by Jay Swanson
Levanton was a small mountain village located in a valley that served as a pass to the fishing villages on the northwestern portion of the continent. Most notably, and most profitably, they sat just above the highway that ran to the Peninsula. It was heavily traveled and brought good business. At least until the Magi had raised the cliffs in the Great Defense and all but wiped out those fishing villages. Levanton had shrunk significantly since then. Most other villages in the region had simply died over the years.
Elandir, Levanton’s protector City State, controlled most of the trade now thanks to the cliffs. Levanton was left little more than a small agricultural community with the few services necessary to support the farmers that remained. Where there were once a good number of fuel stations, restaurants, and inns to service the travelers passing through. The town was now barely able to support one of each.
Soon after his retirement from the army, Don had made an attempt to start his own logging operation. The mountains proved familiar from his childhood gallivanting, and he had proven himself to be among the worst farmers in history to date. Besides, his father had been a great carpenter. Even if he hadn't passed any of those skills along to his sons, he had certainly drilled into their heads the difference between good wood and rot.
Don and his younger brother had stalked deep into the forest to find some cedar that they could ship down to the City States in the plains. They found some great timber. They even made some sales in the first few months that kept their dreams alive.
Don bought bigger mule wagons to haul the wood to the Larger's Mill down on the river. He dreamed that someday he would own his very own truck, perhaps even a fleet of them. They were expensive things, automobiles, but stuck in his mind as a symbol of success. Things were looking up until the day they cut a cedar down on Bandit's Peak.
It had already been a long day, and they were tired. They should have stopped before trying to cut that tree, but it was a beautiful piece of timber and the brothers simply couldn't resist. After a couple of hours of chopping and sawing the monster was ready to fall. Don gave it the last few hacks necessary to send it toppling down the hill. But it didn't fall downhill.
As the tree slid off its stump it caught on a boulder that was mostly hidden by brush. It began to tip back towards them. Don, caught unprepared, attempted to get out of the way but tripped on a root and fell. He rolled onto his back just in time to see the giant's path redirected by its own stump and onto him in a deafening crash; pinning his leg to the forest floor. His brother worked tirelessly to get him out from under the tree. It took hours.
In reality Don was lucky to have lived. One of the branches had punctured his left thigh and kept him from being able to slide out.
The doctor had called him brave as he took the leg. He didn't feel brave. He was terrified. Outside of the small pension the military paid him he found himself with no way to meet his family's needs. He tried to rent out his logging equipment and what farming implements he still had, but there wasn't any demand. Finally he sold what he could, parked the rest behind the barn, and leased out his land to his neighbors. There wasn't much else he could do.
But God had been gracious, and he still had food to put on the table for his children. John, his oldest, had stayed to help the past four years. Ever since he turned sixteen he had wanted to join the infantry. It wasn't Don's greatest wish to see his brilliant son become a grunt like his father. But there weren't any wars to fight, and he supposed it couldn't hurt for the boy to see a bit of the world outside Levanton.
He even allowed John to attend the military academy's summer program for young reserves and recruits. But the training only made John more anxious to sign up, and every year Don could tell was a year too long for his son. At twenty he was still working in the village and surrounding area to contribute to the family's needs. Though they appreciated it, it wasn't enough for John. At least he hadn't become too distracted by girls until recently.
Rachel and Lystra were the two daughters that had come after John, twins and a handful from birth. They too pulled their weight in helping their mother with the other children and worked hard around the farm. They kept some of their own animals and sold eggs and milk at market. Don hoped that their recent success in that arena would soon free John to pursue his own dreams.
Ardin, Don's youngest boy had just turned sixteen and was even more restless than his older brother. Not nearly as responsible, he made up for his moments of immaturity with boundless passion and a sense of integrity that sometimes put his father to quiet shame.
Adelade, his fourteen year old was studious to say the least. If Don had to pick a word to describe his daughter it would be 'serious.'
Thyra had just discovered her love of all things pink at age eleven, a little late for most girls but she had enjoyed a great run as the family tom-boy.
And then Lydia, the apple of his proverbial eye. She recently had her eighth birthday. She was as content to sit on her father's remaining leg and listen to his stories as she was doing anything else. She truly made him complete.
Electricity had made it into a few homes in the village, but it was still too costly and dangerous for Don's taste. There had been the occasional accident around the village and he had seen what it could do to a man. He felt it an unnecessary risk for a little added convenience.
Their tiny house was warmed by a wood stove, which also served to cook their meals. His wife was hard-pressed to find ways of cooking those meals without the blazing iron beast in the heat of summer, but she was artfully creative when it came to it.
Emily was a dream to Don; he was proud of her. She worked hard to maintain business with their neighbors and often stayed up late into the night to make or repair clothing for the children. Sometimes she would have enough left over to sell at market.
Dinner was special for the family though. Especially during the summer when the little ones didn't have school to attend and the sun rested in the sky for those extra few hours. Don would often pull them outside after finishing up at the table and set them to playing a game he called 'cat and mouse.' He couldn't much run any more, but he could make his children.
He, the cat, would sit in his chair on the back porch and throw a small ball at the mice, his children. They had the task of dodging the ball by diving behind planters, troughs, wagons, or whatever shelter presented itself. More often than not an older sibling provided ample protection. If hit they were made to stand behind their father on the porch, in the mouse trap, until their time was up and they were free to roam the farm again.
The twins had long since given up on the game; too busy helping their mother to run around in the back yard. But the rest of the children loved the game, even John and serious little Adelade weren't above a good round of cat and mouse.
The sun began to set in the peaks above their house, the warm pink light diffusing through the tall trees around their land. Emily called to the children to make ready for bed. Their protests came and went as obligatory ritual, and soon the house was quieting down for the night.
“Boys,” their father called them over as their sisters walked in the house. “Walk with me.”
The brothers smiled at each other and followed their father. Evening walks with him were a rare treat. He couldn't make it very far with his cane and prosthesis. They usually only made it to the edge of their property before he found a log to sit on. The breeze picked up off of the mountains as the sun set behind their craggy peaks. Ardin couldn't help but close his eyes against it and smile.
They sat with their father as he told them one of his old war stories, reminding them of the cost that had been paid to secure mankind's freedom.
“Back when I fought for Elandir,” he started as he always did. “We trained with the finest technology a man could wish for. They knew the Magi would return, and bring their cursed Shadow Warriors with them, and they had prepared well.”
“Were you worried, Father?” Ardin asked. “I mean, knowing that you would have to fi
ght them? Fight their magic?”
“Of course son!” Don laughed as he thumped Ardin on the back. “Of course. But we had the right tools, didn't we? And we had Khrone's Hunters doing the real fighting. The magic users didn't stand a chance.”
“But they killed a lot of you, didn't they,” John was staring back at the house.
“Yes, son. They did. But we tore them to shreds.” Their father's expression grew serious as well. “There wasn't any joy in it, boys. We may have earned our freedom, but the things we saw... listen. I want to tell you something important. Ardin.” He turned to his youngest son. “You share a great responsibility with your brother.”
Ardin's focus on his father couldn't have been more complete. The lines in the old man's worn face were far deeper than they should have been at his age. Ardin believed them to be true signs of wisdom, like the silver cropping up at his temples.
“Your sisters, son, will need protecting in this world. As will your mother.” Don Vitalis sighed, as he looked down at his wooden leg. “I won't be around forever boys, and I can't fight like I once could. There's a reason we play those games; why we set strategies and carry out plans against imaginary enemies. Why I've taught you to fight.”
He trailed off for a minute as he looked at his house, his land. What had become of him that he was in such a position as to tell his boys this? To put any burden on them of such gravity?
“There will come a day when I won't be here is what I'm trying to say. I can’t promise that the next illness won’t be the last. And when that happens I want you to watch over your family.” He looked sternly from one son to the other, placing his hands on theirs. “I don't lay this on you lightly, I know what I'm asking. I won't presume to know how best to deal with what you will have to face. I trust you to do what's right above all else.”
He gripped their shoulders tightly. “But I'm charging you boys, begging you: watch over your mother and sisters. They are the most precious things in the world to me. Our family is all that matters.”
He smiled sadly as his boys nodded. They were good kids; young men he realized. The seriousness with which they took the charge was expected. He knew he could trust them. But he also knew they might resent him for this. He prayed it wasn't the burden he knew it to be.
They walked back to the house in the dark. Don hobbled over to his chair in the kitchen. Emily was finishing with the flowers she had arranged in the window. She smiled as she wiped her hands on her apron and walked over to help clean her husband's leg. They boys bid them goodnight and made for bed. They could hear their parents' hushed conversation and laughter in the kitchen as its warm light spilled into the hallway. Ardin smiled at the sound as they tried to move silently up the stairs. What ill could befall them here? In spite of his father’s grave talk it was hard not to let his warnings slip in the safety of their home.
John and Ardin had the privilege of keeping one of the three bedrooms upstairs to themselves. As they lay in the deepening darkness John told his younger brother tales of beasts and great warriors, men of valor and their dark enemies. Ardin drifted to sleep, dreaming of dragons and Shadow Warriors and places he thought he would never see.
THE IMMENSE BLACK walls of Elandir towered over the surrounding plains, at least sixty stories high and running like a massive circle between the eight square towers that surrounded the city. Each tower jutted out from the face of the walls a good stone's throw and stood a head taller than the thick walls between them. From above it must have looked like a compass rose gracing a giant map.
The entire surface of the wall was coated in large sheets of matted black metal, designed to repulse the old magic that had once plagued mankind. It was said that no magic user could pass the walls of the city without being made completely weak. No Magi had freely roamed in a generation though; the comfort of the walls was nearly forgotten to the people of the Great City.
Elandir, the most powerful of the twelve City States, stood in the middle of the Great Plains. The Elandris River flowed out of the foothills to the northeast and ran west. Its course created the border between the plains to the south and rolling hills to the north, which kept the dramatic peaks beyond from invading the farmland. A plentiful source of water, the Elandris fed the fields and maintained the fertility that lent “great” to the name of the plains.
The city had thrived off of its location, both able to cultivate rich produce and control the flow of trade along the river and roads to the coast. Its army was unmatched, but was certainly not a forgotten hero in their economic greatness.
Mayor Pompidus Merodach stood behind his desk in the northern tower of the city walls. He stared out over a bulbous nose at the mountains of the Northern Range through the immense wall of glass that framed his office. His thin mustache twitched as he clutched a glass of something far too refined for his dull tastes, the ice clinking softly as he tried not to quiver too noticeably. He preferred not to reveal his emotions through body language, though he knew he was terrible at keeping that from happening. His high brow furrowed as his pudgy cheeks intensified from rosy pink into a more unpleasant tone of red.
He turned abruptly, his high-backed leather chair bouncing lazily off of his belly as he brought it to bear. Dark, beady eyes glared from under squinted eyelids at the two generals that stood at attention before him. Puppets, he thought to himself, if only he didn't need such rabble to run this damned city... that would be a dream.
“Well...” he glanced from one stern face to the other. “Where is he?”
“He's on his way up, sir.” The square frame of the general to his right shifted as his commander's eyes rested on him. Flavian Brutus was an old codger, but he was loyal and he served his purposes.
“One horseman...” Merodach started to pace behind his desk, the light of the setting sun playing with the atmosphere through the wall of windows beyond him. “Thank God they were just infantry scouts though, eh? Glad we didn't lose any officers.”
“They were our best scouts either way sir,” the other general spoke up. “Infantry or no, Briggs' men were a great asset to my regiment.”
Silvers... God how Merodach hated the man. Tall and lean, the general was second in command only to Brutus, and certainly not because of any lack of skill or wisdom. Simple seniority had limited his advancement, but thank God it had. Silvers actually thought for himself.
“Well I'm sorry to hear that, Silvers.” Merodach said without daring a glance in the general's direction. “But better them than someone with connections is all I'm saying.”
He didn't want to look at the general, certain he would receive one of those steely glares he hated so much. Silvers' shoulder-length gray hair was kept in a tight pony-tail, his chiseled appearance was always immaculate. Incorruptible; or at least Merodach hadn't found a way to buy him yet.
“They say they found him on the bridge crossing the Elandris, sir.” Brutus grumbled, oblivious to the conflict. His gruff demeanor betrayed a man tired of war and politics. If his posture wasn't enough to give that away, the permanent grimace on his face may have been.
He assumed that Slivers was ultimately out to get as much power as possible, like any man would. He didn't see how making an enemy out of the Mayor could help with that. Better to let the fat little man think you were a loyal dog and wait for the opportune moment.
“Sounds like his horse died under him as he left the foothills. They have yet to get anything intelligible out of him. He must have been riding real hard. Sounds like he went nuts.” Brutus smiled at the last bit, amused by the idea.
He really was a cruel man, thought Merodach as he nodded in approval. At least it was a simple matter to keep him in line; just so long as he threw him a bone from time to time.
There was a soft tone as the elevator reached the lobby outside of the darkening office. The generals turned towards the door as two men clad in long white coats helped the shell of what was once Lieutenant Briggs into the room. His eyes were wild and darting from person to perso
n as they sat him down in front of the Mayor's desk. He clutched the arm of the chair and pulled his legs up towards his chest, rocking gently as he sought to shrink away entirely. He seemed to be mumbling, but it was impossible to make anything out.
Another man in white entered the room, pushing large glasses up his nose as he approached his patient. The two escorts stepped back towards the shadows of the room, ready to intervene if necessary but keeping a respectful distance from their superiors.
“Well, gentlemen,” the doctor said, pulling a notepad out of his breast pocket and thumbing a pen into action. “If I didn't know trauma was involved I'd suggest the presence of some serious psychosis.”
“What's wrong with him?” Silvers knelt down next to one of his most decorated soldiers, placing a black gloved hand on the man's trembling arm.
“If I knew, I suppose we may have made some progress by now.” The doctor was flipping violently through his notes, looking for something in particular. “Obviously I haven't managed that yet, and had it not been for the Mayor's explicit order that he be presented I would have continued working with him in a less threatening environment.”
“What has he said?” Merodach ignored the doctor's incredulity. “And don't tell me you haven't gotten so far as to listen to his ramblings.”
“No no no...” The doctor pinched a page from the pad and ripped it out. “I figure whatever he's said is going to wind up classified in one way or another so I'll just hand this over to you now and save myself a headache.”
Silvers took the paper before the doctor could do anything else with it.
“He's been deeply traumatized, whatever happened to him.” The doctor continued, “And considering the lieutenant's long-standing record of bravery I doubt that he would have left his men behind unless he had to. Judging by his current state, I'd say he had to.”
There was a silence as they stared at the broken man before them. Only his whispered ramblings and the creaking of the chair under him made any noise as he rocked to and fro.