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34th of Searing, Year 122 Steel
The Dornkirk Windworks
The Dornkirk Windworks
"Thank you, Dienerin," he said.
"Sir," the man replied and quit his presence. Somehow, though their valets bore the same name, Eitan and his brother-in-law didn't have any trouble directing the cousins by the same name. Somehow, there was no confusion. Since his return, things had begun to work a bit more like clockwork. Stefan came home, which kept Delia happy. One didn't want to trouble a pregnant woman, lest hysterics harm her and the unborn child.
Lucrece was pregnant now, as well. The sisters-in-law got along famously, and he supposed pregnancy was in vogue in White Knight Hall. But the ladies did their fair share, as well, helping Stefan delegate, helping him relax, and helping Eitan do the same. He had kept up his side of the bargain as well, warding their home and calling in favors and using his influence to ensure their home was well guarded agaisnt Kalzasern assassins. It all allowed them to come to the Windworks to work, and return home to rest.
"Thank you, Dienerin," he said to his Dienerin, who nodded and took the sealed report to find a courier to deliver it.
"Time for lunch," he declared. There were various functionaries about, but he relied most upon Dienerin, Aeseth, and Tobias. His mentees were busy elsewhere today; everyone had to do their part for the war effort. But Eitan could at least sit down to a meal in the midst of everything.
For an instant, he felt a thrum through his bones, but before he could even process it, the building shook. Instinct drilled into him by the military prepared him for the concussive blast that followed, his arm thrown over his face as windowpanes turned into swarms of flechettes.
"Move," he told himself through gritted teeth, and ran to the nearest window, now open to the elements. The whipping wind tried to pull his slicked hair into elflocks to no avail. He saw the destruction, but that was not what caught his eye. Pulling out his spyglass, he aimed it at the cloud of prismatic dust and ash reaching up into the firmament. Through the lens of aether glass, he saw chaos that he recognized. The patterns—or lack thereof—were drilled into Watchers. One of their foremost duties was watching for the Dread Mists. He watched with horror and dread as the wild energies rended the air and his prediction manifested.
He was already running when the alarums sounded. People saw him and likely intuited that he was heading toward the master of the Windworks. Some tried to stop him with "Seeker!" or "Captain!" Anyone of sufficient rank or charisma to lead others, he gave orders to. Delegation would be key. There were protocols in place for this sort of thing, though he felt that this might be more than they had ever bargained for. He knew he was closing in when more people were crossing his path, off to do Stefan's bidding. A few assured him that the man was nearby.
Eitan found Stefan Dornkirk in a lull that could not last.
"Eitan, I sent Deinerin in the Nachtherr for Luca and Delia. They'll be out of the city before it reaches the Hall. Do you know what this is?" The sirens answered him before Eitan could. "We have to get the people into the Windworks, into the Hall, anywhere they'll be safe. Start reinforcing the wards, as best you can."
They nodded to each other, of the same mind without Eitan having to assure him. And that was that, they parted ways to do their parts. He wondered if they would see each other again, but quickly froze the thought and left it behind. Now, as he headed toward the front of the complex, he moved swiftly and expeditiously, but did not ignore those who were gathered in his orbit along the way. It was well known by now that Eitan Angevin spoke with the weight of the First Minister behind his words. He was a liaison between the ZADC, the Order, the government, and the city's most valuable industry. He was a nexus for information and power.
He delegated—he assigned military, magical, and governmental agents under his authority where they would best be able to coordinate with the employees of the Windworks. They would have to prepare the Windworks for an influx of refugees. They would have to organize logistics, play at triage. There were wards, large and small. The most valuable people and supplies ought to go the deepest in the complex with the added layers of wards between them and the surface; airships drydocked whether capable of flight or grounded, had shields as well, making them lifeboats within the complex should the outer wards be overwhelmed by the Mists or the abominations they fomented.
A Mesmer here could blanket people in calm, keep them efficient. There, a Watcher with a strong sense of Sight. "You, find Orator Beeman and assist her in her studies. And keep her from walking out into the Mists for a closer look."
"Yes, Seeker."
"Sir." Dienerin fell into step with him—blessed, loyal Dienerin.
Eitan explained to him briefly where his cousin had gone, that Dienerins, Dornkirks, and Angevins would be gathered up. The Dornkirk hunting lodge ought to be safe enough from the storms, especially with the abilities of the Nachtherr.
"I'm going to hold the line at the outer warding," he explained. "Save the homes of the Windworks employees. They will be able to host more refugees." A less powerful warder was on the presmises, already ordered to the opposite end of the place, better positioned to buttress the inner wards, but Eitan was one of the most powerful warders in the High City now. He was surprised that he had been made a Seeker, that his Rune hadn't been deemed too dangerous. But he knew he wasn't invincible. The sin of Pride, the corruption that came along with his mark, it hadn't touched him in the way that made people in his situation touched.
He wasn't a hero; he was just the only one present who could do the job. He would do his duty. Fuck his father; he was an Angevin. Eitan stood the line. While Dienerin sprinted back into the Windworks to check the latest from the telegraph, to make sure that wherever information was gathered, he could bring it to Captain-Seeker Angevin.
The half-elf who only ever wanted to be a man was busy tasking an extra layer of shielding against the Dread Mists and the chaotic corruption they worked in living flesh. This would be a sanctuary for the good folks of Zaichaer, and a brain trust whenever the death toll was finally counted. This was the end game he had considered for Kalzasi when he had begun to build a rapport with a Lysanrin who might eventually be able to summon the Mists; he was truly glad he hadn't. Even the Kalzasern pidges and their anti-democratic institutions didn't deserve this. The thought experiment was just that; this was monstrous.
Wardstones carved with glyphs and linked through precise geometry helped him work efficiently, supporting some wards in the more stable form of hexagonal facets rather than a true dome. He poured his energies into the other tasks, as well, knowing the wards might need to hold against falling debris, inclement weather, and airborn mistborn specimens. Then Dienerin was there reporting efficiently. Eitan nodded, that the only terse acknowledgement, thanks, and bidding to continue with his efforts as the bulk of his attention was focused on his task. Dienerin was there, though, when the Presidium fell. They could see it from there.
Eitan fell to a knee.
love of mine
someday you will die
but I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark
no blinding light
or tunnels to gates of white
just our hands clasped so tight
waiting for the hint of a spark
someday you will die
but I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark
no blinding light
or tunnels to gates of white
just our hands clasped so tight
waiting for the hint of a spark
"Brynn," he whispered. Their children would never play airship heroes atop Trystan's Folly. His dearest friend was dead in service to the State. Dienerin helped him up. Refugees had been arriving all this time. The Windworks was a known safe space, a trusted staple of Zaichaeri pride. But now the Mists had come, choking off access for a time and then drifting on. Now a lance of light shot skyward, tearing another rent in the fabric of the world. The two rifts, wanton as beasts in heat, conjoined.
Eitan went back to work. It was the only thing to be done.
He wondered if Albrecht had been at his side at the end, whether he had tried to swallow the Mist as if it were any other aether, whether he had been a true citizen of the High City in the end.
Dienerin returned. Admiral Angevin's ship, the ships of the other two Captain Angevins, they were among the fallen Presidium's array of defenses. Their status was unknown. Eitan barked a short, sharp laugh. It would be ironic if the mongrel son of Leir Angevin was the only one to carry on his name. Perhaps the child in Lucrece's belly would be able to carry it on, as well. White Knight Hall was warded; he could only hope it was enough to hold until the Nachtherr arrived to evacuate them. His grandmother had been visiting, mothering Delia and Lucrece both.
"Dienerin. Get word to the Hall. Perhaps the Nachtherr will have time to see about my stepmother's safety." The Angevin Estate wasn't far from Dornkirk Manor, after all. The man disappeared once more and Eitan gritted his teeth against the effort, managing in a little over an hour to fortify wards that had taken months to set up. It occurred to him that the Noble Gambit was abroad, providing air support to General Overmann. Had he still been its executive officer, he still would have been safe from all this.
Eventually, the refugees came more slowly, more ragged, bent double, like old beggars under sacks or whateve they thought might shield them from danger. Some rushed at the sight of safety. Others trudged slowly as sleepwalkers, limping, blood-shod, drunk on fatigue and insensate to the holocaust at their back. A bank of Mist shouldered up to his wards; still connected, he could feel it as though his own skin were crawling with oil and cockroach skittering. It changed the light into unnatural colors, but his wards negated it, annihilated it.
It cost them, though. Aetherite batteries were connected to the network of glyphs, feeding power into the matrix, but Eitan was the spider weaving and reweaving his protective web with his own essence. The corrupted came next, slamming into his works as if they were walls. Light flared, killing some, throwing back others. One, clearly intent on Eitan, bore the pain and pushed itself through. So crazed was it for his flesh and blood that it killed itself, the parts of it that were corrupted remaining behind, sliding down to the ground to pollute the pavement. What hadn't been corrupted wasn't enough to support life, however. It lay dying before him, reaching out to him now as if he could offer it some form of mercy.
Its white eyes writhed in its face. He could could hear, at every jolt, the blood come gargling from the frothing lungs, obscene as cancer. His cutlass swung down, and delivered what mercy he could. He went back to work.
A great wave of light came out of the rift, and then the storm truly picked up. No more Mist appeared forthcoming, but there was plenty roiling about the city.
Word from Dienerin: His cousin's family had been rescued. They were now pinned down at White Knight Hall, weathering the storm behind its wards, ready to flee the city if the wards failed or the weather cleared long enough to escape. Delia was in labor. Dornkirk Manor was a ruin. The fate of the Angevin Estate was unknown. Eitan nodded. His valet told him only two hours had passed since the initial explosion, but surely that couldn't be correct. The man went back into the Windworks.
Glancing sideways as he caught movement in his peripheral vision, he saw a small armed party leaving. Stefan was at its head, only a sidearm in his hand. Eitan called, but the man couldn't hear him. The small party walked through the wards and into the hellscape that had been the Brass City.
where have all the good men gone
and where are all the gods?
and where are all the gods?
He could feel them walk through the wards as if he were extruding them through his pores. Eitan felt strange, weary, cold. He fumbled into his interior coat pocket, pulling out a simple locket. Lucrece smiled back at him: impish; beautiful; perfect. She wore shifting haloes. No—he was seeing things as if a migraine approached. He could sense the entirety of the warding—the outer wards before him, the wards worked over the walls of the Windwork like a second skin, the wards of the airships, the wards of the airships nestled inside like fledglings, the wards around experimental engines and weapons. His energy was worked into all of them. He was a part of all of them, his aetheric pattern resonating with them.
Eitan realized that he too had become an abomination, perhaps right then and there. The Dread Mists hadn't changed him; his work with the Rune of Negation had. He had become a Monolith, the apex skill that marked the strongest warders in history. He was the Dornkirk Windworks. If he concentrated, he could reach out, he could almost sense his wards around White Knight Hall, itching like a phantom limb, protecting his family.
Run to them, Stef, he urged his brother-in-law in the silence of his soul. He reached out, pouring himself into the wards protecting his home, his family, his servants, and charges. Even Little Demon, the Bloodborn Lysanrin lad who had taken such a shine to him since he had freed them from Fverard.
He pressed the cool glass of his wife's cameo to his lips, carefully closed it and tucked it back into his pocket.
Stefan had charged out into the chaos. He was a hero. Eitan remained, holding the line. He was the Windworks, and he was under attack. He toughened his skin. He was White Knight Hall, sheltering his wife, his sister, unborn Dornkirks and Angevins, Dienerins, and other refugees, Watchers, and soldiers in his cupped hands. He was the one who could stand up to the breach in the sky and the whorling Dread Mists.
Zaicher didn't need for Gods; Zaichaer had men. It had heroes like Stefan Dornkirk, and martyrs like Brenner Dornkirk.
He looked up. The meteorologists had predicted a lovely Searing day. Eitan laughed.
Eitan Angevin fell in service to his nation. He didn't feel his brow split against the curb, though he did feel his head bounce like a child's ball. He wasn't crying; it was just blood, warm and soothing on his skin, sharp and coppery in his mouth. It was good, clean, red human blood. He hoped they could see that now, now that it spilled for his people. He wasn't a hero, but he could be a martyr.
"It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country," he mumbled. He felt no pain as his consciousness wavered. Blood poured out to paint the pavement; power poured out to throw back abominations and the miasma that bore them.
you and me have seen everything to see
from Zaichaer to Kalzasi
and the soles of your shoes are all worn down
the time for sleep is now
but it's nothing to cry about
because we'll hold each other soon
in the blackest of rooms
from Zaichaer to Kalzasi
and the soles of your shoes are all worn down
the time for sleep is now
but it's nothing to cry about
because we'll hold each other soon
in the blackest of rooms
Necessity had forced Dienerin to stay inside. When Stefan Dornkirk had quit the premises, Captain Angevin had been the man in charge. He was occupied and rather than let people mob him for leadership, his valet, a veteran himself, had stepped up. He had filled in. He had made things work.
Intelligence was coming in from some more organized pockets of resistence. White Knight Hall stood. The Angevin Estate was assailed, but he had been able to arrange for a battalion to sweep through to evacuate Friederike Angevin and her staff. Orator Beeman had offered sound logistical advice. They were getting intermittent and conflicting reports about the Order; the Hall of Reconciliation was well equipped to deal with Mistborn corruptions, but leadership seemed to have broken down. In any case, it was known that the Windworks was safe if people could get there. They were coordinating as best they could, tracking the movements of the Mists and sharing them.
Watchers looking for Seeker Angevin reported to Dienerin. Officers looking for Captain Angevin reported to Dienerin, taking comfort in his military posture if not his civilian attire. Government officials and Windworks employees brought him intelligence and asked for his decisions, assuming rightly or wrongly that he was Angevin's mouthpiece.
It was growing dark when he was finally able to delegate his unasked for position long enough to check on his master. He brought food and water, leftovers from what had been brought into the "war room." Surely Master Angevin would be famished and parched. When he couldn't see Angevin's silhouette where it had been since he set himself beyond the Windworks housing, he grew anxious. Flicking on his torch, he swept it from side to side and his breath caught in his throat when he saw a form prone. He broke into a run, tearing the knees on his fine pants coming down too fast to check upon his master.
In the stark light of the torch, his swarthy skin was chalky and cool. The blood on his face wasn't flowing, pumped by an active heart.
The wards were holding.
"Sir."
"Angevin!"
"Eitan!"
isn't there a white knight upon a fiery steed?
somewhere after midnight
in my wildest fantasy
somewhere, just beyond my reach
there's someone reaching back for me.
somewhere after midnight
in my wildest fantasy
somewhere, just beyond my reach
there's someone reaching back for me.
