Chapter Ten: Letters to No One

With care, Charles laid the last strip of meat—sliced thin, the fat fully removed—in line with the others, then slid the tray toward the center of the oven and latched the door. A symphony of sizzling began, and in minutes, the aroma had his stomach growling. Each strip was richly seasoned with salt and spices. The salt would dehydrate and preserve. The spices would tame the wild, gamey flavor. When they were dried and ready, the strips would make for a quick, savory meal, if a bit chewy. They could be eaten on foot or horse with ease, required no further preparation, and could be stored in most conditions without issue. Not exactly fine dining, but very adaptable.

“That’s the last of it, Chef,” Charles said. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and gratefully accepted Magnus’ offer of water. Even in winter, the kitchen could grow hot enough to make a chef faint if they were careless.

Magnus dismissed him with a casual handwave. It was his way of saying the work was done, at least for the moment. Charles was free to take a breather and sleep if he was able.

He retreated to his one-man tent and sealed the entrance closed. The midday hours were his best chance to rest and recover his energy. Instead, he sat awake and upright, placing materials—a small dark bottle, a reed, and parchment—at his feet. He had to be cautious, not only because he was not supposed to have these things, but because the tent was resting on a slope, so if he did not set the bottle with care, it would very quickly spill black down the grassy hillside.

Flatlands like those that housed the cairns of the ancient Dreyan dead were long behind them. Left far below in the wake of the machine’s warpath. Until now, even the sharpest climbs in their journey had been broken with even areas wide and flat enough to be ideal for breaking camp. That grew less true with each move. The smallest patch of level ground was a luxury up here.

There were two pieces of parchment hidden in the depths of his stockpot. Charles had a fresh third piece ready to go, but before starting he retrieved the other two to refresh himself. He did not want to repeat anything he had already covered.

He scanned the opening lines.

A full three weeks had passed since the battle with the colossal boas. There had been a return to normalcy…of sorts. Where the red riders rode, there was never true normalcy, but camp had grown quiet again, and nothing had tried to kill, maim, or eat Charles for a while. That was about as close to normal as he dared hope for right now.

Life among the Spears of Mercy was perilous, but inconsistently so. It was something he would later struggle to explain to others. There can be idle periods even in the most chaotic of circumstances. Weeks when nothing substantial happens, where—if you’re lucky—you might even half-forget your situation.

Then there are minutes where years happen.

Stumbling on those boas had brought the camp to its knees. Many had died, and still more were gravely injured. Ironically, it had saved the survivors’ lives. With the right preparation methods, Magnus estimated the massive elder boa could feed every red, blue, and civilian for at least three months. Possibly four or even five. Charles was determined to stretch that time as far as possible. He had suggested two preparations in particular: drying thin strips into jerky or, when they were available, applying pickling salts and sugars to thicker cuts. Master Erickson had been sure to drill both methods into him thoroughly, as well as how to smoke meat over a campfire until it was both deliciously flavorful and safe to eat. Hone these to perfection, Ace. They make for fine companions on the road.

Charles smiled as he read. He had never been more grateful for his masters’ tutelage. Even apart, it felt as though they were still aiding him in spirit. Doing things this way had sliced the Galley’s workload in half. Prepping food for the entire camp had never been more efficient. Or less strenuous. Or—dare he say it—almost easy. As a result, recently Charles, Magnus, and Luet had found themselves in possession of something implausible. Something they had little idea what to do with…

They had free time. After months of frantically rushing in the kitchen, where a single wasted minute had been unforgivable, it was more than a bit jarring.

Of course, idle time was also a dangerous thing to possess. One must appear as useful as possible. To that end, all three chefs had developed a habit of looking busy even when there was little true work to be done.

Thorne had not commented on any changes; he had not even visited them since the night they first served the snake. Recently, a blue had been fetching his rations and taking them back to the red-sun tent.

At first, several of the conscripted imperials and even a few Spears had grumbled about eating the same thing for every meal. Magnus would suffer none of it. He had told each of them with no small pleasure that if they disliked the food, they were welcome to complain to the cardinal. It had, after all, been Thorne’s idea to use the boa’s corpse to supplement their food supplies in the first place. The grumbling had quickly stopped. All in all, the Galley chefs had come to a far better arrangement than what they had dealt with before.

Charles frowned. It was better, but not perfect. There were a few hang-ups.

Dried snake meat could fend off starvation, that much was true. It could not, however, give the body all it needed. Eaten alone, it would leave the door wide open for the dark hand of malnutrition to creep in and seize your throat. Charles had taken it upon himself to prevent that by transforming what bare scraps the Spears’ still brought with their daily deliveries into side dishes that could compensate for what the snake meat lacked. So far, it seemed to be enough, but he was ever mindful, always looking for new ways to close the gap. Cade and the other Dreyans were depending on him. If something were to happen…if one of them were to become ill and no longer able to work…

He gripped the reed hard, nearly snapping it. Thinking of Cade in particular always sparked his anxiousness and his sense of duty. The other boy was younger than him, and still as naive as ever.

And are you any different? his doubts chided. He pushed the voice away.

In his heart, Charles had quietly hoped the damage the Spears of Mercy had sustained in battle would do more to slow them down. That perhaps it would grant precious time for nearby towns to evacuate, or for the remnants of the Dreyan military to mount some sort of attack. In his wildest fantasies, he hoped for rescue.

Predictably, those hopes went unanswered. This was not the emperor’s personal battalion for nothing, and there was no room for pause in the empire’s ambitions. The red machine had been smashed and rattled, but that was a far cry from being defeated. It repaired itself in great haste, and began to climb with newfound fervor. The dead were buried by the cairns and left behind without sentiment. These men will never rest or retreat, Charles had come to accept. Not until they’ve pierced whatever luckless soul the emperor levels them towards. The camp moved like the wind, establishing itself with subtlety in hidden bluffs or quiet vantage points overlooking the surrounding hills, before repeating the process again within a few days. As it rose, the line of Spears twisted and writhed up the steepest climbs. The air grew thin. Charles often found himself struggling for a single breath, and his bad leg throbbed worse than ever.

Along the ancient roads they often spotted crumbling stone fortresses. Decrepit eyesores lined with towers of gray and black. A few looked as though they had been occupied recently, but the Spears’ search parties never found anyone. Long ago, they had probably served as the sites of great battles that decided the fate of kings and countries alike. Now they were cold ruins, haunted monuments to a violent past.

The only villages Charles saw were likewise abandoned, but it was enough to give a small inkling of how the Highlanders lived their daily lives. There were some in Lutz who might have argued they were not truly a Lowlander’s countrymen, but he did not care. Learning about them took his mind off darker subjects. Thatched huts were their shelter. Many were built directly into hillsides, a joint effort of man and nature. If a town was large enough, it might have a lodge near its center, though these were rare. Unsurprisingly, sheep seemed to be the heart and soul of their cuisine. Grilled lemongrass chops. Spiced lamb kebabs. Even a sheep’s milk could be made into savory cheese-butters. Every village had paddocks to keep them close and open fields to let them roam as needed, though not a trace of any flocks remained. What was surprising were the Dreyan sailing stoats—small, squirrel-like creatures with fine white fur and flaps that allowed them to hover short distances. They were mentioned quite frequently in a tattered recipe book included in one of the Spears’ deliveries. Charles had seen plenty climbing or coasting about, but they were fast and bolted at the first sign of danger. Not the sort of creature that would be easy to catch. He wondered how the Highlanders managed it, and what a dish of sailing stoat might taste like. If fate ever granted him the chance, he could never tell Nina. She would kill him for cooking something so small and cute.

The pulley system the Highlanders used to quickly transport goods from one elevation to another was nothing short of a marvel. By tethering ropes in such a way that carts could be ferried across them through open air, sheer cliffs and massive canyons could be navigated with ease. Perhaps it was because he was the son of a merchant family that dealt in food, but Charles was deeply impressed. The logistics of moving food where it needed to be was a tricky thing. Any invention that made that process easier deserved proper recognition. The pulleys (or sky-ferries) were even sturdy enough to move people…assuming you were brave enough to trust your life to them. Charles shivered at the thought.

But there was one other discovery that put the pulley system to shame. By far the most fascinating piece of Highland culture Charles had come across were the man-sized kites. Or what was left of a handful of broken ones, anyways. Stories of men attempting to fly with machines were commonplace. Plenty had tried and ended up looking foolish at the very least. But he had seen more than one kite, and in different villages. That implied they were not a fool’s personal project. Could it be that they actually work? To think such a thing had been developed up here in the middle of nowhere. The wings were rigid, which Charles found odd. Would it not make more sense to allow them to flap like a bird? What strange ideas. He clearly knew little of such things. Charles suspected the sailing stoats may have had a hand in inspiring the design.

In the aftermath of the boa attack, the immediate problem had been obvious. What did they do about a new kitchen? There was no saving what remained of the Green Galley. The support beams had been splintered. The woven sea walls, savaged. A group of Shattered had been put to the task of crafting some kind of replacement. What they ultimately came up with was a tattered mass of lesser tents stitched together in haste, trying (and largely failing) to emulate the structure of the old kitchen. Together, it made a Black Galley of sorts. It was ugly, crude, and Magnus clearly loathed looking at it, but it functioned. Barely. This new Galley was not spacious enough to accommodate cots, so Charles and Luet were permitted to keep their one-man tents. A small victory, but one that made penning private letters far easier.

Charles' eyes flitted back and forth over the first parchment. It was far longer than the second and took a while to read through. He reached the end once, then went through again to be sure he had not missed anything.

Three weeks prior, after waking from his nightmares of home, Charles had made no attempt to go back to sleep. Instead, he had laid awake in his cot and thought long and hard. For what seemed an eternity, he did nothing but think. About himself. About his home and family. About the course of his brief life.

Then he had crept to the broken remains of the Green Galley, retrieved some of the ink and parchment Magnus used to craft his recettes, and began to write, pressing the tip of a reed firmly at the top of the page.

Dear Mom…

He had written by traces of moonlight glancing off the morning mists. He wrote and wrote and wrote, until he lost all sense of time and proper dawn began to stir the rest of the camp. He wrote for two reasons. Firstly, to preserve a written record of the surreal events that had taken place in this obscure corner of the world, so that the lives, losses, hopes, and sins of those involved might not go forgotten in the long song of time. Something needed to remain, in case the worst should occur. The second reason was for him alone: to say the things he had only wished to say up to now. Things for the people who mattered, before it was too late. Writing them into reality made his heart feel just a bit lighter, even if there wasn’t the slightest chance the letters would ever reach anyone.

Even if, in the grand scheme of things, the gesture meant nothing. There may be precious little of my life remaining, he had thought when he finished writing for the morning. But I will not live the remainder of it with regret.

He signed it.

With love, Charles.

In that exhaustive first letter, Charles had tried to cover everything that had happened to him since leaving Lutz. It was troubling how much of it he had to strain to remember. Only a handful of months had passed and yet…

A hazy detail here. A few hours unaccounted for there. The further back he went, the more things blended together in memory. Perhaps the mind prefers to forget. There was no telling how much of his past he would lose if he was not diligent. He would have to try harder.

The letter did not end on the colossal boa battle, as he had thought it would. The very next day, Charles had scrawled a rough addendum at the bottom of the page after making a new discovery. One that definitely warranted the effort of writing it down.

He had not been the only one plagued by nightmares. Far from it.

That morning, Luet had dragged himself from his tent looking like he had tried to sleep underground in a hole. His face was vacant, as though his very spirit had been ripped from him. He was almost like a completely different man. Charles thought he could have won an award for the most bloodshot eyes in history…had Magnus not shuffled over to them like a half-corpse moments later. “Anyone else get pure shit for sleep?” the sea chef said blankly, scratching the wiry red stubble at his chin. “I’ve had smoother nights in a typhoon.”

“I had nightmares,” Charles admitted. “Visions of the past. They were strange, and a bit scrambled, but it all felt very real. Only…there was some kind of monster that kept showing up.”

“A monster, eh?” Magnus said. “What did this monster look like?”

“Well, let’s see,” Charles said, suddenly a touch embarrassed. “It was like a person, but instead of a head, it had an orb of darkness with light swirling around it.” He tried to mime the way the light circled the dark orb with his hands, then quickly realized how silly he looked and pinned them to his sides.

There was no reaction. Charles had expected a snide comment or even laughter. Instead, Magnus and Luet both fell deathly quiet.

“And…what did you two dream about?” he finally asked.

“None of your concern,” both chefs said in unison. They shared a glare.

“It was a hectic day,” Magnus said, brushing the issue aside. “And we all got a bellyful of strange food we’ve never eaten before. We’re probably just adjusting.”

Perhaps so, Charles thought. There were plenty of rational explanations for what they had experienced…and a less rational one that went unmentioned. Charles kept it to himself, though he was sure he was not the only one to consider it. He was certain Luet had. The pastretta was no stranger to spirituality. Magnus was skeptical of such things, but in the back of his mind, even he must have at least entertained the idea that the nightmares were not coincidence. That something bizarre, an unseen force, had descended upon them that night. Like a curse, or the will of greater beings.

Charles had noted its quiet influence all over camp. He saw it in the blood-red eyes of the conscripts. Each looked as though they had not slept in weeks. He saw it in the terrified eyes of the imperial doctor as he tried in vain to assemble himself a new tent with trembling hands. The Spears he saw kneeling in prayer that day did so for far longer, whispering in hushed tones. Some even knelt in twos and threes, hands on one another’s shoulders, or sheltered around a Shattered that was curled on the ground like a child, refusing to stand up. That was also the only day Cade did not greet him as he passed by, only running straight ahead without so much as a glance.

Even Thorne, for all his otherworldly strength, had not proven immune.

Without exception, even after a night of raiding, it was the cardinal’s way to wake with the rising sun. The commander rose first in the Spear’s camp. So when he had not appeared the morning after the fight with the colossal boas, when no orders to start the day had been given, lots were drawn, and a lone red had been sent to the special sun tent to rouse him. Charles had thought it would be more prudent to simply send whoever was second in command. Then he was shown why the men had drawn lots. A scream like a demon had erupted from Thorne’s tent. In the mere seconds it had taken the giant to transition from sleep to alertness, he had nearly broken the Spear in two with his bare hands. The rest of the day he had drifted through the camp, supervising the recovery like a red wraith atop his warhorse, a dark pensiveness seeping from beneath the white mask.

What sort of nightmares followed a man like that? Who had he been seeing in his sleep right before he woke? Charles shuddered to imagine.

He continued glancing over the first letter. It was taking longer than he had expected. When the name ‘Luet’ appeared, he almost wanted to put it down.

“Speaking of strange behavior,” he said irritably.

I don’t need sympathy! Not from you!

“Luet,” he said wistfully. You were part of the reason I couldn’t go back to sleep that night. I was trying to think of ways to help you. Why can’t you understand I’m not your enemy?

The bloating. The yellowing. The grotesque bruising. Charles didn’t need a decade of experience to know there was no way in hell Luet was going to be able to perform the duties of a chef with his right hand in that state. Everyone knew what that meant. Being labeled useless was a death sentence in this camp. That was what had been on the eleve’s mind that morning. He had obsessed over his options, or what few there seemed to be. Was it possible he could cover? To do his portion of the work? Or at least some of it? In secret? No, that would never go unnoticed.

The thoughts circled and circled.

Trying to grip a knife—that was the worst issue. There was no hiding that. Could Luet even bend his fingers enough to make a fist?

Perhaps Magnus would be understanding, he had tried to convince himself. It was a desperate idea, but maybe the truth was the best option right now. As Head Chef, maybe he would allow Charles to fill in if they simply came clean and told him everything?

It was worth a try. But he needed to mention it to Luet first, and quickly, before the next shift. He feared the pastretta might do something foolish like try to power through the pain and use his injured hand anyways. At best, it would only buy a little time. At worst, it might doom him. Charles would not let that happen. He would act this time, before it was too late.

Though he had not known it at the time, all of his worries, grim predictions, and mental anguish would prove pointless. It was mere hours before the three chefs had gathered to cook once more. Every minute had been sheer agony on his mind. Would his plan work? Would he make it in time to prevent disaster? But before he even had a chance to broach the subject, he had watched in stunned silence as Luet chopped, diced, sliced, and minced the entirety of the Galley’s mise en place without any issues whatsoever. Not by asking for help. Not by forcing himself to use his right hand. Not by employing any clever tricks.

Luet had done all of it holding the knife in his left hand.

“Something wrong?” he had said coldly, still chopping away.

“Um,” was all Charles could manage. Many, many things felt wrong with what he was seeing, and yet he was incapable of articulating a single one. Luet was still wearing the gloves from before. He was avoiding moving his right hand or doing anything that would draw attention to it. Eventually, Charles managed to shake his head and returned to his own station, dazed and confused. What is with these people? He’s almost as bizarre as Magnus or Thorne. I don’t understand him at all.

Since then, Luet had all but ceased interacting with him. No more smiles. No more friendly visits or sermons. No explanations. He no longer even spoke unless absolutely necessary.

Charles shook his head as he finished scanning the first letter.

He had originally wanted to write every day. The toll losing an extra half-hour of sleep took on his mind quickly put that ambition to rest. He eventually settled for starting a new letter only when something new and worth noting occurred. When he finished a letter, Charles had taken to rolling them up and stowing them in the bottom of his stockpot.

Well, one down. He might as well review the second letter just to be prudent.

The event that had inspired it took place just two days after the boa incident. The camp was still in semi-disarray. While trying to adjust his leg to a more comfortable position, Charles had accidentally tipped over his only bottle of ink. He had waited until nightfall, then quietly entered the tattered remains of the Green Galley to swipe more. Carefully, so as not to make too much noise. He wanted to avoid prying eyes if he could help it. While there was nothing out of place about a chef gathering supplies from the kitchen, he could not afford to be caught sneaking around with ink. Charles held no illusions about how Thorne would react if he discovered secret letters penned in the dead of night detailing the movements and actions of his raiders.

With a fresh bottle in hand, Charles had let go of a small sigh…only to feel the cold sting of steel against his neck and a towering body looming behind him.

“Do not make a sound.”

Charles obeyed. Sweat trailed down his face. He could not see them, but he knew it was a Spear. He was handed an all-too-familiar object. A straw sack, just like the one he had worn when he was first abducted atop the forest oasis.

“Put it on.”

He felt torn between blacking out and vomiting. He had been caught red-handed holding the ink. There would be no explaining his way out of this. Even if he fabricated something decent that very moment, a quick search of his tent would destroy any excuse he tried to shield himself with. He would be taken straight to Thorne.

“Put it on,” the Spear repeated calmly. “Or die.”

With shaking hands he did so, plunging into darkness once more.