Chapter 28: Delta

Dane Wrickon looked around at the devastation about him.

Soldiers were slumped over in their booths, snoring. Other men had sprawled on the floor, also sleeping. There was broken glass littering the stone, and alcohol spilled in innumerable places.

Dane struggled to his feet. He grabbed the side of the table to help him keep his balance.

He remembered sending a coded message to Lito, telling them of her success immediately after the battle. He had promised to return with all speed.

He had pressed his men as far as Glen-Deoch, marching as soon as they were able after breakfast. They had been weary, but Dane had forced them nonetheless. The wounded had remained in Invercard, but the rest had trudged the long road uphill towards Caeledonia.

The march had been immeasurably worse this time around. The soldiers were no longer fresh, energized by adrenaline and a healthy dose of fear. They were battered and bruised, while not being broken. Instead of a swift downhill run in the late sun, they were forced with a hot and steamy climb.

It had been reasonable, Dane remembered, to stop for refreshments once night had come on and they had reached Glen-Deoch. It had been reasonable, Dane remembered, to spend a few moments celebrating their absurdly lucky victory. It had been reasonable, Dane remembered, to join them as their commander in solidarity.

He held his aching head in his hands. It had all been reasonable, yes. The circumstances had neatly lead to a perfect trap, one that he really should have been on the lookout for. Dane had fallen into similar results from similar circumstances many times before.

Dane Wrickon felt sick, and not only from the alcohol. He went outside and threw up over the cobblestones outside the ale house. It was early morning, but the sun had not yet risen over the mountains. He stumbled against the walls, moving in an aimless direction in the dewy glow.

That was it, then.

If Dane couldn’t keep a handle on his drinking even after such a victory, moral and otherwise… he remembered throwing the drink off of the Wall. He remembered begging the gods for help before the battle. And Dane knew that it didn’t mean a damn.

Dane was outside of the city in less than an hour, heading towards the farmlands.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

You’re failing Lito.

That was no problem. Dane had failed people before.

You’re failing yourself.

That was more of an issue. Still, Dane shrugged the thought off as he walked into the stacked-stone houses and wide fields of Glen-Clachan. Dane had failed himself too, more often than he cared to remember.

Would a soldier run away?

Perhaps not. But Dane wasn’t a soldier. Not anymore.

The only thought that truly stopped him was this—that he had tried this before. He never tried the same thing twice, if it didn’t work. Running away to the farmlands hadn’t worked—on the contrary, it had been extraordinarily disastrous.

Dane collapsed along the side of the road, resting against a protruding rock. He was slick with sweat from walking and he had no water.

What were his soldiers doing? Had they recovered from their night of merriment? Were they looking for him? Were they heading towards Caeledonia as he thought about it?

Dane didn’t know. They could still be celebrating, treating this as a vacation. He had been in command. There was no guarantee that anyone in the group would take responsibility and bring up the men on their own initiative.

He laid his head back against the rock. In the noon sun he could see a fellow traveler approaching. Dane waved his hand in greeting.

“Hello, there!” the man called.

“Hello, yourself,” Dane replied.

The man stopped by Dane. Dane neglected to rise, but the man talked regardless. Some travelers were like that. Dane remembered that from working on the farm lands, long ago. Some people would talk to him even when it was clear he was engaged in back breaking work.

“I’m Baxter,” the man said. “Down from Caeledonia. Where you from?”

“Invercard,” Dane said. He didn’t elaborate.

The man whistled. “You got out of there just in time, I suppose. It’s under attack by prisoners now, I heard.”

Dane considered it. He had sent up that fake message for help— he assumed that if Lito had still been in charge, she would catch it and ignore it. If the Carpenter had made his move, he was hoping that the man would be lured into weakening his force and send down aid. It looked like his plan had worked.

“How did you hear that?”

“Carpenter gave a grand speech about it. About how he had the island’s best interests in mind.” Baxter spat on the ground. “As if that could placate us after what happened.”

“What happened?” Dane asked.

“Overthrew the king. Killed a bunch of people. Caeledonia isn’t doing well.” He looked around, as if he was expecting people to overhear them. “It’s why I got out.”

“I see,” Dane said, eyes closed. “You ran away, too.”

Baxter jumped. “I had to think of myself,” he said. “I didn’t run away from anything.” He sat down beside Dane. “Besides,” he said. “It’s not my responsibility.”

Dane didn’t say anything to that. But Baxter continued to talk. Perhaps he just needed someone to talk to.

“I used to be a sweeper,” he said. “Keeping the streets clean, you know. Before that I had been a tradesman in Glen-Deoch. It hadn’t worked out, not really. I can’t make anything myself, don’t have the knack. But I was a good businessman. I bought toys and trinkets from Caeledonia; sold them downriver. I bought marvels and tools from Invercard and sold them up river. The King’s Men came, examined by business, and decided that someone else would do a better job in the same position. They decided that the best I could do for Olean was to clean streets in the back alleys of Cael Proper.”

He shook his head, and spat on the ground again. “They had no right. Sunken Hells. The minute the Carpenter moved in, I thought to myself—Baxter. Baxter, you can go back and do it again. You’re free.”

“Yeah,” Dane said.

“I’m not excusing the Carpenter for what he did,” Baxter said hastily. “That wasn’t right either. But… well, it worked out alright for me. It’ll work out alright for a lot of people, I suspect.”

“Yeah.”

“A damned shame that it happened the way it did,” Baxter said. “But… well, it’s not my affair.”

Baxter pushed himself off of the ground. “Nice talking to you,” he said, nervously. “Good luck with wherever you’re going.”

As he walked off downriver towards, Dane waved his hand vaguely in his direction. “Go,” he said. “I absolve you of your shame.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Dane walked into the village, one of the many that roamed around the farm lands. Collectively, these small villages were known as Glen-Clachan, although no individual village truly owned the title.

People were about, drawing water from the well, or going about their daily business. Most of men were out working on the farms, but the sun had retreated back below the mountains. Dane suspected that people would return soon.

“Hey!” he called to an aging man, who was walking briskly from one side of the courtyard to the other. The man stopped, startled, but swiftly adjusted his trajectory to meet Dane.

“Hello, sir. Richard Guernsey, at your service, town medic.”

“Dane Wrickon. Ah, vagrant.”

Richard nodded. “We’ve had a few of those come in these days,” he said. “Looking for work. The King’s programs have failed, so the stories go, and people are looking for a new life. A better life.” He eyed Dane suspiciously. “You looking for that?”

“Something like that. I have a couple questions first.”

Richard barked a sudden laughter. “You all sound alike. It’s as if you’re shopping for a perfect-fitting set of clothes. How’s the water around here? Are the stone houses comfortable? What is the sunlight spread?” Richard shook his head. “It paralyzes them. We’ve had four different people come through from Cael Proper, thinking that they can find work here. None have stayed; they’ve all gone downriver to look for better opportunities.”

“Nothing that complicated, Rich.” The medic cocked his head slightly at the informality; it was as if he couldn’t decide whether to smile or frown. Dane continued. “Is there an ale house in this town?”

Richard shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “The town a mile or so upstream has one; it’s enough to handle most of the neighboring towns.”

“That’s perfect,” Dane said. He hesitated. “Is there work, here?”

The medic considered it. “There’s always work to be done. It may not be that steady until you can find a good niche for yourself. But everyone around here always needs a hand one day or another.”

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Dane settled down on the metal cot, staring into the cold stone that lay above him.

He had done this all before. It hadn’t been this town; but it had been something quite similar. There was a queer sort of desperation in it, trying this again.

The last time, he had gotten himself well established doing farm work. It had been simple work; heavy lifting and other manual labor, mostly. There had been no ale-house in the village, like this one, and he had exhausted himself enough every day to make the trek to the nearest house supremely unattractive. The incentives had worked well for him; there was no easy trap to fall into and indulge his drinking habits.

It had been a relatively happy life for a few months. Then some cart hauler from Glen-Deoch had swung through their town, and Dane had not been able to resist the easy opportunity. It had been the worst binge Dane had ever been on, and he had left the village the next afternoon.

All of the thoughts, concerns, and worries that he had been pushing off throughout the entire day came sweeping back to him, as he lay in his cot.

Why hadn’t the gods helped him? The Crone at the Cliffs knew that Dane had problems with alcohol. Sunken Hells, it was something that he struggled writing with every Gift Day. And she had done nothing. Why? Gods, why?

Why hadn’t he died at Invercard? This was the worst part of it. If he had died… Dane gulped down a lump that felt the size of his fist. If he had died, he would have died sober and in a triumphant state. He would have died having given up alcohol; he would have died successfully doing his duty as a soldier; he would have died planning and executing a brilliant defense. The gods would have to accept him, then.

What was he now? What was he now? Just another drunk, running away from everything and everyone. No one would want him, now. Not Lito—if she was still alive, and Dane doubted that she was—not Elaene, not any of the gods, no one.

He felt agonizingly thirsty, and got up out of his cot, suddenly. He walked outside into the cold evening air. Part of him wanted to lace on his boots and start upriver.

Dane didn’t. By the time he got there, it was almost certain that it would be closed. Not to mention that it wouldn’t do him any good.

The silvery starts twinkled above him, cold and impossibly high. The deep water of the Rush murmured off next to him, one of the many irrigation channels that broke off from the main river to fuel the farmlands.

Dane Wrickon relaxed. He had a great sense of calm, as he stood there in the night. He didn’t know how; he could think of a dozen reasons against his feeling and zero reasons to support it; but he had a strange feeling that everything would turn out alright, in the end.

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