“Then what’re we waiting for?” There was eagerness in Issac’s tone Dalar could not help but smile at. “Let’s get to it lads!”
Issac, perhaps for the first time, took charge and began the march over the rolling dunes for Stovice. Dalar had to chuckle when, in his zealousness, Issac slipped upon a flat rock hidden in a nearby tidal pool. Dalar couldn’t decide which was funnier; the expression of shock on the man’s face as he lost his footing, or the manner in which Issac’s body contorted as he tried to maintain his composure.
“Lad’s a fish out o’ water.” Nog chuckled as he and Dalar kept pace with one another.
“Aye.” Dalar agreed.
“Ye know scholar, there’s no shame in what happened the oth’r night.” There was a genuine softness in the man’s voice. “Exhaustion’ll do it to ye.”
“I’d rather not talk about it.” Dalar said, twitching his nose.
“Fine by me.” Nog adjusted the weight of his bag as he walked away from Dalar.
Dalar hadn’t meant to be as rude as he had been, but the specter from the night before haunted him. The strange man, and his giant bear, had been there. At the same time, how could he have been there? When the ember burnt the tip of Dalar’s nose the husky, bearded transient vanished, leaving no sign of his or his pet’s existence. What worried Dalar most about the scenario was the man’s ominous threat of Madness and what the situation implied about Dalar’s own mental health.
The fear was tangible, or so Dalar thought, as he followed his two companions along the sandy beach. If his apparent gift of telekinetics brought on a quickening towards Madness than how was Dalar to take the evening’s event? A man and great beast were there in the flesh and suddenly gone in the blink of an eye. Dalar wondered if the whole scenario played from his mind, like some sort of mental projection. But that couldn’t quite solve the riddle that plagued him, for he knew nothing of the history, or side effects, of a telekinetic attunement.
Dalar turned his gaze back to the distant line of forest, marking the edge of the Narn Wood. Amongst the parched brambles and dead shrubbery a lone figure stood, silent as the trees around him. His robe was long, littered with all manner of leaves. A heavy crown of wood and berry adorned his wizened head. The man raised an arm, offering a farewell wave with an open palm of his hand while the other rested upon the back of an oversized brown bear.
“Scholar?” Nog called. “What’re ye doin’?”
“Pardon?” Dalar gave a start by the Stonefinger’s sudden voice. Most shocking was the realization that Dalar, too, held a hand aloft. “Nothing.”
“Don’t be goin’ heat mad on us now, Dalar.” Nog shook his head, turning his back to Dalar.
“Right,” Dalar returned his gaze back to the forest, but where the man once stood only a twisted maple tree remained. “Sorry.”
The bay itself was rather large, to the point that there were some in the scholarhood looking to rename the body of water from Fascile Bay to the Hallogenic Sea. In the days long gone, the bay had been a major naval route, which had been replaced by aeronautic lanes. Even those had seen a mighty decrease in numbers since the advent of cortex technology.
Dalar let his eyes travel across the murky grey-green water. Soft white ripples surged towards the shoreline with a slow, heaving momentum. Somewhere near the horizon line was their final destination, or so he hoped. In the days before cortexes, the steam powered airships required depots where they could acquire more coal in order to keep their bladders full of air. Dozens of air docks littered the countryside of Wynne. One of the most prominent depots sat somewhere out in the bay. It had been the largest way station for traveling airships. There had been a grand inn, air and dry dock, refinery and coal stores deep in the earth. Now, however, this abandoned port now reportedly housed the Imperial Order.
It didn’t take long for the three companions to traverse the arching beach along the coastline. By the time they reached the town’s edge, the evening sun had turned the sky a vibrant red. Skiffs and small vessels floated in from the water, making berth along a half dozen precarious wooden docks. Men hauled in the days catch, picking up their pay in weight by the overseeing fish dealers. The smell of salt water filled the air as Dalar led the way past the docks. The streets, if they could be called that, were made of slick stones. At one time the heavy rock would have been like any other cobbled street in Valvius, but time and weather shifted the stones greatly.
“There’s the inn there.” Dalar pointed to an obtuse building made of bowing grey wood. Its roof poked high into the sky. It was evident the caretakers did not spend much time in maintaining the structure, for dozens of shingles were missing from the rafters and the odd window was cracked.
“Don’t look like much.” Nog sniffed.
“It’s not.” Dalar admitted, stepping around a loose running fowl. “But it will be like a luxury hotel in Brixon after these past days in the wild.”
Dalar looked about the town as the party wound its way towards the haphazard building. There was something amiss, that much Dalar knew. His eyes followed a pair of fishermen heading towards the docks, then to a group of young boys beginning to gut the day’s catch. On the deck of the homes, and loitering around the few shops of Stovice were men of ancient age. Men were everywhere, each one looking as dour and rough as the waters they worked.
“Where are all the women?” Issac asked.
“I don’t know.” Dalar admitted as he, too, realized the startling truth. He now understood what was so troubling about this usually bustling town. The women were missing.
“They’re gone.” A passing fisherman spat, clearly annoyed by Issac’s blunt questioning.
“Where’d they go?” Dalar asked, but the man continued on his way.
“Maybe we’ll get some answers at the inn.” Nog suggested.
Dalar led the way up the rickety front stair and into the common area. It was a spacious room, dark and dingy in the failing light of day. The floor was grey and dreary, seemingly made from an eclectic mix of driftwood. Many of the round dining tables were stacked to the side, as were their accompanying chairs.
“We’re closed.” A ravenously fat man said from behind the bar.
“Closed?” Dalar asked, though it was more of a protestation than question.
“Aye.” The man stated, cold and flat. “You boys best be on your way now. We don’t take kindly to strangers anymore.”
“Now hold on for just a moment.” Dalar said. “What’s happened here? This is not the Stovice I remember.”
“The women were taken.” The man replied. “We lost them all from the raids. Our lads did what they could but what they did was not enough. Now we don’t want strangers.”
“We know where your women are.” Dalar kept his voice calm and steady, hoping to get through to the innkeep. “We are men tasked by the Chancellor of Valvius to find all of Valvius’ missing women and to put an end to those that harry us.”
“That so?” The man raised an eyebrow.
“Aye.” Nog replied.
“You have papers or somethin’ to back up your claim?” The man asked.
“No.” Dalar admitted. Dalar reached into the folds of his bedroll and retrieved a purse full of coin. He held the bag up, gave a jingle and said; “We would ask you to take us on our word and let us bunk here for the night.”
“You think you can bribe ol’ Barleby?” The man huffed.
“This is no bribery ser.” Dalar said, keeping the frustration out of his voice the best he could. “I figured this would be enough for three warm beds and equal amount of hot food and drink.”
Barleby eyed the bag in Dalar’s hand. Dalar knew the man needed the money; it was why he hadn’t protested again.
“But if you’re closed,” Dalar started to return the purse back into the bedroll.
“Now don’t you go an’ be hasty like that.” Barleby blurted. “I think I can make an exemption tonight.”
“Excellent.” Dalar smiled, tossing
the purse across the lacquered bar.
“Just to warn you boys,” Barleby said, inspecting his loot. “With me wife bein' gone, the food’ll be lacking in flavour.”
“I’m sure it will be better than salted meat and stale bread.” Issac proclaimed.
Barleby didn’t lie about the quality of the meal. The drink was watered down ale, tasting more of a warm piss than the hearty brews Dalar was accustomed too. Even the food managed to be nothing spectacular; Barleby roasted a fresh cod with potatoes. The meal was missing the sweet touch of seasoning, but it served its purpose in filling Dalar’s stomach.
After dinner, Dalar and his companions sat out on the patio, looking out over the bay. A few ships floated close to the shore.
“We need to procure a ship.” Dalar stated. “Preferably something small.”
“And sturdy.” Nog said, taking a gulp of the ale.
“Will we find one here?” Issac asked. “Look how much it took to get us a room here.”
“Certainly.” Dalar smiled. “The town may be in shambles, but the bay is their life. Their earnings go into those ships down there. A little extra coin will go a long way. We will find a solid ship to take us out there. In fact, why don’t you go do that Issac? Go find us a ship, we plan to leave before dawn.”
“Sure thing.” Now it was Issac who smiled. Dalar did not doubt the man was eager to do something more than following the lead of a scholar, even if it were a simple task as procuring a vessel.
Issac skipped down the slattern steps to the misshapen cobbles below and made his way to the docks.
“He has a lot of choices, I am sure.” Dalar turned to Nog.
“Aye.” The Stonefinger agreed. “Hope he chooses well.”
“Oh of that I don’t worry.” Dalar said.
Silence fell over the two men as they sat upon the deck, looking out over the water. Dalar often wondered what the gruff little man thought about, what drove him. The Stonefinger was not like most soldiers. In many ways the robust little man was more of a hired gun by the Valvian army. At least that’s the impression he gave off.
“Did ye see that scholar?” Nog asked, a hint of shock and wonder in his tone.
“See what?” Dalar raised an eyebrow.
“Watch there.” The Stonefinger pointed to a location out along the horizon.
Dalar followed the direction of Nog’s finger. From the distance of the inn, Dalar couldn’t see anything. At first he saw nothing but soft churning water and a darkening sky. Then he saw it. There on the horizon line the sky lit up bright and blue. It seemed like a lightning strike, but the longer Dalar watched, the more he realized the luminosity occurred in regular intervals at the same location.
“Them lights been ragin’ for months.” Barleby said as he joined Dalar and Nog on the small patio. “None of us can quiet understand it, less of us brave enough to go investigate it.”
“Did you ever report the lights?” Dalar asked.
“Never.” Barleby admitted. “We figured no one would care what the fisher folk of poor little Stovice would have to say.”
Dalar and Nog shared a momentary glance of sad agreement. It wasn’t Stovice’s fault, nor their own, it was just how the world worked. Some hamlets, towns and cities required far more attention to manage. As a result dozens of equally important locations fell by the way side, not for lack of care, but more of an over sight during the political process.
“I’m sorry,” Dalar said, placing a hand on the innkeeper’s wide shoulder.
“Don’t be lad.” Barleby smiled. “We’re hearty men here. We know how things work in the big cities.”
The horizon erupted once more in the azure light. It was a beautiful sight, arcane and mysterious. A growing fear bubbled in Dalar’s gut as he realized the light source was more than likely where he led his fellow companions.
“I can’t promise we’ll find your women Barleby.” Dalar looked into the man’s small, blue eyes. “But I do promise to find answers for you.”
“That’s all I ask, lad.” The inn keep smiled away a loose rolling tear. “That’s all any of us here ask.”
There was a fierce chill in the air as fat flakes of snow fell upon the thick fur of Julien DiMarco’s coat. The faculty of the College of Kinetics encircled him in silence. He stood before the central fountain of the Garden D’Lune, its waters long frozen to the icy kiss of winter. Three angels of verdigris stained brass and copper huddled together atop the stone plinth. Julien put his weight on his cane, turning to face the assembled.
“I would like to thank each of you,” Julien began, voice strained with grief, “for braving the cold and snow this afternoon. I know many of you did not know Madam Sharpe as I had. Your being here has given me hope for Wynne.”
“Least we could do.” One of the terrakinetic professors said with gentle smile. “The Madam was more than just another person, dear Julien. She was the Speaker of the Commons – the voice of those who cannot speak for themselves.”
“That she was.” Julien allowed himself a smile. It was weak, pitiful even, but it was a smile nonetheless. His gaze turned from the gathered mourners to face the new copper plaque adorning the angel’s perch. Julien read its words perhaps for the hundredth time.
In memory of the Madam Rosemary Sharpe, Speaker of the Commons.
“Has anyone informed the remains of the council?” he asked, sliding his pyrokinetic lenses back up his nose. No one spoke. He turned on his cane, again, to face the faculty members. “Does the council know?”
“The council…” the librarian of the college, a terrakinetic named Gillard, said. Taking a deep breath the portly gentleman continued. “The council of Wynne no longer exists.”
“What do you mean?” Julien demanded.
“We all know of Valvius’ war with this…Order and Syntar.” Gillard stated, adjusting the wire frame spectacles that sat precariously on his nose.
“Aye, what of it?” Julien asked, fearing he already knew the answers to come.
“It would seem,” Gillard continued, “The other provinces have taken sides in this conflict, destroying what remained of our grand council.”
“Why was I not told?” Julien huffed as a low-burning rage bubbled in his heart.
“The telegram came when you were in your grief,” the librarian said softly. “We agreed it best to wait until after the ceremony to tell you.”
“All that we stand for is falling apart and you fail to tell me, the kinetic representative on the council?” Julien’s cheeks flushed as his anger continued to boil.
“We thought…” Gillard stammered.
“You thought wrong.” Julien snapped. “What of the other councilors? Where are they?”
“From our understanding the provincial representatives have taken the risk of flight and set off for their homelands.” Gillard said. “Our own representatives have remained in Gossac, taking refuge in their manses.”
“What do they intend to do there?” Julien spat. “Get fat on Pozian fire rum and Di Delgan cakes while the whole of Wynne bleeds around them?”
“Surely nothing so crass as that, ser.” Gillard stepped forward, placing a hand on Julien’s shoulder. “Master Julien, we have known one another for many moons. We must keep our heads in these trying times and not let our emotions lead us to turning on our own kind.”
“Do not presume to preach to me, terra.” Julien shrugged the other man’s hand away with a grunt. “The other councilors have abandoned their vows for the greater good of Wynne. Now we must try to maintain what order we can.”
“As long as Wynne is at war, ser.” Gillard’s tone hinted at a hurt pride that the round man fought to contain. “There can not be order. The most we can do is to protect what few kinetics remain here, at the college.”
“You wish to go to war is it?” His stern, judging gaze fell upon electrokinetics, pyrokinetics, terrakinetics and hydrokinetics all; each wore a mask of worry, dread, and fear. “While I still draw breath, the kinetic peop
le will not take part in this war. To do so would create such a rift between our kind and the peoples of Wynne I fear it would be irreparable.”
“We do not seek war, Julien.” Gillard’s voice was soft. “We merely wish to defend ourselves, and this campus that we call home.”
“You are not suggesting…?” Julien’s voice trailed off as his ancient mind came to the realization of what his fellow kinetics desired.
“We are.” Gillard answered.
Julien sighed. In all the years he had been at the college - as pupil, professor, and headmaster – he had always hoped he would never live to see the wonderful campus grounds come under a threat so dire that the Emergency Security Protocol would go into motion.
It was an old protocol, created over two hundred years ago at the end of the Great War. The kinetics of the college devised a contingency plan to protect themselves in the case of another war. It was a plan that went against the guidelines set forth in the peace treaties, so it had been done in secret.
“The ESP,” Julien suggested, releasing a mournful breath of indignation. “I have lived my life not wanting to see these wonderful grounds turned into a fortress.”
“So have we all, ser,” Gillard did a remarkable job keeping his voice calm. “But we must protect ourselves. We are too few to fend off any major offensive.”
“And many of us are old,” a female professor from the electrokinetic school stated. “We simply would not have the ability to hold out for a prolonged engagement.”
A chorus of agreement flooded from the assembled. Julien was at a loss. In his heart he knew the right course of action, yet the doctrines he had abided for the entirety of his life screamed in protest.
Julien raised a hand, motioning for silence. He slid his lenses up the bridge of his nose and looked at each professor, again, in turn;
“I have protested every rash action, and decision, Lucian Margoux brought forward to the council these past months.” Julien tried to keep the hurt pride from his voice. “Mine was the voice loudest in urging my fellows to remember our mandates and vows. If it were not for me, this war would have been upon us far sooner than we would have liked.
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