CHAPTER 38: SALT MINES AND SHORT SWORDS
FIELD NOTE:
The north does not welcome you.
It audits you.
If you fail, it files you under “dead.”
The fjords swallow sound.
That is the first thing I notice.
The sea turns steel-gray. The wind turns sharp. The cliffs rise like teeth, white-streaked and mean. Fog drapes over everything like a wet blanket that hates you personally.
Livi carries us between the cliff walls without effort. Her back cuts through water like a blade through cloth. Spray hits my face and instantly freezes on my lashes.
Lyra sits behind me, wrapped in her cloak, pretending she isn’t impressed.
Pyon blinks from scale ridge to scale ridge like he is testing if cold can kill him.
…cold bad
“Yes,” I whisper. “Cold bad.”
Livi’s mind presses into mine, contempt smooth as deep water.
The north is honest. It kills quickly.
Lyra snorts.
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said,” she mutters.
Livi does not deny it.
The leviathan slows near a narrow inlet where the water turns dark and still. A small dock juts out from the rocks like someone tried to build a place to stand and the land refused.
A cluster of smoke rises inland.
Not city smoke.
Not war smoke.
Just a thin, desperate thread of “we are still alive.”
Lyra squints toward it.
“People,” she says.
I nod.
“Maybe useful people,” I whisper.
Lyra’s eyes narrow.
“You’re going to do that thing,” she says.
“What thing,” I ask.
“The thing where you can’t walk past a problem without adopting it,” she says.
Livi’s contempt presses in.
He will. He cannot stop.
Lyra points at me.
“See,” she says. “Even water agrees.”
I sigh.
“Okay,” I mutter. “We check.”
We land.
Livi shifts into human form on the shore like it costs her nothing. Blue hair catches the gray light. Her bare feet touch snow and the snow hisses, melting under her.
Lyra glares at her.
“I still hate the name,” Lyra says.
Livi’s eyes narrow.
I hate your mouth.
Lyra smiles.
“I like you,” she says, and that sentence lands like a threat.
I start walking inland before they start bonding more by insulting me.
The snow is hard packed, crusted over ice. The ground crunches under my boots. The air tastes like salt and pine resin.
My system pings.
[REGION DISCOVERED]
Whitecap Fjords
[NEW SKILL ACQUIRED]
Cold Survival (Rank F)
Good.
Needed.
We crest a low ridge and see them.
A sled.
Half buried.
One runner snapped.
Three settlers huddle around a low fire that can barely keep up with the wind. Their clothes are patched fur and salt-stained cloth. One man has his boot off and his foot is pale and angry.
Frostbite.
They look up when we approach.
Hands go to knives.
Then they freeze.
Because Lyra exists like a walking warning sign.
And Livi exists like a mistake you do not want to make twice.
A woman steps forward, spear trembling.
“Stay back,” she says.
Her voice is strong, but her eyes are tired.
“We’re not here to take,” I say quickly. “We’re traveling. You’re stranded.”
She lifts her spear higher.
“We’re fine,” she lies.
Lyra’s gaze flicks to the man’s foot.
“You’re not fine,” she says, blunt.
The woman flinches.
Lyra steps closer, then stops herself. Her heat rises instinctively.
The man with frostbite winces as the warmth hits his skin.
Lyra notices and forces the heat down again, tighter, controlled. She kneels near the fire at a safe distance.
“Show me,” she says, like she is asking permission but also not.
The woman hesitates.
Then she gestures, small.
The man holds his foot out.
Lyra’s eyes narrow.
“That’s early enough,” she says. “We can save it.”
The man’s face cracks.
Hope and shame in the same breath.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
I drop my pack and go to work because I have a skill for everything except relaxing.
Cooking S.
Cold Survival F.
Crafting S.
I pull a stew ration pack from inventory. The Cinderhold pressure stew rations. Still warm, sealed.
Lyra glances at it.
“You have emergency god stew,” she says.
“Emergency champion stew,” I correct.
Lyra rolls her eyes.
I open the ration and pour it into their pot.
Then I add snowmelt water.
Livi flicks her fingers and the water clarifies like the ocean is offended by impurities.
Lyra stares.
“You’re helping,” Lyra says.
Livi’s eyes narrow.
I am bored.
Lyra snorts.
“Sure,” she says.
I stir and push heat into the pot with a tiny controlled flame from Lyra. Not enough to scare them. Just enough to get it simmering.
The smell hits fast.
Meat.
Salt.
Warmth.
The woman’s eyes widen. Her spear lowers a hair.
I hand them bowls.
They eat like they forgot what hot food feels like.
My system pings.
[SKILL EXP]
Cold Survival +12%
Cooking +4%
Alehouse Rapport +3%
Lyra gives the man’s foot careful warmth, slow, so the tissue does not die from shock. She looks like she hates being gentle, which means she is doing it right.
The woman watches us, still guarded.
“You’re not guild,” she says.
“No,” I say. “We’re looking for someone.”
Her eyes sharpen.
“Who,” she asks.
I decide to not be mysterious.
“A man with a shield,” I say. “Quiet. Serious. Looks like he could stop an avalanche by glaring at it.”
Lyra makes a small amused sound.
The woman’s expression shifts.
Not amusement.
Fear.
My stomach tightens.
“That description,” she says, voice rough, “fits someone.”
I lean in.
“Where,” I ask.
She hesitates.
Detective brain wakes up.
Her eyes flick to the snapped sled runner. Rope marks on the wood. Not from hauling. From tying.
Her wrist has a bruise in the shape of fingers.
Not cold bruise.
Grip bruise.
Someone stopped them before they got stranded.
Someone searched them.
Someone decided they were not worth taking.
I keep my voice steady.
“Tell me,” I say.
Tell Reading pulses behind my eyes.
She is terrified of whoever she’s about to name.
She swallows.
“Saltjaw,” she whispers.
The word lands heavy.
“The warlord,” she adds. “Bjorn Saltjaw. He runs the mines.”
Lyra’s fingers twitch with heat.
“A warlord,” she says, calm in a dangerous way.
The woman nods, fast.
“He took the shield man,” she says. “And the survivors with him. Shipwrecked folk. He caught them on the ice road.”
The man by the fire speaks between bites.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
“They don’t kill you,” he says. “They work you. If you break, you die later.”
Lyra’s jaw tightens.
“And you know this because,” Lyra says.
The man looks down.
“My brother is in there,” he whispers.
Silence spreads.
The wind hisses through pine.
Livi’s mind presses into mine.
Humans cage humans for salt. Pathetic.
Lyra doesn’t look at her, but her voice is sharp.
“Salt is food,” she says. “It’s not stupid. It’s just stolen.”
My Detective skill pings.
[CLUE FOUND]
Salt Mines: Slave labor confirmed
Operator: Bjorn Saltjaw
Location: Saltspine Cliff, east fjord ridge
I swallow.
“Roth,” I whisper.
Lyra looks at me.
“We go,” she says, no hesitation.
I nod.
“We go,” I agree.
The woman grabs my sleeve, desperate.
“If you go there,” she says, voice cracking, “you die.”
I look at her. Then at her bruises. Then at her snapped sled.
“Maybe,” I say. “But your brother is in there too.”
Her eyes widen.
“You’ll try,” she whispers.
I nod once.
“Stay here,” I tell them. “Eat. Warm up. Fix the sled runner with this.”
I pull a metal brace from inventory and a strip of resin. Quick craft.
[CRAFTING SUCCESS]
Runner Brace (Uncommon)
Effect: prevents snapping (Minor)
The woman takes it like it is sacred.
Lyra stands, wiping her hands on her cloak. The man’s foot is flushed now, alive.
“Do not walk on it,” Lyra says. “You’ll feel fine and then you’ll be stupid and then you’ll lose it.”
The man nods hard.
Lyra’s eyes flick to the woman.
“If you hear screams from the ridge,” Lyra says calmly, “that’s us being polite.”
The woman stares like she is witnessing a myth get angry.
We leave before she can say anything else.
---
The trek to Saltspine Cliff is a study in misery.
Snow deepens.
The wind sharpens.
The world turns white and gray and hostile.
Cold Survival ticks up.
[SKILL EXP]
Cold Survival +22%
[SKILL RANK UP]
Cold Survival: F -> D
Good.
Still cold.
We crest another ridge and see it.
Saltspine.
A cliff face carved open like a wound. White rock salt gleams through exposed layers. Wooden scaffolds cling to the cliff like ribs. Smoke rises from torch pits. A palisade wraps the entrance, spikes angled outward.
Guards patrol in fur and iron, crossbows slung, axes at their hips.
A black banner hangs above the main gate.
A jaw motif.
Teeth.
Salt stains.
Saltjaw.
Lyra’s heat rises. The air around her warms despite her trying to control it.
Livi stands beside us, eyes half-lidded, expression bored.
I pull my Mirror Core out for one heartbeat.
Fellowship Echo pulses.
A cold, steady light is there.
Inside.
Roth.
I exhale.
“That’s him,” I whisper.
Lyra looks at the gate.
“How do you want to do this,” she asks.
This is a trick question.
If I say stealth, Lyra will glare.
If I say burn, the mines will collapse.
If I say talk, we all die.
I think for one second.
Then I say the truth.
“Fast,” I say.
Lyra smiles.
“Good,” she says.
Livi’s mind presses.
Violence is the only honest language here.
I don’t disagree.
We walk straight at the gate.
Because sometimes intimidation is the stealth.
The guards see us.
They raise crossbows.
They shout.
“Halt,” one barks. “Name your business.”
Lyra steps forward.
“Open,” she says.
The guard laughs.
“Or what,” he says.
Lyra’s eyes narrow.
The air heats.
Livi lifts a hand casually and the snow around her feet melts into a thin sheet of water that ripples like it wants to become a blade.
The guard swallows.
Then he tries to recover pride.
“Warlord’s law,” he says. “No one enters without tribute.”
I step forward, calm.
“We’re here for prisoners,” I say. “The shield man and his people.”
The guard’s eyes sharpen.
He smiles.
“Oh,” he says. “You mean the quiet one. The big one.”
My stomach tightens.
“He’s valuable,” the guard says. “He blocks. He does not break. We like that.”
Lyra’s heat spikes.
The guard’s smile widens, enjoying her reaction.
“He’s in the lower shafts,” he says. “If you want him, you buy him.”
Lyra laughs once, sharp.
“No,” she says.
The guard lifts his crossbow.
“Then you die,” he says.
I sigh.
“Okay,” I mutter. “We’re doing this.”
I trigger Hold My Beer without thinking because my brain hates me.
[SKILL ACTIVATED]
Hold My Beer (Rank F)
Effect: intimidation increased (Minor)
I point at the guard.
“Open the gate,” I say.
He fires.
The bolt hisses.
I move.
Athletics SS.
A clean step.
The bolt misses my face by a breath.
I throw a Lanternflash ofuda dart.
Pop.
Light cracks in the air.
The guards flinch, blinded for half a heartbeat.
Lyra uses that half heartbeat.
A thin flame thread shoots from her bracer, not a blast, a line. It snaps across the crossbow strings like a hot knife.
Five crossbows go slack.
The guards stare at their useless weapons.
Livi flicks her wrist.
Water condenses into a pressure needle and pierces the gate winch rope.
The rope snaps.
The gate drops halfway with a heavy slam.
Not open.
Not closed.
Perfect.
I sprint, grab the edge, and haul it up with raw strength boosted by spite.
Lyra steps under first because she has no fear.
I follow.
Pyon blinks onto my shoulder and clings.
…danger
“Yes,” I whisper. “Good danger.”
Inside, the camp is ugly.
Not demonic.
Human ugly.
Barracks.
Cages.
A mess hall that smells like boiled fish and sweat.
A line of miners in chains shuffling toward the shaft mouth, heads down.
Salt dust coats their hair. Their lips are cracked white. Their hands are raw and bleeding.
Slavery.
Lyra’s eyes go flat.
She is done joking.
A bandit captain steps out, axe in hand.
“You,” he snarls. “You just walked in.”
“Yes,” I say.
He grins.
“That’s brave,” he says.
“No,” I say. “It’s impatient.”
He charges.
I draw-cut and take his arm off at the shoulder.
He collapses screaming.
I am already moving.
The camp erupts.
Bandits rush.
Miners flinch.
Cage doors rattle as prisoners press forward, desperate.
Lyra goes to work like a wildfire with a brain.
Flame Thread.
Heat Mirage.
Controlled burns that hit bandits and do not touch prisoners.
Livi moves like the tide.
A wave of water sweeps the ground under the bandits’ feet.
They slip.
They fall.
They become targets.
I cut.
Fast.
Clean.
No speeches.
My system starts chiming.
[ENEMY DEFEATED]
Saltjaw Guard x6 (Lv 52)
EXP +780 each
Loot: Salt Iron Token x6
[ENEMY DEFEATED]
Saltjaw Captain (Lv 55)
EXP +4,900
Loot: Fur Cloak (Uncommon), Camp Key Ring x1
I snatch the key ring mid-run and head for the shaft entrance.
Detective brain guides me.
No one keeps valuable slaves near the surface.
They keep them where cold and darkness make you obedient.
We descend.
---
The mine is worse.
The air is dry, sharp with salt dust. Torches flicker weak. The walls gleam white like bones.
The deeper we go, the more the salt changes.
Not just white.
Blue-veined.
Thin lines, faint at first, then thicker.
Blue thread traces in rock.
My stomach twists.
Lyra notices.
“Tell me that’s not what I think it is,” she says.
“It’s what you think it is,” I mutter.
Livi’s mind presses, tight.
The leash runs through stone.
We follow the sounds.
Pick strikes.
Coughing.
Chains dragging.
Then we find them.
A line of miners in the lower shaft, chained at the waist. Guards with whips and clubs. A cart loaded with salt blocks and blue-veined chunks that make my lockbox hum in my pack like it wants to bite.
And at the front of the miner line, shoulders squared, body steady despite exhaustion, Roth.
He has a pick in his hands.
His knuckles are split.
His face is bruised.
Salt dust coats his hair.
His eyes are cold.
Not broken.
When he sees us, his gaze locks.
No surprise.
No relief.
Just a flare of something sharp.
Anger.
A guard notices us and raises his club.
“Back to work,” he snaps at Roth. “No staring.”
Roth’s jaw clenches.
I step forward.
“No,” I say.
The guard turns.
Sees me.
Sees Lyra.
Sees Livi.
His face goes pale.
“Who,” he stammers.
Lyra lifts a finger.
A thin flame line slices the whip in half.
The guard stares at the dangling leather like it personally betrayed him.
I hold up the key ring.
“Open the chains,” I say.
He swallows.
“Warlord’s orders,” he whispers.
Lyra’s eyes go flat.
“Do it,” she says.
The guard fumbles with keys, hands shaking so hard he drops them.
Pyon blinks and catches the keys midair.
…keys
“Good,” I whisper.
Roth watches the scene like he is memorizing it for later.
The chains come off.
Miners stumble, rubbing raw skin.
Roth steps forward once the lock clicks open.
He looks at me.
Then Lyra.
Then Livi.
Then he looks past us, up the shaft.
“Bjorn,” he says.
One word.
It is not a question.
I nod.
“Up there,” I say.
Roth’s expression does not change.
But his hands tighten around the pick like it is a weapon.
Lyra steps close to Roth.
“You’re alive,” she says, voice quieter.
Roth nods once.
“Yes,” he says.
Then he looks at me.
His eyes narrow.
“How,” he asks.
He doesn’t mean how we found him.
He means how I look like I got fed steroids by the universe.
Lyra answers for me, because she enjoys suffering.
“He caught the ocean,” she says.
Roth blinks once.
Then looks at Livi.
Livi’s chin lifts.
“Yes,” she says, like she expects praise.
Roth’s stare stays flat.
“Good,” he says.
That is the most Roth reaction possible.
I exhale.
“Let’s leave,” I say. “Before the mine collapses or the warlord does something stupid.”
Lyra points upward with her chin.
“He’s going to do something stupid,” she says.
She’s right.
A horn echoes down the shaft.
Heavy footfalls.
Many of them.
Then a voice booms from above, echoing down the mine like an announcement.
“WHO DARES STEAL MY SALT.”
Lyra mutters, “There it is.”
Roth’s shoulders tighten.
We move up.
Fast.
---
The main yard is chaos.
Bandits running.
Some dead.
Some on fire.
Some soaked and slipping.
Prisoners stumbling toward the gate like newborn deer.
At the center of the yard stands Bjorn Saltjaw.
He is huge.
Fur cloak.
Salt-stained beard.
An axe that looks like it was forged from a ship’s keel.
His eyes are pale and mean.
My system flashes.
[ENEMY DETECTED]
Bjorn Saltjaw, Warlord of Saltspine
Level: 58
Traits: Axe Cleave, Fear Roar, Command Aura
Status: Blue-Threaded (Minor)
He points his axe at me.
“You,” he snarls. “Champion. You killed my men.”
I shrug.
“Yes,” I say.
Bjorn’s lips curl.
“This is my land,” he says. “My law. My salt. My mines. You want your shieldman, you pay.”
Lyra’s heat rises.
Roth steps forward.
Bjorn’s gaze flicks to him.
“Oh,” Bjorn says, smiling. “The stubborn one. You held the line well. You could have been captain.”
Roth’s eyes narrow.
Bjorn points his axe.
“I challenge you,” he says, voice booming. “Duel. Champion versus warlord. If you win, you may leave with them. If you lose, you join the chain.”
He lifts his arms wide.
“My men will witness,” he declares. “The north respects strength.”
Silence spreads through the yard.
Bandits stop moving.
Prisoners stop breathing.
They want a show.
Bjorn wants a legend moment.
My system tries to be dramatic.
[DUEL OFFERED]
Terms: honorable single combat
Reward: safe passage (conditional)
Penalty: death or enslavement
I stare at Bjorn.
Then I look at Lyra.
She looks bored.
I look at Roth.
He looks angry.
I look at Livi.
She looks contemptuous.
This is not the time for theater.
“Okay,” I say.
Bjorn’s smile widens.
“Yes,” he says. “Yes. Step forward.”
I step forward.
Bjorn raises his axe.
He inhales, preparing a roar.
A monologue.
A warlord speech.
I do not let him have it.
Iaijutsu fundamentals.
One breath.
One step.
My katana leaves the sheath like a thought becoming real.
Watercut does not roar.
It just happens.
A clean line.
Bjorn’s head leaves his shoulders.
It spins once, beard and fur cloak fluttering, then lands in the snow with a soft, stupid thump.
His body remains standing for half a second.
Then collapses.
Silence hits the yard like a physical object.
A bandit’s jaw drops.
A prisoner makes a small sound like laughter that forgot how.
Lyra blinks.
Once.
Then looks at me slowly.
“That,” she says, “was anticlimactic.”
Livi’s mind presses, amused.
He talked too much.
Roth stares at Bjorn’s head.
Then at me.
Then back at the head.
My system chirps.
[ENEMY DEFEATED]
Bjorn Saltjaw (Lv 58)
EXP +32,400 (Threat Differential High)
Loot: Saltjaw Axe (Rare), Warlord Crest Token x1, Fur Cloak (Rare), Key of Saltspine x1
[LEVEL UP]
Kenta: 60 -> 61
I stand there with my katana dripping.
My breath fogs.
Everyone keeps staring.
Nobody cheers.
Because they do not know what to do with the fact that their dramatic duel was deleted in one line.
A bandit captain steps forward, hands raised.
“W-we surrender,” he says quickly. “The warlord is dead. The duel is done. You can take them and go.”
He gestures toward Roth and the freed miners like he is offering a transaction.
The awkwardness becomes thick enough to cut.
I clear my throat.
“Okay,” I say. “Unlock the rest of the cages. Then leave.”
The captain nods like his neck is about to snap.
“Yes,” he says. “Yes. Of course.”
Bandits scramble to obey.
Prisoners stumble free.
Some cry.
Some just stare.
Some start coughing, deep, dangerous coughs.
Lyra’s face tightens.
She hates this.
I turn to Roth.
“We’re leaving,” I say. “Now.”
Roth does not move.
His eyes are locked on the bandits.
On the guards.
On the whips.
On the cages.
His jaw clenches.
I have never seen Roth look like this.
Not calm.
Not controlled.
Just… raw.
Lyra notices too.
Her voice softens, barely.
“Roth,” she says.
Roth’s eyes flick to her.
Then to me.
Then back to the bandits.
His voice comes out low.
“They said,” he says, “they surrender.”
I swallow.
“Yes,” I say. “They’re letting us go. We got what we came for.”
Roth’s hands tighten.
His knuckles whiten.
“They put chains on children,” he says.
The sentence lands like a stone.
One of the freed miners flinches.
Looks away.
Roth keeps going.
“They broke men,” he says.
“They laughed.”
“They worked people until they fell.”
“They threw bodies into the salt.”
The captain hears this and tries to speak.
“We were following orders,” he stammers. “It’s the north. It’s harsh. It’s survival.”
Roth turns his head.
Slow.
His eyes lock onto the captain.
For the first time since I met him, Roth’s voice rises.
Not a shout.
A real, sharp edge.
“Quiet,” Roth says.
The word hits harder than Lyra’s fire.
The captain shuts up instantly.
Roth steps forward.
Lyra’s hand lifts slightly, hesitant.
Not to stop him.
To be ready.
I feel my stomach tighten.
“Roth,” I say.
Roth does not look at me.
He walks past Bjorn’s corpse.
Past the awkward silence.
Toward the bandits.
The bandits back up, suddenly realizing surrender is not a spell.
Roth’s shoulders roll once.
His stance shifts.
And something in the air changes.
It is not magic.
It is intent.
Roth’s system windows flash, visible to my party share for half a heartbeat.
[SKILL ACTIVATED]
Bastion Captain
Shield Wall Aura
He doesn’t have his shield right now.
He doesn’t need it.
He picks up a fallen bandit shield from the snow like it is nothing.
Then he charges.
The first bandit raises a weapon.
Roth’s shield slams into his face with a wet crack.
The man falls.
Roth’s sword follows.
One clean cut.
Down.
Another bandit swings an axe.
Roth blocks with the stolen shield.
The impact shatters the shield.
Roth does not flinch.
He steps in and drives his blade through the bandit’s throat.
Another bandit tries to run.
Roth throws his broken shield rim like a discus.
It spins and hits the runner in the back of the head.
He drops.
Roth closes the distance and ends him.
The yard erupts again.
Not chaos.
Panic.
Bandits scatter.
Roth hunts.
He is silent.
No grunts.
No yelling.
Just efficient slaughter, fueled by something that looks like old guilt finally finding a target that deserves it.
Lyra whispers, stunned.
“Roth,” she breathes.
Livi’s mind presses, cold approval.
Good. Clean.
I stand there frozen for half a second because the scene is wrong.
It is not heroic.
It is not clean.
It is not a duel.
It is a man breaking a pattern.
Then my system starts chiming again, but for Roth.
[ENEMY DEFEATED]
Saltjaw Guard (Lv 52)
EXP +1,120 (Party Split)
Roth EXP Bonus: Vengeance Triggered
[ENEMY DEFEATED]
Saltjaw Captain (Lv 55)
EXP +2,840
Roth EXP Bonus: Vengeance Triggered
[LEVEL UP]
Roth: 34 -> 35
Roth: 35 -> 36
[NEW SKILL ACQUIRED]
Vengeance Drive (Rank F)
Effect: damage increases against slavers and captors (Moderate)
Effect: fear immunity while allies are restrained (Minor)
Roth keeps going.
A bandit drops his weapon and begs.
Roth does not slow.
He cuts him down like he is cutting rope.
Another bandit tries to hide behind a prisoner.
Roth pivots and shield-bashes the prisoner away gently, like moving furniture.
Then he kills the bandit.
Lyra’s heat flares in sudden anger.
Not at Roth.
At the world that made Roth.
She lifts a hand and snaps a flame thread at the last bandit trying to reach the gate.
The man falls, screaming.
Roth finishes him.
Then silence returns.
Not awkward silence.
Heavy silence.
Snow falls slowly.
Salt dust swirls in the air like pale smoke.
Roth stands in the yard surrounded by bodies.
His chest rises and falls.
His hands drip red onto white.
He turns his head slightly, looking at the freed miners.
They stare back.
Not afraid of him.
Grateful.
Hollow.
Roth’s jaw clenches.
Then he looks at me.
His voice is flat again.
“Now,” he says, “we leave.”
Lyra exhales.
“Yes,” she says quietly.
I nod.
“Yes,” I echo.
Livi’s mind presses, still contemptuous, but softened by something like approval.
Fire and stone. Useful.
We gather the survivors.
We gather the freed miners.
We gather Roth’s people, the shipwrecked band, thin and bruised but alive.
Roth does not look back at the mine.
He just walks.
And the salt mine behind us feels less like a place and more like a warning.
Because if this is what men do for salt, what do they do for blue thread.
And what do they do when the real war arrives.
