The Old City

0.49: Healing

Only a confluence of improbable misfortunes could have dealt Seneca such a life-threatening injury. Indeed, such unlikely events landed him in the field hospital during the fifth year of the war.

On an unusually snowy evening, his battalion was ambushed for the first and last time. Cortok, a village so small that neither the army of Soran nor Magnar had noticed it, had taken refuge for the winter months, hiding in a subterranean network of tunnels. Most of the year, its people maintained hovels which were now buried beneath mounds of snow. A few discrete vents provided them the fresh air they required, while a few proper entrances were fortified so hunters could come and go.

Weary from many days' marching, frozen by the unanticipated storm, starved by the scarcity of game, and harangued by equally disgruntled troops, Seneca's attention was frayed. When they set up camp for the night, he failed to notice the airholes of Cortok. He failed to notice the snow his men piled upon them; although the Cortok designed them to repel the harshest of snowstorms, his men had shifted so much snow so quickly that the airways froze over entirely. He failed to notice the silent killers stalking out from their underground passageways. Their men had come to thaw the pipes, but they could not move the soldiers off their site, not willingly anyway.

And so began the massacre. Before the first scream rang out, fifteen of Seneca's men were dead. By the time Seneca jumped out of his tent, his camp was overrun. He never saw the attack which knocked him out. His men never received his commands to defend themselves. They reverted to their training and the hatred that took over whenever they entered a battle. After the first sudden assault, the natives were overwhelmed by the better-outfitted soldiers and were slaughtered. But they never found the hidden tunnels of Cortok and believed their attackers were a nomadic tribe.

Seneca only began to understand the episode when he returned to Cortok a year later.

Seneca's apartment

Life had not been this good in a long time. Seneca felt the world brightening even if he did not understand why it happened. He no longer worked at the docks, but the smell of the ocean wafted stronger than before, brightening his lungs with the fresh salt air. Food tasted better, no longer a bland arc of sweet or salty, but a wide palate of spices that danced along his tongue.

This transformation had not come easily, but it was welcome. In fact, it was just one change among many happening all over the city. Shop owners had extended their hours, bringing in new business as the gangs no longer had resources to patrol and shut them down. Foreigners especially appreciated this change. Despite the recent violence, sailors always desperate for entertainment, food, and drink. Now they could enjoy all three around the clock.

The Enforcers had even begun to arrest the right people. With Marek gone, they had declared open season on any Silver Bears who still bore their markings. Fifty members, from guppies to squids, were jailed in the last week.

To accompany his unburdened senses, Seneca found small passions returning. He opened the drawer he'd told Angelica to lock when he first returned home.

Why did I ever put you away? He marveled. The brush had once been precious, his solace amid chaos and bloodshed. He'd painted every night in those days, piling up thousands of sketches. Some were tactical, schematics of towns they needed to secure or enemy bases – but he'd drawn most of them because of enjoyment. The dunes of the Shiorah possessed a mysterious alure; the golden hills had called to him constantly and any time he encountered a new mound he felt compelled to draw it. He had catalogued a hundred faces, portraits of families who'd been displaced or saved; he remembered the contours of every face.