Fractured Dreams

by Greg Alldredge

  The book could be recovered, but for Louie the pages were irreplaceable. It only took a short time to knock down the flames. In a fit, Louie opened the book and read the first few poems to make sure they were all right. The relief they survived the ordeal was nearly more than he could bear.

  Secure in the fact his poetry was safe, he walked the book back and placed it on the shelf where it normally sat. As far as Louie knew, his father never kept a journal. His new advisors told him of the ordeals his father’s army first endured while the man learned the ways of war.

  It seems his father proved a great man at motivating men to die for a cause, but not the impressive military genius history made him out to be. Barely literate, the first king of Bore-Tide trusted a great many people to set his plans in motion. They were the true heroes that unified the clans into the current kingdom.

  After Louie’s father’s death, as second in command, Asher Black controlled the men, the fighters of the land, and as such was in a position to squash anyone that spoke out against him. The general inserted himself next to the young King Louie and blocked all others from access.

  Those other advisors never went away, and Asher in his hubris never felt the need to root them out and murder them one by one. Why should he? He held the military and the king under his control.

  Now, for some reason, these displaced men saw an opening. Their need to strike back at Asher festered while Louie aged, and they came from hiding ready to take their place in the light of day.

  Louie was certain it had little to do with his capabilities. He’d never been a man that thought highly of his chances at being a true leader. Instead, there must be some unseen actions that drove the old advisors to choose this time to act. Maybe Asher lost some power with the men. In the end, it mattered little.

  Louie decided it was time for him to do what was best for his people. The constant raiding, raping, and pillaging of their neighbors to the north couldn’t continue. Either they would run out of women to enslave, or the others would band together and invade the frozen south.

  It was only a matter of time before the kingdom of Bore-Tide overreached and paid the price for the attacks on the north. Perhaps that was why Asher remained in such a foul mood. He knew this might be the last year of the successful raids, and his days were numbered with the men.

  Asher might be lashing out because he feared the near future and the destruction that might soon fall upon the land of Bore-Tide. Maybe the man should fear the future. King Louie had suffered for too many years and was ready to strike, no matter the cost.

  Chapter 11, Della Villa:

  The cooper’s guild compound gave little comfort or shelter from the elements. A huge pile of ash filled the center of the courtyard. Partially burned slats of barrels littered the edge of the fire pit. Della’s Black Knight didn’t need to explain the ramification of the pile. The first eyeless skull that peeked from the ash told Della all she needed to know. To her, it seemed the destruction of the coopers was complete.

  She guessed every man, woman, and child that lived and worked for the coopers had been put to the sword. The only survivor, the young man nailed to the front gate. Left for dead, he defied the odds and survived, suffering until her Black Knight put him out of his misery.

  Such destruction made little sense to Della. She could understand rage, revenge, and the need for destruction well enough. She planned plenty of her own, but she picked specific targets that harmed her personally or caused death in her family. The thought of harming children or other innocents never entered her mind. It was hard for her to grasp the hate needed to wipe out an entire guild home.

  Someone worked overtime to strike fear into the hearts of the people of Zar. If a guild compound as strong as the coopers could fall, no one was safe from attack. Perhaps that was the point the attackers wanted to make. No one was safe in Zar. As remote as this compound was, word would still reach the city and spread. This would not remain a secret for long.

  If this was part of the plot against her family, the conspiracy ran much deeper than she first feared. The people who attacked the Villas didn’t want the overthrow of the rulers, they fought for the total annihilation of the economy of Zar and the ability of the city to earn a living. With the guilds destroyed, little would remain of the ruling class. Anarchy would soon follow if anyone remained in the city. Prosperity and protection attracted people. Without it, why would the citizenry huddle together?

  The city’s leadership and the relationships between the rulers and the guilds was not one of Della’s strong points. Her older siblings were closer to the line of succession, and Della knew her desire to remain unseen and observe the actions of others caused many in her family to believe she was touched in the head. Della was fine with that. Their disdain for her only made it easier to slip about unnoticed. Over the course of her eavesdropping on the house, she learned a great deal about how the city worked and the people who surrounded her family.

  If her education was lacking, her tutor was always available to fill in the missing gaps. Tutor… she’d completely forgotten about the old man and how his disappearance led to her capture. In a strange way, all of this was her mother’s fault.

  If Della’s education had been more complete, she would not have gone outside the family for more learning. She would have never been forced to hire men like her Black Knight, Tutor would have never gone missing, and Della would have never needed to leave the family home to search for both men.

  Her mother was dead. Della could not scream at her for her shortcomings as a parent. Instead, she would kill everyone she could find behind this conspiracy. She now considered it a blood oath. As angry as she was, the thought of wiping out entire families over the attacks against her loved ones never crossed her mind.

  The sun rose behind the clouds, and the pair followed the river. The hills outside the compound were stripped bare of trees. The reason the coopers came out here to build barrels was the flow of the river and the trees.

  Lumber could be floated down the river to the compound, where they could be turned into staves for the barrels. The empty barrels could be sold to be filled by any of the other guilds. Most things that were transported over the cracks moved in a cooper’s barrel. Without this resource, trade was about to become much harder, if not impossible. Not everything could be carried in a sack.

  Following the river, Della forced herself to ignore the debris that floated along the bank. A combination of empty barrels, unfinished staves, and the dead bobbed in the current.

  “Why did they kill everyone? Why did this happen?” Della asked.

  “I wish I knew an answer. This holds little sense. Consolidation of power should have been the first task of a rebellion. Destruction of needed resources… If Zar can’t feed its people, it will cease to be a city. I have never witnessed such senseless wanton destruction.”

  The river opened up onto a plain, the water of the crack not far off. If the coopers wanted to, they could have planted a crop on this portion of their land—it looked fertile—with the river a constant source of water.

  Death had not escaped this part of the lands. The pair made their way through a maze of torn and flattened temporary homes. Mostly tents made of common cloth that would have offered little protection from the rain. Near the center of the camp lay a familiar sight. Della was certain it was one of the mayor’s tents used for celebrations. The oilcloth covering had been burned in places and trampled into the mud, but the white tree of Zar was easy to spot under the filth.

  Not far from the edge of the cliff, a huge pile of bodies lay stacked. They were covered with harpies feasting on the carrion.

  “There is nothing for us here…” Her Black Knight shook his head and turned to move east towards the city.

  Della stopped. The level of hate toward the people in this camp sickened her to the core. “Will these souls find peace dying so close to the water without proper disposal of their… flesh?”

  “This is easier to unders
tand. These bodies are meant as a warning to any that try to rebuild this camp.” The Black Knight scanned the few destroyed boats floundering in the water. “It will keep refugees away for many years, I think.”

  Della’s attention was drawn to a severed head impaled on a pole. The face was missing, torn away by the hungry scavengers. The black curly hair remained. In her heart, Della knew what it meant, but she refused to put her thoughts into words. Poor Zorra kept repeatedly racing through her mind.

  There was no time for mourning. Della knew the chances of this camp being watched were good. However unlikely refuges would return, whoever spent such energy on this cleanup would want to make sure it stuck. They took a risk of being attacked by just standing here.

  Her Black Knight must have sensed it. He moved off, working his way away from the cliff edge and west toward the city of Zar.

  The rolling plains that bordered the water were normally the location for small farms that fed the city. The pair found windows and doors shuttered. The animal pens were empty and planted fields soggy from the rains. The farmers deserted their holdings for safer grounds. Death has a way of chasing good people far away. Della was certain that those who could escape the fighting and sickness would.

  Most disconcerting was the southern wind that never stopped blowing off the cliffside. Della was used to the wind blowing from different directions. This constant southern wind felt all wrong. She didn’t know why, but the feel of it made her weak in the knees with dread.

  The small farm holds turned into larger operations, richer families that could hire more people to work their fields. Della knew at one time slaves did all the work. Once her mother freed the slaves, they were rehired as workers and paid a pittance. Perhaps those freed slaves not satisfied with freedom rose up and destroyed their old masters in a fit of rage.

  That wrath Della understood. The indignation to be freed, only to be hired and your lot in life made worse… How could that not make any person willing to murder to set things right? The rich still oppressed the weak, and Della now understood she remained part of the problem—or at least her family was. Even if her mother freed those in bondage, she still profited from the system that had been put in place generations ago.

  They might have stayed at one of these abandoned farms, but they passed them all by. Her Black Knight searched for some sign of a safe place to stay.

  The closer to the city, the more bodies they encountered. Not just the dead but strange corpses in different stages of decay. Some of the dead had no skin, the red of muscle showing bright in the limited light.

  It was nearly dark, and they still traveled the poorest parts of the city when the man stopped before an undistinguished home.

  “This is the place,” the man whispered in a quiet voice.

  “Why here?” Della asked.

  “This is the holy ground of the Huntress, we should be safe.”

  To Della, the building looked just like so many others they passed on the way here. That was until she took a closer look. Over the front door hung a small silver mirror. In seconds, she spotted others over each window she could see. Under the small porch sat a ledge up near the roof that held an untouched offering of food.

  Della was used to the tree of the Mother that was the focus of worship in the gardens of her home. She found little opportunity to study the other gods the people of the shards worshiped. In her few years, there had been little evidence the gods cared about what the inhabitants of Zar or the shards did.

  The man did a strange knock on the door. It was a rhythm like a drumbeat: three quick, followed by one long, then three more short. It wasn’t much of a code. Della wasn’t even sure why they would need to hide a temple to one of the gods. Her mother made it clear long ago the worship of any deity was allowed in the city.

  The door pulled back a crack. Della couldn’t see inside, as her view was blocked by her man.

  He said, “May your prey lay down near clear waters.”

  “And your weapon find a clean mark,” a man’s voice whispered. The door opened, and an old man waved them inside. “Hurry, the streets are not safe.”

  Della’s questions could wait. For the moment, she was happy to be off the streets before the twin moons rose. The deserted neighborhoods gave her a deeply unsettled feeling in her bones.

  The two men stepped to the side of the small room and whispered their conversation.

  A small statue of the Huntress pulled Della’s attention close. She bent down and knelt before the altar with a golden statue. She examined the beautiful face and body of the barely covered woman.

  Instantly, she thought a man must have created this piece of art. No woman in her right might would hunt dressed in a piece of silk. The forest alone would tear her apart. She couldn’t see a woman set on death looking so beautiful either. She took the life of others—Della knew how it changed her, how it would change even a goddess. Killing animals had to be harder than killing humans.

  Without turning to face the two men, she spoke in a calm voice. “You don’t need to protect my feelings. I am no child. Speak clearly, please.”

  “I am sorry, miss, we whisper out of habit. There are always too many ears listening in,” the old man said.

  Della turned to address the old priest. That was when she noticed he wasn’t dressed like any priest she’d ever seen. He wore green leathers like she once owned. The gray in his long beard and hair made him look ancient, even with the strands pulled into braids.

  “The father here is a friend. He hails from Cliffside.” Her Knight spoke, his voice barely loud enough for her to hear. “Tell her what you told me, what has happened in the city.”

  The old priest nodded once and moved to sit next to Della. “I’m sorry, mistress. It is believed your family is all dead.”

  Della expected as much, but it was still hard for her to hear. She steadied herself for the news, but to hear it put to words cut deep into her soul. She nodded in silence, the tears welling in her eyes.

  “After the news of your disappearance hit the streets, and the young Shoemaker’s death, all-out rebellion hit the pinnacle. No word has come from your brother Jo, but the new leaders claim he died the first night.”

  “You mentioned Ollie, what of Zorra and Fox?”

  “Your brother Fox died in an assassination attempt against either Ollie or Zorra. No one is certain. Your sister Zorra is presumed dead, murdered at the camp that took Ollie’s young life.”

  “How do you know all this? No simple priest should have such deep information. Who are you really?” Della wiped the tears away from her eyes before facing the man.

  “I’m first and foremost a citizen of Cliffside. My small city walks a fine line between the warring states of Zar and Perdition. Our leaders need information just as the leaders of Zar, like you, need to know what is happening. I gather information for our council.”

  Motivations meant little to Della. At the moment, she needed accurate information more than anything else. “And what of the city? What of Zar?

  The priest lowered his voice, his eyes focused on the statue in front of him. “Most of the city is barren, the dead litter the streets. People not sick are afraid of the illness or the gangs that are running the streets taking what they want, killing all they think might have the flesh-eating sickness.”

  “Yet you remain?” Her words held a sting to them she never intended.

  “I’m on hallowed ground. Even if it is only a small house, few will risk harming a priest. Those who know I am here know I have little.”

  “We should leave the city. Find safe harbor until the dying stops or at least slows down.”

  Her knight placed his hand on her shoulder. The touch calmed her nerves and anger. She needed a calmer head to prevail. If not, rage would take control, and she would die trying to kill those that did all this to her city.

  “Do you have a name? Who is calling the shots from the pinnacle?” Della asked.

  “They claim a council of elders
is leading the city. The only person who has made any statements is a commoner, goes by the name of… Duncan. He says the others remain out of sight for their safety in these troubled times.”

  Della never thought they would find such a treasure in one of the countless abandoned homes. With shelter for the night, they were able to sleep on the decision of what to make as their next step before they entered the city and died a horrid death.

  The trio shared little new information, but in that small temple, they found some proper clothes for Della and a scarf to hide her red hair. Even cut short by her kidnappers, it would still mark her as a Villa, certain death if identified.

  Della lay awake that night. Sleep eluded her. She knew the deeper they risked traveling into the city, the more death they would encounter. Her Black Knight was not invincible. She felt he would take her to her mother’s office if asked. Della also knew that way most certainly lead to their deaths.

  Better to leave the city for the time being. If they could, they should find safety off the shard. North, to Cliffside, that would be a good place to start.

  Chapter 12, Rachel Morris:

  Someone traveled behind her and set the buildings to the torch. At least those making the decisions figured out the creatures only attacked at night and needed a safe place to hold up during the daylight hours.

  Rachel hoped that the burning buildings held the dead of at least a few of the demons that attacked and murdered her friends.

  She spent her life fighting other people’s battles, this time the fight would be personal. Most of the fighters in the magistrate’s dojo wanted her dead, but she felt the few that fought alongside her and died needed that debt repaid.

  Specifically, Lane, the strange monk, priest, follower of the First Son with his staff. For a man that renounced violence, he’d been a remarkable fighter. Now he was dead.