the slaughter of every single major god that raised a hand against Romitu seemed a bit of a disproportionate reaction.
And, in fairness, almost everyone agreed. Queen Jesca had been astounded and mortified. It was her war, her plan, and she was not the sort to shirk responsibility, even if it ate her alive. She had called in Demara as soon as the shock wore off and sent her as an intermediary to sue for peace, with the same terms as before the war. She had gone out of her way since then to be as generous as possible with the remaining gods.
Demara was even surprised by Bianca's reaction. She had most directly precipitated the slaughter. The Academy's best theory was that it was her lingering Will imposed on the Ævatar that drove its actions. Demara didn't know anyone as cold hearted, power hungry, and nihilistic as Bianca. It would be fitting to say that justice was done by the fact she lost her Soul when the Ævatar self-activated. But Demara had seen how shattered she was. The Ævatar had represented everything Bianca had dreamed of, spent years working for, and now had access to infinite ultimate power. But she refused to get in it again. She wouldn't go anywhere near it. It was amazing to see someone lose their Soul, but gain a heart.
So the monoliths they built now did not honor any Kemet potentates, or any of the gods. Jesca still refused to have any royal portraiture enacted with new magic. She felt it would be disproportionate to her predecessors. So, instead they were pretty abstract. Some lauded the army, others such concepts as 'good works' or 'cooperation'.
Drawing near to the one that had been erected at the center of this week's camp, she suspected that the real function of them was the shade the command tent.
She put her bread basket down and filled her hands full of water from a magical tap near a horse trough. She slicked her hair back and repined it in place with the grain shaped clips she used. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her basket and strode into the tent.
“Hey toots!” A rough voice greeted her as she let the tent flap down behind her.
“Morandor”, she said, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the relative dimness.
“Larger than life”, he said. He grinned up at her with a toothy smile set in a bushy black beard. The Dwarf lounged in a camp chair, one leg up over the chair's arm. He scratched idly at his arming jacket and looked her up and down appraisingly. There was the distinct scent of beer in the air.
“I'm looking for the general”, said Demara.
“Look no further”, said Morandor, spreading his arms. “The hot seat is currently occupied by my hot body!” He wiggled in his chair for emphasis.
“I meant General Ainia”, said Demara coolly.
“You don't need to see her”, said Morandor. “She's off duty. So it's me you get to deal with. Unless it's a personal visit. But in that case I'm still happy to see you.” He wagged his eyebrows.
Demara sighed. “It's a military matter. I don't know if it's important enough to wake Ainia for.”
“Is the bread revolting?” asked Morandor, eying the basket. “I can take care of that.”
“Keep your tongue in your mouth”, snapped Demara, pulling the cover off the basket.
“But the ladies like that part the best!” protested Morandor.
“Yes, well”, said Demara. “Moving right along. I've received a message for you from my god.” She had pulled out a large loaf from the basket.
“Oh?” said Morandor, looking skeptically at the bread. He waggled his fingers. “Do you, I don't know, read the position of the poppy seeds like other priests read sheep entrails? Lay your own interpretation on them?”
“Yes”, said Demara. “But in this case I think god's intent is sufficiently clear to that it can be 'interpreted' even by your remedial brain.”
She handed the loaf to him. He scowled at it with a furrowed brow. The caraway seeds it had been dusted with had clumped together to form a neat row of clear script.
POSSIBLE BREAKOUT FROM THE BLACK HOLE. PLEASE PATROL PERIMITIER.
“Neat trick”, said Morandor. “What are you up to?”
“If I was up to something”, said Demara, “you would know it. I don't beat around the bush.”
“I'd happily beat your...” started Morandor.
“Drop it”, said Demara testily. “Now are you going to do something about this or do I have to wake up Ainia myself?”
He looked at the bread and scratched his chin. “What does it mean 'breakout'? It's not like there is anything there to break. There's no wall. There are not even any markings. People can wander in or out anytime they want. It's just not generally healthy.”
“I can only read the writing on the bread”, said Demara sarcastically. “I'll leave it up to you to do the interpretation.”
“Me and my remedial brain”, said Morandor. He tore off a chunk and ate it. “Mmmm. Tastes good.”
“Well, it was touched by the goddess of bakers, what do you expect?”
“Clarity?” said Morandor. “Nah. That would be expecting too much.”
“It's clearer than sheep entrails”, said Demara.
Morandor pointed at her. “I'll give you that. A damn sight tastier too.”
“I'd swap recipes for kokoretsi with you, but I really think the message is probably more important than the palatability of the delivery device.” Demara continued to glare at him.
Morandor got heavily to his feet and brushed down his arming jacket. “Well, a patrol isn't hard to organize. I think I can manage it.”
“Thank you”, said Demara.
Morandor picked up a coat of mail and shimmied into it. “You can thank me with a kiss.” He winked at her.
Demara took a step back. “You should be so lucky.”
He looked hurt and disappointed. When he got no reaction he jumped a few times, settling the mail around his contours and belched. “Let's go see who’s on duty today.”