Survivors of Corrica

by Courtney Bowen

  SURVIVORS

  OF

  CORRICA

  The Elemental Swords: Vol. 1

  Courtney

  Bowen

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,

  events, and places either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  SURVIVORS OF CORRICA

  Copyright © 2019 by Courtney Bowen

  Cover image: A group of armed Vikings, standing on the river shore with cloudy background. – Image © Nejron Photo/Shutterstock.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

  used or reproduced without written permission

  from the author, except in cases of brief quotations

  embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First edition: 2019

  Dedicated to

  Learning from the mistakes

  Of the past while being

  Brave enough to continue on,

  Despite the pitfalls ahead.

  Chapter One:

  The Mountain

  When I was a boy, I don’t know how old, but barely old enough to remember, my mother sang a lullaby to me as she carried me, running away through the forest, trying to escape pursuit. I don’t know the words to her song. I wish I knew them. I spent so many years trying to remember those words or the tune, but all of it has escaped me.

  What I do know is that she held me close and clutched me tightly, not wanting to let go of me, as she begged, prayed, and pleaded not to let them take us, not to separate us. I could barely breathe until we were pulled apart and she screamed my name, Zeldos.

  I don’t remember anything else about that past life, what my young childhood was like, what happened to the rest of my family. All I remember is that beginning, the long-ship or penteconter sailing across the ocean with me in the hold amongst other captives, unable to find my mother and missing her.

  I was taken to the island of Corrica, the heart of a cruel empire that stretched across the sea. Supposedly a man named Remus came to the island many years ago, escaping death at the hands of his brother Romulus. He saw potential in the landscape and helped craft and establish a city there, the City of Elders, before he passed away. I don’t know if this is true, but it’s the myth that surrounds the City of Elders and the Corrican empire.

  I was sold off at market as a slave, at first treated like a household servant, performing small tasks and errands. But when I was old enough, they sent me out into the fields to farm and tend to the crops for several years. Someone heard me sing, though, and word must’ve spread about my ability.

  Eventually I was brought before my master, who heard me sing, and declared I should be trained in the art of a rhapsode. Yet such education was expensive for a slave like me, and so they decided I had to earn it first.

  They sent me to a gladiatorial school then, where I was quickly trained to fight, and put into the ring. I fought for survival, and then I fought for prizes and earnings, which were placed into a fund for my education.

  Once I had accrued enough, they sent me to a rhapsodic school, where the bardic arts, as they came to be known, were taught. That took several more years, and finally, when I must’ve been in my twenties, they declared I was a rhapsode of the highest class.

  Then they sold me again, sending me off to market. I refused to oblige this time around, having learned enough to fight back against my captors. That was how he saw me, the first time.

  I was struggling, biting and kicking, punching and wrestling, trying to choke people and disarm them, stealing their weapons. Yet I was outnumbered and overwhelmed by a strong force, as used as I was to one fighter or a small number at a time.

  Then he strode forward, studying me, and asked, “Is this fellow supposed to be a guard?”

  “No, a rhapsode.” The auctioneer said, laughing.

  The man nodded and said, “I’d like to take this rhapsode of yours, and teach him some manners.”

  So that was how I was purchased by Memba, one of the Elders in charge of Corrica.

  ℜℜℜ

  As Wilama strode toward the temple, dressed in her priestly robes, she heard shouts and protests coming from the people lined up along the street, in the plaza, and spilling out into the park. They faced the Elders’ Hall a short distance away, where the Elders were now meeting.

  They obviously were staging some sort of rally objecting to the institution of Memba as dictator over both military and plebian tribunes. Memba had risen through the military ranks over the last two decades before being granted status to join the elite Elders in the hall.

  Now, through an overwhelming majority of Elder votes, Memba had been appointed not just dictator over the military tribune, where he could command and place any legion wherever he chose, but also dictator over the plebian tribune, where he could influence the creation and enforcement of laws and summary judgment.

  With such authority in Memba’s hands, many feared that he’d make a move to dismantle the tribunes and might even take control away from the Elders. Such a move, they worried, would unsettle the balance of power in the empire, potentially create chaos and civil war, and establish an unprecedented reign and tight hold over the people that none could break.

  Thus this group had formed a protest to call the Elders’ attention to the people’s desires and oust Memba. So far none of the Elders had made a move to acknowledge and side with the protestors when Memba obviously had too much of a hold on their allegiances and alliances.

  Milites and equites guards patrolled and monitored the area, attempting to break up the rally and keep it separated from the rest of the populace. Many walked by, glancing towards the rally with some interest and intrigue when it was one of the most exciting things to happen in this area for a while.

  But then they quickly moved away again when the guards were watching them, too. Anyone who seemed sympathetic to the protestors obviously would be labelled a troublemaker, and liable to suffer the same punishments that this group did.

  Many purposefully ignored or refused to acknowledge the rally for such a reason, continuing on without looking up or directly at the rally, for fear of what might happen to them, their families, and their affairs if they were mixed up in such a business. It was a disaster waiting to happen and none of these people wanted to throw their lives away on what might be a hopeless cause if Memba should gain any more control.

  Wilama might’ve been one of those passersby who ignored or paid little attention to the rally when she had her own purpose in life. Loqwuano, god of devotion and determination, brooked no hesitation or slothfulness, especially in his most loyal followers, the priestesses and high priestesses that attended him in the temple.

  Wilama proudly wore her new robes that showcased her elevated status, hardily fought for and won amongst the pool of novices that applied for the position, much like Memba had fought to gain his rank. She couldn’t dally and abandon her post at today’s ritual service or else she’d lose her robes as soon as she’d gotten them, and they’d pass on to another.

  Wilama didn’t have much of an opinion on Memba as a person, not knowing what his ethics, beliefs, and personality were like, or if he’d be a good or bad leader for the empire. However, through his actions and steady, yet quick rise to prominence, she could tell that he was a very determined person who’d gained a strong following.

  That was part of her religion, after all, and obviously he was blessed by the god Loqwuano, for his ambition had garnered him such status. So Wilama was satisfied enough with Memba’s fortunate position and didn’t feel a need to protest his actions or rise to dominance.

  But on that day, she heard a girl crying, “Everything will be gone, all will be lost, ah, m
y Sidhe!”

  Sidhe was a goddess who’d garnered a following, too, in recent years amongst the lower classes, though Wilama couldn’t see how such a thing was possible. Why would someone, especially a poor soul who already possessed very little in this world, pray to a goddess of obscurity and darkness?

  Weren’t things bad enough without such a person lowering or debasing themselves to pray to shadows and insignificance? Obviously this was something that a priestess of Loqwuano like herself should be opposed to, when lifting up a person as high as he or she could go and striving for anything worthwhile was the best way to live.

  Wilama stopped and glanced around, wondering who’d pray to Sidhe or cry out in despair even at a pressing time, when the fate of Corrica’s government might hang in the balance. All might still be well when things weren’t so desperate, certainly not enough to cause grief, misery, and heartbreak like the world was ending.

  Especially for a child, young enough not to fret over needless things and give up all hope for the future. The girl must’ve been listening too much to the words of these protestors and instigators and took everything to heart. That caused her to fear what was going to happen and lose faith in Loqwuano, turning instead to the accursed Sidhe, the miserable goddess.

  What sort of parent or guardian took their child to such a rally and filled them with anxiety and dread? Wilama shook her head, intending to find the child and her parents and complain to them about their influence.

  No child should feel like there was nothing for them to look forward to, when they had as much chance as anyone else to succeed in life. Loqwuano would gain another convert today and Sidhe would lose a follower.

  So despite the danger of being arrested and the possibility of disgrace and demotion, Wilama plunged into the crowd of protestors to search for the crying child. Besides, she felt certain that Loqwuano himself would approve of her choice to cheer up and hearten such a wretched girl, when such desolation discredited the god more than anything else.

  Wilama wandered through the crowd, shouting, “Little girl! Little girl who cried Sidhe! Don’t despair, don’t cry, all will be well! Little girl!”

  A few close demonstrators heard her over the din and stopped yelling or chanting to stare at Wilama in disbelief and chagrin, wondering what she was doing here and what she was trying to prove. Wilama smiled at them and blessed them in the name of Loqwuano, trying to bestow her own type of hope upon them.

  But the protestors just waved her off or tried to shoo her away before they went back to bellowing their dissent and anger at the Elders’ Hall over the unfair, unlawful usurpation of power. Wilama shrugged and attempted to ignore or move on past such refusals to listen to her. They were embracing Loqwuano anyway with their own brand of devotion and determination, even if they insisted Sidhe guided them.

  “Think on Loqwuano!” Wilama called out, hoping to spread her own voice and belief through the crowd. Maybe she might reach the child this way. “Loqwuano blesses all those who fight for what they believe in.”

  “Sidhe will guide us.” The girl whispered, and suddenly Wilama stopped and looked down at the girl standing beside her. “Sidhe will come and lead us to a new land, when all’s dark and full of despair.”

  “Now that’s not true.” Wilama bent down beside the girl, who was taller and older than Wilama had assumed she’d be. “Sidhe’s just a myth meant to frighten us. Loqwuano will be our guide, but we have no need of finding a new land. Our home’s here, in Corrica, where we’re safe. By the way, my name’s Wilama. What’s your name? Where are your parents?”

  “My name’s Wintha, and I don’t have any parents.” The girl gazed at her, wide-eyed. “I have no home here when it’ll be destroyed. My home’s in the new land.”

  Wilama shook her head and placed a hand against Wintha’s forehead. “I think you have a fever, and you might be starving. Come, I’ll take you to the infirma hospit, where you’ll be warm, fed, and treated if you’re ill.”

  “Okay, I’ll go with you to meet the healer.” Wintha said.

  Wilama and Wintha grasped each other’s hands and left the protest, heading through the streets to the infirma hospit.

  ℜℜℜ

  Mogame collected his thoughts and stepped out into the middle of the Elders’ Hall where the tribunes met. He was introduced by his title as a scholar and researcher, bowing his head to Memba and the assembly, before he spoke. “The mountain Harmony is full of fire and smoke.” He told them.

  “Fire and smoke? What nonsense do you speak, scholar?” Memba asked, contemptuous.

  “It’s true. I’ve been to the mountain Harmony and studied it for weeks now.” Mogame said. “Felt the stone burn beneath my feet, the water boil and fume in the springs. I smelled the foul air while the plants shriveled up and animals died. I finally had to leave the mountain before it got worse for me as well.”

  “You’ve breathed too much poisoned air from the adder plant.” Zeldos, Memba’s rhapsode, half-heartedly joked.

  However, it garnered a bespoke laugh from the Elders and Memba mirthlessly joined in as well. Yet Memba only took pleasure in the fact that his new rhapsode had some talent in jest that might merit him acclaim and praise from his peers for such a purchase.

  Zeldos didn’t feel anything anymore, not fear or trepidation at the scholar’s warnings or humor in his own act. He was numb to everything, or so he believed.

  “It’s true, rhapsode.” Mogame said, facing Zeldos. He took him in like a human being, not some nameless, faceless thing. Mogame’s bearing was still imperious, though, in Zeldos’s eye. “I’ve feared for my life, staying too close to the mountain of Harmony. You should fear the same, too. For the mountain overshadows the entire City of Elders, and will cover us all, too, in smoke and fire.”

  Zeldos frowned, annoyed at being told what he should do by someone who wasn’t his master. This scholar might believe what he said, for sincerity and fear underlined his words, but Zeldos wasn’t so willing.

  “What do you mean?” Memba asked.

  “If the mountain continues to burn and smoke builds up inside, then the mountain will burst apart from the pressure.” Mogame explained. “I predict a noxious cloud of ash and gas will erupt first from the mountain, so intense a blast that it will crack the mountain, incinerate and blow everything away within a mile of the mountain in a moment.”

  Zeldos gaped, shocked at the outrageous, radical, unbelievable idea. How could anything like that happen anywhere?

  The others smirked and laughed at Mogame’s words, too, joking amongst themselves about pressure, noxiousness, and eruption. Memba frowned and glanced at his rhapsode, waiting for Zeldos to say something.

  Zeldos quickly recovered and remembered his station as he said, “The blow is much harder to maintain.”

  A few laughed, though not as many as last time when they were distracted and discussing things as well. Memba groaned, wishing he’d gotten a better rhapsode that was quick-witted and more attentive.

  “Even so, the cloud will expand, hot and poisonous, raining down ash and debris.” Mogame continued, undeterred. “It will choke, crush, and pile on top of us, killing all who live close to the mountain, especially in the City of Elders. Then liquid fire will flow down from the mountain, like a turgid, burning river that’ll destroy all in its path. The city will be gone.”

  Zeldos’s eyes widened, listening to this description, and for a moment, he wanted it to be true. He wanted the whole city and everyone in it to burn, especially Memba.

  “Enough!” Memba cried, rising to his feet. “We’ve heard enough from you, fear-mongerer, who wishes to spread rumor and dread. The City of Elders will remain standing long after your carcass has rotted in the ground.”

  “No, it won’t.” Mogame told him. “We only have a matter of days, weeks at best, before the city’s destroyed. The mountain Harmony grows hotter and deadlier with each passing day. Soon others will feel the ground shake, smoke billow in the sky, and water steam. Then
you and everyone else here will know what it means, what’s happening at that moment, and how to prepare for the cataclysm.”

  Days? Weeks? This didn’t sound good, Zeldos thought to himself as he began to contemplate the idea of what he might do if he had to escape such a disaster.

  “Milites, remove this man from here.” Memba ordered.

  “We must leave the city while we still can. Get as far away from here as we possibly can. Before it’s too late!” Mogame cried as he wrestled with the guards and was dragged out of the assembly.

  Chapter Two:

  Tremor

  Lapida labored away at her forge, assisted by her husband’s younger brother, when a woman called out for help from the front of the shop. Lapida went out to greet her, introduced herself and learned the woman was named Geneva as she received an order for several dozen horseshoes.

  “Why so many?” Lapida remarked, curious.

  “I’m buying them for my family.” Geneva said. “We’ve recently arrived from Mt. Harmony, and our horses have worn out all of their shoes.”

  “Really? So many so quickly? It’s not an unusually long trip.” Lapida said.

  “It’s not, but we’ve been traveling through some rough terrain, half melting the shoes.” Geneva said. “My family’s lived on the slopes of Mt. Harmony for ages. We’ve seen the changes take place before our eyes in a matter of weeks and months.”

  “What sort of changes?” Lapida asked.

  “Our horses and cows have died, just eating the grass and breathing the air. Our crops have withered as the soil grows bitter and chalky, almost like sand. Stone itself burns us, and the well-water is too hot and noxious for us to bear.”

  “Oh gods, a curse.” Lapida said.

  “We thought so, too. But Mogame has other ideas for what’s happened to us, and I wonder if it might be true that the mountain itself is to blame for what’s happened.” Geneva said.