The weather outside didn’t improve Taniel’s mood. The sky had threatened rain for a week now, every day a little cloudier. Yesterday there’d been a misting drizzle in the evening – just enough to make the grass slick and the fighting all the more treacherous.
Taniel stopped just outside the inn and wondered if he should have gotten a drink before heading back to the front.
A pair of provosts approached from the street. Both carried heavy steel pikes and wore Adran blues with green trim and the insignia of mountains crossed by cudgels.
Coincidence, Taniel wondered, or were they waiting for him?
“Captain Taniel Two-Shot?”
“What?”
“You’re to come with us, sir.”
Definitely waiting for him. “On whose authority?”
“General Ket’s.”
“I don’t think I’ll do that.” Taniel touched the butt of his pistol.
“We’re placing you under arrest, sir.”
Arrest? This had gone too far. “On what charge?”
“That’s for General Ket to say.”
One stepped forward, taking Taniel by the arm.
Taniel jerked away. “Get your hands off me. I know my rights as a soldier of the Adran army. You’ll tell me the charges or you’ll go to the pit.” Taniel’s senses told him that they didn’t have an ounce of powder. They’d come ready. For him.
Or had they? The provost jerked hard on Taniel’s arm, like he was some kind of unruly child. “Come quiet-like now. We’re to bring the girl as well. Where is she?”
Where had Ka-poel gone? Taniel looked around, pulling his arm away from the provost.
“Now, sir! Don’t make us–”
Taniel’s fist connected with the provost’s chin, sending the man to the ground. The other provost lowered his pike and stepped forward threateningly. Taniel shifted to one side, grabbed the pike by the shaft, and jerked the man off balance. The provost stumbled forward, and Taniel planted a fist into the side of his head.
The first provost came to his feet, already swinging. His ears were red, his face twisted in an angry grimace at having been sucker punched to the ground. The provost was easily a head taller than Taniel and weighed four stone more.
Taniel caught the provost’s fist and slammed his opposite hand into the man’s elbow. He heard the snap, saw the blood and the white bone sticking out of the flesh.
The provost’s scream drew more attention than Taniel wanted. He let the man fall to the ground and then started walking briskly toward the front.
Arrest him? General Ket had the gall to arrest him? It seemed like Taniel was the only thing left between the Kez and Adopest. He’d killed half of their remaining Privileged, giving the Wings a clear advantage on the field, and he’d run out of room for notches on his rifle, he’d killed so many infantry.
Ka-poel joined him a few moments later. One minute he was walking alone, trying to ignore the stares of anyone who’d seen him break a provost’s arm, and the next she was beside him, strolling along as if nothing had happened.
“Where the pit were you?”
Ka-poel didn’t respond.
“Well…” Taniel gritted his teeth. Pit. A general had an arrest warrant out for him. They’d come sooner or later, in force. What could he do? Break the arms of every provost in the army? “If they come again, disappear just like that. I don’t want them getting their damned hands on you.”
She nodded.
Taniel felt his steps grow in purpose as he headed back toward the front. He changed his course a little and went toward the cooking tents.
Taniel found his goal in the third mess tent he looked inside.
The master chef, Mihali, was alone inventorying barrels. He held a piece of charcoal in one hand and paper in the other. His long black hair was tied behind his head in a ponytail.
“Good afternoon, Taniel,” Mihali said without turning around.
Taniel came up short as the tent flap fell closed behind him. “Have we met?”
“No. But I’m friends with your father. Please, come in.”
Taniel stayed warily near the tent flap. Ka-poel had come inside behind him, and she seemed to have no reservations about plopping down on a barrel in one corner.
“Tamas is dead,” Taniel said.
“Oh, don’t be silly. You don’t believe that.”
“I’ve come to accept it.”
Mihali still hadn’t turned around. Even with his back toward Taniel, he had a kind of presence that made Taniel second-guess his decision to come there. There was something about him. A smell, maybe? No. Something more subtle. Just the slightest sense of familiarity.
“Tamas is very much alive,” Mihali said. His lips moved silently, finger wagging as he counted barrels in one corner of the tent. “Along with most of the Seventh and the Ninth. They’re being pursued heavily right now by three full brigades of cavalry and six brigades of infantry.”
Taniel snorted. “How can you know all that?”
“I am Adom reborn.”
“So. You do claim to be a god?”
Mihali finally turned around with a sigh, making marks on his paper. He had a pudgy, elongated face that spoke of a mix of Adran and Rosvelean ancestry. His white apron was stained with flour and blood, and there was a piece of potato peel stuck to the side of his clean-shaven chin. “Is it that hard to believe? You’ve attempted to kill one god.”
“I saw Kresimir descend from the clouds. I saw his face. I looked upon Kresimir and I knew with every bit of me that he was a god. You…” Taniel trailed off, watching the master chef for the anger that was sure to come.
“Not so much?” Instead of taking offense, Mihali laughed. “Kresimir was always so much better at appearing effortlessly grand. Your father needed to come to believe on his own. You, I think, need a more direct approach.” Mihali approached him and held a hand out toward his head. He stopped suddenly, recoiling. Taniel noticed that Mihali’s hand was trembling.
“May I?” Mihali asked Ka-poel.
Ka-poel returned his stare, her eyes daring him to try.
Mihali extended his hand once more toward Taniel. As it drew closer, it trembled harder and harder, as if affected by some unseen force. Finally, the chef’s fingers brushed Taniel’s skin.
Taniel felt a spark.
Then it seemed as if the universe flashed before his eyes. Countless years zoomed by, filling Taniel’s memories like they were his own. He saw Kresimir’s original descent from the heavens, and then felt Kresimir call to his brothers and sisters to aid him in rebuilding the Nine. He witnessed the chaos of the Bleakening, and the relentless march of the centuries. Lifetimes rushed past in a blink of an eye.
And then it was all gone.
Taniel staggered backward, gasping.
Ka-poel had done something similar to him once, several months ago. It had left him breathless in its emotion and magnitude, though it had only been a few moments’ worth of memories.
This was two thousand years’ worth.
It took him some time to recover. When he did, he said, “You are a god.” Not a question this time.
“‘God’ is a funny word,” Mihali said, turning back to his inventory. He made a mark on his paper and silently counted sacks of onions. “It implies omnipotence and omniscience. Let me assure you, I am neither.”
“Then what are you?” Bo had once said that the gods were nothing more than powerful Privileged. With memories like that, how could Mihali be anything but a god?
“Semantics, semantics!” Mihali threw up his hands. “For the sake of argument, let’s say yes, I am a god. I don’t think either of us has the time for a theo-philosophical argument right now. Please, have a seat.” Mihali picked up a wine barrel like it weighed no more than a couple pounds and set it beside Taniel, then went to get another.
Taniel tried to nudge the barrel over a few inches. He couldn’t. He frowned, then looked at Mihali as the chef fetched a barrel for himself and one for Ka-poel.