Rhian

Seeing as Michael couldn't eat or drink and was basically running out of time, we booked it straight to Leberecht. Alexander drove through the night, I drove through the day, with a break in between for the horses. The whole trip went a lot like: snowy trees, more snowy trees, bigger trees, smaller trees, Jaska, more trees, even more trees, a giant chasm, Istok, so many trees, Leberecht. We arrived just before dawn.

All I knew about Leberecht going in was not a lot. Nobody from the outside was allowed to visit without Councilwoman Faust's permission, and there were Partisans living there, rubbing elbows with the Barren folk in an organization called the Iron Hand. As far as what Strauss told me: there were pulleys and lifts, daytime people, nighttime people, and an actual keyhole in an actual mountain.

Caravans weren't allowed at the city gates, and Alexander thought I'd stand a better chance approaching alone with Michael. We loaded him into the small wagon we'd packed into the back of the big wagon, and with a two-finger salute, I began my somber but noble march and whatnot. The terrain made for a bit of a wobbly trek, and Michael nearly took a spill in the snow not once but bloody twice. Lucky for my reflexes—quick like a kitty cat.

The spear-wielding armoured fellow at the gate lifted his visor.

"Present your permissions at arm's length."

It's not easy turning a wagon around in the deep snow, especially when that wagon was loaded with a big, muscly man. It took about an hour, but I managed.

"There you are," I said.

The armoured fellow lowered his eyes on account of he couldn't bend his neck.

"Is this some kind of joke?"

"Uh—no? This here is my friend Michael. Michael Reider. He's—"

The Iron Hand grabbed the horn hanging from his belt and blew. Not once, not twice, but three bloody times. As if the constant ringing in my ears wasn't bad enough.

"Look, mate, I don't want into your precious city. I'm just trying to bring Michael home to his family. No need to sound the alarm."

"That wasn't an alarm."

"Could have fooled me," I said.

"Just wait." The Iron Hand lowered his visor.

So I waited, and waited, and waited because what else is new. And I waited, and waited until the front gates swung open, but only long enough for me to catch a glimpse of the lifts and pulleys on the other side. Hells. I wanted to ride them. A tall blondeish lass with greenish eyes, dressed in a bluish and goldish uniform, stared me down for a whole ten seconds. She looked to the armored fellow. The armored fellow saluted and gestured down to the wagon.

"What's the meaning of this?" the woman asked.

Whoever she was, she sounded important.

"This here's my mate and he's dying," I said, straightening my posture and whatnot. "Like myself, he's a Partisan, but I didn't think it right sending him back to Palisade when I know where his family lives. I'm not looking for trouble. I was hoping you could help."

Look, I knew I was taking chances. The lass would ask my name, and my name might get back to Councilwoman Faust. But it'd take at least five days for the message to get from Leberecht to Palisade. I'd manage the fallout of not actually being dead later.

"What's your name?" she asked. See, told you.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

"Rhian," I said. "And this here's my brother-in-arms Michael."

All the while, the woman couldn't keep her eyes off the wagon. And when I finally introduced us, her next breath got stuck in her throat.

"…Michael?" quietly.

"Yeah, Michael Reider," I said. "He was born here, see, and—"

The woman rushed to the side of the small wagon. "I know who he is."

"Do you? Brilliant. So, will you help?"

Dropping to her knees, snow-be-damned, the stranger wrapped her hand around the back of Michael's head and pressed her lips to his forehead. Friendly lot around these parts. It was odd, but whatever.

"I take that as a yes?"

The woman turned a sharp gaze in my direction before scrambling to her feet. "Let's go," she said. "Now."

And that, everybody, is how you get into Leberecht.

But it isn't the thing I didn't see coming.

Once we were past the gates, Marta said we had to take the long way—that we couldn't take the lifts on account of the wagon. Around us, everybody walking the ramps was dressed in bright colours, and they all reacted the same way when they saw the Commander. They smiled, and waved, and gasped when they noticed the unconscious man in a wagon. And while we went around, and around, and around, we had a chance to set the record straight.

"Andrei told me all about you people when he was here," Marta explained. "Said he knew Michael, and that you were my brother's best friend."

"Aye, true." I probably nodded. "For around a decade."

Turned out, the important looking lass in the blue and gold was Michael's sister Marta. It also turned out, she was the Commander of the Iron Hand. I'd have known this already if only Strauss had told me. But good on him, keeping interesting secrets.

"What happened to him?" Marta asked.

She had a right to know. As far as I was concerned, everybody had a right to know. I gave her a speech similar to the one I'd given Adeline back in the day.

"So, there are these fuckers we're fighting. Not Barrens, but not Partisans neither. They can do almost everything we can do, but—"

"The Anima did this?"

"I dunno," I said. "Sounds familiar. Is that the same thing as a Devourerer?"

"A Devourer?"

"Aye. That's what I said."

"Stupid name," Marta replied.

"Aye! That's what I said."

"Well, around here, we call them Anima."

"What do you mean, 'around here'?"

Marta didn't say, and suddenly, she changed course. Instead of wandering up the ramp, we were wandering down again.

"So," I said, "where are we going?"

"To see the Artist."

Taking a dying man to see an artist didn't sound like a grand idea, but what did I know about Leberechtian ways? Literally nothing, so.

The Artist was located on the bottom tier, and like everything else in the city, their home had been built into the walls of the hollowed out mountain. Seemed strange, having a big crater in the middle of a mountain like that. But then again, I'm not a goddess-be-damned rocky range expert. All I knew: Amalia's greatest wonder—the holy city of Leberecht, paved in gold and spared from the Divide by Amalia herself, was actually a holey mountain.

With normal looking roads. If roads were metal, and wood, and built like ramps.

Marta knocked on the Artist's door three times. These folk sure seemed to like doing things in threes. Whatever. All the while, I kept a close eye on Michael. Nothing changed.

When the door finally opened, the Amali behind it was tall, slender, and was wearing a pair of tinted goggles. She reminded me of the Squeaky Lass, which reminded me I still had a bunch of finding people to do.

"Fair morning, Commander," the slender woman said.

But it wasn't a fair morning at all. It was a shite morning. So, Marta stepped to the side and pointed to Michael. "Can you help him?"

The Artist looked to Michael. "How long?"

Marta looked to me.

"Uh—"

Still looking at Michael, the Artist tried again, "How long has it been since the failed attempt?"

Look, I knew what she meant the first time, but I needed a minute to count. "—four days? Maybe five. He hasn't got much time, I reckon."

The Artist pulled Michael into her cavern, and just as quickly slammed the door in our face. Rude. And for everybody in the back: if my hunch was correct, and I reckon it was, Marta Reider had just handed her brother over to one of Those Things.

And that's the thing I didn't see coming.

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