What a long trek it was through the desert. Even longer with the knowledge at hand, that egging knowledge in the back of my head that made it hard to sleep. To eat. To look at my fellow Crows. Knowledge I did not tell a soul, or even settle. Though confirmed partly at least by virtue of the fact that Soveros was not here. Had not been here since we’d gotten to the city. He was not amongst the fourteen, he was not with us on food or on horse. And I had no mind to question. Questioning would only draw more attention to me and considering I’d left Lucius with mercy, stabbed through the heart, things were already suspicious.

Escaping the watch, managing to gather the information and now retreating on a war campaign was convenient. But this knowledge was not.

If this was Soveros’ duty, so be it. If this was his bid at trying to help Vincent, so be it. But if Vincent had asked Soveros of this…if…he was empowering the enemies the Crows were dying to. I just did not know, would not know, could not know what to do.

The weeks we spent crawling the desert were that much miserable. Watching the sun drag through the cloudless sky, vultures creeping up and their shadows flashing momentarily in our vision. A line of soldiers so long that the start and beginning were warped by desert heat. All I saw was a black line. Crows making their way to new carrion.

Duvall Lafayette, younger kin to Hannibal Lafayette. Last of his wretched lineage, shacking up with savages. The target.

The desert gave in to oasis. Dunes collapsed to mud and soon we found ourselves on dry river land, a long wash of green that extended out into the desert. The sand was muddy and our horses sloshed. We stopped when we made it to the water, the whole line setting up camp.

Our traveling carts paused their loads, they rattled as they braked. Our horses reared their heads and drank from the river. Fish jumped up from the water, breaking flatline levels. Cat tails attracted beetles, that settled on their brown heads. The seedlings fell out and opened up into white umbrellas, little pods that floated up to my face. I sneezed, rubbed my nose. My eyes teared up.

“Fucking allergies.” I sneezed and my horse jumped, afraid. A young soldier caught it by the reigns, I passed him the leather. The camps were being set up. Long pallets were getting dragged, holding on top of them metal rods and bundles of rope and sheets of canvas. The younger men scrambled. Each setting up camp.

I walked through, passing Old Chet.

“What’ya want to eat, youngblood?” He asked.

“Whatever.”

“Whatever he says.” Old Chet nodded his head, fixed his cloak and shambled to the kitchen.

I sneezed. I wept. I rubbed my nose and ran the mucus across my scarf and tightened it to my mouth. Vincent spotted me and gestured. He had his armor on, a full plate of white. Winged tips.

“Where’d you get that from?” I asked.

He smiled, raising the plate on his helmet.

“The blacksmiths made it for me.” He said. “The dove amongst the crows, they said. Do you like it?”

“Gaudy.”

“That’s good.” Vincent said.

He jumped onto his horse and patted his back seat.

“Come up. Let’s observe the enemy.” He said.

I hesitated for a moment, looking at his trimmed white and gold armor. Nimble plates of steel, striated with golden leaves, with feather inlays. The white hair poked from underneath his helmet. He looked absurd. A fantasy hero, here in the center of this desert, as if the heat wasn’t boiling him from within. Perhaps it wasn’t. There was no sweat on him, after all. Nothing but a cold look, a wry smile.

I took his hand and jumped up behind him. We rode on the steed up river, the ground levels changing as we came up. The dirt rising, the upstream getting more wild in its currents, ripping through. The dunes around us rose and at the very top Vincent asked me to stop. I looked behind myself to see how far we’d rode. The camps were but small specks.

“We’ll have the archers posted up here.” Vincent descended, he stomped on the floor, marking boundaries on the dirt. I could barely hear him over the river.

“Where’s the enemy?”

“You don’t see him?” Vincent asked.

I shook my head, he patted me on the shoulder and nudged me to the edge.

There it was. An obelisk, some giant black totem at the center of an expanse of water. An island in a large lake. Obsidian walls were erected around a black tower, the crystalline structure grew out of the floor like a tree. Boundless, branching off at its height. And from this mineral growth, I could see men and women (tiny considering the distance) walking in and out of carved out corridors.

“This is ridiculous.” I said. “What the hell is that?”

“Fort Frempt of Darkwater.” He said.

“What is that crystal?”

“A growth of the lake.” Vincent said. “There’s more of those, did you know? They’re all underneath the lake.”

“Like a coral reef.”

“Whatever that is.” Vincent said. “There’s a mineral deposit underneath here, some say the earth produces it. Others say the water does. I believe it to be an interaction between the two.”

“What mineral?”

“Dragon spit, they call it.” Vincent said. “That giant black tree? That’s the condensed stuff. Non hazardous.”

“Dragon spit?”

“You may know it as Blackfyre.” Vincent said.

“You’re shitting me.” I said. “There’s a blackfyre mine underneath?”

“Not literal blackfyre, just the most important component. Yes.” Vincent said.

“This isn’t a political battle. This is not a liberating battle.” I said.

“It’s an economic one.” Vincent said. “Xanthus wants a direct line to blackfyre.”

“No one should be using that for war. You know that.”

“It makes no difference what men think of war, because war endures.”

I put my weight on my knee and looked out to the city. Just to see them looking back. Somewhere upon the height of the walls surrounding the crystal, a man tightened his grip on the bowstring and unleashed an arrow straight into the sky. It arced and fell before us, a few meters off mark. I rubbed my nose and sighed, returning back down the hill.

“You think your little truism forgives you?” I asked. “Yeah. I’m sure war will endure long after us. I’m sure there will be men worse than us. I’m sure we will be worse, but so what? There are lines to be drawn. I almost had my body burned completely from that stuff and if it weren’t for this armor, I’d be dead. Blackfyre is a tool, not a weapon.”

“All tools of war are weapons.” Vincent said.

“Nice rationalization.” I said.

“Swords. Canons. Blackfyre.”

“Horses.” I said. “Men. Are men tools of war?”

He hesitated, his eyebrow twitching some. His armor clanked as it came down, jumping up and down his frame.

“We’re all tools, Virgil. You know how it is.”

“I do and I don’t like it.” I narrowed my eyes on him. “Are you okay with using people like that? Like pieces?”

“No. But it’s necessary.” He said.

I brought my arms up to my side and settled them. Vincent snapped his fingers and his horse came back. The river raged to our rear. Somewhere beyond, placid black waters reflected out a mean white glare. A moat or crown around the Keep of Darkwater.

“Tomorrow we will send a party to parlay. They probably won’t come back alive.” Vincent said. “Then we will strangle the city and starve the soldiers to death.”

“They have women and children in there.”

“You will find a way inside and you will open those gates and we will leave them wasted. In the brutality of our slaughter, we will save more lives than letting them reduce in famine.”

“What makes you think they won’t surrender?”

“That Duvall…him and his brother…” Vincent rode up next to me, his hand out. “He’s a very stubborn one.”

I clasped it and got along up the horse, riding again behind him and coming down the slope of the dune. To my rear the river continued, and in the slow gallop, it appeared to be going back. Upstream. An illusion of the senses, a confusion of the brain. No more.

I breathed heavy and sighed.