V: Democracy

Once good soldiers, they'd now become a committee, and that was enough to make me hate them. All that whittering, all that wasted breath bickering over moot points. Putting off the important matters because they already knew those would take months. If this was the fair alternative to designated leadership, give me a dictator with a maw full of curses and a gut full of hate any day.

That they'd called me here didn't improve my opinion of them. An afternoon making bandages, sipping scotch and blocking out humanity ruined by some bloody summons from a load of people I'd only aligned myself with because I'd presumed being a veteran might make them less comparable to drunken asses when it came to decision making than your average good-for-nothing politician. Not a mistake I'll make again. Hell no. The world is populated with drunken asses and I'm somehow left sober. I'll understand that some day.

So the drunken asses called me in and stood me in the centre of their little circle of chairs. Supposed to symbolise equality. Just meant one or two of them were always behind me, with a couple more perched, blurry, on the edge of my peripheral vision. Infuriating.

“Calysia Wraithwood?” asked a heavyset man, paunch barely restrained by his open-necked shirt. His chin was square and covered in stubble streaked with grey.

“That's who you sent the messenger to,” I replied. I wondered if he thought going grey in patches was a sign of ageing into wisdom. I couldn't think of any other reason not to shave off that joke of a beard.

“And the one who is here right now,” added Stonewright, a gangly, droopy-eyed man I remembered from a sweat-stained cot in some godforsaken medical tent.

“Good,” said blotch-beard, giving me that broad soldier-to-soldier grin I so despised and seeming unmoved when I scowled back venomously, “Good. I'm glad you could make it, Wraithwood. That's a fine dress you're wearing, I really must say-”

I turned my back on him.

“Someone who isn't a small-talking moron enlighten me. I'm not wasting my day listening to drivel here.”

They collapsed into frenzied murmuring and I felt the dread that heralded having to wait for democracy to function.

“You.”

I jabbed a finger at a sharp-chinned man with blue, clear eyes and a dignified expression.

“Explain.”

He gazed at me for a few seconds before choosing to bless me with his almighty response. More than enough time to make me wish there was someone here without an attitude. Someone who'd just talk. Hell, no one just talked any more.

“We have an issue in the north,” he said gravely, pronouncing 'issue' as 'iss-you' and earning a scornful twitch of my lip.

“It's full of Hekurians?” I quipped snidely.

Bastard ignored me entirely.

“With a small operation in the far east of the war zone – you know the situation there, no doubt.”

“I don't.”

Again, he waved my words away.

“Their leader was slain and they're running around like headless chickens, liable to be slaughtered, which would be a dreadful loss,” he continued, heavy brows knitting with what could only be heartfelt concern, “We need them working as a unit again, bolstered with knowledge of a dangerous combat zone. We also happen to have two brilliant people who oddly seem to have only been working alone, which of course the council cannot allow to continue.”

The council of lemmings murmured agreement with this, one of them raising their voice to say stupidly, “It's just not safe without someone protecting your back!”

I looked around at them, at the same encouraging expression on every face as the same hum of approval issued from their mouths. Voice of the masses indeed. Interesting how picking one out was the only way to make it all work. Interesting how it seemed I wasn't really going to have a say in this, if the speaker's tone was any indication.

“Not safe indeed,” he was currently agreeing, “But thankfully we have a perfect way to kill two birds with one stone.”

He smiled at this point, oblivious to the way my mind was quietly interpreting his words. Tie both 'brilliant people' together and drop a fucking boulder on their heads.

“Together, you shall be sent to deliver aid to our men,” he decreed, “Milady Wraithwood, meet your new partner, Gethan Wrathwrought.”

With a hateful flourish of his arm he aimed my attention to the door as the man in question swept in. It took me less than half a glance to measure his character and know the truth. The next few months would be hell.