Eventually, after what Balur referred to as “some light encouragement,” Firkin got up in front of the crowd and announced that the prophet “in his wisdom of prodigious length and most satisfying girth” had decreed that they “abandon the sight of this most holy battle and sally forth, questing for fresh combat.”
It was a little off script, and Lette had to spend five minutes restraining Balur from killing the filthy old man. They were moving, she told him, and that was enough for her.
Still, as she stood upon one of the remaining garrison walls to oversee the exodus, Lette couldn’t help but feel that it was all too little, too late.
There were just so many of them. It was a crowd that no longer numbered in the hundreds but in the thousands. Every single man, woman, or child who had fallen in Athril seemed to have been replaced by at least ten newcomers. People had uprooted their entire lives. Herds of cattle, sheep, and goats all followed the crowd out of the town. People sat upon wagons loaded with chickens, turkeys, and other poultry that Lette would only have been able to discern by taste. Minstrels wandered, singing songs of the prophet, of his great feats, and of the dragons he had struck low. Soothsayers stood, causing eddies in the crowd, as they cast stones and predicted the downfall of the Consortium. Priests for all the various gods were scattered about, laying claim to the prophet. That Lawl had inspired him, or Toil, or that he was the herald of Barph’s long-awaited return. Fistfights broke out between religious factions. They’d even picked up more than one string of whores, and there was one woman with a cart loaded with work shirts onto which she had crudely stitched the word “Profit.” From the looks of things, the one she was making was considerable.
The thing was, it was all so infectious. There was an air of revolution in the air. Watching them all, it would have been simple to buy into their hope, to relax and let confidence wash through her.
How many spies are already in the ranks? the cold voice in the back of her head asked. How many will sell you out as soon as the Consortium adds another zero to your Wanted poster? How many zeroes will they have to add before you sell Will out yourself? You’re penniless now. All the gold is gone. There is no new life anymore. If you’re the first to bail, there’s a greater chance you’ll survive.
She shook her head. There was no way she was surviving this.
And if that was true… What was there truly to consider? Simply how to spend the time remaining to her. What sort of legacy would she leave behind? How would she be remembered? Who would look back on her memory fondly?
Balur? Will? Maybe—but only for the seven or eight seconds before they joined her in the swirling guts of whatever dragon had consumed them all.
So if no one would remember, what then? She knew what Balur would say. It was carte blanche. Life without consequences. They could do what they wanted, when they wanted, as they wanted. There need be no fear of the consequences. They were already as dire as they could be.
What about the gods?
Fuck the gods, came back Balur’s voice. If they are getting their heads out of their cups for longer than a second it’s only so they can be burying them in the lap of the nearest partner. This is being a world that was being created by horrible degenerates.
All of which was true enough. But there was another voice too. One it took her longer to identify. And when she did, she wondered how it had got there.
Well, maybe no one will remember you for what you’ve done so far, said Will’s voice, but what if you did something memorable before the end?
How had he managed to get so deep beneath her skin? He and she hadn’t even…
She considered that. Maybe that was the real problem. And well… If one had limited time, there were worse ways to spend it…