Frays In The Weave 69 Battlefield: 4

"I apologize," Arthur said shamefaced and averted his eyes as well. "I personally apologize. I trained them. Never thought it would come to this."

Ken stared at him. "Thinking first really never was one of your stronger points?" he finally asked.

Arthur didn't answer. Ken saw him staring in the direction where Heinrich had his unit setting up some kind of surveillance post. They were military men, and with so many bodies killed with weapons this close they were probably more than a little nervous. Nervous in their own, detached and professional way.

Ken suddenly wished Arthur could have had some of that in him. So many dangers could have been averted then. But that wasn't really fair. The outworlder, and Ken could think of them as nothing but outworlders, earth born as he was himself, hadn't become with any tutor close by.

What was worse by far was that Arthur saw himself as all knowing when it came to tale telling of any kind. He had made a living of it, and from what Ken knew he really was seen as a G.o.dsend by his own. That made him dangerous. Twenty years was a long time for a human, even for one who could expect to live to a hundred and fifty. It was far more than enough to cement the idea of expertise, and Arthur had mastered that specific flaw to a fault.

Ken, he could hardly recall the days when he hadn't lived without the Weave. Whatever Arthur thought twenty years was nothing compared to seven hundred, and those seven hundred was barely enough to understand just how much more there was to learn. Ken accepted that. He enjoyed learning. It made life exciting.

A few steps brought him back to where he could see for himself what the news team recorded. It was disgusting, but in a way they were only doing their own version of what he had done for so long.

"They're not ours," he heard Arthur's voice from behind.

"We watch and Weave," Ken said. How hard could that be to understand? "There is no ours or theirs in what we do."

"And when did you die and grow mould in your heart?" There was equal amounts of anger and resentment in that voice.

"Dammit man. Look at them! Your own crew. They don't care about what side the dead belong to. They report. You should learn from your students."

"They care," Arthur answered. "We don't have sides the way you took for granted before you came here. Of course we have our own fair share of barbarians who just can't give up wars, but most of us only have to worry about piracy."

Ken turned and laughed. "You are too much! Last news was most every d.a.m.n nation declared war on you because you started slaughtering a rescue mission."

Arthur mumbled something. Then he came up to Ken's side. "What I was trying to say is that I don't think they're from Keen," he said and pointed over the field where the dead lay scattered.

Ken watched where Arthur pointed. A few were. Dot's of coloured linen showed where a De Vhatic soldier had fallen, but Arthur was mostly correct. The vast majority of the dead wore leathers from what could only be the Midlands. One banner especially caught his interest.

"No. Wherdin, Hirgh and mostly Chach I'd guess."

"Never heard of them."

Ken wasn't surprised. "Kingdoms in the Midlands. None strong enough to be called a nation by your definition."

"How can you have a kingdom that is not a nation?"

That lack of understanding did surprise him. "People live there, but they don't think of themselves as part of a greater unit like you do. Just over a thousand years ago it was much the same back on Earth," he explained. From Arthur's blank face he guessed he'd have to turn that explanation into a lecture if he really wanted the message to get through. If Arthur's reality lacked the ever present daily reports of wars and contested borders it would take too much teaching, and he might never understand fully anyway.

Ken shrugged and went ahead. There was watching to do for future Weaving.

"As far as I understood things Keen planned an attack over an inland sea south of here," Arthur called after him. "A lot of dead bodies here means someone on the other side made the same plans, and they set them in motion first."

Arthur was obnoxious, but he wasn't stupid. "Yes, you're right. There's more to it I'm afraid," Ken said after a moments consideration.

"You mean with new G.o.ds and superst.i.tious frenzy?"

Sometimes he was just a little too observant as well.

"And if that isn't a cross I never read my history," Arthur continued undaunted.

Ken gave the banner a long glare. What was the papacy doing here? They knew the northern empire was a sanctuary. And since when had they started to employ battlemages? Users of magic were as anathema to them as to Keen, even though for a very different reason. The papacy licensed users of the gift, to work G.o.d's miracles they said. To even the balance Ken knew. Battlemages, however, were not among those given a papal license.

Walking further out in the fields he saw the unmistakable burn marks scarring Keen's dead. Fire mages then. Primitive but dangerous. That meant Khanati, or Rhuin.

Another dead caught his interest. He had taken a lance through his chest, but the hoof prints were impossibly far apart. That took a kind of magic he hadn't seen before, and he had seen a lot.

"I think we have a problem here," he announced.

Arthur walked to his side and looked at the corpse. "Spear? Why is that a problem?"

Did it take so short for an overprotected civilian to become so callous? Then Ken recalled that Arthur had spent the better part of a year on the road. He had probably seen his fair share of death and mutilations by now. "Lance, and that's not the problem. Someone is working magic on the horses, or at least one horse."

"And?"

"And I haven't seen or heard of it before," Ken replied. Arthur's last comment made him irritated.

"And just because you haven't... oh, b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!"

At least an admission that had Ken grinning. "b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l sums it up quite adequately," he said.