by Sean Oswald
At the same moment, some three hundred miles as the crow flies to the southeast, King Harold Borstein sat in his private council room, not the one where all public meetings with the nobles took place, but a much more comfortable private office of sorts. He leaned back in a padded chair and smoked a tightly rolled cigar of tabac purchased from one of the traders who came from the southern spice isles. To the casual observer, he would have appeared to be completely at ease, perhaps even ignoring the man standing in front of him with a ledger droning on various reports about economic circumstances in the kingdom, but inside he was anything but calm. This silly border war was getting in the way of his grand plans for construction in the kingdom. He had dreams of building a network of roads across the whole of Albia so that he could improve trade, reap the profits, and be immortalized for the creations he made. Yes indeed, Harold Borstein was a man of vision, a man who had plans for the future, but this didn’t mean that he failed to pay attention to the small details or the small people, for that matter. He felt that every citizen of Albia was part of a larger whole, each with their own part to play. Unlike his father before him, he thought that a hardworking seamstress or farmer, though peasants, were to be just as commended for playing their part in the realm every bit as much as a noble who built up and maintained his fiefdom. If there was one thing that Harold couldn’t stand, it was those who failed to carry out their duties, be they high or low.
The man standing in front of him was in his late sixties, lean with thin gray hair and modest but well-tailored clothing. Yes, Eleazor, the King’s Steward was nothing if not efficient, and for that reason more than any other, the king valued him. Harold knew that the details given to him by Eleazor, accountings of grain stores, debts owed, debts paid, and the reports on the morale of the people were all indicators of the health of his kingdom, every bit as much as those he received from the generals about the western war efforts. So, while Harold seemed indifferent, it was a practiced indifference, the sort of attitude a man used to being asked favors at every turn had to cultivate for fear of being inundated with so-called friends. Eleazor, perhaps better than any, knew this about his king and respected it far more than the favoritism displayed by the king’s father to his crony nobles. Eleazor had long ago stopped testing the king by adding in shocking figures to his reports in an effort to catch him not paying attention, for he knew that the king was diligent even as he stared out a window overlooking the valley north of the capital city of Konig.
When the accounting report was finally completed, the king commended Eleazor as they discussed the state of his nation’s finances. It seemed as though the nation was doing well. Even with the increased expenditures needed to train and equip the additional four hundred men that he had sent to the western front, things were looking up. “Well, thank you for your hard work, Eleazor. Is there anything else?”
Eleazor adopted a serious look. “Well, Your Majesty, there is one resource that we are in short supply of and which the projections are not good. In fact, it is so serious that I did not include it in the main report but felt it needed to be highlighted on its own.”
“Go on, then.”
“As you are well aware, while Albia has an abundance of arable land and generally produces a significant surplus of grain and other crops to export, there is a distinct shortage of useable lumber. This problem has been exacerbated by the hostilities in the west. A great deal of wood has been used to build guard walls along the front, and, as the front seems to swell back and forth, the walls are having to be rebuilt often. The concern is that all available wood is being requisitioned by the army or being hoarded by the nobles. This is resulting in an increase in the cost of firewood, which is affecting bakeries, blacksmiths, and an assortment of other businesses that are having to increase their prices. Worse yet, if a new influx of wood is not obtained, then come winter there will not be enough wood for heating homes and we could be facing a real problem with the young and old dying in significant numbers from cold.”
Concern grew on Harold’s face as he said, “I was under the impression that I had authorized Duke Holstein to fund the founding of two lumber villages along our side of the Seinna River and even sent engineers to build bridges across the Seinna to facilitate harvesting timber from the Merkwood. In fact, didn’t we also give Duke Oppenheim consent to start a third village a bit further north?”
“Quite right, Your Majesty, but the production has been underwhelming and the war needs are greater than expected. This is all made worse by a lack of any significant source of timber on this continent other than the lands controlled by the elves and the Merkwood. Timber can be imported from the southern continent, but the cost is shall we say, prohibitive.”
“Again, correct me if I am wrong,” Harold said, although in reality he would seldom if ever have been corrected even if he was wrong, such being the nature of kings, “but didn’t I send a series of arcane messages to Duke Holstein instructing him to take whatever measures were necessary to increase production?”
“Correct again, Your Majesty, but each message has been greeted with different explanations for why production goals cannot be met. Apparently, one of the bridges was destroyed and all of the engineers sufficiently skilled to construct another one are currently assigned to the western front. Another time there were reports of deaths among the loggers. Each time there has been another excuse.”
Actually standing as an indication of the level of his frustration, King Harold asked rhetorically, “Doesn’t Holstein have men-at-arms to protect his own peasants?” Eleazor didn’t answer for he knew that his king was only speaking to himself. This was yet another of the many traits which endeared Eleazor to Harold. “I want you to send a squad of the Purple and Gold to scout out the situation and then recruit the necessary support from Holstein to reach acceptable production levels.”
“My king, Duke Holstein will not take kindly to the Purple and Gold being sent into his duchy.” The Purple and Gold were the special forces of the Albian king. They answered only to the royal family and were used primarily as guards of the king. Each squad, as they were known, consisted of twelve members including one battle mage, one healer, a skilled tracker, and nine different types of combat specialists. They were not like traditional squads of archers or spearmen who worked in unison, but rather were more dependent upon the strength of each individual member. Although certainly over time, such a squad would learn how to work well together.
“Edwin has failed, so I don’t really care if his feelings are hurt. He must learn that I am still his liege lord, and I expect my commands to be followed.”
Eleazor bowed and excused himself while saying, “As you will, my king. I will see to it personally. They will leave by first sunrise on the morrow.”
Seeing the second sun start to crest up over the horizon made Krinnk cringe. This was the goblin’s least favorite time of the day, when both suns were showing. He much preferred a dark night with only the light of the night-eye shining in the sky. He had chosen a spot under the humans’ wooden bridge to hide, among the thick grasses that grew tall along the shallow edge of the water. Here, he was shielded from the worst of the sunlight. It wasn’t that sunlight was actually harmful to goblins, but more a matter of principle. Their eyes had developed an increased sensitivity to light over thousands of years living in whatever dark hole each tribe could call its own, but no more. No, now the tribes were assembled. Now they would find food and shiny things aplenty. Now the goblins would get what was coming to them. The bone man had promised, and the chieftains all said the bone man would do good things for the goblins.
Krinnk was still scared of the bone man, but big promises were enough to get Krinnk to travel far from tribe and be scout on stupid humans. Krinnk no like humans who kill his littermates. Humans keep goblins from getting good food and shiny things. Now Krinnk was far away from tribe and scouting out how other goblins that came with Krinnk and bone man could destroy humans. These humans not same as others in mo
untains. They no wear metal armor or carry weapons. Mostly these humans only seem to be cutting trees, but still, they have good food and shiny things. Bone man had promised all goblins that came and stopped the tree cutting humans be raised to hobgoblins. Krinnk very much wanted to be hobgoblins. Hobgoblins was smarter and got better food and mating rights with any females. Still, bone man’s fire eyes haunted Krinnk, and as he sat shivering in the shallow water along the edge of the river, waiting for the light of the suns to fade so that he could report back to bone man and shaman who came with goblins, he had an inkling of an idea. Such a thing could be dangerous in the mind of a goblin as they generally didn’t have the mental acuity to deal with such, but nevertheless he had an inkling of an idea that maybe bone man no like goblins. Maybe bone man only using goblins.
In a round, portable house—a yurt—parked along the southern side of Mt. Terriyan, deep in the contested territory of the Halcon Mountains, three orcs sat on the ground around a small table only a few inches off of the ground. They were partaking of a midday meal of simple berries and goat milk and discussing something which had them all a bit agitated.
“I say again, First, that he does not deal fairly. This Seimion is not to be trusted. I do not like the way that his eyes laugh as he speaks to you,” said a large male orc to the right of the one he called First. His green skin heaving from the passion of his speech, the studded leather harness of his armor stretching against his massively muscled chest. Then as if to punctuate his statement, he brought a hand the size of a small ham down upon the table, shaking the cups of milk and causing each to spill some.
“Contain yourself, Second. I too feel your distrust of this one, but he offers much. Need I remind you that the oracles of Bal Zar have spoken in favor of the clan accepting his offer,” rebuked the other male orc sitting between the two. His appearance much the same as the orc that he spoke to, so much so that one might reasonably assume they were twins. The primary difference being the slender band of woven orichalcum which was shaped with small thorny protrusions, which had long ago pierced the skin of his forehead and scalp in a ring. The flesh of his head had healed itself around the small metal thorns so that the tiny crown which marked him as the leader of this clan was firmly embedded in his flesh. Turning to the female orc to his left, the crowned orc said simply, “What say you, Third?”
She likewise bore a striking resemblance to the other two, enough to certainly be considered a sister if not the final part of a set of triplets. She did not answer right away, and neither of the others seemed perturbed by the slowness of her answer. When she did speak, it was slow and deliberate as if she thought out every syllable in advance. “You know, First, that as your shadow, I have no love of any who treat you dismissively either in public or in private, and I have already offered to end this Seimion for you, but you have spoken and I am pledged to honor your command. Something that Second would do well to remember. We may be Second and Third, but you are First, as is the will of Bal Zar.”
The central orc leaned his head back and let out a deep guttural laugh common to their people. “If only it were as simple as to have you end him. His promises may yet be good, and it is no small feat that he has gotten this large a portion of the clan this deep into contested territory without any reaction from the smelly dwarflings. If he can deliver on the rest of what he promises, then we will not only be richer for it, but we will also have an established home from which to grow the clan. Something the dwarfs never seem to be willing to allow us. They are always digging with their greedy hearts, never content and always seeking more of their so-called precious metals.”
The orcs each sat pondering the words of the others. They were close, even for a set of triplets. Orc leaders were always triplets; it was the will of the dark god Bal Zar. Some foolish humans thought that all orcs were only born as triplets. What idiocy, but it was true that many triplets were born and that in order for any orc to challenge for leadership in a clan, he or she must be born of the three. The priests of Bal Zar taught that such orcs were more blessed because they were orcs with such might of spirit that it could not be contained in one mortal vessel and so they were born as three. The firstborn was always known as the First and was given command, the second born was simply called Second and was the military leader for his older sibling, and the final triplet was called Third but often known as the shadow of the first, for it was this orc’s role to do in secret what the First could not be seen to do in public.
Once again, the First spoke, “So then we are agreed. For now, we will keep this pact with Seimion, but at the first sign of treachery, Third, you may cut him down, the priests be damned.” All three stuck their hands out over the center of the table, one on top of the other until they raised them up with a grunt in unison, baring their tusks as they let loose a yowl.
Chapter Eight
“The real measure of any being is not summed up in one moment of bravery or cowardice but in the strength of character to hold the course through each daily choice.” —Excerpt from the teachings of St. Juvar, Holy Church of Shanelle, circa 4017 PF
The Nelson family trudged forward, weighed down by the new packs and equipment. A quarter-mile of walking across uneven ground doesn’t sound like much, but add in the weight of coins and gear as well as the emotional stress of the last few hours and the family showed a weariness beyond any normal measure. It was now undeniable that not only was the sun starting to set in the west, but another sun was starting to rise in the east. Giant boars, magical powers, and even new bodies were odd, far beyond the practical experience of any of them; but some things were always supposed to be constant. The sun always rises in the morning, it is just a universal constant. Now to be faced with a variance in something so basic seemed to be the finishing touch on the already overly wrought nerves of the family.
It began with some bickering between Jackson and Sara about someone allegedly kicking dirt at the other one, but it spread to a quiet argument between Dave and Emily about the distribution of packs and supplies and who was carrying their fair share. Normally over the course of a ten-minute walk, none of this would have caused the level of tension they were now experiencing, but then again, they had never been disintegrated and sent to a completely alien world before. Mira, disgusted with their bickering and wanting nothing more than some peace and quiet to sort out her thoughts, lagged further and further behind the rest of the family. After Emily yelled for her to stay close once, she stayed as far away as she felt she could without being chastised further, but also far enough away that she could be in her own little world. Her mind was racing. Dad and Jackson seemed to be almost excited by this change in her view of things, despite one of them being gored by a boar and the other having fought in mortal combat with that same boar. Sara was blithely oblivious to the circumstances and acting like her usual attention-hogging self, and Mom… Well, Mom was trying to be her usual self too, unable to ever admit that something bad had happened. Mom was trying to micromanage every detail of things and was arguing with Dad about what belonged in each pack. Would it never end?
Her family was gonna be the death of her, and now in this alien place it might be a literal death, or at least that is how her teenage mind perceived it. They all seemed to think that this was a big deal. What did they know! Jackson and Sara were just kids and didn’t know any better. Mom and Dad were old and had already gotten to live their dreams. Only Mira was being stolen away from all her plans. She pondered with the failed introspection unique to teenagers about how she was going to go out with her friends tonight and how everyone would wonder where she was. This led her to thinking back to her day at school, which was only a few hours ago, although it felt like a lifetime ago.
As a sophomore, she was the youngest student in her calculus class and had a great reputation among the teachers at her high school as a conscientious and bright student of exceptional potential. Of course, Mira worked just as hard at changing her image with her peers as she did at her classes. Truth
be told, she probably worked harder trying to create a new image as a fun girl rather than the nerdy girl that she used to be because all her classes were awfully easy. She didn’t want to be known as the jock nerd she was in middle school, so she stopped playing basketball and dropped out of the scholastic bowl. This was high school. She wanted to have fun, go to parties, hang out with friends, and get attention from guys. She might not have been able to put it all into words, but at her core, she had an ache to belong. As she developed it became obvious to all the guys that she was gonna be a knockout, but she still viewed herself as the gangly middle schooler she was all too recently. When she saw someone watching her, she simply shifted the open door of her locker a bit and checked who was watching her with her door mirror. Oh freak, it was Carson. Her friends had told her that he had been talking about her lately, but she didn’t believe them. Carson was the kind of boy who would have been the overly popular male lead in one of her dad’s precious John Hughes movies. He was seriously easy on the eyes, and better still, he was a senior with his own car.
The question was, what was he doing on this end of the school? Senior lockers were on the first floor, not upstairs with the underclassmen. Yet, here he was and seemingly staring at her. Freak, maybe her friends were right. Instantly, she went from using the mirror to see who was watching her to instead using it to frantically make sure her hair was straight and to reapply her lip gloss. Eventually, Carson walked over and leaned against the locker next to hers. “Hey, what's up?”
Mira caught her breath. “Nothing much. Just glad it’s the weekend.”
“So, you doing anything tonight?”