Valkyria

by Ink Blood

  That could not be said for those unfortunate enough to live in the Lower City.

  The Lower City itself was not a plate, but rather the only part of Alexandra that was actually on the ground. Effectively a slum, the Lower City comprises a section of the Old World’s city of London, walled off from the outside to keep the Creatures out. The populace is made of those born in the Lower City, destined to forever be the lowest form of society, or those sent there as punishment.

  Ser Lonthan had known a man one who had been sent to live there. He had been a fine knight, but had be found in bed with another man’s wife. Last time Ser Lonthan had visited him, he had been a shell of a man, his body brittle and broken. Lonthan would never allow such a fate to befall him.

  He hurried along until he reached a door that sported two flags, one on each side. The left was blue with a silver trim and curled dragon upon it. The right was the same design but red with a gold trim and dragon. Each dragon held a single rose in its mouth; the sign of the Dragoons.

  “So this is where you live, is it?” Ser Lonthan rapped twice on the door as the first drop of rain from the coming clouds fell on his head. Autumn was surely starting now, as it only rained in Alexandria during autumn.

  The door opened slowly but silently, as if the hinges had been freely oiled. A stocky man with more wrinkles on his face than an a piece of old parchment peered out of the crack.

  “Ah, Ser Lonthan, my dear fellow. What can I do for you milord?”

  “Letting me enter would be a good start Wilfred.”

  “Oh, of course, milord. What shall I say is the purpose of this visit?”

  “Tell Ser Seran I have news for him from Her Majesty.” The old man shuffled to one side, resembling a penguin in his black and white clothing and awkward movements. As Ser Lonthan entered the house, he was greeted by a hall the size of a training room. A stairwell sat on the far side, splitting into two half way down. It’s marble was as white as a wedding dress. Contrasting it was the crimson carpet that stretched away from the door, under the stairwell and into the parlour.

  To the right of the perfectly square room was a fireplace bigger than Ser Lonthan himself, roaring away like a lion protecting its family.

  “Welcome, old friend,” said a voice from the top of the stairwell. There stood a man as tall as the door he had just come through, with a beard covering an otherwise clear and empty face. His hair parted in the middle and seemed to race against itself to reach as far down as possible.

  “Milord Seran, it is good to see you again,” replied Ser Lonthan.

  “Come now Lonthan, there is no need to call me that. Just because I was the better fighter and was given the better status doesn’t mean we must change the way we talk to one another.”

  “In that case, Seran, it’s been a long time you weasel.”

  Ser Seran let out a laugh that echoed through the hall. He marched down the right hand stairwell and straight toward Ser Lonthan, extending a hand which Ser Lonthan accepted.

  “You really have moved up in the world,” said Ser Lonthan. “I can still remember that hovel we called home back on the Lower Plate, and now look at us. I’m Captain of the Guard and you’re a Dragoon.”

  Ser Lonthan looked around the hall once again. The fire illuminated a painting of Her Majesty the hung above it, although like all paintings of the Queen, it did her no justice. ‘You can’t paint a beautiful picture of a donkey’ he used to say when he saw them.

  “I have a message from the donkey,” he said whilst staring at Queen Mari’s picture. “Her Majesty has called for you at the Rose Throne. I am told it is urgent.”

  “Urgent you say? I wonder what the old horse wants now.”

  “You know,” said Ser Lonthan, “you standing there complaining about meeting with the Queen is rather amusing, since we were once commoners ourselves and were not permitted to speak her name.”

  “Yes, and you complaining about the commoners in the Upper City market is equally as comical. Do not think I haven’t heard of your comments about them from the other guards.”

  The two Lords laughed with one another once more before Ser Seran retreated into his bedroom on the upper floor to get dressed. Ser Lonthan took a seat and began to imagine what life would be like for him as a Dragoon.

  He would have the finest house he could find in the city, and not one that was connected to a working alleyway. He would marry a young and nubile woman who would give him many sons, and they would have they own training room at home to practice, so that they might become Dragoons as well.

  Ser Seran reappeared from the bedroom, his chainmail glistening in the firelight, with the black Dragoon cloak wrapped around his neck. His feet were donned with studded leather boots, as his hands were with leather gloves. Atop the chainmail he wore a loose tunic of a moss color.

  “Seran, tell me, why did you choose a house that opened onto such an alleyway?” As soon as Ser Lonthan finished his sentence the answer was clear. A young girl, perhaps eighteen or nineteen hopped out of the bedroom wearing a most revealing corset and nothing else.

  “Milord, have you seen my bottoms?”

  “They’re hanging on the side of the bath, dear,” replied Ser Seran, glancing back at Ser Lonthan with a sly smile.

  Ser Seran walked down the steps toward Ser Lonthan, his shoulders swaying far more than usual, and his smile far larger than a few minutes before.

  “You, sir,” said Ser Lonthan, “are definitely making use of your new status. But I’m afraid you have to leave that young beauty for now.”

  Ser Seran nodded in acknowledgement and followed his old friend to the door, up the alley and finally to the top of the Golden Steps, up to the highest plate of Alexandra City. Before them stood the great doors of the Royal Estate, made of the most solid oak Ser Lonthan had ever seen. He had to use both arms to push the magnificent gates open, which revealed a stone hall far larger than Ser Seran’s home in its entirety.

  Archways lined each side of the hall, with balconies suspended above them. A large table filled the centre of the hall large enough to seat well over one hundred people. It was coated in silver platters and goblets each filled with various meats and fruits as if a feast was waiting to begin. Yet there were only five people in the hall, the Queen included, as she sat on her throne awaiting the two men. They continued through the hall until they kneeled before the aging woman.

  “Ser Seran, your Majesty,” said Ser Lonthan as his face was turned to the floor.

  “Thank you Ser Lonthan,” said the Queen, her voice colder than ice and yet softer than butter. “Ser Seran, it is time for you to begin your duties to this nation as a Dragoon.

  You see, I feel it is time we take what was taken from us. The Ringlands have been without our leadership for far too long. Therefore, I am sending you to take them back.”

  “As you wish, your Majesty,” replied Ser Seran. “And how many knights do you wish me to take?”

  Queen Mari screeched a laugh and stared at the Dragoon with eyes like a cat after a mouse had just entered the room. Ser Lonthan knew that his friend had said something wrong, but could not speak of it in front of her Majesty.

  “Why, my dear boy,” she said. “You will take none of our knights with you. Why should we risk our fine men to take back such a place when we must concentrate on the growing threat from the Three Peaks.

  No, you will go alone and when you get there you will meet with Lord Eerhart who will provide you with all information and men he has available. For you see, the Ringlands are small and most of their people are but farmers. You will not need a great force to take them.”

  “Forgive me, your Majesty, but if they are but farmers, how did they gain their independence in the first place?”

  “That is simple,” she continued. “Our Inquisition betrayed the oaths they had sworn and turned upon our nation when we least expected it. However, that was many years ago and those men are either dead or as close to it as they could be.

  Ther
efore it is my decision that you will go alone. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, your Majesty,” said Ser Seran. Ser Lonthan watching from the corner of his eye as the Dragoon bowed his head in acceptance and stood. Ser Lonthan did the same.

  “May I ask how I am to travel there, Your Majesty?”

  “Why my dear boy, that is simple. You will take a horse-drawn coach to Karayol Port and then board a fishing boat we have arranged for you.”

  “A fishing boat, Your Majesty? Why not take an Odin or Thor airship? They are small and nimble enough.”

  “You will be going to the Ringlands under the guise of a Journeyman, most of whom have very little money and certainly could not pay the price of an air-taxi, let alone a private transport.”

  “I understand, Your Majesty. I will do as you ask immediately.”

  *~*~*

  3

  EINAR

  The long road to Saylae was covered in horse tracks from the hundreds of merchants that travelled around the island of Suhran from the port city. Thousands of paths and roads entangled one another across the land, but in the end they all joined the Saylae road.

  Einar had awoken Alexia at sunrise and they had set off with a few short minutes. Dragging the meat cart along the old road had proven difficult, but they had managed to cover half of it before the full face of the sun had risen.

  After five hours of dirt, broken branches and the odd strange riding by on a horse the trees began to separate, the forest finally ending. It gave way to the Whitewash Plains as if a gate had opened for the young travellers. The plains themselves were as flat as a squirrel after a coach had run it down.

  They spread far and wide, further than Einar’s eyes could see. Whiteseed plants spread over the land like a canvas as farmers harvested the petals for medicine whilst the rest would be used in the brewery in Saylae itself.

  Ahead was the great stone wall of the Suhran capital, always guarded and always gleaming like garnet due to the dark marble that was added into the building stones.

  “The Lord of Saylae,” said Einar trying to break the silence that has come over them, “is called Ser Handrid. A truly great man if ever there was one. He had been part of the Inquisition for Alexandria when they came here, but had fallen in love with our lands and lead the revolt of the Inquisition itself. He and his family, the Highwinds, lead the assault on Saylae when it was under Alexandrian control. That’s why they named him Lord of Saylae and then Lord of Suhran Island itself.”

  He looked over at his sister, half expecting her to not listen, yet she was looking at him directly in the face with eyes open wide.

  “The Highwinds did a very good job, in many ways. Yes we have a much harder life now than before but at the same time the city itself prospered and brought more merchants to us.

  Originally it was just a small village like Caim, but the Highwinds grew it, and built a new port, increased the market area and built the Whitewash fields.”

  “It really is beautiful,” said Alexia. “You never told me about it before.”

  “I didn’t think you would be interested,” he replied. Einar had always assumed she was far too interested in things like the “higher powers” and other fairy-tales she was told by old Ma’am Erey. He had been to Saylae six times in the past year and each time the buildings astounded him. However, the people were entirely different.

  “Alexia, be careful in there,” he said. “Some of the people will be able to tell you are from a village and may try to take advantage of what they think is your ignorance. So we’ll just go to the market and then leave for today.”

  They reached the gateway of the great market city, which was always open during the sunlight of the day to allow the hundreds of merchants to freely come and go. On each side of the enormous arched gateway stood a stone gryphon clutching a great sword in its mouth; the emblem of the Highwind family.

  “That sword was called Ruzgard,” said Einar when he noticed Alexia’s eyes were fixated upon the statues. “It means Wind Guardian in the old tongue. You see, the Highwind family admired our culture and language so much that they tried to honour its loss after Alexandria left.”

  Einar had always admired the Highwind family, and the Inquisition themselves. They had brought back at least a small pinch of the freedom that the Ringlands had lost at the hands of the Alexandria Empire.

  After passing through the gateway they walked into what could have been a completely different world. The streets were lined with cobblestone rather than the tracks of Caim Village. They were bustling and busy, with countless faces flowing in and out of every corner. Horses strode through the gaps between the sea of people as an endless song of a thousand voices filled the skies, with words like ‘apples’ and ‘meat’ echoing from the market stalls.

  Houses stretched up three to four stories and were coloured white with brown oak borders. Thatched roofs extended all around the city whilst the market stalls form a wall on both sides of every road.

  The echoing voices were drowned every few seconds as the roar of a steam-cart rolled passed. The long silver hoods of the carts stretched out as long as a man, with metal cabins to seat the passengers situated behind it. The drivers sat in small opening between the cabin and the engine, and all seemed to wear the same standard leather cap and protective goggles.

  In the sky Einar could see at least one hundred small delivery air-taxis trundling around above the houses, leaving trails of white smoke as the steam engines dragged the propellers into motion. The small balloons that held up the air-taxis were at the top, sometimes three or four of them, sometimes only one depending on the size of the air-taxi.

  From the balloons stretched thick rope which wrapped its way around wooden cabins that resembled a closed fishing boat of varying sizes.

  They walked a short distance, trying to maneuver the meat cart around the bustling citizens until they reached a small stall with a wooden roof and a box that was covered in various choice cuts of meat.

  “What have you go there, boy?” The stall owner was a wide built man at best, with a beard that had certainly seen better days. An odour of ale escaped from his mouth as he spoke.

  “Three cubs and a mother,” said Einar. “We’re after fifteen coins for the mother and six each for the cubs.” He noticed the quizzical expression on his sister’s face and smiled at her before winking.

  “That’s a very hefty sum you are asking, boy,” said the burly man. “I can give you ten for the mother and six in total for all the cubs, not just one of ‘em.”

  Einar shook his head and lifted the cart, taking a single stride forward whilst looking at his sister with a hidden smile.

  “Wait a second, boy,” said the man, “where are you going?”

  “To find someone who can actually afford such good and fresh meat.”

  “Alright boy, listen. Twelve for mother I can do, but I will only pay six in total for the cubs.”

  Einar smiled, glancing at his sister who nodded at him with the same look on her face. She understood what just happened, that was sure. The stall owner reached into a metal box in front of him and pulled out a handful of copper coins. There must have been at least a thousand in the box, but he counted out eighteen from the pile in his hand before hastily replacing the rest.

  Einar placed the bodies of the wolves behind the stall before taking the coins from the overweight man and return to the cart. However, as he went to lift the handle up once again, he noticed a familiar face, the red hair and orange dots on it standing out in the crowd of dark hair and pale faces.

  “Rin! What are you doing here?”

  Rin didn’t answer, the man’s eyes opening wide before he suddenly dashed off down an alley on the left. Einar’s face contorted and twisted to the side as he watched his friend disappear into the mass of people.

  “What was that for,” asked Alexia. Einar could only shake his head in disbelief. Why would Rin flee the sight of him? It made no sense to the young man. He sighed before pointing
to another market stall a few strides away that was decorated with chickens hanging from the ceiling.

  “Let’s get the chicken and bread and go home,” he said. “I’m sure Rin will explain himself when he comes back from the wedding.”

  They pulled the cart to the stall, bought themselves a whole chicken. After that they quickly went to the bakers for the bread before leaving the lively city to head back to the drudgery of Caim Village before the approaching storm clouds arrived in full.

  *~*~*

  4

  RIN

  Rin ran. He ran as fast as his tired legs could carry him, jumping from left to right in order to avoid the market carts and girls of the night who were just making their way to work. He ran in the hope that Einar wouldn’t follow. How could he have let the boy see him?

  Alley after alley shot past in an instant, from brick stone to mortar which was finally followed by the snow white marble walls of the wedding hall where his beloved Ari awaited his return. She was waiting with that horrid man.

  Rin barged through the door, the splinters tearing at his skin as the old wooden frame buckled. The lights were still out, the candles smoking just enough for white streams to float away from them. The hall was a large open room of emptiness except for the dining table and twenty chairs that surrounded it from head to toe. It had been far too many chairs, fifteen too many, but they were already there when Rin and Ari had arrived.

  Everyone must have been in the waiting room where he had left them. The door to the room was covered by a lilac and sky blue cloth, Ari’s favourite colours, in preparation for the celebration. Rin opened it hastily, the handle cracking under the speed.

  “There you are, dear boy,” said the raspy, empty voice that Rin had hoped was just a dream. Yet there stood the vile atrocity of a man. His night black cloak concealed his body entirely, but the weathered and eroded face was enough to freeze one’s very soul.