by Ember Lane
“Can we stay?” he asked.
“Here?” Lincoln said, taken aback by the abruptness of the question.
“Here. My father’s sick, and my grandpa’s sick, but my mom and me can work until they get better.”
“Sick?”
“Mom say’s the damp’s gotten into them. We hadn’t seen the sun for ten days, then we came here.”
Lincoln stared down at the little scamp. When he’d thought about folks coming, he’d imagined strong men and capable women, ready to take on the task of building a settlement, not the weak, diseased, and feeble, not the destitute on the very verge of death.
“Of course,” he replied, biting his lip and immediately accepting that this was probably all his settlement would attract. Those so desperate to flee the land outside that they’d throw their lot in with a dank forest and all its dangers, both seen and unseen. “What’s your name?”
“Robert, but my mom calls me Rob—most of the time—when I’m being good.”
“Well Rob, let’s go meet your parents.”
Rob introduced his mother first. Her name was Gillian, and she held her shoulders like the whole world pushed down on each. Her eyes were drawn, silvery bags telling of many a night’s broken sleep. She clasped an old, brown shawl tight around her neck as if the cold held deep-winter’s bite, and her look was akin to someone who had left despair behind long ago, plunging farther depths. Despite looking middle-aged, Lincoln doubted she was a day over twenty-five.
“We will work our share and more,” she blurted, looking up from her bowl. “And I can cook,” she said, glancing at Aezal as if she expected the warrior to swipe at her for the comment.
Aezal ladled some broth into a bowl and shoved it over to Lincoln. “The dwarf is a better cook than me,” he muttered, as he spooned more into the next. “I see we have the gnome back, so I take it all went well.”
“To plan,” Lincoln said, simply. “Gillian, do you know what ails your husband and father?”
“Rot,” she said. “The trees are thick with fungus, and I fear it is eating them alive. Look how their eyes bulge, their skin bleeds, and scales. They have the haunted look of those whose boats are moored close by. But maybe,” she said, her voice becoming more urgent. “Maybe now that we are out of that dread place, it will retreat—maybe. We have hope here, please don’t turn us away.”
Lincoln nodded. He’d already accepted that this was his fate. These blighted folks were his settlement’s future.
“I can help.” The words floated around him, and he recognized her voice. “I have seen this before.”
Turning, Lincoln saw Glenwyth standing by the bridge. She appeared hesitant, nervous, almost like taking another step would be one too far, one she needed an invite for. Lincoln stared at her, confused at seeing the elf away from her valley, wondering at her motives.
“Glenwyth,” he whispered, and just that word seemed to release her to dash toward him, falling to her knees. “I must make amends. I have asked Forgarth, and he has granted my wish. There are plenty that will now help you in the valley, but few up here. I am to be that bridge.”
Lincoln wanted to tell her that there was no need, but could see that the need was all hers. He’d sensed she’d broken some kind of law, stepped over an unseen line and needed to heal herself.
“Welcome to Joan’s Creek,” he said, and he tucked into his broth. “Aezal, you are a terrible cook.”
“But a great warrior.”
“Who keeps getting knocked out,” Crags pointed out.
Aezal growled at him. “Poisoned, drugged, those were not true battles. Those were the battles of cowards.”
“True,” Lincoln agreed, though he made a note that the warrior was at three loses and zero wins. “You’re just saving your great victories for later.”
Aezal grunted, but Lincoln could tell he was embarrassed.
Glenwyth waited for the family to finish their food, and then helped them to one of the cottages over the bridge. Rob’s father was called Jack, and his grandfather, Edward, though Lincoln doubted the old man would survive long. His lips were swollen, purple, scabbed, and bleeding. His eyes bulged like onions, and he moved and walked like each of his joints was but a rusted hinge. All their eyes followed the family on their painfully slow way. After they’d disappeared into the hut, Glenwyth emerged, skipping across the night-darkened vale like it was already her home, and returning a little while later.
“What’s her story?” asked Aezal, and Lincoln filled him in on the day’s events.
“Are you truly the only man that can get stabbed and still win?” Aezal asked, when Lincoln had finished, but then he immediately put his hand up to stay Lincoln’s response. “No need to answer, I know. So...” Aezal turned to Crags. “How did you fare?”
“With Forgarth?” Crags replied. “The usual. At first it was all furtive glances and scowls, but my charm, charisma, and wit won the day. After that, we mostly chatted about the land and whatnot.”
“Whatnot?” Aezal asked.
Crags pulled his little legs up, crossing them and resting his bowl on his lap. “War. We all know war is coming, and before he wasn’t particularly worried about it, but with Lincoln coming along, he can see his tribe getting dragged into the killing.”
“Why?” Lincoln asked, suddenly perking.
“Because Sutech Charm knows Irydia well. He’s not like the others who’ve invaded. He knows the true power of Irydia radiates from the north and doesn’t peter out in the mountains. He knows he must conquer Zybond, hold Merrivale, use Thickwick—all of them big and small if he is to sit in the halls of Shyantium, if he is to study in their universities.” Crags took a breath, but his next words were no more comforting. “If he is to march on Kobane and Atremeny.”
“No army has ever conquered Atremeny,” Aezal spat.
“No army has ever been led by Sutech Charm,” Crags countered. “Rumor has it, he has the support of the boy Zender—the one you lot call ShadowDancer. If that is the case, he will sit in the Hall of Reavers before many years have passed.”
Aezal nodded, and the dwarves grunted, but Lincoln said nothing. He didn’t know enough about the land. He couldn’t be sure whose side he should be on. Brokenford hadn’t impressed him at all. Its lies, deceit, and prejudice on show for all to revel in.
His gaze was drawn to the cottage over the river, and his mind lingered on Glenwyth. Why was she so fraught with guilt at trying to protect her people from what she thought was a monster? Or was it that she could, that her anger had been so quick to rise? He jumped up, deciding to do something for himself, to take a look at his own personal hop and barley farm. “Sometimes answers come easier when you don’t chase them,” he muttered to himself.
Before he'd gotten too far, he saw the little farmstead. It had just enough room for the two folks that would be needed to tend the fields. For now, he saw two copper workers toiling away in them, glinting in the moonlight. The familiar subtle scent of the hops came to him first, followed by the bitter tang of the fledgling fruit trees. Each of the farms had been accelerated by the land to begin producing quicker foods straight away, and Bethe had obviously taken great pains to make sure the fruit trees would bloom on time. Lincoln needed their natural yeast to start the brewing process off. He sat on the farmstead’s stoop and looked out over it.
“I took the liberty of planting some smoking leaf for you.” Bethe’s voice made Lincoln jump, but it was a welcome surprise.
“Thank you Bethe. I don’t suppose any is ready?”
“I gave one plant a helping hand. Here,” she said, handing him a pouch. “I have been in contact with Echo, and simplified all your menus to accommodate the extra settlement. You can now instruct me through him, and vice versa.”
“Oh, thank God for that,” Lincoln said, lighting his already primed pipe. “I thought I was going to have to split myself in two. What would I do without you?”
“That’s quite all right. I see you have leveled agai
n. Would you like to allocate your points? Bear in mind that each building and progression now increases your XP. You should increase your level regularly.”
“Politics, all in politics. I want that build speed-up for now.”
“Very wise. With twelve points, your build will be twelve percent faster. It is done. Just so you know, you get ten XP for each level 1 building, then an additional twenty for a level 2, thirty for 3, and so on.”
“Good to know. So how are we doing?”
“If you pull up your city menu, you’ll see both settlements are on the same page.”
Settlement name: Joan’s Creek.
Population: 4. Population capacity: 180
Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)
Politics: (12, 0), Culture: (0, 0), Defense: (0, 0)
Build speed: +12%, Learning advancement: N/A, Defense bonus: N/A
Buildings: Amount - levels
Cottages: 12 – 2,2,2,2,2,2,1,1,1,1,1,1. Warehouse 1 – 1.
Production
Farms: 11 – 2,2,2,2,2,1,1,1,1,1,1. Sawmills: 3 – 2,2,2.
Quarries: 2 – 1,1. Mines: 1 – 1.
Resources (Amount, Production rate, (Current Consumption-food only))
Food: (12,080, 2100/ph, -40p/h), Wood: (10,650, 900/ph)
Stone: (6,950, 200/ph), Ore: (4150, 100ph)
Settlement name: Sanctuary.
Population: 0. Population capacity: 120
Attributes: (Level, Bonuses)
Politics: (12, 0), Culture: (0, 0), Defense: (0, 0)
Build speed: +12%, Learning advancement: N/A, Defense bonus: N/A
Buildings: Amount - levels
Cottages: 12 – 1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1. Warehouse 1 – 1.
Production
Farms: 8 – 1,1,1,1,1,1,1,1. Sawmills: 1 – 1.
Resources (Amount, Production rate, Consumption-food only)
Food: (200, 800/ph, -0p/h), Wood: (0, 100/ph)
Stone: (2150, 0/ph), Ore: (2600, 0ph)
“Sanctuary?” Lincoln asked, sure he’d only thought of the name and not named the place.
“It seemed to fit… My lord…”
Lincoln laughed at that. “Have you developed a sense of humor?”
“I am supposed to evolve to become more like you so that I can take your place when you are away. I must learn from you every day.”
“Sanctuary it is, and don’t call me lord.”
“Some of the workers are becoming idle. They will complete the tasks ahead of schedule because of the accelerated build speed and the number of them. Have you any further instructions?”
“Echo has his.”
“I am aware. Sanctuary is stifled by resources at the minute.”
“For this place… I’m thinking four level 2 cottages, six level 2 farms; upgrade the two quarries and the mine. Iron will be our limiting factor tomorrow, so establish another mine with the last of it.”
“And the spare labor?”
“Can they make a start on the fissure without the iron?”
“You have enough iron left for the tools, barrows, carts, and chutes. We could divert the spare workers to the fissure as they become free. However, currently, fifty workers are tied up making sure the resources keep working. You need more population.”
Lincoln knew it, and he’d lose another sixteen once tomorrow’s upgrades were done, but he couldn’t keep building cottages…could he? He decided to keep that option in reserve. Food would be plentiful, lumber would keep piling up, and with the upgrades to the mine and establishing the new one, that bottleneck would be solved for now.
“Stick to the plan, Lincoln,” he told himself. “Go see the mountain tomorrow, and get back in time to brew some ale.”
“Would you like me to accompany you tomorrow?” Bethe asked.
“Why not?” Lincoln said, and he tapped his pipe out, and made his way back to his cottage. “The cottage upgrades—do four of the ones across the river, and then move the family into one. We’ll all be okay in ours.”
“As you wish,” Bethe said, and she held the door open for him. Once again, he was asleep before he’d hit the bed.
This time, it was a faint knocking that woke him, followed by the quiet creak of a door being opened.
“Lincoln?” he heard Glenwyth’s soft voice, and then her footsteps padded up to the bed.
“Glenwyth? What is it?” But she didn’t answer at first. She lay next to him, pulling his arm around her, and then her whole body shuddered as she started to sob.
“I’m scared,” she finally said.
“Scared of what,” Lincoln asked.
“The dark,” she said, and somehow Lincoln knew it wasn’t the dark of the night.
17
Caverns And Caves
The mountain loomed large and imposing, though it cast no shadow their way. Escarpments littered with gray scree battered feeble foothills with their waste, and streams gnawed at their very roots. Wind whipped up specters of dancing dust, that weaved, loomed close, and then petered out. Grit coated his skin, lined his mouth and leached into his lungs. It was grim and inhospitable but part of his land and so precious to him. Lincoln trod on.
Above all the chaos, the mount sat resplendent, immune from the anarchy below, peering down from its lofty heights like an elder to a child. Snow capped its top, rock faces dropped, filled with crags that stared out with dark and dead eyes, and Lincoln couldn’t help but wonder if the mountain wasn’t alive. He regretted leaving Aezal behind for the second day running, fearing the warrior might feel left out, but this was dwarf territory through and through, no doubt about it. They had grins plastered all over their fat faces.
Glenwyth had left his bed shortly before Aezal had roused him for their training. She’d slept in his arms all night, as if the comfort of his embrace was enough to ward off the creeping darkness in her heart, though she’d said no more about her fears. More than anything, Lincoln wanted to talk to Elleren and find out exactly what was afflicting Glenwyth, but that conversation would have to wait until tomorrow. He had to force thoughts of her from his mind.
“So, where are our quarries?” Lincoln asked Bethe.
“Do you wish to see one?”
“Lead the way.”
“This should be interesting,” Grimble muttered. “A quarry run by copper things.”
“Robots,” Lincoln told him.
“What?” Ozmic asked.
“Nothing,” Lincoln decided it was a conversation better avoided. “We need a name for them. How about…bots, meaning…children of the settlement,” he said quickly.
“It’s got a ring,” Grimble admitted.
“Would you like me to refer to the workers as bots?” Bethe asked.
“Please, now, the quarries.”
Bethe led them through the final foothills and up a ravine before cresting its sharp ridge, and there she waited for them all. Lincoln clambered up in front of the two dwarves, who seemed content to watch him struggle.
“Yer not built fer climbing,” Ozmic shouted, but Lincoln was already doubled over, holding his sides.
“Ya think?” he shouted back down and then turned and looked over toward the next ridge.
There were piles upon piles of hewn gray-and-white rock—his settlement’s reserve of stone. Vertical faces had already eaten into the mountain’s foundation, though only the size of baby teeth in a giant’s head, and Lincoln felt happier knowing that their best efforts wouldn’t be any more than a scratch on its surface. A track was being laid, straight iron rails running down the valley, and trucks were being built to roll on it.
“I took the design from your thoughts,” Bethe explained. “It will make the mine a level 2 without too much work. If the stone can be cleared faster, it can be carved faster, thus the output is raised—the sole prerequisite for a jump from level to level. It will be complete before the day is out.”
“It that our iron mine?” Ozmic said, pointing up at a hole in the ridge’s side.
“It is the beginnings
of the new one. There are only two bots working on it at the moment, more will come once the first cottage is upgraded. I thought you’d want to move the family as soon as possible. A level 2 cottage has a stone hearth. A fire should aid their recovery.”
Lincoln was taken aback by her forethought, and hoped she’d picked up that caring side from him. “It looks like you have everything under control.”
“Would you like to go into the mountain? There is a cave nearby. What minerals do you seek?” Bethe asked.
“Gold would be nice. With gold we could establish a marketplace and trade with other cities,” Lincoln told her.
“Through Thickwick?” Grimble asked.
“Or along the river. We could travel down the river and say we’re from Thickwick, or Atremeny, anywhere. Once we’re out of the forest, there’s no need to tell anyone where we’re from.”
“But it’s still risky,” Ozmic pointed out.
“If folks find out Sanctuary exists, then so be it. Joan’s Creek remains cut off though. Both remaining a secret would be better for now.”
“For now?” Grimble asked.
“Until we’ve got defenses: until we’ve got an army,” Lincoln said grimly. “And until we’ve got a hero.”
“A hero?” Ozmic scratched his Mohican.
Lincoln winked. “Just wait and see. To the nearby cave?”
“To the cave!” both dwarves cried, clearly anxious to see the mountain’s innards.
Nearby was actually an hour of traversing up a scree-laden slope—an hour the sun chose as a good time to start burning brightly down. Halfway along, Lincoln took out his staff, leaning on it with every hard stride.