A/N: Thanks for all the reviews so far! They make this author very happy. Also, there will be mentions of war violence for the next few chapters.
Disclaimer: -points to FMA- Still not mine. Damn.
Chapter Four -- Haunted Flares
They adhered to the plan -- the real one, not the decoy announced in the station -- as soon as the last man was out of the shadow of Calavis and the surrounding hills. The train station's platform had been on flat ground, but the surrounding land resembled nothing more than a collection of giant pebbles pressed into each other. As they descended away from the city, the going became treacherous, with no paved roads and rocky ground covered by thick layers of snow and ice. At one point, the path narrowed until only three men could walk comfortably side by side, and the natural walls rose high on both sides, capped by frozen water that not even the change of seasons could erase. Riza watched in vague amusement as Major Corsair reached out a gloved hand to brush the ice.
He's just a kid, isn't he?
Under different circumstances, she and Roy would have already discussed at length the young alchemist and everything else that had occurred. Her auburn eyes, clear even in their desolation, rested upon Roy's back as he walked wordlessly next to Kansan. It was a mark of how far he'd slipped away from her that they hadn't talked about Winry. He'd been colder than ever the previous night, and she could only guess what he was feeling. Anger, at the kidnappers and Kansan. Determination to make things right. Something towards her, she hoped. Guilt, because that was how Roy dealt with everything. She let out one shaky breath, and unclenched a fist she hadn't been aware of making.
At least he was still thinking clearly, regardless of what his mental state might be. It had been Roy who first wondered about the connections of the lonely ticket-man, and how Anya Gorsky knew the exact time they would be arriving.
Out on the hilly white-flecked plains of Drachma, they split up. To keep their cover, Fuery would take ten men into a nearby town to the west, asking if anyone had information. The remaining troops would be split in three: one division led by Kansan, one led by Roy and Langston, one led by Riza and Jean. They would approach Porra from the east, the north, and the west, respectively, since there was no guarantee that the terrain would allow access. They couldn't afford to stick together. It was Kansan who decided on this portion of the plan, and Roy has reluctantly agreed. Ralph Kansan was an unpleasant bastard on his good days, but he knew strategy.
As icy rock crunched beneath Riza's boots, she wondered if things would ever get back to normal.
Well, she reasoned, with a cynical twitch of her lips, as normal as we ever were.
"Excuse me." A rude voice, and one Sheska was accustomed to hearing. Had she taken her eyes from the book on 18th century warfare strategies, she would have seen a tall, severe-faced woman striding down the aisle towards her.
Sheska hadn't been in her old favorite place since Kain Fuery asked her to dinner two months ago. It was the last aisle before the private conference rooms, and no one came back here. The books on the shelves were outdated reference books, some going back to before Sheska was born. It was where she used to come to read in private after -- and sometimes in the middle of -- work. The light back here was both natural and artificial, and the single wooden stool was perfect for a lonely bookworm with hours of free time.
"Why aren't you sorting the new non-fiction?"
The firm footsteps paused before her, and Sheska looked up to see the angry, pale visage of Mrs. Macchi, the deputy librarian and her direct superior. To be fair, the frequency of this situation in the past probably justified her anger.
"Well? What excuse do you have this time?" She folded her arms.
"Let's see… I couldn't find my gloves this morning, so my hands were frozen stiff for about an hour. When I got here, there was a little boy crying and looking for his mother. Turns out she had wandered to the third floor without telling him. I was late, looking for my gloves, so I didn't have time to get coffee, so I'm tired as all hell. I can't sleep. I tripped and nearly killed myself trying to get here on time. Oh, and my boyfriend and my best friend are in mortal danger, and I'm not sure how much I should be blaming myself. I have no idea if either of them are even alive. Is that a good enough excuse for you?" Her voice was shrill and not very library-friendly by the time she finished.
"Take the rest of the day off, Sheska."
She managed to keep the tears from spilling onto the book until Mrs. Macchi was well on her way back towards the front desk.
The glare was reflecting off the snow by the time one group reached the eastern edge of Porra. Someone with more imagination might have been able to see what the compact industrial city had once been, with its grand buildings still intact and its wide streets to accommodate a blossoming population. The metal of the roofs was dull, but some would have imagined shine. Ralph Kansan was not that someone; he only saw a potential battleground.
From the ridge where they stood, almost the entire valley metropolis could be seen. To his left and to his right, some of the younger soldiers were gazing down in awe. Ralph's temper flared. Surely this was not the time to act like tourists.
With a careful eye, he could make out several chimneys that were still smoking. Most were near the edges of Porra, small houses probably being used by vagrants. A good distance away from them and closer to the center, however, there was a large building of some sort, surrounded by smaller houses. The chimney was in use, and Kansan's sixth sense tingled. Was this his chance?
He'd assigned Langston Corsair to go along with Mustang after realizing that he'd need a more subtle approach to reel the boy in. Corsair might be obvious in his actions and his words, but he wasn't entirely dense. Ralph had decided to turn the boy towards him by turning Langston against Roy Mustang. And there was no better way to begin doing that than to force the other General to do a little unwelcome babysitting. He allowed himself a little satisfaction before turning to the soldiers.
"There's been a slight change of plans," he drawled. "The two of you are to find out as much information as you can about that building. You will be silent and invisible, and you will report back to me within the hour. Is that clear?"
Two of the men, one of whom looked scarcely older than Langston, exchanged glances before saluting him.
"Good." He watched them off as they descended the steep slope into Porra. "We wait here," he said to the remaining ten or so men. Ralph refrained from adding, "No matter what."
For the first time since they had arrived in the old house, Winry's breath fogged the air when she woke up. The windows were closed and there were no drafts she could feel… so the room simply shouldn't be this cold. She looked to the fireplace; it had been extinguished. That would explain it, but it didn't explain why. Weren't hostages generally kept alive, in exchange for whatever was desired? Surely they would freeze to death after a day or so of this.
The door opened, and the man sitting in the wooden chair turned to greet the red-haired man who had spoken to Winry last night. Beside Winry, Elizabeth pulled her shivering son close. The unsavory character and his friend watched the Drachmans warily.
"My name is Alexander Gorsky," began the red-haired man, "but I'm no one special. Some of you are probably wondering why you're here… some of you can already guess. I'll tell you, just so there is no confusion later. There is, on high land to the south of us, a city by the name of Calavis."
The unsavory character gave a start, and glared at Gorsky. "You worthless bastard," he spat.
"Most of the land of that city and much of the surrounding area is owned by an Amestrian. This man took advantage of our misfortunes, took what had belonged to our community for generations, and took all the morale of our people. He mined for silver and drilled for oil on the land that was ours for hundreds of years, and took the profits, needlessly, for himself. He gave us nothing more than what he was legally bound to in wages. He destroyed what was left of us. His name is Kurt Fieldling, and he's sitting right in front of me."
"You are a worthless piece of shit spawned from shit, Gorsky." Fieldling struggled with the ropes binding him, and Winry watched him in revulsion. Unsavory in a variety of ways, it seemed…
Alexander smiled in a feral way, showing even teeth. "Bind his legs, Roman." The other man moved forward, and Fieldling nearly kicked him.
"Stay away from me, you bastards."
"None of that, now." Gorsky pulled a handgun and aimed it squarely at Fieldling's broad chest.
"Can't kill me, can you?" The other man taunted. "You would've done that already."
Alexander looked over to Winry, and in the moment before he pointed the gun at her, she almost saw an apology in his light eyes. She shuddered, unable to look away. "I will kill her unless you let my friend tie your legs."
"Kill the little tart. I don't care," Fieldling sneered.
Pure hatred towards Kurt Fieldling curled into Winry's mind between fear for her life and the sense of injustice here. She looked straight at Gorsky, determined that she wouldn't make this easy for him.
Alexander clicked the safety off and pulled the trigger. Kurt Fieldling screamed as the bullet tore through the flesh of his right foot.
"Bind his legs, Roman."
Getting into the ghost town of Porra from the west was not easy going; Havoc had already fallen twice. There were small pieces of ice inside his boots, rubbing against his legs. He inwardly cursed himself for not bringing matches. This was clearly a bad time to try and quit smoking.
Both he and Riza were panting by the time they reached a good vantage point. Behind them, the enlisted men were doing the same, trying to catch their breath. From here, the whole city was laid out like a three dimensional map. He busied himself trying to memorize main streets and side streets, large buildings and open spaces, anything that could possibly help them if they had to engage in combat within the valley.
"Are you all right?" He asked, not realizing until too late how many ways that could be interpreted.
"I'm fine, Havoc," she replied, with no indication that his question might have had a deeper meaning. He let out a sigh.
"I hope Winry is alright." He sat down on a large slab of rock. "Sheska's got to be worried sick about this by now."
"I hope everyone is alright… what did you say?" She turned to him sharply.
"About Winry?" He tried to relax. Maybe she was too distracted.
"No. About Sheska. How does Sheska know that Winry's out here?"
Shit. "I don't know; she must have guessed or something --"
"Sheska knew… she told you. She must have told you before we even left Central… before we even got on the train. You knew about this for at least a full day, and you didn't see the need to tell anyone?" Riza hadn't raised her voice above normal, but she was practically trembling with anger.
"Sheska didn't tell me," he spluttered. "She told Fuery, and Fuery told me right before everyone else found out."
"Fuery? Why would she…" Havoc saw a flash of understanding in her eyes. "Oh."
He nodded. "She didn't want him to tell anyone, because it was just a feeling she had. She didn't know for sure. Fuery wanted to tell Mustang, but I convinced him not to. I told him it wouldn't make any difference, because we're already doing everything we can." He lowered his voice. "I don't think any of us needed to have personal stakes in this."
She turned away from him suddenly, and continued her own observation of Porra. Their icy silence was soon broken.
"Havoc." She sounded surprised, and he got to his feet to walk over to her.
"Yes?"
"Do you see the building with the smoking chimney?"
"Yes."
She narrowed her eyes. "I see people walking towards it."
He squinted, and made out two tiny blobs crossing the street, getting closer to what might be their destination. But something was odd…
"Tell me if I'm wrong, but those look like our men, Havoc."
Though her eyesight was better than his, Havoc did see that the two figures were clad in blue. "Why? We were supposed to stay back until all of us were in position." He got one of the enlisted men to pass him a pair of binoculars. "That's us, for sure." He looked through the lenses to the north rim of the valley. "And Mustang and Corsair aren't there yet."
"What the hell is going on?" Riza whispered, looking at him intently.
"I don't know… Mustang wouldn't do this. I --"
"But Ralph Kansan would," she said grimly.
"No…" Yes, Havoc's mind argued.
"This is the man who trained Frank Archer," she said, in a tone of forced calm. "And we know what he was capable of."
In the center of Porra, the house with the smoking chimney exploded.
The north side of the valley was the lowest slope besides the south, and that should have made for easy going. It didn't.
While the east and the west sides were almost straight lines going towards the sky, the north side was distinguished by having dozens of small hills, undulations of the earth made treacherous by the climate.
The day seemed to stretch on forever as Roy, Langston, and the enlisted men passed through groves of evergreen trees, patches of loose rock, frozen streams, and just about everything else that nature could conspire to bring against them.
By the time they came to a wide river, frozen over except in the very middle, Langston had never been more exhausted in his life. Every breath of the thinning air hurt his chest. He had fallen, in some way, a humiliating seven times, and Mustang wouldn't let them rest for a minute. Langston might have complained, if only he could spare the oxygen necessary to do so.
They came to a halt, finally, at the river's bank. It wound, curving through the uneven land, for as far as the eye could see in either direction. The other groups might be in position already, depending on how hard their ground was to cover. It was essential that Mustang's group made it to the northern lip of the valley; all of the troops would converge there if something unforeseen should happen.
"How are we going to get through here, sir?" He asked.
"I was just going to tell you that, Major," Roy remarked dryly. "I can melt the ice in this part of the river, and we can wade through." He pulled off one of the thick wool gloves they all wore to reveal a white glove with a red transmutation circle on the back. "I hope you don't mind getting your feet wet."
"I don't mind," replied Langston, with a crooked smile. "But I do have a better idea."
Roy raised the thin eyebrow not covered by his eyepatch.
Langston knelt down by the bank and pulled a small knife from his pocket. Leaning over the ice, he carved a basic circle into it, then started drawing other patterns inside. Circles upon smaller circles, triangles upon straight lines, all connected in some way. He could feel eyes upon his back as he took off his own gloves and pressed his bare hands to the ice.
Blue-white light highlighted the circle, swirled up from within it, then shot off towards the opposite bank, a good thirty feet away. The line thickened, then created a twin a couple feet downstream. The two lines arched, and raised themselves, and became short walls that were suspended off from the middle of the river. Langston beamed as the light receded, leaving a simple arching bridge over the frozen river.
It was made entirely of ice, from the railings to the exterior, which had the indented appearance of brick. The path itself was rough, for traction, and the corners were adorned with small globes. They were made of ice, of course, so they had no purpose.
"Let's go," was what the General said. They all proceeded across in silence, some of which Langston hoped was awe. He didn't like to think of himself as being arrogant, but he was damn proud of this. It didn't crack at all under their collective weight. The kid inside him wanted to jump and whoop, but he tucked the happiness away for a more appropriate time.
After the river, it was only a short distance to the rim of the valley. The city below was a bit blurry to Langston, even with his glasses. He walked down a little, studying the abandoned metropolis.
It was beautiful, really. Whoever had designed the place had done so with a clear vision in mind, because the product showed it. Straight, wide roads. Taller buildings close to the center, if his eyes weren't deceiving him. He could easily imagine people walking those streets, laughing and talking… but most of them were dead, weren't they? A wave of sympathy washed over him.
"That was good work, Major," said a cool voice behind him.
"Thank you, sir." He turned around to see Mustang watching him closely.
"Even if you did show off."
Langston grinned, then winced slightly. "Yeah, I know."
"Don't think that --"
Both their heads snapped back to Porra as one of the larger buildings exploded, sending a cloud of flames and then smoke into the air.
"And now, you." Alexander pointed the gun at the other male hostage as Kurt Fieldling's profanity-laded screams echoed from the hallway. "Elliot Wicker."
"You don't need me," said the small man, who appeared even smaller when he was cringing against the wall. "You have Kurt."
"Allow me to introduce Mr. Wicker, politician and business partner of Mr. Fieldling." Gorksy turned towards Winry, Elizabeth, and little Leonard. "He is the one who seems to make all the technicalities of buying land just disappear, when the mood strikes him." Contempt, darkened by rage, dripped from his voice.
"Why am I here? You don't need me." He was whining, now, and Winry thought he resembled nothing so much as a rodent.
"You are here in case your associate and my associates cannot come to an agreement," stated Alexander.
Wicker paled. "And why are they here?" He inclined his head towards the other hostages. Elizabeth was covering her son's face.
"They are here as leverage in the case of the worst possible scenario."
"Which is what?" This was definitely a man used to talking.
From somewhere not too far away, there was the sound of an explosion. Up on the mantelpiece, above the fire that had been put out sometime before dawn this morning, an old picture frame rattled and shook. It contained a black and white photo of two small children, presumably brother and sister. Winry watched as it skated close to the edge, overbalanced, and fell to the floor below with the crash and tinkle of broken glass.