Six weeks.

  The words came unbidden as Lara ran the whetstone down the length of her sabre, looking critically at the edge. There were nicks and chips in there that a mere whetstone could do nothing about. She’d need to get it redone entirely soon. That was assuming that the blade didn’t break entirely before she had a chance, which it just might.

  Whatever. She had no attachment to it. If it broke, it would be the third since this all started.

  Six weeks. It had been six bloody, miserable weeks since Norn the Herbalist went mad and infected their Waystone with some kind of parasitic crystal growth. Five and a half weeks since she’d killed herself trying to break through the door of the room where they’d stuck her once her mind went entirely. Five weeks since the Waystone failed. Four weeks since the weather started behaving oddly, with rain giving way to the first completely clear sky Lara could remember seeing in Misery Splinter, only for that to give way to snow and hail and then more rain. Three weeks since the hunters and foragers stopped returning from the marshes and swamps, and the population of the Splinter faced starvation.

  Three weeks since they’d tried to force a portal open to the Primes, and found it impossible.

  It had been two weeks since a group of Delvers found the damn white obelisk deep in the swamps, surrounded by madmen, demons, and feral humans. Two weeks since they’d interrogated a Summoner whom they’d captured near a stone ritual circle, and learned just what was going on. How the cultists had infected humans with a supernatural plague, its only purpose being to get that same plague into the outpost and the Waystone. How they wanted to destroy the Splinter. All the Splinters. And how the cultists had a way to escape before the Splinter collapsed, throwing everyone into the void.

  With the Summoner and her Cultist assistants had been a small group of terrified men and women chained to a tree. They’d been impossible to Inspect, just like the ferals, and spoke of having been taken from places she’d never heard of just hours before; minutes, in the case of one young man. The fate the Summoner had in mind for them wasn’t hard to guess.

  It was a week since the temple to the Lord of Order tried to murder Captain Sarmon, after he declared martial law and conscripted everyone to march on the white obelisk. Lara didn’t know how many had died in the fighting that followed. Over a hundred, certainly. Lara wasn’t sure how many she’d killed. It had all been a bit of a blur, and she’d dismissed her notifications.

  And Mabb… the first time they’d fought together, Lara had only seen the aftermath. This time, she’d seen him in action. The carnage he’d wrought had been… The memory seemed to slide off Lara’s mind. People looked at him with fear now. Mabb himself hadn’t spoken for two days afterward, and Lara had feared that her friend had broken entirely. He still wasn’t back to his contentedly thoughtful self, but at least he was talking again.

  In the aftermath, dozens of the Sentinel’s faithful had escaped into the marshes. Going to join the cultists, was Lara’s guess. Others had renounced their faith, before or after the attempted assassination. It was one such apostate, a young Guardsman named Wilk, who’d warned Mabb of the impending coup.

  Wilk was a hero. He’d died two days ago. He’d been nineteen years old.

  They were less than a day from the white obelisk now. Hundreds of them, every surviving resident of the Splinter who hadn’t defected or taken to the swamps in a fit of paranoia. Hundreds of people, some combat Classers, the vast majority not, armed with whatever they’d had available. Hundreds of people living on rapidly dwindling stores and whatever swamp rodents they could hunt and plants they could forage in the miserable wetlands. Hundreds of people, all with their own sad reason for being in Misery Splinter, all united in fear and fury against those who’d decided to make this awful place worse.

  Tomorrow they’d reach the white obelisk, and may the gods have mercy on the cultists they found there. The people of the Splinter had none to spare.

  “I think it’s sharp enough,” a voice said from beside Lara. She was so deep in her own head, and the voice was so like her own, that for a moment she didn’t react. She just stopped running the whetstone along the edge of her sabre and took out her oil cloth. Only once she was oiling the steel did she realize that the voice had not, in fact, come from inside her own head.

  Trislain—once Master Trislain, but no more; not after what he’d done—sat at her side, watching her work. She was struck, as she so often was these days, by just how similar he was to herself. Looking at her twin was like looking in a slightly warped mirror; his brow was perhaps slightly more pronounced than hers, his jaw just a little stronger, but that was it. He didn’t have her scars, of course, and his hips were a little narrower than hers, but other than that they were practically identical. How she could have missed it for so long, she had no idea.

  Of course, Lara had never known that she had a brother. He’d been hidden away, sent to be raised by the temple of the Lifegiver, a hidden heir in case something happened to Lara. But then Lara had run off with Mestendi and her parents had disowned her in a fit of pique, and when they came for Trislain the Healer had slipped through their grasp. He’d run, and fate had brought him here.

  Mabb had known the moment he saw Trislain. He’d been so excited to tell Lara that her brother was here, and so confused when she denied having one and had treated Trislain as the stranger that he truly was to her.

  Trislain had known. He’d known since her parents came for him. He just hadn’t trusted her, a womanizing drunk, enough to admit anything. She couldn’t fault him for that. But it was too bad. She would have liked to get to know him as her brother before this place broke him, like it did everyone sooner or later. Before it ground down his kindness and concern until almost nothing remained, and he’d armored himself in pride and arrogance instead.

  He still cared. He still wished the people around him well. The fact that he was still a Healer and could use Life-magic proved that. But the fact that he could also use Death-magic, and that he’d quietly experimented on people infected with the crystal plague and disposed of their bodies in secret when his cures failed, proved just how far Misery Splinter had dragged him down.

  Captain Sarmon had wanted Trislain hanged. Lara couldn’t fault him for that. But she’d also made it clear that if Sarmon wanted her help saving this place, he’d release Trislain into her custody. So now, here they were: brother and sister, recently reunited. They were practically strangers despite having known each other for over a year, and yet, after Mabb, Trislain was the person she was closest to in this entire Splinter.

  Gods, how sad was that?

  “Hello?” Trislain said impatiently, snapping his fingers between their faces. She’d been staring. For how long, she didn’t know. She did that a lot these days: fell into pensive silences where she didn’t really hear what people said or notice what was going on around her. Thank the gods it hadn’t happened in combat yet, but it was only a matter—

  “Lara, these fugues of yours are becoming increasingly disconcerting. I’m going to check for damage to your brain.”

  Trislain’s fingertips were at the sides of her head before she’d parsed his words, and as she felt the soothing warmth of Life-mana flowing into her she thought, Never let a Death-mage touch you. I was five when Mother taught me that. She couldn’t bring herself to care. Her next thought was, He could be killing me right now. Just sucking my soul out through his fingertips. But he wasn’t. His aura was buzzing with annoyance, but also warm and soft with concern. He wanted her to be well; to be happy. And it annoyed him that she wasn’t, so he was going to fix it.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  She wondered if he could. It might be nice. But Lara had long since accepted that she didn’t deserve to be happy, so probably not.

  “Well, you’re not injured,” Trislain finally said, taking his hands off Lara’s head. “But that doesn’t mean that you’re healthy. How long has this been going on? I recall you having some bad patches before, but nothing like this.”

  “How long?” Lara asked. How long, indeed. “Since… Tendy, I guess. Since I fucked things up with her. So… four years, or thereabouts?”

  “Not that—though that’s really a whole other thing you need to figure out. Being sad over a breakup is normal. Descending into four years of melancholy and alcohol abuse is not. No, I mean…” he gestured at her vaguely. “This. These fugues. When did they start?”

  “Oh. Probably after I realized that if I’d just let Norn die out in the swamp, we’d’ve been able to evacuate the Splinter. Hundreds of people would still be alive, and we have no idea if we can get out at the white obelisk, so maybe we’re all dead already. So not only have I ruined my own life, but I may just have gone and killed Mabb, and you, and everyone else here.” She shrugged and added, “I think that’s worth being a little sad over.”

  That got her a snort and a scowl. “Don’t be ridiculous. It would have happened sooner or later. Do you know how many infections I’d seen before Norn? Have you seen how many ferals we’ve killed? Do you really think no one else would have gotten to the Waystone if she didn’t?”

  “Maybe.” Lara shrugged, sliding her saber into its scabbard. “But it was Norn who did it, and I was the one who brought Norn into the outpost. So.”

  “Ridiculous,” her brother declared. “That’s not even a rebuttal. And if it was, what do you intend to do with it? Never help anyone else ever again, in case they do something bad? Look around you!” He swept his arm in a wide arc, indicating the camp before them. “You’re helping all of these people. What if they all live, and one of them murders someone? What if one of them burns down an orphanage? Will your efforts have been wrong? Will you be guilty of their crimes?”

  Lara leaned forward, supporting her elbows on her knees and staring at a scraggly tuft of grass growing on the small patch of dry soil they were camped on. “I don’t give a damn about them,” she said, her voice low and rough. “I’m doing this for Mabb, you, and myself.”

  “You’re a damn worthless liar,” her brother scoffed. “I’m half convinced you’d’ve forgiven yourself and left cycles ago if this place didn’t need someone like you. You know what your problem is?”

  “I’m a drunk and a worthless partner,” Lara suggested. She could think of more if she took a second, but those were the two that were always near at hand.

  “No, though one is certainly true and I can’t speak on the other. No, you’re a martyr, Lara. You value everyone else above yourself, and choose to suffer for the sake of others.” Trislain sighed, but when he continued, there was a faint amusement in his voice. “You know, it’s a shame our parents didn’t give you to the temple and keep me. I expect everyone would have been happier that way.”

  “Our parents would have been, at least,” Lara said wryly. “Tendy never would have run away with you.”

  “Really? I’ve been told I‘m rather pretty.”

  “Really. And never mind that you’re a man: have you ever kicked someone’s teeth in and broken their knee? Or been in a serious fight at all?”

  “Can’t say that I have,” Trislain chuckled. It was so strange, Lara thought, to see a Healer laugh about violence. “She liked her girls a bit rough-and-tumble, I suppose?”

  “You have no idea,” Lara said fondly, a small smile gracing her face for the first time in what might’ve been days.

  The Evacuation Committee met that evening. Captain Sarmon had named it on a whim, but it was a suitably humble name for who they were: the captain, Lara, Mabb, two slightly lower-Level combat Classers who’d actually fought other sapients before coming to Misery Splinter, and a few civilian mages and administrators of different types.

  Sarmon didn’t waste any time. Once he’d made sure that everyone was there who was supposed to be, he said, “Midday tomorrow, by all estimates, we’ll reach the white obelisk. There will, with absolute certainty, be a battle. People will be forced to kill, and people will die. We’re here tonight because I want your opinions, not on how to win, because I have no doubt that we will, but on how to keep the deaths to a minimum.

  “I won’t pretend that things have been easy. There were about a thousand of us when we set out, but as we all know, constant attacks by ferals and demons have taken their toll. Still, I’m confident that we will win, and handily at that. We have just under six hundred capable fighters remaining. Of them two dozen are combat Classers, another hundred or so are hybrids, and most of the rest have a Weapons Skill by now. That is, any way you look at it, an overwhelming force compared to the less than a hundred surrounding the obelisk, cultists and defectors taken together.

  “However, we can’t let that make us complacent. Our main weakness, and their main strength, is that where we lack so much as a single dedicated combat mage, the cultists have at least two dozen Summoners, Binders, and Evoker-line mages. And as we’ve learned so painfully, they can seemingly direct the ferals and outright control demons, both the plentiful rodents and sapient revenants. Thus, we should expect to face more significant opposition than just the cultists and defectors.

  “With all that said, I leave the word open.” Sarmon immediately pointed to Mabb, who was sitting slouched forward with his hand raised. “Yes, Mister Mabb?”

  There had been something between them once, Lara knew, but she’d never gotten the story out of her friend. All she knew was that Mabb wanted nothing to do with the captain, and Sarmon was riddled with guilt. And that whenever the captain said Mister Mabb instead of just his name, there was a momentary flash of regret on his face.

  Mabb usually took a moment to mark his displeasure of having to speak with the captain at all. Not now. The topic at hand was too important for any personal grudges. “We have another weakness,” he said. He kept his volume low, but his deep, rich voice smothered any other sound effortlessly. “Fear. Our enemies are fanatics, presumably willing to die for their god and his cause. Our people, by and large, just want to survive. Some few want revenge, and may be willing to suffer and even die to get it, but most of them? If they face a wave of ferals and demons, supported by magical firepower, I do not expect it will take much for them to break and run. Once enough of them do, the rest will follow. If that should come to pass, it will be a slaughter. Thus, we must prevent just that.”

  One of the administrators, a short themion woman whose name Lara had never bothered to learn, asked, “Can we take it that you have a plan?”

  Mabb nodded to Lara, who replied, “We cause havoc in their back line before they can break our front.” Nodding to her friend and the two other combat Classers present, she continued, “We’ve already talked about it. Komaki has seen the white obelisk and knows the way. He, Mabb, Nari, and I go there ahead of the main force. Once there, we skirt around their camp and find where their leaders and highest Level mages are. Then, when the battle starts, we go in and… and we do as much damage as we can. That should keep them occupied. Stop them from hitting our line too hard before we break them.”

  “That sounds incredibly dangerous,” Sarmon remarked, looking apprehensively at Mabb. “Just four of you against their entire back line? Against their entire camp, if things go really badly?”

  “Just the four of us, Captain. Unless you can think of anyone else in this Splinter who won’t freeze up when the time comes to start slitting throats and hacking off limbs. That might be survivable in the line, but in a small Party among the enemy… no. We can’t afford to take any chances. Like I said, we’ve talked. We’re all aware of the risks. We’re willing to do it anyway.”

  Sarmon paled at the mention of the carnage Lara expected, and that was answer enough to her question. He let her have the last word on the subject. “Right,” the captain said, “in that case, let’s move on to the order of battle, and the state of our supplies. Master Doona, if you would…”

  “Are you going to be alright?” Lara asked Mabb as they lay in their shared tent, trying to fall asleep despite the constantly shifting weather and the everpresent insects. Sharing a tent with the huge Farl man was like having a red-hot stove in there, but Lara didn’t mind. She tended to be chilly, and Tendy had always been blessedly warm. If anything, the heat was comforting; a reminder of better days.

  “I doubt any of us will,” Mabb rumbled. “Slaughtering other sapients is not something a person walks away from unchanged, and we’ve all been doing far too much of that for far too long. But if you’re asking whether I will get better? Yes. Yes, I think I will.”

  “Alright. I’ll take it.” Lara rolled onto her side so she could see her friend in the dim light filtering in through the canvas. “Don’t die tomorrow, alright? Promise me you won’t die.”

  Mabb turned his head, looking her in the eye as he said, “Only if you will make the same promise. I cannot stand the thought of you never leaving this place.”

  “Deal,” she said, extending her hand. Mabb gingerly wrapped his fingers around her wrist; she could barely get a grip on his.

  “Deal,” Mabb rumbled as they shook.

  Lara slept well that night.

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