1.3??????Making a Splash
1.3.3????An Unrequited Love
1.3.3.3? One heart, one mind, one purpose
Spread before her was the loading area outside the foundries. The crate-filled metal trolleys had all been moved onto the track nearest to the doors of the building, forming a barrier the guard’s horses could neither climb nor jump, and several wooden carts had been placed at either end to prevent them riding around. A rope and grappling hook showed where an earlier attempt had been made to pull them aside, and the carts had been immobilised by tipped them onto their sides, leaving the massive wheels free to spin however the fates dictated.
Milling around behind the barricade were several hundred workers, about half wearing the tough leather smocks she’d seen in the foundry, but also youths, grannies, and workers from other local parishes and professions. Not enough, perhaps, to prevent a determined group of trained warriors from winning, especially since few were armed with proper weapons, despite the now empty shipping crate of unpolished swords that some enterprising soul had ‘liberated’.
But they were workers, muscled from long hours of hard physical labour, and many carried the hammers and axes that were the tools of their trade. They weren’t trained or organised, but they didn’t look hopeless or hunted here. Some of the older ones stood proudly under a document they’d nailed to the wall, while others yelled at the guards, swearing to keep the entrance closed until the guild agreed to give them a fair hearing. They sounded angry, determined and, more than that, righteous.
It was a sound she was intimately familiar with. The sound of someone who knows an issue is vital to them, who knows what they want, and who believes their cause is just. You couldn’t tell from the sound whether someone was genuinely mistaken, but she had rarely been taken in by someone deliberately trying to fake it. Not when she could see and interact with them. There was something about the fake version that felt ‘off’ - it didn’t resonate with how she’d feel and react. Not that this stopped politicians from trying, of course.
She turned her attention to the guards.
There were eleven horsemen, wearing green and black tabards over breastplates and heavy chainmail, although they’d dismounted and were standing in tight formation, shields ready to protect their captain and the official next to him, alert and disciplined despite the late afternoon heat and the sweat dripping from under their shiny metal helms.
The official was a distinguished looking priest of Cov, with neatly cut gray hair and eyes that drew you in, dark, expressive, and topped with thick dark eyebrows that almost bent into an inverted V-shape when he expressed caution or surprise. His voice was also very expressive, though not in the same league as Bulgaria’s, and so smooth she found herself nodding in agreement.
Wellington kicked her in the shin.
Ow!
She turned to glare at him and noticed he was gripping the Athame that had been a boon from Lord Landi. The Athame which, unlike the bracers Alderney had crafted to prevent the other Wombles from having minds read, also warded against magical attempts to confuse or influence the bearer. Just as her purple amethyst of mind healing did. A gem she was supposed to keep in contact with her skin at all times, to preserve the secrets she’d been entrusted with, but which she’d used with Nicolo less than an hour ago. Had she been so distracted she’d just shoved it into her nearest pocket? She checked; yes.
Bad Kafana! She slipped it on, and resolved to ask Diana to warn her if she messed up again. Then the priest’s actual words caught her attention.
Fra Meschino: “You work here but this is not your home. If you have a right to be here, it is not because you own this building, but because you have signed a contract of employment with one who does own it, and who has given you permission to be here. Temporarily. You are, in effect, a guest. A guest who is required by Cov to do no harm unto his host. Harm such as stealing gold from him by deliberately closing down his lawfully owned and operating business.”
Heads were nodding among the workers.
Fra Meschino: “Cov is the deity of order. A place for everyone and everyone in their place. A ruler to set laws and followers to obey them. Guards to arrest and judges to decide. A workplace for workers, and a prison cell for criminals. That is Cov’s will. That is orderly.”
Enough! If she carried on just listening, it would take Meschino only a few more minutes to have the workers dismantle their own barrier. She didn’t know if he was right about the law, but she was certain how she felt about the way he was using his magic here.
Visualising the Wombles as a single gestalt was almost instinctive now, like waving an arm without need to think about which muscles to contract in which order. Now, what to visualise? She didn’t want to attack the priest, just strengthen their own resistance. A half-forgotten scrap of lyrics came to her.
If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Be prepared
For a fight
Coming soon
In your life
So, do have
A strong mind
She touched each of them in turn, using her mana to sketch a shield with a brain on it. She felt the spell take hold and, moments later, they were able to pay attention to Wellington rather than to the priest.
Bulgaria: “Some of the guards are looking this way.”
He sounded angry. Was that her lyrics, or because she’d given away their position?
Kafana: “Sorry, I’m not sure if I can cast that sort of protection using stealth. Maybe if I spread it out over a longer period?”
Bulgaria: “I’m not annoyed at you. I’m annoyed at myself for getting caught. What do you need, to break the rest of them free?”
Kafana: “It’s a big group, and they’re already under his influence. I need to get closer. Go down among them. It won’t be quiet, though, even with casting support from you and Wellington.”
Bungo: “Do it.”
Wellington: “Alderney, distract the priest. Tomsk, get Kafana down there as fast as possible…”
He carried on speaking to Bungo and Bulgaria but she didn’t hear the rest because Tomsk put one arm firmly around her waist, lifting her up, and used the other to grip the rope with his gauntlet.
They tilted forwards and she had only a moment to realise that the side of the slag pile facing the factory was much steeper than the one they’d climbed. Nearly a cliff, in fact. It felt like leaning too far out of a third story window.
Then he ran. Straight down towards the unforgiving jagged lumps below.
She was still drawing in a breath, ready to scream, when he somehow pushed sideways against the slope, turning the descent into a Tarzan-like swing that ended with him sprinting towards the barrier with not a jot of energy wasted. He was laughing as he jumped onto a trolley, still carrying her. Impossible man! He set her gently down upon her own feet, then swept her a courtly bow, and she didn’t have the heart to scold him.
Instead she settled for regal dignity, standing tall, motionless except for a raised chin and an imperious raised palm. Which was unfortunate as Alderney had been lobbing smoke canisters, and they picked that moment to release foul smelling yellow and green clouds which filled the area between the guards and the workers, and set the horses rearing in fright. From the swearing of the guards, it was clear they thought Kafana had caused it. Not good.
On the other hand... Muhamed from her village had once remarked “If the penalty for stealing a lamb is being hanged, you might as well steal a sheep. What are they going to do, hang you twice?” Since their cover was now blown, she could really let rip!
She grinned and looked at Tomsk. He was strong physically, but he’d be the first to say a man needed more than muscles to be worthy of respect. She spelled it out in her mind, “R E S P E C T” thinking of Aretha Franklin, and that led her to…
She stopped thinking and started acting.
Kafana: {Bulgaria, Wellington, get ready to support. Tomsk, after every line of the chorus, sing back to me the words “Strong Man” and touch someone. Got it?}
She took a moment to set an amplification spell facing away from the guards. Not because her voice needed any help - she’d performed at noisy open air folk and blues festivals in far more challenging conditions. But because she wanted instrumental support, to set the atmosphere and dampen the priest. His voice might be smooth, but she’d bet he didn’t have her experience at making her voice rise above a full orchestra. She felt Wellington exert his will inside the gestalt, modifying the runes with a speed and precision she couldn’t even follow. She left it to him, and started to sing.
Slowly at first, concentrating her will upon just the four workers standing nearest to Tomsk, she visualised the protection as something tangible, like courage that could be passed on and grow with the number sharing it. Bulgaria fed in passion like a fuel, and her words became sparks that lit the fire.
I need a strong man (strong man)
A strong man (strong man)
I need a strong man (strong man)
A strong man (strong man)
And Tomsk? Tomsk was the fire, and the air it burned in - the template. An aura formed around him, brighter in her mage sight with every worker he touched, and that aura spread with the following chorus as each of them in turn touched more workers; shaking hands or even just touching shoulders. Comrades, firm in mind.
At some point she must have stepped down from the trolley, walking among them, but by then it didn’t matter - she was no longer the focus. She ended the song standing under the wall beneath the document, her right hand clasping Tomsk’s and her left hand clasping that of Journeyman Affi. When the smoke cleared, the priest found his audience calmly facing him. United. One heart, one mind, one purpose.