So why are we landing?
Fionn’s body welcomed the decrease in pace as the ship slowly descended. As it landed, some people emerged into the corridor. It didn’t seem that they were getting ready to disembark, so Fionn joined them. He caught some excited murmurs among them but wasn’t quite sure of their context.
After the ship came to a halt, some time passed as the crew fussed themselves with the gangway door. Eventually, this opened, revealing a wooden bridge that descended down to the grassy planes below. The trees of the Hazelwood loomed ahead to the south.
But at the foot of the gangway were seven Simians upon mounts. Fionn squinted, recognising General-Commander Plackart at the head and Farris just behind. As the Simians embarked, the rest of those aboard burst into applause.
“Plackart’s back!” cried one Human next to Fionn. “I wonder how Point Grey is faring.”
“I don’t,” said another Simian. “As long as my family back home are fed, it can burn for all I care.”
Plackart stepped through the door, tending to his mount that walked alongside him. The General-Commander’s face was still and stoic as it always was. He didn’t even acknowledge the cheers of jubilation that greeted him as he boarded.
Fionn wondered if something was wrong, if the party had come across something on their journey to or from Point Grey to trouble them so much. And when the next Simian came on behind Plackart, Fionn’s suspicions were confirmed. For Farris Silvertongue came behind. His face was pale, and his eyes stared blankly ahead, wide and unfocused. As the crowd cheered again, Fionn caught Farris’s glance. The Simian was agitated. His mouth was ajar, and his lips were quivering. No matter how terrible Fionn had felt during this flight, he reckoned Farris felt far worse.
Chapter 7:
In the Light of the Lady
Against our enemies, He is our sword
Against the plague, He is our shield
In His name, this land is blessed,
For in His words, it was promised,
The One, Most True,
Lord Seletoth
Sermon of the Sons of Seletoth, from God’s Blood, 1:22
***
Farris spent most of The Majestic’s journey alone, watching the Hazelwood drift by beneath them. As the afternoon approached evening, the trees below began to thin out, though Farris was sure they hadn’t even reached the Tithe; the river on which sat Dromán itself.
Much to Farris’s confusion, the trees fell away entirely as the ship continued south, leaving a gaping hole of stumps in the place of the lush forestry that had come before it.
“That would be Santos’s handiwork,” said Plackart, approaching Farris’s side. “The timber needed to build his tunnel under the ground came from here, so I’m told. The Dromán outpost lies in the centre of the cavity.”
Farris didn’t respond. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to even speak to Plackart since they left Point Grey.
“Far simpler, things would have been,” continued Plackart, “if the tunnel had been finished before all this began. We could have made the journey in half the time with twice the cargo if the trains were ready.”
“And with fewer dead,” said Farris. It was only when he spoke that he realised how dry his throat was. The words came out with a sting.
“It had to be done, Farris. We fought in self-defence. The lad would have buried his blade in my back if you had not reacted so quickly.”
But maybe we would have deserved as much, Farris wanted to say, but thought it better to keep his mouth shut. Unfortunately, Plackart pushed the point anyway.
“We are at war, Farris, and sacrifice is as much a part of it as combat is. We gave those villagers the option to leave, and they chose to fight instead. It was their inability to sacrifice their homes, that we—”
“Don’t,” spat Farris. “Don’t spin the fault to their side.”
Plackart raised his hands. “I do not wish to. But know that they left us with no choice.”
“Would you have understood, had you been in their shoes?”
“Of course. As a soldier of the Triad, I know that—”
“You’re missing the point.” interrupted Farris. “In their shoes, you are not a soldier. If not for your training and your military service, would you have understood?”
Plackart responded only with a scowl, his lips pursed as tight as the faded scar that crossed his left cheek.
Farris saw this as a chance to press on. “Oh, has the Triad has made you forget what it means to defend something closer to your heart than the chain of command? Have you forgotten that there’s nothing worth defending more than one’s home? Or perhaps you prefer the taste of King Diarmuid’s boots to your—”
“Know your place, Farris Silvertongue!” roared Plackart. This caused a few eavesdroppers to jump in fright. “You will not speak to me in that manner while in uniform.”
“Fine,” said Farris. He promptly removed his chain-mail gauntlets, then grabbed his blue and gold tabard and pulled it off. He tossed both aside. “Now, where was I?”
Plackart scowled at the discarded uniform. “You were never a soldier. Just a thug who got lucky.”
Part of Farris wanted to strike Plackart there and then, but he stayed his hand. He had caused enough of a scene already and maiming the General-Commander wouldn’t help with the fight against Morrígan.
And deep down, he knew it wouldn’t quell the fires of guilt that burned inside him.
***
