#GET OUT OF MY HEAD YORU SULFUR

[xillionreblogs]

Nobody:

Absolutely nobody:

Brain: hey in an alpha/beta/omega verse Orso smells like vanilla ice cream~

[bleachedjuice]

'To Whom The Bells Toll'

Warnings: mentions of warfare, angst, and a special supirse at the end MWAHAHAHAHHA

Enjoy~

Warmth.

That was all you craved. Wanted. And now, now here you where knee deep in swamp lands with goop containing the gods only know what. The smell was sulfur like and gritty, not like the smell of fresh dirt at all. It was putrid, puffy, thick, and strong. It was like a sickly sweet after smell, sticking to your lungs in their shallow breaths as they desperately squeezed any remnants of this damned air out of them and into the cold world with a puff of smoke billowing out of your body like a dragon.... your face was bitterly numb as your muscles ached... you've been sitting at this nest for what seemed forever.. your comms were silent and still as ever as you trickled against the cold air beneath your thick clothing and as small droplets dripped onto your Luke warm body.

"Fucking hell...."

Soaps voice called out behind you, he was your backup, left up here to help you out in case it was foreshadowed and needed that someone or a group had found your little nest and decided to get a dog fight between you two and them. Price had decided that it was safer leaving the Sargeant of his group up here with a commander than to risk both lines of command entirely. And you bit your teeth back as you scowled as the rain came down harder.

"Don't worry Soap, they'll be out soon, they gotta be."

"Fuckin better"

He mumbled, and then something shining caught your eye.. or well reflected off of your scopes' lenses. Stifling your muscles, you creened into your gun like you two where one...melded together even.

And then you saw a head..narrowing your eyes yoru nostrils flared in anticipation....not one of yours nor 141. You then lulled the trigger into a stiff pull and watched as the body fell.

"Soap, I give em... not even five more minutes until we scope closer in to see what the hell their doing down there."

"Your the boss."

Stifling a groan at the comment, you then shrugged some rain off your body, feeling it seep into your now darkened sky...the stream lights pouring into the area around it..that base... you then huffed and went to roll into a crouch to get yourself up and moving, until you heard the comm static....and then gun fire...and then a yell. Simon... loud bang..then nothing.

You then looked at Soap before you scrambled to your feet and stared ahead, and made your way down the mountain side...but before you two could even fathom touching the bottom a whistle spooked through the air...and then you ran pike hell as a grenade exploded behind your two now racing figures...hoping your dark clothing would seal you both into the darkness and rain as it snuck unto the cold night around it... and it did... the only thing you both heard as your own heartbeat and adrenaline pulsing into your veins.

The forest surrounded you now, both close and tight knit figures, as you spoke hushly into the comms.

"This is bravo 0-2 with bravo 0-7. What is going on down there?"

Nothing...pure static.

You motioned to Soap as you two crept closer and closer... and then you spoke hushly. "Your going to go through that side area that's open, see it?"

"Yeah.. but what about you?"

"I'll be going through the hatch up there,"

Cutting yourself up you pointed to the hatch near the roof area...where parked truck was just below it.

"I'll climb up that truck and make my way in. It'll be more heavier guarded than the area I'm sending you in. Soap.. be careful."

"Will do commander."

And with that and a simple fist bump and nods. You both went you separate ways... you trickled down the now muddle hill side as the ground below you swallowed your boots and the rain that piujddd down onto your now moving figure. Stinging your skin as you moved... until you then leaped and landed at the base of the mountain. And you took off running until you approached a covered area of the gate...and wire cutters gripped your hand as you snipped a whole into the fence... and weaved your way into base... before you hugged the walls and left the watch towers alone, not being in the mood to alering the entire base that there were intruders amongst its walls.

You then coddled the shadows like a babe until you saw the coast was clear to make a sprint for the truck..and you did. Climbing up its side with such urgency had your ears ringing with nervousness..

And then you hoisted yourself up the upside of the trucks bulging metal stomach and landed on its smooth silver roof. You then slowly slid on your stomach and scooted toward the opening, glad to have avoided the gaurds that were now perching your shadowed area without a fuss or an issued sound or incident.

You then slid toward the opened hutch of the grated window side and went in legs first, sliding you but in a scoot like manner as you held your breath before letting go of the truck behind you and descended in a sliding manner down the thick glass window and into darkness with a slight thump of your boots.

Fuck. You then looked around before whispering into your comms.

"I'm in Soap, any updates?"

Silence...than static....

"This is Soap, I'm in, I found 141, and some of Kortac, Your teams also in position out of the range awaiting to be back up to pick us up...but Königs not here..."

"Copy that....eyes peeled for Jolly green giant. Got ya. Get everyone else outta here... and remorse my words to my team, await my command on via comms to take off even if I'm not out. "

Prices voice shouted through the comms...pissed.

"But-"

"No buts. No use to risk three whole teams for two people. When I say go, they'll take off with your two and mine In tow."

"Roger"

Bitter and resentment of Haltering words broke out into the comms from Soap as Prices muffled mumbling baked into your mind through the comms.

"Fuck..."

Muttering to yourself, you then looked around in the greenish lit area, noticing how dull and sickly it looked, like a horror movie. You shifted quietly through the halls and then whipped around a corner to find a door at the end...and two rooms on each side with unopened doors. Shuddering your sniper rifle and puckering out your hand gun and blade you crept silently and turned into the two rooms farthest from the last three first...clear...and then the next...clear...before you stood in front of the door....and with a silent prayer you swung the door open to see a mangled looking and heavily breathing König his eyes wide on you like a frantic stallion.... and four men... three bullets left your gun... two down for good..one injured..and the other barreling you into the wall like a bull. And then your head cracked harshly against the wall, and your body felt numb, and your vision went blurry as you felt yourself get thrown into the desk occupying the area, your body skidding across it and it's holdings with a crash as you hit the floor dazed.... and you heard König shout...no...

Roar.. as your body staggered a moment before you whipped your hand around for your blade...fuck... you then saw a pencil...that'll do...

You then heard a click...and then a glint in your non blind side.. and then the pressure.

"One wrong move, and I'll muster your face to mangle into a more fucking ugly look."

[beeblackburn]

Pretender Reads A Little Hatred, Part I, Chapter Four

For those keeping score, I’m clipping through a chapter-a-day! Goes without saying spoilers ahead for the entirety of The First Law works beyond the keep reading. Read at your own risk.

Chapter Title: Keeping Score Point-of-View: Savine dan Glokta

Glokta once thought this of Valint and Balk:

So this is what true wealth looks like. This is how true power appears. The austere temple of the golden goddess. He watched the clerks working at their neat stacks of documents, at their neat desks arranged in neat rows. There the acolytes, inducted into the lowest mysteries of the church. His eyes flickered to those waiting. Merchants and moneylenders, shopkeepers and shysters, traders and tricksters in long queues, or waiting nervously on hard chairs around the hard walls. Fine clothes, perhaps, but anxious manners. The fearful congregation, ready to cower should the deity of commerce show her vengeful streak. 

—Last Argument of Kings, Too Many Masters

I don’t think he ever anticipated said golden goddess to be walking in the flesh.

But she is no goddess, no. Not of the benevolent kind.

She is the Devil, kin to the devil-blood themselves.

Sparks showered into the night, the heat a constant pressure on Savine’s smiling face. Beyond the yawning doorway, straining bodies and straining machinery were rendered devilish by the glow of molten metal. Hammers clattered, chains rattled, steam hissed, labourers cursed. The music of money being made.

She is Kanedias, overseeing the workers, hot at the forges, seething with production and things that worked, just like him.

One-sixth of the Hill Street Foundry, after all, belonged to her.

Caring naught for humanity, this is another workshop set in Hell, full of Shanka, workers made to do the Master Maker’s bidding.

One of the six great sheds was her property. Two of the twelve looming chimneys. One in every six of the new machines spinning inside, of the coals in the great heaps shovelled in the yard, of the hundreds of twinkling panes of glass that faced the street. Not to mention one-sixth part of the ever-increasing profits. A flood of silver to put His Majesty’s mint to shame.

But, unlike Kanedias, this devil-blood cares more for money than weapons, the work leveraged to profit instead of done for the work itself. And, as the times go, smaller, meaner people walk beyond the shadows of greater people. 

And whose shadow better than the first to commit to the power of coin?

“It was money that bought victory in King Guslav’s half-baked Gurkish war,” said Bayaz. “It was money that united the Open Council behind their bastard king. It was money that brought Duke Orso rushing to the defence of his daughter and tipped the balance in our favour. All my money.”

—Last Argument of Kings, Answers

This devil-blood walks in the shadows of the First of the Magi himself, only further committed to the High Art of making money.

And, on a voice standpoint, just read how much Savine’s POV is precise in the details of her workshop, how much numbers and calculations factors into it. How many longer, lingering sentences and more complex vocabulary there is, compared to Rikke or Leo’s chapters. This is a thinking woman, full of ambition and comfortable in the Other Side.

But, what is a Kanedias without his Jaremias? Or, better yet...

“Best not to loiter, my lady,” murmured Zuri, fires gleaming in her eyes as she glanced about the darkened street.

A Bayaz without his Yoru Sulfur?

She was right, as always. Most young ladies of Savine’s acquaintance would have come over faint at the suggestion of visiting this part of Adua without a company of soldiers in attendance. But those who wish to occupy the heights of society must be willing to dredge the depths from time to time, when they see opportunities glitter in the filth.

“On we go,” said Savine, boot heels squelching as she followed their link-boy’s bobbing light into the maze of buildings. Narrow houses with whole families wedged into every room leaned together, a spider’s web of flapping washing strung between, laden carts rumbling beneath and showering filth to the rooftops. Where whole blocks had not been cleared to make way for the new mills and manufactories, the crooked lanes reeked of coal smoke and woodsmoke, blocked drains and no drains at all. It was a borough heaving with humanity. Seething with industry. And, most importantly, boiling over with money to be made.

Quite the ambitious woman, Savine is, and with the prerequisite lack of scruples that a child of Glokta would have. Yet, Glokta never had this sort of ambition to him, even before the Gurkhul Empire got to him. After, he was just trying to keep his head above water and do his best to win. If I had to put my finger on where Savine gets her ambitions from, first trilogy-wise? I’d say it’s West more than Glokta. Savine shares quite a few characteristics with Glokta, but it’s that need to rise that I feel she shares with her uncle Collem West.

And look at this dense microcosm of the peasantry! Full of squalor, wretched stenches, spaces full of cramped families, it’s a tapestry stitched full of misery, and all Savine sees is that very humanity being put to use for making money.

Savine was by no means the only one who saw it. It was payday, and impromptu merchants swarmed about the warehouses and forges, hoping to lighten the labourers’ purses as they spilled out after work, selling small pleasures and meagre necessities. Selling themselves, if they could only find a buyer.

There were others hoping to lighten purses by more direct means. Grubby little cutpurses weaving through the crowds. Footpads lurking in the darkness of the alleys. Thugs slouching on the corners, keen to collect on behalf of the district’s many moneylenders.

I once read about how the only differences between the great and small thieves is a matter of legality and scale. And it really shows here, how we’ll take advantage of the poor conditions that the working class must endure, only to fill our own pockets. It hardly matters whether we steal with a small pleasure given or a sharp knife at the back, it’s taking advantage of those without much to line our own bottom lines.

Risks, perhaps, and dangers, but Savine had always loved the thrill of a gamble, especially when the game was rigged in her favour. She had long ago learned that at least half of everything is presentation. Seem a victim, soon become one. Seem in charge, people fall over themselves to obey.

So she walked with a swagger, dressed in the dizzy height of fashion, lowering her eyes for no one. She walked painfully erect, although Zuri’s earlier heaving on the laces of her corset gave her little choice. She walked as if it was her street—and indeed she did own five decaying houses further down, packed to their rotten rafters with Gurkish refugees paying twice the going rent.

Then it’s not really a gamble, is it, Savine. That’s stacking the deck, reaping the rewards of it, and patting yourself on the back for being a daring risk-taker, you fool. If that’s the root of your arrogance, then, boy, is this world going to topple you sooner than later because it doesn’t treat the arrogant much better than the merciful. And, boy, is Savine not lacking in arrogance. She reminds me of a pre-bridge Glokta, in terms of how much she buys into her own hype.

An intriguing nugget, though, is her predisposition with presentation. That need to perform and look a certain part. It’s definitely something Glokta, back then, never felt like he had to. I get more shades of West here and his need to perform to a certain standard, but I also think the question of gender has to be considered with how Savine feels she has to perform. It’s an interesting wrinkle in how Savine zigs where Glokta zagged in terms of their respective youths.

Also, Gurkish refugees? (arches a brow) What the hell happened to the Gurkish Empire? Or, are these just people who got tired of the cannibalistic slavery? I can’t really blame them, but is the Union really that much better, guys? Hmmm. Either way, way to take advantage of marginalized people in a racist society, Savine. You’re a class act, m’am, truly.

Zuri was a great reassurance on one side, Savine’s beautifully wrought short steel a great reassurance on the other. Many young ladies had been affecting swords since Finree dan Brock caused a sensation by wearing one to court. Savine found that nothing lent one confidence like a length of sharpened metal close to hand.

Whoa, whoa. Finree wears a sword nowadays? ... Actually, given how Hal’s dead, I can definitely see this as a way to establish authority and put herself on the same level of respect as a man in the Union. And, given how much there’s institutional sexism in that society, I can’t really blame her. Though, given the round of PTSD she got last handling a blade... I’m sure she doesn’t want to actually kill anyone with it now. 

Honestly, though, good for Savine and those women of the Union. Better weigh your hopes of safety on a sword than the mercies of your men or enemies.

Savine gathered her skirts so she could squat beside him and look in his dirt-smeared face. She wondered if he sponged the muck on as artfully as her maids did her powder, to arouse just the right amount of sympathy. Clean children need no charity, after all.

Wow, Savine, has it ever occurred to you that the conditions you benefit off of aren’t as pristine as you make it out to be? Have you considered that maybe the world isn’t a projection of your own inclinations to performance? 

Just no empathy here, none at all.

She was not at all above sentimental displays of generosity. The whole point of squeezing one’s partners in private was so they could do the squeezing in public. Savine, meanwhile, could smile ever so sweetly, and toss coins to an urchin or two, and appear virtuous without the slightest damage to her bottom line. When it comes to virtue, after all, appearances are everything.

The boy stared at the silver as though it was some legendary beast he had heard of but never hoped to see. “For me?”

She knew that in her button and buckle manufactory in Holsthorm, smaller and probably dirtier children were paid a fraction as much for a long day’s hard labour. The manager insisted little fingers were best suited to little tasks, and cost only little wages, too. But Holsthorm was far away, and things in the distance seem very small. Even the sufferings of children.

“For you.” She did not go as far as ruffling his hair, of course. Who knew what might be living in it?

I’m very reminded of capitalists donating to particular charities while turning a blind eye to the very real exploitation and labor abuse they perpetuate and are supported by. They can afford to look virtuous and get ass-pats for giving what’s effectively their pocket change, but god forbid they do things like get taxed heavier or give enough to put a good dent in most cases of institutional poverty. It’s all about appearances, and so long as you close your mind to the golden pillars, stained with blood, your entire enterprise is supported on, you can justify any means for profit.

And what frightens me about this is... this isn’t some relic from the past. Child labor is still a thing world-wide! And plenty of capitalists rely on them, plenty of our industries rely on them, just to squeeze out extra money to gild their bottom line. And we turn a blind eye on them and ignore the moral horrors of them out of convenience, because to look those children in the eye would make us monsters. And Savine prefers not to feel like a monster, but is more than willing to keep up the hellish circumstances that churn out her money.

“None more blessed, my scripture-teacher once declared, than those who light the way for others.”

“Was that the one who fathered a child on one of his other pupils?”

“That’s him.” Zuri’s black brows thoughtfully rose. “So much for spiritual instruction.”

Zuri’s certainly got a character, being a more cynical follower of religion, huh. I wonder if she’s been disillusioned by her faith, just like Temple was. And why she went to the atheist arms of the Union. I also wonder if this isn’t a commentary on how our religious leaders end up falling short of the actual beliefs and commit to the obscene and awful while papering it over with their high position.

Zuri whipped out a cloth and wiped down a vacant section of the counter, then, as Savine sat, she slipped out the pin and whisked away her hat without disturbing a hair. She kept it close to her chest, which was prudent. Savine’s hat was probably worth more than this entire building, including the clientele. At a brief assay, they only reduced its value.

And who’s partly responsible for that discrepancy of worth, huh, Savine?

She planted one elbow on the stretch of counter Zuri had wiped so she could lean closer and draw out both syllables. “Savine.”

“That’s a lovely name.”

“Oh, if you enjoy the tip, you’ll go mad for the whole thing.”

“That so?” he purred at her. “How does it go?”

“Savine… dan…” And she leaned even closer to deliver the punchline. “Glokta.”

If a name had been a knife and she had cut his throat with hers, the blood could not have drained more quickly from his face. He gave a strangled cough, took a step back and nearly fell over one of his own barrels.

Well, well, well! Glokta’s gotten quite the name for himself, it seems! Can’t exactly be surprised, given he’s the effective ruler of the Union and the Arch Lector of the Inquisition, but it’s a far cry from the simple Inquisitor he started off as, way back at the first trilogy’s start. He’s riding high at the top and Savine gets to use his name to put the screws on random dumbfucks.

Quite theatrical with her words, Savine is! She knows when to let her opponent in, so she can skewer him. Her fencing is such that she knows how to leverage her father’s name to a fine emotional stab to the throat once her opponent dips in and she lunges for the kill. Say one thing about Savine dan Glokta, say she knows how to fence, just like her father.

“If I spent all my time shut up with Mother, we would kill each other,” said Savine. “And I feel that business should be conducted, whenever possible, in person. Otherwise one’s partners can convince themselves that one’s eyes are not on the details. My eyes are always on the details, Majir.”

Oh, dang. Is that exaggeration or do Savine and Ardee not have a good relationship? Also, dang, is Ardee still alone in her home? That’s... actually really sad, given how lonely she was at the first trilogy’s start. She deserves better. 

Also, Savine’s not wrong, but at the same time, I can’t read this as anything other than Savine not wanting her partners to fuck her over somewhere. Which, I can’t quite blame her for, but when she’s as rich as she’s implied to be...

My understanding runs thinner. Though, I suppose she wouldn’t have gotten the wealth she did by being a passive business partner that way.

“A promissory note from the banking house of Valint and Balk.”

“Really?” Valint and Balk had a dark reputation, even for a bank. Savine’s father had often warned her never to deal with them, because once you owe Valint and Balk, the debt is never done. But a promissory note was just money, and money can never be a bad thing. She tossed the pouch to Zuri, who peered inside and gave the smallest nod. “It’s coming to something when even the bandits are using the bank.”

Majir mildly raised one brow. “Honest women have the law to protect them. Bandits must take more care with their earnings.”

!!!!! WHOA, WHOA, WHOA. Is that a smart call, Majir? Glokta’s not wrong there!!! There’s half a trilogy detailing how awful that bank is! 

Savine, what are you doing. For such a ruthless and to-the-point woman, that’s pretty naive to assume money is money when your father himself warned you against it! Banks have ruined better people than you, and it’s indebted your father! How can you say something like that and think it smart?

(Bangs head against desk)

“True.” Majir watched her turn away, big fists pressed into the counter. “Do pass my regards to your father.”

Savine laughed. “Let’s not demean ourselves by pretending my father gives a dry fuck for your regards.” And she blew a kiss at the terrified barman on her way out.

This, along with her pinching Majir’s cheek earlier, makes me think Savine just gets off on punching down and patronizing people lower than her. Makes for a killer ending line, but it doesn’t suggest any good things about Savine as a person at all.

Dietam dan Kort, famed architect, was a man who gave every appearance of being in control. His desk, scattered with maps, surveys and draughtsman’s drawings, was certainly a wonder of engineering. Savine had moved among the most powerful men in the realm and still doubted she had ever seen a larger. It filled his office so completely, there was only the narrowest of passages around the edges to reach his chair. He must have needed help to squeeze himself through every morning. She wondered if she should recommend her corset-maker.

“Lady Savine,” he intoned. “What an honour.”

“Isn’t it, though?” She made him lean dangerously far across the desk in order to kiss her hand. Savine studied his, meanwhile, big and broad with fingers scarred from hard work. A self-made man. His greying hair was painstakingly scraped across a pate quite obviously bald. A proud and a vain man. She noticed a slight fraying of the cuffs on his once-splendid coat. A man in straitened circumstances, intent on appearing otherwise.

In short, a man Savine will take pleasure in wringing. And I must take note of the passages here, how much Savine’s POV attends to the details of her surroundings, of the appearance and small notes that others would miss. In a lot of ways, she’s the opposite of Leo, someone who takes pains to note the presentation of another because she’s very driven to it herself and thinks to leverage that knowledge to squeeze those who can be.

Also, I kind of wonder if noble titles can be bought in this world, given this assumption of Dietam dan Kort as a self-made man. Either that or Kort’s just a son from a smaller family who managed to get a good opportunity through this new age. Either way, given the way Savine’s accumulated her wealth, despite her noble title of Glokta, I imagine he’s similar to her, if only not as successful.

Zuri placed Majir’s pouch on the desk as delicately as if it had been deposited by a summer breeze. It looked very small on that immense expanse of green leather. But that was the magic of banks. They could render the priceless tiny, the immense worthless.

I’m reminded of Daniel Abraham’s The Dagger and the Coin and how the big twist was this dawn of paper money about to circulate throughout the world. And how it’s a sort of magic in its own right... but it’s always a blessing and curse, just like magic in the Circle of the World. 

“Of course!” He was unable to disguise a note of eager greed as he reached across the desk. “I believe we agreed a twentieth share—”

Savine placed one fingertip on the corner of the pouch. “You mentioned a twentieth. I remained silent.”

His hand froze. “Then…?”

“A fifth.”

There was a pause. While he decided how outraged he could afford to be, and Savine decided how little to appear to care.

Eager greed, huh? Me thinks, the raven call the crow black here. And there’s another note of projection in Savine’s POV, it’s a consistent note of Savine seeing intent where there might not be. She does it with the link-boy about how dirty he was, and now, she does it with Kort’s outrage. She just can’t seem to think that these reactions and people are genuine. Her head’s full of presentation and performance, and she just seems to internalize that there’s always a double-meaning to everything and everyone.

It’s honestly a really fascinating note about how unreliable Savine might be, how much her predilection with appearances bleeds into how much she reads into the world.

“When I confide, in strictest confidence, that you are short of investment, lacking the necessary permissions and troubled by restless workmen, it will be all over town before sunup.”

“Sure as printing it in a pamphlet,” said Zuri, sadly.

“Good luck finding an investor then, reasonable or otherwise.”

It had only taken a moment for Kort to go from bright red to deathly pale, and Savine burst out laughing. “Don’t be silly, I won’t do that!” She stopped laughing. “Because you are going to sign one-fifth of your enterprise over to me. Now. Then I can confide in Tilde that I just made the investment of a lifetime, and she won’t be able to resist investing herself. She’s not only loose-lipped, you see, but tight-fisted, too.”

Oh, very hard power here, Savine. Corporate blackmail and underhanded threats, I very well see. It must do your black heart a bundle of joy to punch down on fellow nobles. There’s barely any carrot here, mostly the stick.

“Greed is a quality the priests abhor.” Zuri sighed. “Especially the rich ones.”

“But so widespread these days,” lamented Savine. “If Lady Rucksted sees some gain in it, I daresay she can persuade her husband to make a breach in Casamir’s Wall so you can extend your canal into the Three Farms.” And Savine could sell the worthless slum buildings she had bought on the canal’s likely route back to herself at an immense profit. “The marshal’s notoriously stubborn for most of us but to his wife he’s a pussycat. You know how it is with old men and their young brides.”

In a lot of ways, this feels like a statement of the new generation, the new wave of greed that Sult disdained way back at the trilogy’s start is in full swing now. Now, Sult was a classist bigot who wanted the peasantry to knuckle down to nobility like old times, but at the same time, we see how much this attitude of greed has bled into the nobility themselves now, far beyond the realms of the merchants Sult once held in contempt. And Savine plays to get ahead of the others, already thinking reaches ahead of her competition here. Profit’s the name of the game, and she’s a natural hand at it...

“The first to do so.” Where it could service Savine’s three textile mills and the Hill Street Foundry, incidentally, and sharply raise their productivity. “I daresay—for a friend—I could even arrange a visit of His Majesty’s Inquisitors to a labour meeting. I imagine your troublesome workers will be far more pliable after a few stern examples are made.”

“Stern examples,” threw in Zuri, “are something the priests are always in favour of.”

... Though it doesn’t hurt to have father’s institutions as muscle to sweeten the pot, huh. Really, Savine, this is embarrassing if you think this is a fair game between you and Kort. You stacked the deck and have the dealer on your side and I imagine this wasn’t the first time you’ve leveraged the Inquisition in your business deals. (snorts)

Kort sagged, his chin settling into the roll of fat beneath it, his eyes fixed resentfully upon her. Clearly, he was not a man who liked to lose. But where would be the fun in beating men who did?

Savine really gets her kicks off punching down people lower than her. That’s like, an inherent part of her psychology, huh.

“A notary from the firm of Temple and Kahdia is already drawing up the papers. He will be in touch.” She turned towards the door.

Hey! Temple’s business! Sounds like he’s done well for himself since Red Country, I hope he’s doing well with Shy, Pit, and Ro! Though, dang, Temple, could your business not help out a woman like Savine?

“They warned me,” Kort grunted as he slid Valint and Balk’s note from the pouch. “That you care about nothing but money.”

“Why, what a pompous crowd they are. Beyond a point I passed long ago, I don’t even care about money.” Savine flicked the brim of her hat in farewell. “But how else is one to keep score?”

Oh, oh my. I know I’ve mentioned Kanedias, Bayaz, and West, but this part? This part? All Sand dan Glokta, down on a bone-deep level. This is the part of Glokta that just loved to lord his dominance over those who couldn’t punch back. The part that just loved to feel superior to everyone else, way back back at that bridge when he thrashed those fencers and wanted to wound West when his own blood was drawn. The part of him that can’t stand to lose, the need to win at all cost.

It’s all about the conquest with her and her father. There’s no higher-minded purpose behind it, it’s just the winning.

As a chapter, Keeping Score, is a microcosm of Savine’s character. There’s an arc in it, but not as strong as one as Where the Fight’s Hottest, nor is it quite as impactful as Blessings and Curses. But it has plenty of Abercrombie snark and some great starting fencing, though, with opponents that Savine can easily take down without much effort. But it sets up a great industrial age sweeping over Adua and how much that change’s going to affect the world going forward... and how Savine’s going to take that change by the tails. 

As a character... Savine’s 100% more interesting than Leo in a lot of ways, but at the same time, wow, is she just a spectacularly scummy person in most ways Leo just isn’t (aside from him being a oblivious musclehead). A capitalist who leverages her father in power plays and corporate blackmail, just to gain even more wealth that she doesn’t need out of a need to win. There are definitely interesting aspects to how Savine differs from her father and her historical DNAs, but in a lot of ways? She feels very reminiscent of pre-bridge Glokta in a way that makes me realize that man would’ve been downright insufferable as a POV. 

I can take Savine, because I definitely think she’s got a ton of potential and, you know, there’s no way Abercrombie would let her stay the same the entire book. Though, a curious thought is that Savine strikes me less a fantasy archetype than a modern archetype in a fantasy world. Hm. That’s an interesting thought, especially considering how much Temple was a modern character dropped in a fantasy western world.

PART I

Chapter One: Blessings and Curses Chapter Two: Where the Fight’s Hottest Chapter Three: Guilt Is a Luxury Chapter Four: Keeping Score Chapter Five:  A Little Public Hanging Chapter Six: The Breakers Chapter Seven: The Answer to Your Tears Chapter Eight: Young Heroes Chapter Nine: The Moment

[xserpx]

Wisdom of Crowds first chapter thoughts

(The chapter is from the UK paperback edition of TTWP).

By the dead, this book is already such a clusterfuck, and I love it!

The insights we get in this chapter are super interesting, especially with Orso, and actually when I reread his last POV chapter in TTWP after finishing this chapter, the vibe I get from it now is very different. His despondency reads more as deep, almost vindictive hatred of Leo. There is clearly jealous on both sides, and I think Orso is really beginning to fray at the edges. I thought he was quite a logical thinker, but that's been put into question by this chapter, and he def seems to be taking a darker turn.

Leo's POV was extremely unflattering, I think it made me facepalm about 3 times, which is exactly how it should be. Perhaps it's understandable for him to be so self-absorbed considering what he's going through, but it's painfully clear that his only goal was to fight and win. Stepping back and not fighting was never really an option, he craves that sense of victory. It's worrying, in that case, how much his failure doesn't matter to the rest of the world. All this praise is gonna go straight to his head and make him even more insufferable. I'm also majorly side-eyeing the fact he didn't mention Jurand or Glaward in his list of regrets. He is such a mess, though, I feel exhausted just thinking about his physical condition, let alone all his other problems, of which there are many.

To my surprise, Savine's POV was genuinely enjoyable to read. Her thoughts about her relationship with Leo were actually insightful, and I laughed out loud at this part: "The profits were good, but Harber’s reputation stank. He was the kind of brutal, exploitative owner who made it hard for everyone else to properly exploit their workers." Still as odious as ever.

I'm more convinced than ever that Savine/Orso is gonna happen. I still have no idea what's going to happen with Leo. If Hildi dies we riot. I hope these kids will get some much-needed downtime at some point. They've all been through so much these past few weeks, please let them have a nap.

Zuri and Sulfur are interesting. Why does everything feel like a game these two have been playing? Is Yoru the Weaver? Where the fuck is Bayaz and whybisn't he here?

Lastly, if this is the first chapter of TWOC and things are already this off the rails, I can't wait to find out how Rikke is faring in the North.

[beeblackburn]

Pretender Reads A Little Hatred, Part I, Chapter Eight

There are no young heroes here, just a young adult trying to go through these chapters. Goes without saying spoilers ahead for the entirety of The First Law works beyond the keep reading. Read at your own risk.

Chapter Title: Young Heroes Point-of-View: Leo dan Brock

“Bastards,” breathed Jurand, studying the valley through his eyeglass.

Leo plucked it from his hand and trained it on the ridge. Through its round window, wobbling with his own barely controlled frustration, he could see the Northmen, their spears black pinpricks against the dull sky. They hadn’t moved all morning. Maybe three score of them, thoroughly enjoying the sight of Angland’s shameful retreat. Leo thrust the eyeglass at Whitewater Jin. “Bastards.”

“Aye,” agreed Jin in his thick Northern accent, lowering the glass and thoughtfully scratching at his beard. “They’re some bastards, all right.”

Glaward slumped over his saddle bow with a groan. “Who’d have thought war could be so bloody boring?”

With a chapter title like Young Heroes and an opening like this, they set up a chapter theme about young, dumb, male soldiers realizing that the thing they idealized to all hell and heaven beyond... is actually kind of boring, less the 1% pants-shitting terror and “glory” of actual fighting, and the 99% of the time, the tedium and waiting between such set-pieces of battlefield terrors.

On a side note, this just makes me smile at how this feels like Calder and Tunny espying each other on opposite ends of the battlefield. I enjoy me some military humor, and The Heroes was just full of that side-splitting stuff. I also enjoy Red vs. Blue for similar reasons!

“Nine-tenths of war is waiting,” said Jurand. “According to Stolicus.” As though quoting a famous source made it any easier to bear.

Snrrrrk. I mean, true, read knowledge is not lived experience, but the reason people quote from famous sources is because they’re generally universal truths, recognized as such by others. Enough that we repeat them, we repeat them so much because human nature really doesn’t change that much. War doesn’t change.

And, honestly, thank god, there’s someone in Leo’s group with a brain. Thank you, Jurand, for providing a counterbalance to Leo’s relentless testosterone into these chapters.

“You’ve two choices in war,” said Barniva, “boredom or terror, and in my experience boredom’s far preferable.”

Leo was tiring of Barniva’s experience. Of his talk of horrors the rest of them couldn’t understand. Of his frowning off at the horizon as if there were haunting memories beyond. All because he’d spent eight months on campaign in Styria, and barely left Lord Marshal Mitterick’s well-guarded command post the whole time.

Hey, Mitterick! How’ve you been? Probably not well, given how Terez talked about the Styria Campaigns. (grimaces)

And, I’m definitely seeing the shape of this chapter more now. Whereas Where the Fight’s Hottest was more a deep-dive into Leo’s individual character, Young Heroes is more into fleshing out his supporting cast, his band of brothers. And here’s where they start being differentiated: Jurand’s the knowledgeable one who gets his wisdom from books and history, Barniva’s the one who’s actually lived through war and gained wisdom through practical experience.

“Not everyone’s as fashionably war-weary as you.” Leo loosened his sword in the scabbard for the hundredth time that morning then shoved it back. “Some of us want to see some action.”

“Ritter saw some action.” Barniva rubbed at his scar with a fingertip. “That’s all I’ll say.”

Leo frowned, wishing he had a scar of his own. “If war’s so terrible, why don’t you take up farming or something?”

“I tried. I was no good at it.” And Barniva frowned off at the horizon as if there were haunting memories beyond.

God, Leo, you really did learn fuck nothing from what happened with Ritter, huh. All you keep wanting to see are the blessings of war and none of the curses, even after that loss and the anguish you felt. I really hope you get that scar you want, Leo, from skull to crotch.

Barniva reminds me of Craw in his war-weary ways, in the sense that he was tired of war, but he ended up traumatized and PTSD-ridden and couldn’t easily adjust back to peace-time, ending up roped right back into it because it was what he knew and was good at.

Except far younger, I presume.

Jurand caught Leo’s eye and rolled his to the heavens, and Leo had to smother a laugh. They knew each other’s minds so well they hardly even needed words.

Welp. So much for Jurand having the brain. Not that I didn’t laugh, but that’s because of the prose, these young men really should know better than to laugh off a more experienced man’s words. Jurand and Leo must really be close friends, if they have that sort of connection.

“Bastards.” Antaup tossed back that loose lock of dark hair that always hung across his forehead and right away it flopped down again. He was the one the girls couldn’t leave alone, slick and quick and well groomed as a winning racehorse, but all of Leo’s friends were fine-looking men in their own ways. Jin was fierce as the Bloody-Nine in a fight, but when that toothy grin split his red beard and those blue eyes twinkled, it was like the sun coming out. You couldn’t deny Barniva made the brooding veteran act work for him, especially with the scar on his forehead and the white streak it had left in his hair. Then Glaward was a slab of good-humoured manliness, with the height, and the shoulders, and the stubble already thick an hour after he shaved.

As handsome a crowd of young heroes as you could hope to find. What a painting they’d make! Maybe Leo would get one commissioned. Who’d know an artist? He found himself glancing sideways.

Riiiiiiight, “fine-looking men” and “the sun coming out,” huh. Wanting a painting, right? By the dead, is this as unsubtle as a truck rammed clean through a warehouse door. There’s definitely a narrative point to these descriptions, fleshing out Leo’s crew in the details so that we grow more attached to them, but my god, from a character standpoint, how can anyone read this and not come out of it thinking Leo is a very gay or, at least, bi-curious man? 

Which brings the question: does Leo know? I lean towards no, given how oblivious he generally is and there’s no conscious attraction register in his voice, but geez.

Which, are we really doing this, Abercrombie? Writing a gay/bi man who’s also dealing with toxic masculinity? There is no way a writer as meticulous as Abercrombie would accidentally write a LGBT+ character. I’m definitely game for it, but why did you have to make the most oblivious male point-of-view so far attracted to guys, man. 

(craughes in anguish and hilarity pain) What the fuck, Abercrombie, you shit.

Also, hey, another Bloody-Nine mention! Those are always fun! I guess he must’ve heard them, being at the Dogman’s place, during meals.

The ladies in Ostenhorm might not see it, but Jurand was the best-looking of the pack. They might’ve called his features soft, beside Glaward’s cleft chin or Antaup’s sharp cheekbones, but Leo thought of them more as… delicate? Subtle? The slightest bit vulnerable, even? But you’d find no one tougher than Jurand in defence of his friends. The expressiveness he could pack into a glance. The little frown as he thought something through. The twitch at the corner of his lips as he leaned close to say it. And always something worth hearing. Something nobody else would’ve—

Jurand glanced sideways and Leo looked quickly away, back up towards those Northmen on the ridge.

“Bastards,” he said, a little hoarse.

“Something nobody else would’ve—” what, Leo? (grins) I’m listening.

Right. So. Leo definitely isn’t aware he’s got gay/bi feelings. And he’s definitely got closeted feelings for Jurand, or I’ll eat his mud-drenched boot. I mean, come on, he fixates a lot of small details of Jurand, understands enough of his body language to know what will comes after each, even knows the emotional details on his face...

Too bad Leo is as thick as a brick. Which is a shame, because this is honestly pretty cute and the most I’ve related to Leo thus far. It’s a nice note between Leo and Jurand. I just hope, once Leo realizes it, he doesn’t obliviously charge into a confession and get rejected by Jurand. But, with Abercrombie, who knows. The Circle of the World isn’t that nice.

“And all we can do is sit here,” grumbled Antaup, having a little rummage to unstick his balls. “Like caged lions.”

“Like leashed puppies.” Glaward wrestled the eyeglass from Antaup’s hand. “Where the hell have you been, anyway?”

“Just… checking on the baggage.”

Jin snorted. “With a woman?”

“Not necessarily.” Antaup’s grin seemed to have twice as many teeth as a regulation mouth. “Could’ve been several. A man has to find something to stave off the despair. Who’d have thought war could be so bloody boring?”

(arches an eyebrow) An Eater like Yoru Sulfur? Antaup’s behavior doesn’t strike me as a lie, but maybe it’s a cover-up? Either way, what a ladies’ bone-head, you guys really think war is all glory and girls, as if you didn’t soak yourself through blood and rain awhile ago? Jurand and Barniva are really carrying this group’s brain cell count, aren’t they.

Barniva looked up. “You’ve two choices in—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll stab you,” said Leo.

Snrrrk. Okay, that was kind of funny.

Leo could usually rely on some cheering when the common soldiers saw him. A few shouts of, “The Young Lion!” so he could shake a fist and slap a back and bellow some nonsense about the king. Now the men struggled past in silence with their eyes on the mud, and with no help yet from Midderland, even Leo was a lot less inspired by royalty than he used to be. It seemed the days of warrior-kings like Harod the Great and Casamir the Steadfast were far in the past, and supplies of patriotic bluster were running dangerously short.

I mean, given what Bayaz said about Harod and, more incisively, what Shenkt himself thinks of his former self... are those really models to emulate, Leo? I suppose I can’t really blame him, mostly because a kingdom that doesn’t help out its beaten men can’t help but look useless under that light.

On another note, it says something when Jezal’s reign even has the nobility a bit chafed, even despite Bayaz’s efforts to make Jezal look a warrior-king. After a point, substance really needs to be beneath the image you present outward. Though, I suppose those failed Union-Styria campaigns don’t help.

“I’d never argue with your mother on strategy,” grunted Antaup, “but constant retreat is no good for men’s spirits.”

“Taste o’ victory would soon perk ’em up,” said Whitewater.

“Perk us up, too.” Glaward nudged his horse closer to Leo, dropping his voice. “Be easy to teach those bastards a lesson.” And he bunched one big, veiny fist and punched at the air with it. “Like we did at that farm.”

There is a sound military logic to staving off low morale as much as possible. People won’t fight as hard under low morale, starving and cold and feeling like their king doesn’t care for them, as much as high spirits. A strong leader can help inspire more heat and blood out of their people than constant retreat. 

But...

Leo fiddled with the pommel of his sword, loosening it in the scabbard again. He could remember every detail of the charge. Ripping wind and thundering hooves. The axe-haft jolting in his hand. The fear-stricken faces of the enemy. The giddy joy as they broke and ran.

Jurand had that little crease of worry between his brows. “We’ve no idea what’s behind that ridge.”

Leo thought of Ritter’s funeral. The words by the grave. The weak-chinned wife weeping by the fireside. Men’s lives were in his hands. These men’s lives, who’d ride through fire for him. His friends. His brothers. He couldn’t stand to lose another.

“Jurand’s right.” He slapped his sword back, forced his hand away from the hilt. “We don’t know what’s behind that ridge. And mother would kill me.”

Hey! Turns out Ritter managed to sink in, just a little! Good for you, Leo! I managed to tolerate your musclehead existence just a little more! You might make a respectable middle-rung military man someday.

And, beyond the cute detail that Leo was clearly paying attention to Jurand beforehand to notice that little crease, it says good things that Leo’s willing to pay mind to sense when it comes from his best friend.

Good moment, even if you were briefly tempted by the lure of more battle for a moment. 

“We did all right against Stour Nightfall’s men last week,” grumbled Leo.

“Nightfall is over on our right just now.” She swished her baton towards the South, making him wince again. There was just something off about a woman waving a baton around, even if she was in command for now. “Those are Black Calder’s men. And Calder is not a warrior, like his son.” She raised one brow at Leo. “Or mine. Calder is a thinker, like me. You see those woods, over to the right? He has horsemen there, waiting for us to make a fool’s mistake.”

Ugh, Leo, I actually grew to tolerate you more for a second. Please don’t push some gross patriarchal bullshit onto us. It’s not cute, it’s dumb, and diminishing of the fierce women in this series and how much your mother’s been holding up the Angland boat as best as she could.

Also, YES, that’s my dumb Calder boy! Being all cunning and tactical, trying to out-think the others on the battlefield! Except, now, he’s got a worthy opponent in Finree. Though, I definitely wonder if Calder brushed up on his military tactics post-The Heroes. He was certainly fine and exercising some sound military logic back then, but this feels like a step-up from looking at the ground and exploiting loss of military intelligence.

Leo should’ve been pleased at his own good judgement. Instead he felt angry at missing the obvious. “So we just sit here and let them laugh at us?”

“I wouldn’t want them to miss the show.” His mother nodded towards the straggling column, thrown into even more disarray by a puddle in the track. “I put our shabbiest men in this valley with orders to march as badly as they could.”

“You did what?”

“Let them laugh, Leo. Their laughter will leave no widows weeping. We have our best companies out of sight in the valley behind. If they come, we’ll be ready.” She leaned from her saddle to push back his hair. “What’s this?”

Leo really has to learn to let go of a moment’s humiliation in order to seize the last laugh. All part of that toxic masculinity deconstruction, I see, and I suppose Leo’s still got a long’s way ahead of him in terms of learning that. Better a living laugh than the yawning of a corpse, Leo. Always.

“Nothing,” he said, brushing her hands away from the scab. “I was training. With Antaup and Barniva.”

“Finally managed to land one on him,” said Antaup, grinning.

Jurand cleared his throat and Leo’s mother frowned. “Tell me he didn’t fight you both at once.”

Antaup’s famous way with the ladies clearly didn’t include lady governors. “Well… not as such—”

“When will you learn you’ll never beat two strong men together?”

“I saw Bremer dan Gorst do it,” said Leo.

“That man’s no model for anything,” she snapped. “Think of your father. He was brave, none braver, but between your grandfather’s treason and the weakness of Angland when he took charge, he learned to be patient. He knew what he was good at. He never had too high an opinion of himself.”

BURN. And who better from than someone who told off Gorst about what a shithead he is? 

I love me some Finree, she’s so on-point throughout this book, just toppling these masculine egos, left to right. She’s such a great part of what makes Leo’s  testosterone poisoning so bearable down to brass tacks.

Though, gods, Leo... please don’t tell me you look up to Gorst and that’s you decided to go one-vs-two? I actually think there’s some wisdom in learning how to fight against multiple men at the same time, but if that’s the reason? 

Leo, please. Don’t be another fool like your fellow musclehead Glaward.

“You’re saying I do?”

Jurand cleared his throat again and Leo’s mother laughed. “You know I love you, Leo, but yes, painfully so. Still, it’s hardly a surprise you turned out hotheaded. You were conceived on a battlefield.”

Leo caught Glaward and Barniva grinning at each other and felt himself blushing. “Do you have to, Mother?”

“I don’t have to. Honestly, every generation seems to think coupling is some grand new invention never thought of before. How they believe they came into being in the first place is entirely beyond me. High time you found a wife of your own. Someone to keep you out of trouble.”

Huh! Was he literally born during The Heroes' time then? That still makes me wonder why he hasn’t gotten the Lord Governor position yet. He should be of age, no?

Also, shit, Leo, you really had to ask that? If your head was any bigger, you’d fill the entirety of Angland yourself. I’d put good odds on it being denser than the soil there too.

Also, “someone to keep you out of trouble”? I thought that was Jurand’s job, don’t think I missed that cleared throat, hehehe.

“I thought that was your job,” he grumbled.

“I have a war to fight.”

“That’s the problem. You’re not bloody fighting.”

“Did you never read that Verturio I gave you? Not fighting is what war’s all about.” And taking the last word, as ever, she trotted off westwards with her retinue following.

Jurand cleared his throat yet again and Leo rounded on him. “Could you just bloody cough and get it over with?”

“Well, the lady governor always makes some very good points. And you really should read Verturio—”

Snrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrk. Oh, Jurand, you are precious with your throat clearing. And nice to know you’ve got enough bone to speak some good sense opposite to what Leo wants to hear.

Huh! Well, that certainly answers one question from the last Leo chapter! Sounds like Finree’s brushed up on her military leaders. And it doesn’t surprise me that Verturio’s her choice of leader, given how much more cunning Verturio ran, compared to Stolicus’ more honest and morally upstanding leader.

Honestly, Finree, you’re better off giving Leo more Stolicus, he’s more likely to take that to heart than Verturio and, especially, Farans and Bayaz Bialoveld.

“She’s only governor until the king confirms me in my father’s place.” Three years since the funeral, and Leo was still bloody waiting. He glared across the valley at those bastard Northmen, watching from their ridge. “Then I can do things my way.”

Oooh, details confirmed! Hal died three years ago, huh? And, wait, Leo wasn’t automatically recognized as Lord Governor? Why was that? What’s Glokta’s motive for that?

Also, damn, Leo, don’t get sulky. Don’t think I didn’t notice how you decided to itch for a fight now, despite not wanting to earlier, after your mother came and emasculated you. Leo here just strikes me as a dude who does everything contrary to his parent, just to get a rise out of them, and it’s frankly more childish than most of Rikke’s whining. You really think your way won’t get a bunch of your men killed sooner, given how you’re handling things now? Learn some damn restraint and tactics, Young Lion!

“Mmm.” Jurand had that worried crease between his brows again.

“Whose side are you on?”

“The Union side, along with you and your mother.”

Leo couldn’t help grinning. “Very reasonable, as always.”

Jurand grinned back. “Someone needs to be.”

Jurand, you’re a peerless jewel, and I love you.

And good to know that Leo has a decent sense of humor. He definitely strikes me as a frat bro with a sword in the sense that he’ll get all huffy and heated when a woman cuts him down, but he’ll allow a ton of wisecracks from his friends, deserved or not (but definitely deserved here and, let’s face it, a blanket rest of the time because Leo’s brain seems to be mostly muscle, partly heart, and heavy with sharpened steel).

“Reasonable men might live longer.” Leo pulled his gloves off and tossed them over, left Jurand juggling them as he swung down from his saddle. “But does anyone remember the bastards afterwards?”

Reasonable men also have less dead friends, Leo. And most people in the Circle of the World would prefer a breathing life to a life only in the stories and songs. As the Bloody-Nine would say, “You got to be realistic,” you battle-hungry fool. 

The drummer boy at the head of the next company had given up playing altogether, shambling along with knees knocking against his drum, teeth chattering from the cold. He looked up as Leo came close and snatched his white hands from his armpits, but fumbled his sticks and sent them tumbling to the dirt.

Leo stooped and plucked them up before the boy could bend, gripped them in his teeth while he shrugged off his cloak and offered it out. “I’ll swap you.”

“My lord?” The boy could hardly believe his luck as he wriggled from the strap of his drum and swaddled himself in several dozen marks’ worth of best Midderland wool.

Say one thing about Leo dan Brock, say he instinctively knows how to improve his men’s morale without a battle. Good to know, military-wise, there’s more than a fist in his brain, a legit natural-born leader in Leo and someone who could legitimately be a great man in his own right. (snaps fingers and sighs) We just gotten knock out that pesky charge-happy mentality of his... 

A leader should share the hardships of his men, his father used to tell him. He’d have a dry tent, a warm fire and a good dinner this evening, while they’d be lucky to get a blanket and a bowl of soup. But if he could put a little spring in their step on the way, it would be something. Something for them, and something for him. Something to show those bastards on the hill.

That, and Leo had always been the worst man in the world when it came to doing nothing.

“I’ll try to remember how to play,” he called over his shoulder, “if you lot can remember how to march!”

“I’m no genius like Jurand,” called Glaward, turning so he was trotting backwards, “but as I recall, it’s one foot after the other!”

“We’ll give it a try, my lord!” called a thickset sergeant, the men already moving faster.

Leo smiled as he started to tap out the rhythm. “That’s all I ask.”

Yup, Hal’s advice strikes close to Stolicus here:

“A captain looks first to the comfort of his men, then to his own.”

And here’s Leo, when he’s just with his men, trying to improve their morale, even if his motives are a bit more selfish than first blush. Men of action not need to be solely men of fighting only. They have to inspire their men beyond every battle’s victory. Times like this, I definitely see the leader Finree believes and wants her son to be, if not for his thundering stubbornness in the face of a good military sense.

Leo’s still got a book to improve beyond this though, so let’s hope for the best.

As a chapter, Young Heroes details Leo’s relationship with his men as a unit, fleshing them out as characters, such as Antaup, Barniva, and, especially, Jurand. Theme-wise, it’s all about the tedium of war after the thundering blood-rush and glory of Where the Fight’s Hottest, about what happens when young heroes have to be face-to-face with the most boring reality of war. It details Leo’s genuine good qualities as a leader and slowly shows him learning from Ritter’s death, but, on a more fruitful and interesting note, it sets up him having an attraction to men, which is... mmm. Definitely interesting, combined with his toxic masculinity, also shown with his interacting with his mother.

At least Leo made me bang my head against a wall less this time.

PART I

Chapter One: Blessings and Curses Chapter Two: Where the Fight’s Hottest Chapter Three: Guilt Is a Luxury Chapter Four: Keeping Score Chapter Five:  A Little Public Hanging Chapter Six: The Breakers Chapter Seven: The Answer to Your Tears Chapter Eight: Young Heroes Chapter Nine: The Moment