Tag Archives: Short Story

Featured Image

I Typed a Thing Part 4

Sorry for the absence last week. It was our crazy Thanksgiving and, alas, I was too busy to post. That’s on me and for that, I apologize. I would have said something sooner but then this weekend was the venerable birthday of our very own contributor, Kait, so I was busy getting ready for that, to varying degrees of success. What turned into a day celebration became a weekend celebration and now, here we are.

But I see that we got a book review up so it’s not like the week was a total waste. Just a partial one.

So let’s continue on with my first draft of the aforementioned untitled story.

I have a rather love/hate relationship with titles. Sometimes the inspiration for story will come from its name. Mary Creek’s Blood, for instance, was something I had to wring out from its label. Other stories, however, never get a proper title until I’ve wrapped the project mostly up. Then I languish forever trying to give it some moniker that befits it. Usually I fail. So for this little short, it’s a bit of an ill omen that I don’t have some snappy name to bestow it. I may never come up with one.

Bit of a tragedy, really. But then, so is the tale.


Chapter the Third

“I simply must apologise. We don’t get a lot of people passing through. Oh, here let me get your cloak for you.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, come on in, come on in!”

Keirn waited for her to turn before stepping from the schlammraum. It was awkward walking with a bit of a stoop so his cloak dragged on the ground. He looked back at the discarded shoes and hoped that perhaps she wouldn’t notice he hadn’t added to the collection.

He followed the lady into the adjoining sitting room. A small fire crackled in its stone pit. A pot rested over it and the scent of cooked pork and turnip made both his mouth salivate and his stomach roll. The matron waved towards a chair around the fire and puttered into the kitchen.

“I simply must know what is happening in the world,” she called, a few dishes clattering. Keirn gave his arms another anxious examination but nothing about him seemed too peculiar. He fell into the seat with a long, well deserved exhalation. He let his cloak drape over the back of his chair as he rested his eyes and held his feet close to the flame. “We’re so reliant on foreigners in these parts to bring us the word. But with the cold winds blowing off Freyr’s spine, few make the journey. Can hardly blame them. We don’t have much to offer off the season and we’ve already sent the hertig our share of the tax. Ygrimm was rolling out the last we could put to market and without any good forest we can’t even grow moss like some other villages to supplement our season.”

“Perhaps for the best,” Keirn said. “I’ve heard those make hardly palatable dishes.”

Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/art/f/friedric/1/102fried.jpg

Dolmen in the Snow by Caspar David Friedrich (1807).

The lady – Helbera by name which seemed a touch too fitting giving the encroaching season – returned with a small bowl balanced on the edge of a long, curved wooden plate. In her other hand she held a steaming cup and she presented both to Keirn in her calloused fingers. He licked lips at the sight of the dried meat and even drier bread beside the stew. But he took the cup, politely waving the rest off.

She looked at him with that practised motherly eye of reproach.

“Not right for a wanderer to turn down a warm meal. I swear with Freyra as my witness that it’s the best thing you’ll find within a thousand leagues of Skaneling’s Hollow.”

Keirn raised a brow. “And what’s in the Hollow?”

“Oh, a juniper and cranberry pie to die for!” Helbera sighed. She finally accepted Keirn’s neglect and sat across from him to eat the meal. “Didn’t your mother teach you that it’s rude to reject a host’s food?”

“She did. She was a wonderful caregiver. I’m afraid it will upset my stomach is all. I had a big meal before departing.”

“Thought there’d be nothing in the Hinterlands, eh? Get lots of folk like that,” Helbera said, dropping her bread in the broth and watching it sink. “Course, we also get the rare soul come out that’s been higher than Wotan’s watcher’s looking to find some Arrowcup mushrooms.”

The matron looked Keirn hard in the eye. It took a second for him to catch her meaning.

“Ah,” he said, adverting his yellow pupils to his drink. “I understand if you have no wish to entreat me.”

He stood but she clucked her tongue and motioned towards the chair. “So many folk think we are a bunch of know-nothings. Couldn’t be further from the truth. We’re just kindly souls. I noticed the signs the moment we spoke. I was willing to take you when you had no coin to your name, I’ll still accept you and your failings.”

“I appreciate that, Mum.”

“Oh, hush with that. You sleep off that dreadful haze as long as you want. And you get that pile of wood out back split and we’ll call ourselves even, you hear.”

“Thank you.”

“Now, what’s the word out there,” she asked, picking into her broth and fishing long, soggy strings of bread from its murky depths. She raised dripping pieces to her mouth and slurped them down.

“Truthfully, I haven’t spent much time in this land,” Keirn said.

“Good. We can get old Rangvaldrsun’s movements when Torben comes through selling his pots and bad advice. What this old caribou wants is word of the world. That alone is worth a night’s stay in the world’s emptiest inn!”

 She cackled and wagged dripping fingers at the small feast room. Keirn couldn’t help but smile.

“If it’s the movement of the spheres and the petty dealings of the wider nations that interests then I have much to say but little flair with which to say it. I’m afraid I’m no bard, though I travelled with one for a spell.”

“You think I can afford a storyweaver out here?” Helbera laughed. “You could list off some petty lord’s tax collection and it’d be far more interesting than listening to Snolla recount to me one more time about her old sheep’s pregnancy with twins.”

“Well, I wouldn’t rightly know where to begin,” Keirn said. “Nations war. People suffer. And the gods play out their genocide beyond the wishes of us mere mortals.” He heard a snicker but not from the matron. “There’s crime and death and pain. But still people push on in their petty little plots with hope things will change though they fear any that truly comes.”

Helbera snorted. “You’re right. You do not have an entertainer’s spirit. If I wanted to hear about the world’s end, I’d listen to Geirren. And no one wants to listen to that cracked pot. From where did you come for surely you can share that even if you’re reluctant to say where you’re headed.”

“I… don’t rightly know,” Keirn confessed. He shifted awkwardly on his chair as such a truth was uncomfortable for him to bear. The implications were unsettling and he felt his nape tingle with unwanted glee. “I’ve been through New Vannin, walked the mountain paths of the mysterious Far Wa, delved the dungeons of Norigr and been lost along the streets of the City of Doors. I’ve wandered through untold petty counties and kingdoms and seen far more between.”

“Quite the treasure,” Helbera said. When Keirn shrugged, she gave him a light chuckle. “I too was a bit of a wanderer myself in my prime. Oh, don’t look so surprised. You are hardly the first soul to be unsatisfied with their tiny village prospects and struck out on their own. Truthfully, I miss it though the quiet life on this frozen teet of land has treated me well. And my knees would hardly support such travels anymore.

“But I know a thing or two about distant fortunes. I’ve tasted the succulent peaches of T’dm. I’ve carried the undying flames of the Malla between sanctuaries and wrapped myself up in the multicoloured weaves of the Parsa peoples.” Helbera’s eyes twinkled with memories. “I’ve looked upon a field of glittering diamonds and seen the fabled Caverns of Silver full of their brilliant wheat. You speak of misery and war while ignoring the beauty which balances it.”

“And here you are.”

“Here we both are,” Helbera corrected. “I’ve also seen my fair share of refugees. So which are you? Plunderer or exile?”

Keirn watched the cinders crackle. “Perhaps both.”

Helbera lifted the cup to her mouth and slurped at the broth. “I suppose we all are.” She finished the last of her bowl and pulled at her meat. “I fear the Hinterlands aren’t particularly welcoming to either. Been many that come out here to lose themselves. Can’t help but think that more are found than not.”

“Perhaps they simply aren’t trying hard enough.”

 The matron laughed. “I like you.”

Keirn bowed his head but did not confiscate his smile.

“Let an old thief steal some of your secrets then. It’s hardly like I’ve a market to sell them here, regardless, and it would make an old timer happy to try her hand one last time at the trade.”

“I was not being coy when I said I know not from where I come,” Keirn replied. “Directly, I mean. You cross enough roads and they all blur together. You stumble into inns typically in worse wear than not. After awhile, the uncomfortable beds are indistinguishable. There is little meaning in distinguishing between languages when all seem meaningless. Faces are unrecognisable. I rest my head in Dzakar and I awake in Ys. I speak to the shades of people no longer here or others I have yet to meet. I’m lost on the road that I mapped. Any one of those lands I may have set out from to come here. Or perhaps I have yet to leave them in the first place.”

“It’s the arrowcup,” Helbera clucked. Keirn was silent. “If these memories are a plague upon you then surely exorcising them would be the cure.”

“They are not a plague,” Keirn said. “They are my stolen treasure. But how typical is it for plundered loot to be cursed?”

“Far too common.”

“Had it not, however, I wouldn’t be here now,” Keirn said. “I had… friends, at a time. They were with me for many of my travels. They are not now. They had their fun and quit while they were ahead. Not unlike you, I’d imagine.”

Feature Image

I Typed a Thing Part 3

Part of the reason I enjoy my little D&D series is the enjoyment of crafting an expansive narrative of events and developments that occur “off page.” The stories revolve around a rather core group of individuals and follows them on their journeys. But quite frequently, the stories that are told are small personal affairs wedged between major occurrences. One technique I try and use to date and chronicle the narrative is through certain “key events.” I envision these as rather epic narratives that could encapsulate a full novel but ones that likely won’t ever happen because I don’t have the time to write them. Instead, they’re used as time landmarks to keep track of where a short story occurs in respect to others.

So, often when I start into one of these stories, the first question I ask myself is usually “When does this occur?” This particular piece I wanted to throw further in the future than anything else I’ve done. That’s why I was toying with all the comments on age in the first chapter. It also means that I typically need to establish quickly what has happened recently as well as lampshade any prominent absences.

And if the tone didn’t give it away in the first chapter, the D&D stories are usually aimed at being bittersweet.

The one thing that stuck out to me when envisioning this project as a realistic examination of fantasy tropes and structures was that all the fun elements of the heroic quest were simply unsustainable. There’s really no way an individual could commit to a life of an adventurer. The whole genre is predicated on an unsustainable lifestyle. Thus, the motivation for the adventurers to strike out on their quests was always one of selfishness and avoidance. They were looking to escape their problems rather than address them. But the problem with ignoring is a fire is that it doesn’t make it go away. So invariably the problems they wished to avoid would rear their ugly heads.

Course, even with this overarching idea of chronology I have no assurances that I’ll keep my original plans so things end up being vague anyway.


Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/a/abbati/abbati2.html

Country Road with Cypresses by Giuseppe Abbati (1860).

Chapter the Second

“Where do you see this heading?”

Keirn paused, taking a moment to look at his feet. Even with the coarse hair, they were turning a disquieting shade of blue. He took a moment to climb upon the face of the sheer slate jutting from the cracked earth like a nail of a buried giant. He bent his knee, inspecting the soles of his feet. The skin was cracked but leathery: not unlike the pad of a hound’s paw.

It was a little strange but, as he picked stones from the folds of his skin, he could hardly deny its usefulness now that he lacked good boots.

“I’d rather hoped to come across a helpful cobbler or peddler but that, mayhaps, was a tad optimistic.”

He leaned against the stone, exhaling a slow breath and taking a moment to drink in the scenery.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well, I expect it’ll be at the Alfather’s Cradle. But there’s an intersection in Shorweld that we can’t miss.”

Keirn’s leg began to shake impatiently. He tried to hold it steady so rest could last a little longer.

“That’s not it either.”

“For being the Unquenchable Scholar, you don’t really seem to know much.”

Keirn felt a cold tingle run down his spine. He frowned at the weak attempt at showmanship.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve had to do this.”

“If you’re looking to address any perceived concerns weighing my conscious, you’re about five years too late.”

Keirn’s leg dropped to the ground and tried to propel forward but he simply leaned back and kicked his feet into the air.

“I know you, Keirn of Gault. I have peered inside your mind and seen the doubts that fester in the darkest corners of your soul.”

“Oh? And they are?”

“Predominantly hunger.”

Keirn grinned. “And how does that make you feel?”

“It sickens me.”

Keirn’s body convulsed in protest and with a long sigh he finally slid of the rock. His feet were happy to return to the road, padding along the short grass. Keirn pulled the cloak tighter around him as he saw a small caravan rolling in the distance.

“But I have also seen your kin and colleagues. I know your straying thoughts. Even you must recognise this would be easier with them.”

“You’re wrong.”

“I never am.”

“You don’t know them,” Keirn said. “You know my perception of them. And that’s as flawed a judgment one can ever have.”

“Are you to say you don’t have a measured view of those closest to you?”

“They’re not here now, are they?” Keirn asked. His feet slowed as he turned his nose to the air. He closed his eyes, smelling scents invisible to all man. He craned his neck, looking over the shattered rock and clinging scrub. He bent to the ground, running a hand across the dirt. He couldn’t see it but it smelled as clear as a roasting hog.

He stepped from the path.

“So why are you?”

“You already know that answer,” Keirn said, tapping his temple. He needn’t travel far. The remains of the campfire were near suffocating in the air. He approach with such wary steps that he expected to find them still resting in their cots.

He rounded a small ridge of raised earth. It provided just enough cover from the road that a small party behind it could remain unseen. There wasn’t anything there. They had broken camp some time ago. But he could smell them. The heavy scent of sweat and alcohol lingered in the air and clung like a bad memory to the stones. As he sniffed, he caught more though. There was the hint of passion amongst the rock and he made a short circle of the overhang. With each step came a shift in odours and he leaned close, pressing the earthy aromas from his mind as he took in the rest.

A man and a woman had spent an intimate moment. But they were not the only lovers. That could serve his purpose should they meet. Sentimentality was always an easy wedge to drive between a group. Especially one that was clearly as clandestine as what he sensed here.

“But they have each other.”

“I am hardly alone,” Keirn said, adjusting his cloak. “I have you.”

“I’m touched.”

“And the Hound. And a half dozen others. Forgotten all and desperate for that which they barely recall. I know, oh Tattered King, how solitude can drive one mad. It can even turn a fearsome figure into… well… a dotting father.”

“Perhaps even a surrogate to one that was never had?”

Keirn laughed. “Feeble. I have no need for such misplaced sentiments.”

“You must have wondered. Even when your sister found hers.”

“The one thing you never understood was trust.” Keirn poked amongst the ashes of the camp. The cinders were long cooled. They likely left at daybreak. Only some charred bones of their meal remained. “And I trust my mother had good reason to never share the information.”

“I could learn it for you.”

“Ah, and now comes the bargaining? This is hardly my first dance at the ball and that shouldn’t surprise, Eventide Stranger, for very few attempt to look behind the pale mask anymore. Very few indeed.”

Keirn stood and turned towards the road.

“It must gnaw at you. Like worms.”

“Not especially.”

“Did you never once question why you stood out from others? Why you alone never felt like you belonged?”

“Terribly,” Keirn said. “Then I realised many felt that way. I can’t even be remarkable in my loneliness.”

“But yours was different.”

“Everyone’s is different.”

 Keirn clutched the corners of his cloak as the waggon rolled near. He turned his face earthward, adverting his stark yellow pupils while making his misshapen appearance less obtrusive. This was hardly the worst he had to hide.

Unfortunately, he had forgotten his feet.

“Hold, traveller!”

Keirn kept walking until he was called again. Reluctantly he turned.

“How fare thee?”

“Adequately,” Keirn replied, still not meeting the driver with his eyes. He could hear the huskiness of the man’s voice. This was one of those weathered locals that had spent their entire life within a few safe, comfortable villages. He was one of those good, Aenir fearing men with a small home, unhappy wife and despondent children that wished to see the world but were instead locked into raising their own families a mere league or so away from where they were born.

His greatest trial was to keep food on the table and tend the crops as best he could during their growing season. He had seen his own hertig’s men but twice in his life. He always remembered how their metal had gleamed beneath their tunics and how he had filled with a sense of pride to see his hertig’s forces marching boldly through his village.

But more swam beneath those thoughts. Dark waters gathered even in the clearest ponds. But before Keirn could explore those, he shifted on his feet and turned to leave.

“Need you a lift, stranger? Don’t get many coming out this way so close to coming winter.”

“I shall manage,” Keirn replied, his legs twitching in protest to the thought of inactivity.

“Awful lot of road.”

“Wouldn’t wish to inconvenience.”

“It’s no bother.” The driver leaned in his seat. “Alfather’s mercy, where are your shoes?!”

Keirn tried to pull his cloak in the way. “I should really be going.”

“Now hold up…!”

Keirn hastened his steps as laughter rang in his ears. “It is useless.”

Keirn could hear the cart turning behind him. His heart beat and he could feel the muscles of his legs tighten. He had to consciously hold himself back and struggle against his body from entering full flight. He had no doubt that he could outrun the man in his waggon but leaving such a disturbance wasn’t his aim.

It was better to leave a story behind of a queer man with no shoes than one possessed.

He turned off the road, deftly scaling over the cracked land that the cart could not follow. Once he’d put good distance between him and the farmer, he found a patch of dirt to squat behind and wait for the man to give up.

“You could have dealt with him.”

Keirn frowned. “Not even once.”

“I’d be willing to indulge the Hound just this time.”

Keirn’s foot twitched. Obstinately, Keirn grabbed a fistful of dirt and shoved it in his mouth. His body shuddered in protest to the filth but he forced it down through sheer will. He was panting and sweating by the time he finished.

“How could you?!”

“Don’t forget who is in control here,” Keirn warned. “You are a guest and little else. Your time has passed.”

“This is why you have no friends,” the ground hissed.

“You would never be one,” Keirn replied. “Not that I’d expect you to understand the word anyway.”

“And you would?”

“I have friends.”

“While you fail to be one?”

“Yes,” Keirn said after a moment. “Perhaps you think I unwilling to acknowledge my flaws but I am a bare soul. There is nowhere for you to hide. It is why I won’t succumb like others before me. Go on with your whispers, they are nothing just like you.”

“Or you some day.”

“I have courted death long enough to know it does not want me,” Keirn said.

“Such hubris. If only you believed that.”

Keirn peeked from his cover. He did not see the waggon or its driver. He stood, brushing himself off as well as he could.

“Worrying over the Frozen Queen’s heralds is a futile past time. They will come when they are ready and no later. Even you with all your knowledge and sight do not know their passage. So what does that speak of your abilities… or obsession?”

Silence, for once, was Keirn’s companion and he relished it as he returned to the road. He knew, then, that darkness would be his friend. Its shadow would conceal him from eyes and ensure he wouldn’t have any further complications. He could rely on the Hound’s strength and easily cover the distance of his quarry in time that would make even the most wizened magus scratch his head. He needn’t worry so much about maintaining appearances or normalcy.

 And Keirn shook his head.

“It won’t work.” When he received no response, Keirn continued. “I know full well that my prudence keeps the chains in place. One measure restraint can reel in twice its value.”

Still he walked in silence.

“Now you’re being childish,” Keirn chided. But when he was denied a response, he shrugged. “Have it your way. My loneliness is self enforced. Yours is not. I can at any time seek her out and reconnect. I could scamper back for that idyllic life with a squat farmstead and my own little patch of dirt constantly interrupted by the simple prodding of tired neighbours. But when our pact ends you will have nothing but long waiting with the ever gnawing doubt that no other will make contact. I did not struggle with the rites due to difficulty. Contrary to your belief, some things can be truly lost.”

Petulance persisted. So Keirn continued on his way, whistling a merry tune while contemplating all the lovely meals that his sister could cook.

Feature Image

I Typed a Thing Part 2

I suppose this is part of the “fun” for seeing a first draft. I’m not particularly happy with this section. Nor the next chapter. In fact, considering what I’ve written so far, I’d probably cut most of it and tie it into the story later. But since I’m the type of person who doesn’t plan out the structure of my stories, I don’t really know what works or not until I’ve done it and seen it in the grander scheme of things.

So what don’t I like about this? Well, for one, I feel it’s a bit too much of a tonal shift from what I’d like the story to cover. I’ve got to great lengths before about magic systems in fantasy work and I wanted to relay that in the D&D shorts that I write, magic does work slightly differently than a high fantasy setting. In particular, wizards (or sorcerers) are far less prominent due to the inherent difficulty of working magic. See the Balls story for an indication of the work required to pull of a spell.

However, I knew I wanted to have a magical element and this gave rise to binding subset of magic. It’s based on demonology from the Lesser Key of Solomon of Christian mysticism because, really, all fantasy works are explorations of ideas and thoughts from our past given new spins. I kind of like the whole bargaining imagery of medieval sorcery where mystics were required to enter pacts and negotiations with otherworldly beings in order to obtain their power. Course, for this to work, the mystic would need something to bargain in my world. While souls work for a Christian based mysticism, the flavouring for my D&D world has always been unapologetically Norse. Thus, the actual body and reliving of life for these otherworldly entities seemed more appropriate.

Unfortunately, the nature of these pacts is bit too edgy for my tastes and while communicating how much is required to even obtain this “shortcut” to using sorcery, it wasn’t really the direction I wanted to roll the story. So, if I were to clean this up, I’m sure this entire portion would be hacked. Also, it does have a lot of passive voice which was done to keep the piece feeling mysterious but I’m sure it just comes across as annoying more than anything else.

But that’s the thing with writing. Sometimes you’ll just write whole sections that you need to ultimately sever for the good of the piece as a whole. It’ll be maintained here for posterity I suppose.


Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/framex-e.html?file=html/a/altdorfe/2/03nativi.html

Nativity by Albrecht Altdorfer (1513).

He made for the stables. The horses were gone, naturally. The door hung loose on its rusty hinge. The heat wafting from its interior hinted at the bodies it once stored. He pulled the door wider, stepping into the dung and sweat choked shedding. The stones were still cold to his steps but they were a relief from the frigid ground outside. He proceeded past each stall. His steed was gone, naturally. Only the keeper’s old mare remained.

Keirn had a mind to take it.

“But you won’t.”

“I’m better than them.”

“You’re truly not.”

“I’m smarter than them.”

“That’s more likely.”

The creature stirred at his approach. She raised her head, nostrils flaring. Her large, almond eyes fell on him. For a moment, they were still like a rustic portrait for decorating the mantel.

Her nostrils flared again and she cried. Her hooves stamped the ground and she retreated from her door. Her rump butted against the wall as her head snapped in her building frenzy.

“She knows.”

He raised a hand and the horse kicked the stable wall. “They always do.”

He cracked the stall’s door. The horse pressed herself into the corner. Her eyes were unblinking and streaked with blood. Her nose was raised, the nostrils great gaping holes refusing to close. Fear trembled her flanks and her hooves beat a frightful cadence against the boards. He could see the way she stumbled upon her rear leg and how the muscles tensed to keep her upright.

“She’s lame.”

“You weren’t riding her anyway.”

The was a reason his steed was blind. He wondered how far the thieves would get before they made that realisation.

Fully in her stall now, Keirn closed the door behind him. He stared at her, placid, while the beast nearly threw herself through the wall to get away from him. It would make quite the sight. There, the tall, lanky man in garb that draped loose and heavy over his buckled shoulders and stooped form while she, the formidable animal more than twice his gaunt size, near injured herself to keep as much space from him as physically possible in the stall that could nary accommodate the pair.

It probably would have been comical had it not occurred in the stretching dark before daybreak. Or had his worn clothes and pale flesh not given him the horrible aspect of a Pale Herald come to collect the frigid queen her charges. It was always the same in these northern settlements. The icon of death was one of endless winter.

It was a fate that didn’t terrify Keirn. He’d never cared much for summer.

With methodical precision, he removed his hood. A thinning crop of dusky walnut hair clung to his scalp. He pulled the strap through the buckle, removing his belt and leaving it to clatter against the floor. His shoulders twisted like tight knots beneath his skin as he shucked his shirt and folded it neatly on the ground. In the dim lighting, steam rose from his bare flesh to give the skin stretched over taut muscles a truly spectral quality. Here the pink of the cuts and scars glowed with their own life. Lines crossed his trunk in chaotic patterns. A whole history of pain was charted in the flesh but the destination it mapped was unreadable to most.

And those who could identify the markings beneath the wounds would have recoiled from the sight and fled the small stable.

The mare was not afforded such mercy.

His trousers and loincloth joined the last of his belongings on the ground. For a moment he stared at the animal in his nakedness. The vaguely human form beneath all the wounds afforded the creature a fleeting sense of familiarity and she paused at this miraculous transformation.

In that moment of vulnerability he approached.

“What are you doing?”

The stables shook with the impact of the mare’s body. Her cries were deafening as she thrashed. Her hooves raised, kicking the air before her. But she dared not touch him. She dared not bring a limb against the thing that now stood with her blood crawling down its long fingers. She would not be aware of the wound on her flank. All she would know was the pain and fear.

And his nose widened to drink it in.

“Stop! You can’t do it!”

The man hunched over. His spine jutted grotesquely as though it would pop right from his body. He kept his sanguine hand in the air, the warm blood rolling down his forearm and dripping in thick drops from the crooked elbow. With his other arm, he brushed a patch of the floor clean of the hay and horse manure.

“You’ve made your contract!”

A red finger extended and scratched across the boards.

“You promised me!”

Slowly the symbols took wretched shape. They were twisted things completely alien to the runes in common use by the holy Gothi. They bore no semblance to the learned letters of the scholars in their secluded towers. They weren’t even the queer symbols of the secretive Oathstealers or even the coded language of the Forbearers from Kiga though none this far north would have heard of that latter group.

No, these perverted things were far more profane. Such were their loathsome curves that the mere sight of them caused the mare to shake before collapsing. She sprawled upon the ground, convulsing as he worked, pausing long enough to gently remove her leg from his circle.

“I shall not be denied!”

His flesh flared. He gritted teeth into lips, drawing his own ichor from darkly blue veins that pumped slow beneath his prickling skin. He pressed on, ignoring the brightening of his flesh. Beneath the curled lips of age old scars glimmered lines and shapes horrifyingly similar to those scratching themselves upon the floor.

Only once did he need to dabble in the mare’s fresh wound to complete his work but when he was finished, he stood. He panted short bursts of icy breath. His skin sweated despite the cold. But even the mare had grown silent now, her sides rising in the shallowest of breaths.

Feeble was the reply to the sight of the thing drawn on the floor. “The Hounds-master is gone.”

“But yet the Hound still bays.”

He stepped into the centre of the thing on the floor. He peered around uselessly for an implement. Drawing up short, he drew his cracked fingers to his chest. The nails turned inward, digging deep into the frail skin. He pulled across. Red ridges charted the path. It was hard work as the old scars were the most unyielding but finding flesh unmarred was near a treasure on its own. With enough of his own blood mixing with the mare’s, he held up a hand and squeezed what drops he could upon that most obscene construct.

 There was a hiss but not from the ground. It circled around him, spitting hot venom and malice.

“Be still,” Keirn said, cracking a grin amongst that macabre scene. “You will not be upset from your post.”

“You don’t mean-“

The mare jolted at the howl which shook the very shingles of the roof. The creature stirred itself to consciousness amongst that otherworldly sound. She knew it as surely as any creature knew the sound of a predator on the hunt. It was the sound of impending finality. It was the sound of inevitability.

The stables shuddered upon their flimsy holdings. It was as though some unseen giant were attempting to wrestle the structure from its foundation. The mare stared wide-eyed at that which could not be there. She was paralysed by a grip far stronger than simple fear. Only instinct could make sense of the shadows that twisted in the corners of her stall. Only that primal spark could prickle at the presence which arrived unannounced and not through any door or window. But it was assuredly there just as much as that dreadful howl that clawed at the boards.

“You can’t bear two. It’s never been done?”

“Perhaps there is knowledge beyond even your ken,” Keirn said. “After all, yours has been a long exile.”

He smirked as he looked upon that bloody swathe across the floor. His pupils enlarged at the sight of the etchings that now bubbled and boiled. The howling grew louder, if such a thing were possible. In the gloom of the stables, the man nearly glowed with abyssal light.

And in that light, the mare could see another. It was as though it were transposed over the hunched form of the naked man with the maniac grin. There was something of tattered robes and a dented crown that took shape as though it and the man were in the same spot. The darkness seemed repulsed by this intruder, peeling from its faded glory and the crumbling tome clutched achingly in one hand. But for all its fearful fleetingness, this other recoiled at the scrawled iconography. It drew within itself, shrinking far smaller than that scarred man it had once towered. And, nipping at its tatters were hundreds of thousands of sharp teeth.

Heavy was the smell of carrion that welled from the stall, washing like a fetid wave over the only two living things in its midst. The man’s smile faltered as he turned, retching a meagre stream of bile upon the hay. Amongst his wracking coughs, sounds emerged but they were not the tongue of man. He raised a puffy and swollen wrist to wipe his mouth. When he turned, his eyes were not his own.

Bright and yellow were they. He raised his nose to the air, nostrils flaring. In that whiff, he smelled it all. He could smell the fear of the mare. He could smell the stench of her unkempt stall. He could even smell the growing tangle of rotted cells in her lungs that would claim her fading health.

Even more impossible was the seeming change to the man’s body. He seemed less pale. His skin was somehow less sickly. A more healthy red flush returned to his body and even his frame was a little fuller. It was as though he had turned and slipped on a mask but one that covered his whole body. The twist of muscles were grander, set like springs ready to uncoil. There was a frightfully muzzled energy to him now, tinged as it were by that old worn and faded skein that wrapped him prior. Even the hair on his head was thicker and the sprigs along his arms and legs were darker and longer.

He turned, stumbling from the stall. But he made hardly a few feet before stopping.

“Aren’t you… forgetting something…”

He turned, reaching for his clothes. His eyes fell upon the mare’s and a dreadful hunger filled them. His lips peeled back to reveal savage canines.

“No! I… forbid it!”

Nails scratched against the wood, leaving long and deep gouges. But at last the Hound was reined and the man turned, stumbling out of the stable into the cold morning.

Feature Image

I Typed a Thing

Here’s a first for me. I’ve only recently been aware of how little writing I actually put up on what’s ostensibly a writing blog. Je m’excuse. Also, after our spate of related technological and logistical issues I don’t really have anything super special to publish.

So, instead, here’s a rare look into the writing process! As I’ve been without Internet over the last few days and didn’t back up my work on a physical drive while I was travelling, I’ve had to just plug away at something small and new instead of continuing the editing of my third novel.

Now, I’ve had a number of people ask my about “The Writing Process.” Outside of the stock explanation that it’s different for everyone, I explain that I’m not really a planner. I have an idea of what I’d like to cover in a story or maybe a general theme or interesting character. Then I just sit down and see where things go from there. The magic doesn’t really happen for me until I do an edit on that first draft. Then I have massive overhaul of plot and structure, rewriting of characters and events and often cut half or more of the original work. Seriously.

Perhaps I have more skill at editing than not. I’ve tried using a more structured format for organising my work and while I’ve had some success, there’s still that element of discovery and exciting in not know what’s going to happen next that I love. It’s sort of the enjoyment of reading a book. You learn about your characters while the pages unfold.

I don’t really know if this style is more work or not and I’ve certainly learned a few tricks to cut back on wasted pages but it’s what works for me. Besides, I do get a perverse pleasure from editing because I’m an enormous weirdo.

Anyway, no one’s here to listen to my ramblings so this is the start of… something. It’s not even titled and I have no idea what it’s about yet.


Accessed from http://www.wga.hu/art/b/bega/tavern.jpg

Tavern Interior by Cornelis Bega (1631-1664).

“The site lies approximately fourteen days travel hence across the Thorselkin Hinterlands and nestled in the Alfather’s Cradle – a stretch of foothills beneath the Twin Pike Mountains and the traditional hunting grounds of the Walden Sabreclaws. These ferocious critters are nearly the size of two full grown men and capable of splitting a thick cord of wood in half with just one swipe.”

His hand slashed the air, dirty nails catching flickering candlelight in their cracked and stained shell. One such nail landed upon the crinkled and faded map filled with jutting trees shaped more like spears beneath a mountain range as jagged and sharp as the maw of a Low River wingless drake.

“Some of the hills are said to not be mere dirt but ancient burial mounds. Beneath the thin soil jut the remnants of some bygone settlement. Travellers speak of riches lying a mere spoon’s worth of earth beneath one’s foot. Who these ancient people are none can agree. I’ve heard talk that they are lost Pitmen, their cyclopean monoliths and gaping cavern entrances to underground dwellings left untouched for generations. Others swear that it’s the site of the mythical Alfr and the last of the Vaenir’s kinsmen. So ancient are these forgotten hallways that the very land itself has wrapped them in an eternal blanket to shelter them from the ever vigilant eyes of the vengeful Aenir.

“Then there is talk that it is the Forbidden Trelleborg of the High King hidden away near the teeth of the world and the final resting place of the Virgil King’s spirit until the Final Days whence he will rise to strike down the Sunderer of Worlds in the War of Wars.

“Either way, it’s supposed to be really old, really untouched and really ready for some adventuresome spirits to come and plunder. What say you? Are you such a spirit who wishes to hear the bards and skald sing your name in the greatest feast halls until the final nights? Shall you grab fate and fortune by the neck and seize upon your destiny? Will you dare to achieve that from which all others balk? Will you turn the fanciest dreams into the greatest realities?

“What say you?”

Silence greeted him. He looked at each soul gathered about the edges of the round table as shadows played across their faces. He seized upon each in turn, searching for a response to his proposition.

With a crack of ambergum, one spoke.

“Aren’t you a little old for this?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know, the whole travel two weeks bit. Digging in the ground bit. Fighting wild creatures bit. Hauling supposed treasure bit. Really, all of it. Isn’t it a little… you know.”

“No.” Teeth ground audibly. “No, I don’t think I am.”

“You sure? You kind of look it.”

His shadow drew long across the table as he stood erect. The others appeared unperturbed.

“You do have a bit of gray up there,” another spoke, raising a hand to her own hair.

“I am more than capable. Look, do any of you want to get filthy rich or not?”

“It kind of sounds like the ramblings of a crazy old man if you ask me.”

“Lors has the right of it,” a third spoke, reaching across to pull the daggers pinning the corners of the map free. “You’d probably have difficulty with the trek. Or break something while there. Like a hip.”

“I can assure you my hips are just fine.” A hand crashed down on the table, preventing the map from being rolled. “I’ve made worse treks than this and in less time. The fourteen nights was to not exhaust you before the real work began.”

“Are you certain? Or do you mostly need us to carry your prune juice?” Her hand plucked the plain wood cup from the table’s edge and gave the liquid on its bottom a gentle slosh.

Dark eyes fluttered amongst the cowls at the edge of the candlelight. This wasn’t a pleading look now but one of cold calculation.

“You’re making a mistake,” came the low growl.

From cloaks emerged the leather garbed hands to wrench his arm from the table. He was pulled back into the shadows, his spine striking hard the central post. He strained against his captors while frayed rope wound around his wrist.

“You’re washed up, old man. You’re outdated. You’re just as much a relic as those you wish to retrieve.” The rolled up map was waved in the candle’s fading glow. “Search him.”

One of their number moved to check his pockets. He pried an arm free, striking knuckle against unsuspecting cheek. Boots stumbled upon the stained wood. A fist greeted his stomach, freeing the wind from his lungs. As he hunched beneath the blow, his arms were wrestled behind the pole. A rope bound them tightly together.

He lashed with knee and boot but several more strikes to his ribs quelled further resistance. Gloves patted down shirt and pant alike while removing a thin leather purse from his belt and two worn but tarnished rings from his fingers. A blunted dagger was also liberated and held up as spoils before the flickering light.

“You will rue this decision.”

Laughter assaulted him.

“Go home, grandpa. Leave the adventures to those capable of them. This rusty junk won’t even fetch a few copper scrapes on the market. Best take his boots too. They look like they have good soles.”

 Cold rage burned in his eyes. “I won’t forget this.”

One conspirator turned to the other. “You’re already forgotten to us. What was his name again?”

She said, “Keirn. I think.”

“Fare-thee-well Keirn, I think.”

The lantern was retrieved and only the haunting echo of their laughter stayed for company as the darkness filled in their wake.

Keirn sighed against the post.

Was this to be his morrow? To be found by the tavern keeper bound to his hearth post by cheap rope with not even a copper shave to his name?

“I’m not that old. Am I?”

The question hung about the dark rafters and rattled in the empty fire pit. It kicked about the overturned chairs resting on tables. It hounded the faded footsteps of the brigands and his dearly departed footwear.

When last it bounded back it was with a dry, chthonic chortle. “You’re not as young as you used to be.”

“Who asked you anyway?”

“You’re still a mere mewling babe to me.” The earthy chuckle skittered in the dark. “Not half as cute as one though.”

Keirn thumped his head against the wood with a grimace. His arms worked in pained revolutions, turning muscles too sore and protesting to properly slip his bonds.

“I knew this was a mistake.”

“You still went through with it.”

“What choice had I?” Keirn hissed. His wrist skinned against the coarse fibres. “I alone can only handle one cart.”

“At best.”

“Considering rations for the trip there and back, not accounting the actual excavation, plus tools, tent and supplies – most of which would be needed for the return – I would hardly have any room for transporting a profit in relics. I need two extra carts for a good return in the investment at a bare minimum. And the fewer hands I have at the site, the longer I must invest in renting said supplies.”

“If only you had three dependable souls.”

“Quiet yourself.”

Keirn cried as he twisted his wrist. He heard a distinct pop as joint slipped from proper alignment. The familiar streaks of pain tickled his arm as he twisted to gauge the damage. Darkness clutched his eyes so only a faint outline of a limb was perceptible against its atramental backdrop. Even with such hindrances the unnatural angle of hand to forearm made distinct the separation between the pair. Such damage should have produced a crippling pain to all but the most shock drunk victims. But even still, he felt little more than the slight sparking beneath his flesh.

With a sickening grind of bone and muscle, he wrenched his hand free. Absolved of half its duty, the rope fell limp against his remaining wrist and Keirn stumbled from the post and slumped against the round table. His skin brushed against the wood’s fresh splinters from the many traitorous points of his departed knives. At last elbow tapped against wooden vessel and with his good hand he lifted the cup.

His nostrils flared at the smell.

“It has great restorative properties.”

“You needn’t tell me.”

“Helps keep a healthy lustre to the skin,” Keirn said before shutting his eyes and letting the thick liquid wash down his throat. He then immediately raised the cup in the dark and blindly pounded it against his raised wrist. Each strike stoked a rising fire within his flesh and his heart beat a terrible rhythm while he chewed on his voice. After several violent swings, he finally felt a cracking of realignment and he raised his limb before his unseeing eyes and turned it on the weathered tendons.

He dabbed at the skin. It felt puffy and bloated. But the swelling would certainly be down by the time the sun dared peek the horizon.

“You wouldn’t need such drastic measures if you treated yourself better.”

“It’s not my fault good help is hard to find these days.”

“I meant the drink. I half suspect you do this to torture me.”

“You wished to live again.”

“You needn’t try and make me regret that desire. I bear enough of your pain.”

“I know you relish it,” Keirn said, rolling up his shirt. He prodded at the tender spots no doubt sporting rather garish bruising. His skin was a canvas of horror etched as it were with scars, cuts and contusions. It was more than any corpse would carry on its thin frame. Keirn tucked in his shirt and adjusted his cloak.

He made no effort to navigate the gloom on his way out. Several stubbed toes and banged knees later and he eased the door into the dying twilight.

The air was cold and tinged with regret. It clawed against his bare feet and Keirn wiggled his toes attempting to ward it off. The steps nipped his skin as he stepped down unto the unyielding ground. He searched the abandoned road but no signs of opportunistic turncoats betrayed their path. Only deep gouges of departed carts carved their way through the frozen mud leaving mighty furrows which tripped at the traveller’s steps.

“You know where they are headed.”

“Assuming they decide to act immediately.”

“They will.”

“You say that with certainty.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Keirn did not reply. “They left you alive. They will go in comfortable haste.”

Keirn sucked on the bitter air. It scratched his throat as it scraped its way down to his lungs. He exhaled a long breath. The fog of chill air was a bundle of tiny needles as it climbed his pinking face.

It was as much as he had deduced. It had been hard enough cajoling a group to entertain him in the first place. They were invested enough to investigate his claim. Those that had no interest – those not full of deceit – had already laughed him off. That they had not slain and dumped him suggested they were as inexperienced as they were young. He had hoped to harness that youthful energy.

He had not accounted for youthful foolishness.

The Breaker Rig – Part 4

Sophie dozed fitfully. It was much later in the morning than she intended when she packed her bags. Would she notice if she slipped away now? Maybe…maybe she had changed her mind. Sophie fingered the threads on her bracelet. Hadn’t they been close before?

Outside, the camp appeared deserted.

‘I didn’t think it was that late,’ she muttered to the sky. ‘They cannot have started without me. Hey, excuse me!’ Sophie called to one of the night shift workers staggering towards his tent. ‘Do you know where I can find Anika?’

The woman shrugged. ‘It is day, so she is probably on the rig.’

Sophie nodded and turned to face the weathered-grey beast. It was huge, four or five stories tall. Chains clinked as they hulled empty buckets out along its neck before plunging them deep into the earth. Steam wafted through the top of the monster, wreathing its body in perpetual fog. A rain of small rocks and stone cascaded from the tail. The growing pile snaked along the back side of the pond.

The bridge was alarmingly narrow. Parallel boards and a rail on the left side were all that connected land to creature. Sophie gripped the handrail and shuffled slowly across the expansive moat. The water was murky. It wasn’t deep, but there were broken rocks hidden below its surface. Where there other horrors waiting as well? Poisonous snakes perhaps?

Sophie felt her heart race as she inched forward. She exhaled deeply when both of her feet found sound purchase on the floor of the rig. It took several heartbeats before Sophie’s eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the cavernous interior. Massive gears turned slow rotations. Mouthfuls of earth were dumped noisily into troughs where the contents were rattled past sieves. Water was added to this mixture. The flow added to the cacophony of sound in the room.

Anika stood in the centre of the open floor. Hands rested on her hips. Even at this distance, Sophie could see the dark glower spread across her sister’s face. Sophie swallowed and took another step forward. This was Anika, her beloved sister.P1040203

‘You shouldn’t have come,’ Anika said.

‘I am leaving today. After the charm is finished, Georges said he would take me back to town. Come with me Anika. Please come home with me.’

‘Chesico is not my home!’

‘And this is?’ Sophie flung her hands wide. ‘This is … this is primitive and you hate primitive. You hate bad manners and dirty clothes.’

‘I hate poverty,’ Anika said, her voice slicing through the sounds of metal grinding into rock. ‘I hate being without while everyone else have everything.’

‘You have nothing here!’

‘I do! I will have. There is gold in this land. Wealth and power like you have never experienced. It is here for the taking.’ Sunlight spilled through a crack in the roof of the rig. It slipped between wooden boards and became lost in the dark depths of Anika’s eyes. ‘It is here to be found by those with enough courage and determination. I have that. I have strength and power. I will find it, extract it.’

‘Where?’ Sophie gestured at the tumbling conveyor system. Rock and gravel tumbled past. It mixed with water. Sieves rattled as they sorted dirt by size. Pans sloshed as mud moved around their depths. The bottom remained empty of gold. There was nothing in the earth to harvest. ‘Where is your gold, Anika? This is barely survival. Come, you are better than this. You had a steady job in Chesico. We had our own place, our own home.’

‘We had squalor,’ Anika spat. ‘A tenement with only two rooms and the memories of something better.’

‘It was bigger than your tent.’

‘It was small. It was crumbling. It was pathetic. No one would choose to remain in that dingy hole.’

Sophie took half a step backwards. Anika continued to speak. Sophie had drawn forth the words that showered down, only she didn’t want them now. She didn’t want to hear this from her sister.

‘It was a constant, heavy chain. It was prison for me. There was no future in Chesico. Why could you never see that? Our father saw it. He… he knew when to escape a lost cause.’

‘He was devastated by our mother’s death!’

‘He would have stayed, but there was no money left. He had to leave. It was only reasonable.’

‘Like you left? Two days. You were gone in only two days. Said you were going for a little while as you walked out the door! You were worse than our father. You didn’t tell me that the apartment had been given up.’

‘You couldn’t afford to keep it.’

‘Because you took all the money! I thought you didn’t realize, but you knew all along what you were doing. At least our father didn’t sell our possessions, take all the money and leave with barely a goodbye.’

P1040403‘No he drowned himself in gin before disappearing. He left us with nothing.’

‘I was there,’ Sophie whispered. Her voice struggled to be heard over the clank of the breaker rig, the sound of the earth being ripped to shreds.

‘You and all your needs. What did you ever do besides wasting hours and money on charm lessons?’

‘I helped,’ Sophie stammered. ‘I cooked and cleaned and I learned charms to help with rent.’

‘You cooked meals of beans and rice flavoured with weeds found growing between cracks. You cleaned a house that was smaller than my bedroom when we were children. You kept us chained to crumbling ruins and shattered pasts. You were nothing but a burden to me. I wasted my life looking after you. I sunk everything into you until I was a shadow of myself: sick and exhausted.’

Anika surveyed the metal gears rotating slowly on long shafts. She watched another bucket of dirt being dumped onto the conveyor system. ‘The rig needs a special hand to keep it running. It may not look like much, but it is going to fix things.’ Anika nodded to herself. Her face set with grim determination. ‘This is going to work. Wealth is going to pour from these rocks and everything will be better. I will make it work.’ She leveled her stony gaze on Sophie. ‘I have the strength for this. No one is going to stand in my way.’

‘What are you doing, Anika?’

‘I am doing what you never could, what you never had the courage to do. I am defining my own future, not cowering pathetically behind half-sung charms. I will not be tied down any longer, while you make weak excuses for why life is terrible. No more will I suffer needlessly because of your selfish attitude.’

‘My attitude? I didn’t hold you back.’

‘You would tie me to poverty, because you are too frightened to work your charms. I always knew you were bluster but no substance, a coward. All those years of education, for what? Can you do even the most basic of charms? Or will you run away without even trying?’

Sophie could feel her blood starting to boil. ‘I will show you what I know!’ she shouted. ‘I am not something useless to be tossed aside. You will see.’

The words of the Gold Charm had been ridiculously easy, as though the charm was written by a child. The music was simplistic in its rhythm and pitch. Any beginning charmer could learn the basics of the charm in a day. Sophie was no beginner. She knew what they were trying to do, weaving six voices together for the charm.

Charms always worked best with repetition. Most charms were repeated verses, overlapping to build strength. Charmers worked the same charms over and over again, as repeated singing also lent them strength. This was the idea behind the churches. Whole congregations would renew the charms of the parish every week: increasing the potency of their charms.

Sophie opened her mouth. She focused on the core idea of the charm: like to like. Gold was found in the body of the earth, just as blood was found beneath the skin of the flesh. Earth and body were akin to each other. Bring the blood to the surface to draw the molten core through the layers of cold, solid rock. Rock to bone, heat to fire, gold to blood.

Sophie was so angry she could feel her own blood boiling beneath the solid skin of her body. Unfocused eyes stared blindly at Anika, as Sophie wished her sister could feel her anger. She wished Anika could know the pain she felt. She had been humiliated to discover from the landlady she no longer had an apartment because Anika had stopped payments. She had been terrified to journey into an unknown land in search of her sister. She had been anxious about the health of Anika. She had been so hurt by her sister’s words.

Anika had cut Sophie. Anika had been a knife drawing more than tears from her younger sister.

‘You were always too easy to manipulate,’ Anika’s voice whispered in Sophie’s ear. She could feel pressure at her wrists. There was a sharp, nearly distracting stab of pain. Then something was pressed against her wrists. Pain came in waves, while the music of the charm rose around her.

Sophie’s voice faltered, but the singing never stopped. Instead it grew in strength and determination. Waves of agony washed over Sophie as she tried to focus on Anika.

‘Blood to gold,’ her sister echoed.

Sophie forced her attention down to her wrists. It felt like an eternity getting her body to respond. Her head tilted slowly until she could see. Anika held her wrists. Her thumbs pressed down on pieces of gold, pinning the metal to Sophie’s flesh. Blood seeped up from wounded skin, red and gold mixing together in Sophie’s blurry vision.

P1040377‘What did you do?’ Sophie hissed her voice struggling with the words.

‘I need this claim to succeed. I need a future.’

‘Why? Why did you do this to me?’

‘It is just a little blood.’ Anika’s face twisted before her.

The words swam through Sophie’s mind. She grappled with their meaning. Everything was taking too long. She felt weak and confused as though she were still asleep, caught in some bizarre nightmare. It was more than blood spilling from her wrists. She could feel her life draining. ‘You’re killing me.’

Anika didn’t speak, her lips pressed together in determination. Sophie tried to catch Anika’s eye, but her sister wouldn’t look at her.

Sophie could feel the truth in her words. She was weakening, dying. Her anger flared once more. She wasn’t going to end like this. The anger twisted upon itself becoming a torrent of emotion. Around her the song was gaining in strength; she could feel it. She could feel Anika holding her in place, using her as an anchor to the charm: the focal point. She was the blood to draw the gold from the earth.

Sophie bucked. She wouldn’t be used like this. She fought the nausea and dizziness that threatened to sweep her away. Instead she focused on the charm, on the music that was tightening around them. She spun with it. Her voice joined the other charmers singing somewhere in the distance.

Gold to blood, echoed the words in her mind. Blood to blood. Sophie pushed the intent. She thought of the charm she had woven to help her find Anika: twisted threads tying them together. They were of the same parents, same blood and bone. Heat flowed through Sophie. Anika had broken their bond. She had attacked Sophie with everything she had, so Sophie pushed back. She was anger and fire. She was molten heat. The charm wove around them, tugging and pulling as Sophie redirected its focus.

In the distance she could hear screaming. She could feel the blaze of emotion burning brightly around her. The molten core rose, erupting from skin and rock. Gold and blood mixed.

The song became a charm with a force of its own, releasing the singers. Voices shouted. Sophie burned until the heat was unbearable. Her body was in agony. Every inch of her flesh was on fire. Some small corner of her mind knew she needed to end the charm. She needed to cool down. Like liquid metal she needed to cool the surface; make it solid and stable once more.

Sophie swayed on her feet. Her vision was streaks of red and gold; liquid flames wavered before her. She blinked trying to clear it. People talked in cracked, worried voices. Their words were a blur, a mash of noise without sense or meaning.

Gradually, the fire seeped out of Sophie. She could still feel its effects. Sweat poured down her back. It dripped from her forehead, stinging her eyes. The pain eased throughout her body, except her wrists which continued to burn.

A swollen tongue licked dry, cracked lips. The agitated shadows were resolving themselves into figures with faces. Sophie stared at them blankly. She struggled to connect names with those who stood before her. She looked from one to the next, searching for one who would always be familiar. When she didn’t see Anika, Sophie dropped her gaze to her wrists. They still danced with gold and red flames in her twisted vision. The flames licked forward singeing the flesh of hands still connected to her body. Anika lay crumpled at Sophie’s feet. Her face contorted with pain and fear. Her hands locked to Sophie’s wrists.

Sophie jerked back. She wretched her arms free of Anika’s fingers. She screamed as pain flared through her wrists. Anika continued to stare unseeingly up, her eyes flat as though the colour had been burnt from them. She didn’t move. Sophie looked up at those gathered around her. She saw the fear in their features. She saw tears streaking their faces.

Sophie turned and ran. She stumbled across the bridge. She tripped over roots and stones. She ran blindly until she came to a small creek. There she thrust her aching wrists into the frigid water. Steam rose and her vision blurred once more. As the pain numbed, Sophie wiped the tears from her eyes. She sat back on the damp, muddy ground and hugged her knees.

It couldn’t be real, she thought over and over. But she couldn’t make herself return. She couldn’t face the truth of what she had done to her sister. Anika had lied, but Sophie… Sophie turned and emptied her stomach onto the ground.

A twig snapped behind her. Sophie turned. Georges stood a dozen paces away, watching. His eyes were glassy as they stared at her, at her wrists.

Sophie followed his gaze. Her skin looked strange in the dappled light. It was no longer a violent red. Instead it looked… it looked… Sophie twisted her arms before her. Light glinted off bands of gold that encased her lower arm. Gingerly she touched the area. It felt smooth like new skin.

Trembling, Sophie turned back to Georges. He still watched her, his face a mix of emotions: horror, fear, sadness and something almost hungry lurking in its depths.

P1040393‘I don’t know what happened,’ Sophie faltered.

‘Anika is dead,’ Georges replied slowly. He looked from her wrists to her eyes. ‘You killed her.’

‘No!’

‘She burned from where she touched you.’

‘I didn’t, I couldn’t…I have to leave!’

‘I don’t think so, Sophie.’ Georges voice was soft and steady. ‘You seem to have a unique gift.’ His eyes drifted back to her wrists. ‘An even greater affinity for gold than we had ever thought. No, you still have your use, I think.’

‘I can’t. I won’t. Please, please let me go home. I can’t go back there. I can’t.’

‘Anika will be gone by the time we return.’

‘What did you do to her?’

Georges frowned. ‘She will be buried, as would anyone who dies on my rig. You will take her place.’

‘I know nothing of mechanicals.’

‘But you do know charms,’ Georges said with a predatory smile. ‘A talent I think we can work with. Come Sophie, you have nowhere else to go. You will never find your way back to Dawn city without me. There is either the claim or death in these wilds.’

‘People have survived in the wilds.’

‘You are a city girl. It won’t be an easy death.’ Georges stood there, watching and waiting. He didn’t move as she debated with herself. How could she ever live with what she had done? Perhaps death was the better option.

Sophie looked up, but Georges just stood there waiting. He shifted into a more comfortable position. Arms crossed over his chest he watched her. Nothing was said. For a long time Sophie sat and wondered when he would turn and leave. But he never did.

Finally, Sophie got to her feet. She wobbled; her legs unsteady. She swatted away Georges silent offer of help. She stumbled into the woods half dozen paces before she spoke. ‘Are you going to lead us back? Because I certainly don’t know the way.’

Georges said nothing as he took the lead. He set a slow, gentle pace.

‘I am a coward,’ Sophie muttered as she followed. She moved to finger the charms on her bracelet. Her fingers brushed against golden skin, strangely pliable and warm. She no longer had her bracelets, the charms from her family. Sophie swiped at more tears as she staggered forward.

The Breaker Rig – Part 3

P1030900It was a long, jarring ride to Georges’ claim. Sophie sat wedged between barrels of salted pork and sacks of flour. There were other boxes of supplies including metal gears and dark, viscous oil. Georges drove from a narrow bench at the front of the wagon. Sophie had offered to sit beside him. But Georges had insisted she remain in the back, protected from the sun and elements beneath the canvas cover.

It was stuffy and uncomfortable. Sophie felt every rut and stone they hit, which must have been a continuous stream of obstructions from Dawn City to the claim. Food had been offered around midday, when Georges paused for ten minutes. He had been distant in his interactions: either ignoring or failing to hear any of her questions.

The day dragged along with only a narrow view of the trail for Sophie to watch. She was bruised and sore when the wagon finally splashed across a shallow river and came to a stop. With effort Sophie wiggled her way to the back of the wagon, determined to stretch her legs and back. Everything ached as she gingerly eased herself to stable ground.

As she rounded the front, she noticed Georges strolling along the edge of a pond. In the middle of the water a massive wooden structure floated.

‘What is that?’ Sophie wondered aloud.

‘That is the breaker rig.’

Sophie squeaked and jumped. Spinning she found herself facing a young man about her own age. His dark hair was cropped short and his green eyes danced as they observed her.

‘I didn’t know Georges was bringing women back to camp.’

‘He is not. Well, I suppose he is. But it is not like that,’ Sophie stammered. ‘I am a charmer.’

‘Of course you are,’ the man said sliding the reigns over the head of the horse. ‘Akram Naras.’

He offered her his hand. Sophie glanced at the charms on his wrist as she introduced herself.

‘You are one of the charmers?’ she said her eyes catching the six-sided sun etched with a crescent moon.

‘You must be our sixth,’ Akram acknowledged. ‘Welcome to the claim.’

Sophie looked from the young man to the strange structure floating in the water. ‘Um, what is a breaker rig?’

‘That is a breaker rig. It is the largest in the North. Georges had it special made then shipped here piece by piece. Took a force of people to assemble, or so I understand. I wasn’t around then.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Sophie muttered utterly confused. ‘Er, what does it do?’

‘See that end there? The one that juts out with the metal buckets? Well, those teeth on the edge of the bucket help it break through the rock and soil to scoop up dirt. Makes a terrible racket.’

‘It seems pretty quiet now,’ Sophie observed. She could hear the wind in the trees and the twittering of birds but nothing else.

‘Oh, it is silent now. Broken. Something exploded on the inside not an hour ago. That is where Georges went. See we only get a brief summer this far North. Doesn’t even get warm enough to fully thaw the ground. So Georges wants this rig running all day and all night until the season shifts.’

‘Not warm enough?’ Sophie echoed skeptically. She wiped the damp from her forehead with the cuff of her dress.

P1030921Akram chuckled. ‘Once the ground is scooped up, it is carried into the big structure you see there. There are a whole series of conveyors and sieves and water used to sort the gold pieces or dust from the rest of the rock and dirt. The waste material is ejected out that end and forms those huge piles of rocky debris.’

‘Does it often break down?’

‘Seems to be breaking down a fair bit of late.’

‘So what do you do now?’

‘There isn’t much for charmers to do while the mechanists are busy playing with their gears and shafts. Right now, I should probably start unloading the supplies. Georges likes things to be properly stored otherwise supplies spoil and that is never a good thing. You might as well come with me. I am sure Georges won’t want to talk to you until the rig is up and running again.’

*

Steam erupted from the top of the rig’s body. Gears ground together, the sound echoing off the surrounding hills.

It was like a castle of old, with a moat around its base. At the front end huge chains jerked into action. Metal buckets with iron teeth dove into the rock. They scooped up hungry mouthfuls of soil and carried into the rig’s body where it was lost from Sophie’s view. On the other end a long arm or tail dropped waste material in long snaking piles.

‘It looks so simple.’

‘Only because we are not on the inside. The rig uses a system of sieves and water sluices to separate the heavier gold from the remaining sediment.’ Akram explained. ‘It takes three crews of six to operate it.’

‘So many people?’ Sophie echoed. She looked around at the tiny camp. There were a dozen tents but surely not enough for all of them, plus the half dozen charmers Georges said he needed.

‘One crew is always sleeping. The next shift would have been called in early to help fix whatever went wrong. It is very large inside. Some of the gears are two stories tall.’

‘And what do you do? What sort of charm work would necessitate six charmers?’

‘The Gold Charm,’ Akram exhaled. His gaze shifted beyond the wooden frame of the rig. ‘Georges has an idea to call gold from the ground to the surface. Like to like.’

‘That doesn’t make any sense! Where are the similarities?’

‘That is perhaps the most interesting aspect. Where do you think gold comes from?’

‘The ground?’ They were digging up the ground in search of the precious metal.

‘Ok, foolish question. Obviously, we wouldn’t be working the claim if we didn’t think gold came from the ground. That is not the point I am trying to make. Gold isn’t just found lying onto of the ground, not all of it. It comes from deeper within the earth.’

‘Like coal? Miners dig deep under the surface to extract the resource.’

‘I suppose so,’ Akram said slowly. ‘Only there are lots of differences between coal and gold. However, they are both components of the earth. You start digging, even in an area rich in the metal and you must pull up dirt and rock. Now you scratch your skin, your surface and eventually you will start drawing blood.’

‘But blood is liquid and gold is solid.’

‘Not at high temperatures. Use a hot enough fire and gold melts.’

‘You still need to actively apply that heat to make it molten.’

‘We do, because like the blood in you, when it reaches the surface it cools, becoming solid.’

Sophie looked at Akram. ‘You seriously believe gold is the lifeblood of the earth?’

‘I feel it is better considered a part. Just as there are several components to your own blood. I think Georges theory is quite sound.’

‘And the charm…?’

‘Like to like,’ Akram said. ‘Georges wants to draw gold from the land like a doctor bleeding a patient.’

Sophie swallowed. ‘That is a bold charm. You do know charms don’t happen that … er quickly. Charms are not really like doctors extracting fluids from patients.’

‘Obviously,’ Akram said. ‘However, a charm that could draw gold to the claim, well that would be incredible. Having a way to sense the gold in a claim would also be a worthwhile success. This charm is going to change things, of that I am certain. First you need to learn the words. The rest will follow quickly.’

Across the pond, the sound of the rig’s engine smoothed out into a steady rhythm. It was accompanied by the crashing of sharp-toothed metal buckets into the earth. The valley where the river had been dammed to create the small pound reverberated with the rig’s noise.

Akram pressed his lips together. ‘I think they are done.’

‘Done?’

‘Well the day shift is done now that the rig is working again. The night shift will be taking over. Look, there is Georges leading the crew.’

A parade of people now occupied the narrow bridge connecting the rig with land. At its lead was Georges, his floppy hat still perched over limp hair. His clothes appeared to have acquired another layer of dirt and grim. The rest were similarly sweaty people in the ubiquitous brown uniform of the north.

In their midst, near the back was a slim, familiar figure. The sleek dark hair had been ruthlessly pulled back and plaited. It was such a simple hairstyle, nothing Sophie associated with her sister. Of course, she hadn’t seen her sister this filthy in years.

Sophie took off. She couldn’t help the wide, grin she knew spread across her face. Anika was there, looking just as exhausted as the rest. But there was no doubt, this was her beloved sister.

‘Anika! Anika! Anika!’ Sophie sang as she raced forward. She threw her arms around her older sister the moment Anika stepped off the bridge. ‘I thought I would never find you. Oh, I am so glad you are alright. I was worried. And it was such a long trip here. I had to come by air-carriage, which was terrible. And then no one knew you in town. I didn’t know how I was going to survive.’

Sophie babbled. Words slipped from her tongue in a torrent of nonsense. She was only half aware of what she was saying: how worried she had been, how lonely Chesico was without her, how their neighbours had gossiped, how strange and awkward the north was, and how soon they could go back home. Everything she had been thinking since she woke to find her sister gone poured out of Sophie in an incoherent mess.

In her arms, Anika was very still.

‘Is something wrong? Are you hurt? Oh, dear I have been crushing you when you were injured.’ Sophie stepped back frantically looking Anika over. Her sister was smeared in dirt. It streaked her face like some primitive war paint. There were tears in her shirt and strands of coal black hair were escaping the practical braid.

P1030933‘What is wrong? Talk to me Anika,’ Sophie said. ‘Why don’t you look at me?’

‘Why did you come?’ Anika’s rough voice was low, her eyes watching the ground at their feet. ‘You hate travel.’

‘I was worried. You have been gone so long. I thought you were lost. I thought you were never coming back.’

‘I never asked you to come.’

‘I had to know what happened to you. I had to find you.’

‘Well now that you have, you can leave.’ Anika’s hand flew out gripping Sophie by the arm. Anika pulled her with more strength than Sophie remembered her sister possessing. They were headed back to the camp, to the cluster of tents, the cabin and the wagon. ‘Go, Sophie, go back to the city.’

‘Not without you, Anika. I won’t leave you behind.’

‘I don’t want you here. Leave. Get back on the wagon or whatever you used to get here and return. Go back to Chesico and never seek me out again.’ Anika lifted her dark glittering eyes. They were the same almond shape Sophie remembered. They held the same self-confidence she always admired in her sister. But there was something else there too, something less welcoming.

‘I travelled too far to go back empty handed. I need you Anika.’ Sophie said stubbornly barely meeting her sister’s gaze.

‘You idiot!’ Anika snapped. ‘You selfish fool, do you think of no one but yourself? You, you were the reason I had to leave. Now be gone. Ge out. Leave.’

Tears pricked at Sophie’s eyes. She wretched her arm free of Anika’s clutch. ‘I can’t. Not alone. You have to come home, please.’

‘I am home. This is my home, Sophie.’

‘No,’ Sophie said shaking her head. ‘No, this isn’t home. Home is Chesico, where we grew up.’

‘What do you know of home? What do you remember of our house? Can you recall its colour? The warm sunshine yellow with its green and white trim? Can you remember our mother as she picked flowers in the garden? Or the way she smiled at us?’

Sophie recoiled at the bitter voice. ‘Chesico is more than just a house. The city is huge, far bigger than Dawn City. There is plenty of work to be found there, good work.’

‘I have a job. I work the rig. What do you do Sophie? What have you ever done?’

‘I am a charmer.’

‘Unstable work.’

‘Georges hired me, from a town filled with charmers,’ Sophie retorted. ‘I can get work, I can help to make our life together good. Our family…’

Anika’s eyes darkened. ‘We have no family. They are gone.’ Her voice was cold, flat.

Sophie flinched. ‘Our father might return. He wouldn’t know where to find us if we stayed here.’

‘He doesn’t deserve to find us,’ Anika shouted. ‘He can take his gin soaked hide to the Abyss for all it matters.’

‘Anika, you can’t mean that. He is our father. He is family.’

‘He is a pathetic coward, using grief as a reason to run away. He deserves nothing,’ she spat. Heat coloured her cheeks as Anika glared at Sophie. ‘You are not wanted here. Leave now and never come back.’

‘You can’t mean that, Anika. You can’t. You are my sister. You are my life. You are everything to me. I love you. Always. I would do anything for you, please don’t make me leave.’

‘You are nothing but a weight around my shoulders, dragging me down, preventing me from living my life. Go back, Sophie. Take your silly charms and pathetic dreams and return to Chesico. You are not wanted.’ Anika pushed past Sophie, knocking her sister to the side with enough force to cause her to stumble.

No one in the camp came as Sophie sobbed to herself. The world had cracked leaving Sophie broken upon its bones. She huddled into herself as the tears dampened the earth around her. What was she to do now?

Drying her eyes, Sophie looked around. She could see people moving between the tents. The smell of sausages and beans wafted from a fire. Hunger gnawed at her stomach. It pushed her from the ground and towards people. She didn’t see Anika amongst the half dozen workers milling around the fire. Akram stood when he spotted her. He looked back, towards the cabin. Sophie couldn’t tell if there was someone present or not. However, whatever Akram saw he stood and came towards her.

‘I will show you to your tent.’

‘Thank you. I don’t…’

‘There is food if you are hungry. We will start tomorrow morning.’

‘Start what?’

‘The Gold Charm, Georges wants you to learn it as quickly as possible.’

‘But Anika…’

‘Anika is a mechanists, good at her job, but not owner of the claim. Georges wants the charm performed as soon as possible. You should probably get some sleep,’ Akram added lifting the canvass flap and nodding towards the narrow cot inside. Her bags had already been brought in.

‘I am sorry,’ Akram said as she shuffled past.

*

The pounding was steady, though every so often it was accentuated by a louder explosion. The thunderous noise sent Sophie’s heart racing. In the bleary moments between sleep and waking Sophie wondered if she was under attack. The truth settled around her like a scratchy wool blanket, familiar and unwelcome. She wished she could erase the previous day. Only, how would that change anything? She lay there, still tired and uncertain and waited. Outside, voices drifted through the canvass walls.

‘I didn’t even know she had a sister!’

‘Can you imagine being related to her? I almost feel sorry for the girl.’

‘I wouldn’t say that around her.’

‘I am not afraid of Anika.’

‘I am not saying it is fear. I just have a healthy respect for her. She hasn’t been here a full season and already she is lead mechanist on the day shift.’

‘Think she will talk to her sister?’

They were talking about her as though she were a curiosity. Sophie held still on the bed. It was lumpy and uncomfortable. Something dug into her side. She remained motionless as the words drifted through the canvass.

‘Anika? You are crazy. She doesn’t forgive. You remember Willis?’

‘The metal worker that was here at the beginning of the season? He went home. Didn’t like the wilderness. Too many bears or wolves or something.’

From the crack in the flap of the tent, Sophie could tell it was light out. That did not help to narrow down the time, not in the summer of the north.

‘He had a disagreement with Anika, something related to the rig. Well Anika said one thing and Willis said another. Anika stayed and Willis is barely a memory. Lesson: don’t cross Anika. You can’t expect her to forgive and forget.’

‘Yah but the girl is her sister. That ought to count for something.’

Sophie could almost hear the shrug of the second speaker as she lay in bed. The misery of the previous day sloshed over her with their words. Unwanted, the word ricocheted around her head. The last remnant of her family had turned her back and walked away: left just as everyone else had left Sophie. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do now. Lying on her back, Sophie tossed an arm over her face. It didn’t stop the tears, but the sleeve helped to mop up the moisture.P1030973

‘Then it is good Anika is onboard for the charm. I thought she was going to oppose it.’

‘Georges won’t take the girl back to town until the charm is performed.’

‘No way!’

‘That is why we have to do it soon.’

‘You think the it will work?’

‘Instantly? Like magic? Nah, of course not. You have been listening to too many fireside stories.’

‘But Georges…’

They were charmers, Sophie thought dully. She didn’t recognize their voices. Where they strangers or had she forgotten those she just met yesterday?

‘Look I won’t speak ill of the boss, not while he is paying my wage, but he isn’t a charmer. Gold isn’t going to come pouring out of the ground. Charms are powerful, but instantaneous.’

‘They also take practice and effort to perform,’ a new voice added. Sophie recognized Akram’s clipped voice. ‘Which you are supposed to be doing.’

‘I thought we were waiting for the girl.’

‘Is she not up?’

‘She hasn’t come out yet.’

‘Have you bothered to see if she is awake? No, never mind, I will do it myself.’

The front flap was swept aside as the figure entered. It took a few moments for the dark silhouette to resolve itself into Akram. The man impatiently brushed a lock of dark, wavy hair from his face. ‘Good. You are awake. Georges wants you to learn the charm as quickly as you can. It is summer and he is eager to reap the most benefit from our labour.’

‘I thought Anika wanted me out of camp as fast as possible.’

‘Anika may want any number of things, but she is not the holder of this claim. Until then Georges is boss and his words are the ones we follow. Otherwise we don’t earn our pay.’ She heard the small sigh as he took another step forward. Softening his voice, Akram offered her a tin plate with steaming food. ‘I brought you some breakfast. There is water in the bucket there. When you are ready come out, we will start going over the words of the charm and their intent.’

When she didn’t reach out for it, Akram set the plate on a folding stool. Next to one of the stool’s legs he placed a cup of tea. ‘It is not much advice, but you should try not to listen to gossip. It never does anyone any good.’

‘Thanks,’ Sophie muttered, but he had already slipped beyond the confines of the tent.

The oatmeal was thick and filling. The tea was hot and bitter. It was not the best meal Sophie had eaten, but it wasn’t the worst either. She splashed some water on her face and pulled a new dress from her bag: something less dusty.

Unsurprisingly, the sun was high overhead when she finally emerged. The sentries who had been standing next to the tent had wandered off. Sophie wondered where she was expected to go when she spotted the familiar figure. The dirty brown trousers were the same ones Anika wore yesterday, though the top was clearly different. Sophie watched her sister move commandingly through camp before heading towards the rig.

Maybe she should try talking to her, maybe…

Anika glanced at Sophie before looking pointedly away. Maybe she should give Anika some space. Tomorrow, she might try talking to her sister.

‘Sophie?’ The female was tiny and delicate in appearance. She wore a bright red patterned top over her ubiquitous brown trousers. ‘If you would follow me.’

They didn’t go far. There was a tent on the other side of the cabin. It was bigger than most of the rest. Inside benches were set in a semicircle. There was a table to one side. The setup suggested a primitive office.

Akram nodded from where he sat. ‘Thanks Joss. Now, Sophie, about the Gold Charm, I am going to teach you the words of the song. We will practice here until you are ready.’

P1030943Sophie settled down on a bench. She tried to focus on the words Akram was speaking, words that described gold and blood. Her mind wandered to Anika. What was her sister doing now? Would she see her at dinner? Would they talk then?

‘Sophie!’ Akram snapped. ‘Pay attention, you need to learn this.’

‘Sorry,’ she muttered.

Across the tent the other woman snickered. Sophie scowled at her.

‘Oh, taking a page out of your sister’s book?’ Joss laughed. ‘Now we will have two ugly faces to avoid.’

‘You know nothing about it,’ Sophie hissed.

‘Do you really think you are the first person to be disappointed by family? How adorably childish. There is nothing special about either you or Anika.’

‘Joss,’ Akram drew out the name in one long slow syllable.

The woman rolled her eyes. ‘Do you hope to play the chivalrous knight? Because you know it isn’t going to end well.’

‘Perhaps you should leave.’

Joss rose to her feet in one liquid motion. ‘Try not to get attached, she isn’t staying for long.’

‘This is a mess,’ Sophie moaned as flap fell back into place. ‘How could she be like that? This isn’t my sister. Anika isn’t like that.’

‘Sometimes we change,’ Akram said softly. ‘Sometimes people are not who we thought they were. You can’t change them and remold them. People don’t work like gold or wood, molded and carved into the shapes we want.’ His fingers plucked at the charm bracelet on her wrist. The movement of his hands caused his own charms to clink musically together. ‘What is this?’ he asked plucking at the star and thread charm.

‘I made it to find my sister,’ Sophie said between nearly silent sobs. ‘The blue thread represents Anika and the red one is me. We both have the same star.’

‘It brought you here?’

‘I was so desperate to find Anika. Only she doesn’t want me.’

‘We all grow up eventually.’ Akram held up a hand silencing her protests. ‘We are not statues, unmoving and still. We all change with time, in ways we cannot predict. Anika may not be the person you thought you knew. Maybe that means it is time for you to find your own path. Maybe it is time you also changed.’

‘I should just give up on my sister? No, I can’t. I won’t. She is all the family I have left.’

‘You can’t force her,’ Akram held Sophie’s gaze. ‘You can’t shape her into something different.’

‘I can’t give up on her, not ever.’

Akram shrugged and returned to the Gold Charm.

She could feel their eyes on her as she moved around camp. Only Anika would not look her way. Every time she tried to approach her sister, Anika had worked her way somewhere else. Eventually she gave up and retreated to her tent.

She lay there trying to come up with ways of getting Anika home. Outside, workers and charmers talked and laughed. Their words smeared together becoming a babble of background noise.

The night shift continued: a steady beat of metal teeth biting into rock. The chug of the rig’s engine never died. Eventually the sun receded below the horizon and the skies dimmed to grey. In those hours, when the world was the bleakest, Sophie knew she was done. She had to leave. She would perform the charm and return to Chesico. She didn’t know exactly what she would do there, but Chesico was familiar. It was home.

The Breaker Rig – Part 2

This past weekend we enjoyed unseasonably warm temperatures. Even with cloud and rain, we saw highs into the teens. It helped to melt more of those final stubborn piles of snow. More importantly, it afforded me the opportunity to air out my bedding! However, Monday rolled around, the temperature plummeted and now I am back to my normal state of being cold. As it is only the middle of February, I am not complaining – just noting the facts.

Anyway, back to the short story ~

** ** ** ** ** ** ** **

‘No Tammerik. No Tams. No Tarrek. No Timmins. No Tannik.’ The woman’s voice droned on the edge of irritation.

‘Could she be listed under her first name?’ Sophie suggested.

‘Look girl, I don’t know why you have come to Dawn City and I truthfully don’t care. It doesn’t matter if you are chasing your sister, your father or your own shadow. Unless you want to submit paperwork for claim or retrieve paperwork regarding a claim, then you need to leave.’

‘But I don’t know where else to go.’

The woman shrugged. Long fingers shuffled sheets of paper on the long counter. The nameplate on the counter read Ms. Weatherstone, but Sophie wasn’t sure that referred to the woman scowling in front of her or another employee of the Territorial Claims Office. The clerk sighed, ‘Look girl…’

‘Sophie, my name is Sophie.’

‘Irrelevant. Our job is to maintain records of the claims, active and closed, for the government. We work with the owners of each outfit, who pay to submit their paperwork…’

‘I don’t have any money,’ Sophie interjected.

P1040428‘…not with the workers.’ The woman’s deepening frown was the only indication she heard Sophie’s comment. ‘You could have an entire clan of Thaines out there and we would never know. Have you tried to walk those streets? It is not my job to keep track of every weed that blows through here. You want to know about a specific person, try the bank. Most people keep an account with them: some to save their gold but most to withdraw more than they have.’

‘I have!’ Sophie wailed barely resisting the impulse to stamp her feet on the wide plank floor. ‘I have been to the bank, the post office and to every hotel and boarding house I could find. I spoke with the station master for the air-carriage and the ships master handling the river boats. I have run out of places to go.’

‘Then go home and accept that you sister ran off elsewhere.’

‘She didn’t! Anika wouldn’t do that to me. Anika is my sister, she is…’

‘She is family and most families are jerks.’

‘Families are special,’ Sophie whispered.

‘You can tell yourself that all you want. But either she lied to you and didn’t come here, or she is working a claim.’

‘How do I search the claims?’

‘Ha ha! You are serious? There are hundreds of claims set into the hills around Dawn City.’ Ms. Weatherstone leaned over the counter to look down on Sophie. ‘It would take you more than a year to search each one and that’s only accounting the official ones. Besides changing owners and going bankrupt means the workers drift from one claim to the next like fluff in the wind.’

The door opened to the chime of a small brass bell. Ms. Weatherstone straightened behind the desk surreptitiously smoothing the fabric of her green striped vest. A faint smile started to bloom but died as heavy boots pounded atop the floor boards.

‘Georges,’ Ms. Weatherstone said in the same flat voice with which Sophie was growing accustomed. ‘The answer is the same as last week. I cannot grant you rights to the claim. Only Mr. Mitchel has that authority and he will not be back in town for two months.’

‘Penny,’ the man boomed, the gap between his front teeth obvious as he favoured the clerk with a wide smile. Removing his battered hat revealed a mat of dull brown hair flecked with grey. It hung in limp chunks framing his square face. ‘Penny, it is always a treat to see you. And entertaining a guest,’ he added spotting Sophie. Dark, thoughtful eyes scrutinized her from head to toe. Sophie tried to summon a smile and a greeting, but the words became lodged in her throat. She flashed one last desperate look at Ms. Weatherstone, but the clerk had drawn forth papers and was busy trying to appear occupied. Dismissed and frustrated, Sophie left the Claims Office.

What was she going to do now? It would take ages to search all the claims according to the clerk and the woman ought to know. She had an awful detailed map spread across her counter with countless tiny markers. Dawn City was little more than a couple of dots. Sophie would need transport from town to the claims, but she couldn’t ride and she certainly couldn’t afford anything better than a new pair of sturdy shoes.

She was running dangerously low on funds. Barely in town three days and already her small savings had nearly run out. If only Anika hadn’t been so thorough in selling off anything of value. While Sophie appreciated the cost of travelling north, Anika had taken most of what they had collected.

‘Watch out!’

The shout jerked Sophie out her reverie in time to side step an over full wagon. Wooden poles and bits of canvas stuck out from the vehicle’s box. Sophie

a step to avoid crashing into another pedestrian. She moved over to the edge of the street and looked around to gather her bearings. Across the street was a saloon. The ridiculous half doors would have been appropriate to a small desert town in the south. Raucous shouts of laughter spilled from the dark interior. To the right was a grocery and to the left was a blacksmith. Neither establishment was of any use to Sophie. On her side of the street was a small book shop, a ladies clothing store and directly in front of her a Charm Shop.

The sign above the store depicted the symbol of the star and crescent moon. Replicas of sturdy, neat homes, of ships and tools in different sizes hung in the wide glass window. Drawn as a moth to a flame, Sophie entered the butter yellow building.

All around her were everyday objects like spoons, small knives, books and coins. There were more exotic objects such as steamer ships, surveying tools, and unfamiliar animals. Some were decorated with lines etched in flat disks or coloured beads of different shapes. Many of the objects were cleverly crafted from gold and silver, small delicate work with thin loops to be attached to bracelets. Others had been made with thread, bone or wood. These larger scale designs were better suited for the home or aboard a ship.

Next to the cashier was a barrel of lumpy golden blobs. A small sign read, Gold Nuggets – call the gold from the earth to your hand. As she moved around the space, Sophie listened to the faint sound of singing that came from somewhere deep within the building. It was comforting in its familiarity.

A back door opened. A middle-aged man walked out. He was neatly dressed in a striped shirt and dark trousers. Silver charms hung from his wrists. A pair of oddly designed glasses rested on his nose. The right lens was larger, longer and blue. The left lens was tinted red. He smiled brightly at the only customer in his shop.

‘How might I assist the young Miss this morning?’ he asked pleasantly. As he stepped around the counter Sophie saw he wore a wide belt with various tools strapped to it.

‘You have lovely charms.’

‘I sell the strongest, most potent charms in all of the North. The gold ones in particular are exceptionally powerful. The gold is mined locally, so I get it before it has been handled by many people. It is shaped and designed with one purpose to ensure a superior quality. It holds the song longer than any other charm you can purchase. They are an incredible bargain.’

‘I understood that the processing of the materials was just as important preparation for the charm to hold. Do you not need the gold to be properly worked before it can be made to hold a design and song?’

‘Ah, so you are familiar with the basics of charm theory, young lady? Yes, the gold must be melted and purified during which the proper songs need to be sung to prime the metal for charm work. However, the fewer hands that touch the metal, the fewer imprints are left on it. Virgin gold, taken from the body of the earth herself is pure, unaltered by old songs and charms. With only a few people involved in its processing, that native strength is retained.’

‘So you argue the strength of the charm is directly related to the amount of contact that material has experienced prior to charm formation?’

‘It is not an argument but the truth. I have seen with my own eyes the superior handling of natively mined gold.’

‘I understood recent research has shown the quality of the charm is proportional to the strength and skill of the charmer, not the materials they use.’

‘Then the researchers have not seen the work I do here. Come, choose a piece and you will see for yourself the incomparable affect it has on your life. This here is a charm of fortune,’ he added with an appraising look at the drab, tired dress that hung awkwardly from Sophie’s frame. The blue dress had once belonged to Anika and had been a favourite of hers until she had outgrown it.

‘It is very pretty,’ Sophie said. ‘You must need many employees to maintain this quality and quantity of merchandise.’

‘I hire only the very best charmers.’

P1040264‘I am well educated. I trained closely with Reverend Hong back in Chesico City.’

‘Another city charmer come to the north.’ The shop keeper’s demeanor dimmed. ‘I am sure you were very good at whatever little charms you practiced down south. However, I have a full staff and even more charmers waiting for those positions. I do not lack for employees.’

‘I have excellent training,’ Sophie rushed. ‘I could demonstrate for you now, if you would like? I could show you any type of charm. I know them all.’

‘All?’ he said skeptically. ‘You have no experience with the mechanicals. Machines, some at least, don’t take kindly to charms. They need an expert hand. Besides, as you can see, I have a shop full of charms for sale, no need for another charmer.’

‘But…’

‘This is a shop,’ the man said firmly. His brown eyes darkened. ‘I do not run a charity.’

She turned away. The slow trudge back to Patal’s Palace seemed far longer than the three blocks she had to go. Upstairs in her tiny room, Sophie looked at her pathetic assemblage of belongings. She had nearly nothing. There was nothing to trade for more time in the boarding house. She was a trained Charmer but couldn’t get work here. She still couldn’t find her sister.

Sophie fingered the charms on her bracelet. Her fingers traced the two interwoven stars, the charm their mother had given both of them. Twin stars for two sisters, she had said. At least, that was what Anika always told her. Sophie didn’t remember their mother. She had only vague recollections of their father. Anika was her family. Anika was her whole world.

As the sun sank lower in the sky, Sophie’s wandering mind lit upon the only remaining solution. She was a charmer. Perhaps she could use that to find her sister. It was a ridiculous idea of course. Charms couldn’t do anything so active, so immediate. Charms were the physical manifestation of positive thoughts; they were wishes more than anything else.

Need was a powerful motivator. Sophie looked at the hem of her blue dress. She remembered exactly how Anika had looked in the dress: tall, powerful, capable. Worrying about the hem, Sophie removed a long blue thread. She then rummaged through her bag for a faded red handkerchief. It was all that remained of the red shirt Sophie had destroyed through constant wear. It took time to remove a red thread of similar size.

Sophie twisted the threads together. The charm was a physical manifestation of what she wanted; like to like was the philosophy. She joined the threads, as she wanted to be joined once more to her sister. As she worked, Sophie sang. She sang about family, about finding lost people and about the strength of bonds. She worked the thread into the twin star charm on her bracelet and pictured the other end extending to Anika’s matching metal charm. She sang and thought and wished until the sun slipped below the horizon and sleep put an end to Sophie’s thoughts.

*

The room was stuffy when she woke the next morning. Not for the first time, Sophie wished she could open the window and capture whatever faint breeze stirred outside.

She moved slowly. Her body ached from an indifferent night. Sleep had come but had been far from restful. Fatigue and worry still pulled at her. She woke with no brilliant plan, just the steady resolution to do whatever it took to find Anika. After splashing tepid water on her face, Sophie collected grabbed her bags. Methodically, she removed every copper she had carefully saved and hid.

‘I have seventeen coppers,’ she informed the room. ‘I will need twelve to return to Chesico, and that is assuming we skip some meals. This room,’ she frowned as she said the words. ‘Will cost another seven coppers to keep for another week. I simply don’t have enough.’

Sophie blew the air out of her lungs in one explosive breath. ‘How am I going to find Anika in the next three days? I have exhausted every lead in town and outside…well, the clerk laughed at me.’

She surveyed the scraps of her life; everything could fit in two bags. ‘Is there anything I could sell?’ She had a broach and silver spoon. Both items had been given to her by her mother. Sophie wasn’t certain how much they were worth, but they must have some value.

Sitting back on her heels, Sophie’s fingers moved to her bracelet. The star charm seemed to glow in the morning light as she moved her wrist. ‘Once we are back in Chesico we will find jobs. That is not an issue. The problem is still finding Anika. That is all I have to do.’

It was one small, impossible task that had to be completed in the next three days. Sophie repacked her bags. She put the things she thought she would need to search the claims in the small sack.

‘What if Anika wasn’t able to come into town?’ she asked the room. ‘What if she wanted to come but couldn’t? Perhaps she has been injured. Maybe she is being kept hostage.’ She would come otherwise. Even though her sister did know Sophie was coming north. Anika wouldn’t want to be isolated from civilization. Unless something prevented her, she would be known in town. Sophie’s stomach tightened with anxiety.

She had to find Anika and she couldn’t do that from the floor of her tiny rented room. Sophie piled some clothes into the smaller of the two bags and stuffed everything else into the larger. She would walk to each claim if she had to; she would find her sister.

The dining room was empty when Sophie made her way down. There were dirty dishes stacked in a metal tub at one end of the table. On the sideboard were a few scraps of toast, some rubbery scrambled eggs and three biscuits. Sophie wrapped the biscuits in a handkerchief and stuffed them into her small bag. She slathered strawberry preserve on the toast and drank the bitter, cold tea remaining in the pot.

She then walked out of the boarding house and straight into a man.

‘Oh!’ Sophie gasped as she rocked backwards and came down hard on her bottom.

The man grunted and peered down at her from beneath a wide-brim hat. There was something very familiar about the square head and gap-tooth smile that he favoured her as he stuck out his hand. Sophie eyed him warily as she accepted his help. On her feet, she did the best she could to brush the pale brown dust from her skirts. It was almost impossible, she thought, to stay clean here.

‘Are you Tammerik?’

Sophie frowned at the man. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked warily.

‘I am looking for Tammerik, a Sophia Tammerik.’

‘It’s Sophie. No one calls me Sophia except… Did Anika send you?’

The man’s smile deepened. ‘I heard Anika’s little sister was a charmer. You are Sophia, er Sophie? You look similar to your sister. It is the eyes, I think.’

‘Who are you? You know Anika? Anika Tammerik? You know my sister? Where is she? Is she alright? Can you take me to her?’ The questions poured from Sophie’s mouth like water over a falls. She could no more stop them than dam a river with her bare hands.

‘Aye, I know you sister. I know where she is. I can even take you to her, if you want.’

‘Of course it is what I want. It is the only reason I came here. Oh thank the Maker. I thought I would never find Anika.’

Sophie tilted her head up to observe the man. He had dark eyes, half hidden by the shadow cast from his hat. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his trousers. His boots, like everything else about him, were tired and falling apart. He looked like so many of the miners Sophie had seen in town. The only thing that was really different was the thoughtful glint to his eyes. They looked at her speculatively.

‘You are a charmer?’ he asked slowly.

‘Yes, yes, I am a charmer.’ A successful one, Sophie added silently. I sang a charm to find my sister and here you stand ready to complete my wish. ‘Is Anika far from here? Can we leave immediately?’

‘I heard you are church trained?’

‘I studied under Reverend Hong back in Chesico. Though I doubt that means anything to you.’ Sophie’s brow furrowed. ‘I know! You are the man from the Claims Office yesterday. Why didn’t you say anything at the time?’

The man smiled down at her. ‘The name is Georges. I didn’t recognize you at first. I was distracted by my own business.’

‘Is Anika safe? Will it take us long to get to her?’

‘We will get there, all in good time. First though, I am going to need something from you.’

‘What do you want?’ Sophie took half a step backwards. ‘You do know my sister?’

‘Oh, I know Anika. She works for me, on my claim. Works the rig. What I need now, however, is a charmer. That would be you.’

‘What will I have to do?’

‘I need you to do a charm for me, once we get back to the claim. You do that and I will take you to your sister.’

‘You are offering me a job in exchange for bringing me to Anika?’ Sophie couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice. Yesterday had appeared so bleak. Today she was going to have her sister back. The job was a nice twist of fate, not that she wanted it. Still, one charm in exchange for Anika, the fates favoured her today.

P1040334‘That about sums it up.’

‘I will get to see Anika.’

‘Today, if you are ready to leave.’

‘Yes, I am ready.

Georges stared down at the small bag flopped over in the dirt. ‘You have anything else?’

‘What do I need?’

‘You should bring what you have. Wouldn’t want to leave anything around here unattended. You don’t know where it will end up. Food and lodgings you will get at camp, everything else is your responsibility.’

‘I am to live on your claim?’

‘That is how it works. The claim isn’t that close to town. All the workers, both the mechanists and charmers, stay there, expect for their time off.’

‘You have other charmers?’ She felt rather sad about that. Not that she was planning on staying anyway.

‘I need a lot for the charm I am going to perform, six to be exact. The other five are already working at the claim.’

‘Six is a powerful number,’ Sophie observed thoughtfully.

‘This will be a powerful charm,’ Georges replied. ‘I will get the wagon, while you collect your belongs.’

The Breaker Rig – Part 1

Well people, the truth is I have not read anything of late. I have traveled a little, worked a little and written a little. But I have not been reading. So, to follow in the footsteps of others, I am going to foist my short story upon you.

** ** ** ** ** P1040326

Sophie’s stomach lurched upward as she gripped the edge of her seat with white knuckles. Her knees curled tightly around the chipped, hard edge of the two-person bench she blessedly shared with no one. With strained determination Sophie stared straight ahead.

The dark red carriage-car shuddered. Worn wooden benches shook against wrought-iron feet bolted to the floor. Glass windows rattled and the entire conveyance dropped suddenly before settling at its new altitude.

‘Mama, mama!’ The child on the opposing bench giggled. ‘Look. I can see trees.’

‘Indeed. See the ribbon of blue? That is the Kalska River. Can you spot any boats?’

From the corner of her eye, Sophie saw twin-braids bob as the child shifted in her seat. The girl pressed her snub nose to the glass. Bracelets of small dangling charms clinked as the child’s hands were placed to either side of her face. Her breath fogged the window in a gentle aura spreading out from the girl’s face, no doubt obscuring her view of the land below.

Sophie fretted her bottom lip between her teeth. The carriage-car and its collection of passengers held steady. Beneath the hum of conversation, there was the gentle whirl of the steam-powered engine propelling their transport north. Very cautiously, she relaxed the muscles in her hands. Gradually, she eased their hold so the edge was not as painfully biting.

‘Incredible is it not?’ The mother said directing her warm brown eyes to Sophie. ‘To believe we will reach Dawn City in only one day’s flight from White River!’

Sophie grimaced. ‘Air carriages are certainly much faster.’

‘Indeed, it would have taken us a week by steam ship. My husband made the journey this spring. They make you bring so many supplies when you move North. The Territory Guard are quite particular when it comes to immigrants. Every man heading to the gold fields must bring enough to last the winter. Inconvenient for those who will only prospect during the summer.’

The air carriage jostled in some unseen breeze. Sophie’s stomach knotted.

The woman continued to chatter, oblivious to the turbulence. ‘As family, we of course don’t need to bring as much. Besides I hear you can find anything you want in Dawn City, just as you could in the major cities farther south. Yes, Yuki, that is the river and the trees. No, child, it will be some hours yet before we arrive.’

The girl twisted on her seat in a manner Sophie assumed was designed to garner a better view of the earth. The earth that was so far from them at present.

‘You must also be meeting someone,’ the woman prompted.

Sophie pried her jaws apart enough to answer. ‘My sister.’

‘Of course! How lovely it is to have siblings in other parts of the country. I was always so delighted to visit my older sister, Suki. She married and moved back east; to the coastal capital Bington. What an adventure it was to cross the entire continent; it had such varied scenery to enjoy. I was fascinated by the wide sweeping plains, so flat you could see for days in any direction. That is the spread of our family: coast to coast. Of course, we didn’t have these marvellous creations when I was younger. Just regular rail-carriages running on tracks.’

‘I like rail-trains.’

P1040327‘Naturally, there is much to like about an entire string of carriages speeding along a well laid track. I will concede the level of comfort in the sleeper and dining cars is far superior to our limited confines. But this view’–the woman gestured to the window–‘is incomparable. This is like an adventure you would read in the papers. Oh, how exciting it is to be part of history. Is this your first time North? Of course, it must be.’

The woman nodded at Sophie’s rigid posture. ‘Well, welcome. I know, I know. I too am new to the North, but I can just feel it. Dawn City is going to be wonderful.’

‘Mama, what’s that?’

The woman shifted on the bench–sweeping her skirts to the side–she half stood to peer over the head of her child at the distant ground. Sophie saw the carpet bags stowed carefully under the seat. There was also a food hamper, likely obtained from their hotel in White River just for this portion of the journey. Sophie’s stomach gurgled softly, torn between nausea and hunger.

‘That appears to be some rapids. Yes, I do remember your father mentioning something of the kind in his letter home. They have cables; I believe they help the ships navigate this stretch. Slow going, another reason why it is better to travel by air than water.’

Sophie thought of her own letter, neatly folded in a similar carpet bag stored at her feet. It was well creased now. Only two months old and already it was showing signs of age.

‘What brought your sister North?’ The woman resumed her position demurely on the opposite bench. Everything was proper about her appearance, Sophie noted while keeping her eyes from roaming.

The brown hat with its fabricated flowers was pinned to a large, thick bun of dark, glossy black hair. The colour reminded Sophie of Anika, though her sister hated long hair. She complained it took too much work to keep nice. The woman’s dress had the structured bodice and military cut reflecting a war that raged across an ocean. The skirts were full but clearly lacked the extra crinoline layers favoured by fashionable women in the large southern cities. Sophie felt drab and poor in her faded brown cotton dress.

‘Did she move with her husband, or…’

‘She had a letter from our father,’ Sophie replied keeping her voice steady and factual. Anika received a letter and then was suddenly gone. ‘He found his way to Dawn City and started working a gold-field.’ At least that was what Sophie remembered. She didn’t have that letter anymore, only the echo of Anika’s words two days before she was gone.

‘Claim, the term they use is a claim. Though, I suppose in a way the gold is harvested from the ground. A family reunion, that is wonderful! I am certain you are most excited and nervous too no doubt. We give up so much to support our families. As exciting and adventuresome as it is I confess I was hesitant to leave everything familiar for the great unknown. It will be worth it though, when we are a family again.’

Yes she was going to be with her family too. She was going to see Anika again. Sophie thought of her sister, of Anika’s large brown eyes and energetic personality. Anika loved to move. She hated to sit still. Soon, they would be together again. The tension in Sophie’s shoulders eased. Anika was always good at taking care of things. Everything would be sorted once she got to Dawn City.

‘Sadly my husband is at the claim now. It is not so easy to move between the various claims and the town. There are no air carriages, only unkempt dirt roads.’ The woman sighed. ‘It seems like he left an age past, though of course I know it has only been a matter of months. I do worry though.’

Sophie watched as the woman’s fingers rubbed absently at the red bead charm on her left wrist. She recognized the worn protection charm. Everyone had one or something similar. It was one of the first charms attached to a child’s bracelet. It was a charm to keep the wearer safe; it offered general protection from the small accidents in life. There were other more specific charms. Sophie wore one to protect against disease and falling. Anika had another charm to protect her from sharp blades as she was prone to nicking her hands in the kitchen.

‘Mining is such dangerous work,’ the woman sighed.

‘I thought they were plucking gold from river beds.’ Anika had been interested in the gold discovery from the moment the stories appeared in the papers. Anika, who hated to read, was inspired to pour over the broad sheets twice daily for any scrap of information she could find. Any hint of gold or even of the far North was enough to still her restless body for a few minutes.

‘If only it were that easy. I suppose it must have started that way. Certainly the papers described the first discoveries as happenstance: gold nuggets glittering from beneath the creek’s trickle of water and awaiting discovery. If the gold was only found in rivers and streams then I am certain we wouldn’t be heading North now. No, I am sure all the gold hunters would have already stripped every once from the land. Indeed, there is nought by dust left in the waters and little enough of that.’

‘But Dawn City is growing. Anika, my sister, said it was a bustling place filled with – well everything. Tons of people still line the docks in Chesico to catch a ship.’

‘Is that where you are from? Chesico is a beautiful city. I love the spectacular views of the bay you get from the surrounding heights.’

Sophie nodded absently. She didn’t want to think of her home, now so impossibly far away. Sophie had never left Chesico before. Absently, Sophie’s fingers found the small silver charm. The precise strokes spelt the city’s name.

‘Is there no gold left in the North?’ Sophie wondered.

‘Oh, it is still there,’ the woman said leaning back in her seat. Her gaze drifted for a moment to a distant spot over Sophie’s shoulder. ‘It is buried deep within the land. It is a game now, trying to find it and then extracting it. That is what a claim is: a section of land leased from the government on which the hopeful dig for their riches.’

Sophie frowned. ‘It sounds like a lot of work.’

‘Dangerous work too.’ A shadow passed over the woman’s features. ‘There have been accidents on the claims and moving between the claims and town. The North is wild country filled with all sorts of challenges. Freezing cold, long winters, wolves, bears…’ The woman cast a sidelong look at her daughter, still happily peering out the window at a never ending ocean of wavering pine trees.

‘There are charms,’ Sophie said. ‘Protection against cold and wild animals.’

The woman shook her head. ‘Charms might help but the digging for gold… there is danger in the process. The mechanicals they use, well no one is entirely certain how well charming and mechanicals work together.’

‘Charms only enhance,’ Sophie said, the words of her teacher flooding through her mind. ‘They are a way to direct our actions and our futures. Charms have been sung into existence for thousands of years. If mechanicals fail, then how can we know it was a result of the charm and not the contraption?’

‘Spoken like a charmer.’ The woman smiled at Sophie. ‘I always thought charmers were a mysterious breed, cloistered away in churches and low ceilinged shops.’

Sophie laughed weakly. ‘There is nothing particularly mysterious about what I do.’

‘You must have a beautiful voice. I always wished I was better at singing. Yuki, though, has potential.’ The woman turned a fond look on her child.

A lull fell between them. Only now Sophie wished her companion was busy chatting. The constant stream of words had been a good distraction for all the uncertainties that lay before her. Sophie shifted in her seat. The cushioning had worn to threads. It did nothing to soften the hard wooden.

She could feel her eyes drawn to the window. The deceptive beauty of an azure sky lay beyond the stuffy confines of their carriage-car. With effort, Sophie resisted the draw of her thoughts out of the carriage and the immediate future. Instead she thrust her arm awkwardly forward and plastered a smile on her face. ‘Sophie Tammerik,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Mrs. Lynda Yamata and my daughter Yuki. The pleasure is mine.’

*P1040255

‘We are falling!’ a passenger shouted.

‘Of course not, you old fool. We are descending. Just go back to sleep and everything will be fine.’

Sophie’s mind estimated the damage that would be done to the carriage-car should the two altitude balloons release all their gas without pause. Would the main bladder hold enough air to slow their descent? Would they crash in a splintering mess of metal and wood and bone?

‘We must be almost there, for I am sure those are cabins I can see,’ Mrs. Yamata said softly.

‘Look Mama, there are houses and streets and…’

‘And what my dear?’

‘Trees and water and rocks. There are piles of rocks, big ones.’

‘Ladies and Gentleman, please hold onto your hats we are approaching the platform for Dawn City.’

The voice rose above the general chatter of the carriage-car, stilling conversation to a low hum.

‘Who was that?’ Yuki asked twisting in her seat.

‘That was the conductor,’ Sophie supplied grateful for the brief distraction. ‘There is a bronze horn half way down the carriage. It connects to a mouth piece in the cab perched atop the car. The conductor, navigator and propulsion engineer are up there flying the air-carriage.’

‘Oh, have you been on an air-carriage before?’ Mrs. Yamata was just as calm as before.

Sophie shook her head. ‘I studied the model during boarding. They have an extremely accurate miniature of the air-carriage, complete with three canvass balloons and panelled interior. It is a superior charm,’ she added in appreciation for the craftsmanship that went into making the model.

Pressure built up in Sophie’s ears reminding of where she was. She moved her jaw in an attempt to alleviate the discomfort. As her heart rate increased, Sophie scrambled to focus on something beyond the end of her short life. She hummed the charm for general protection. It was old and familiar: a child’s song. She had not actively sung its chords for some time now; her focus was on more advanced charms. The familiar notes loosed her tongue, until she was softly singing the words that accompanied the music.

The final drop slowed. With a jarring thump, the air-carriage landed.

‘Ladies and Gentleman,’ came the conductor’s brisk voice. ‘We have arrived at our final destination, Dawn City. Ensure you have collected all luggage before disembarking.’ Pause. ‘And thank you for flying with Northwind Transit.’

Sophie stood on shaky legs. Around her people unbuttoned coats and collected their bags. The car was quickly becoming hot and stuffy now they had reached ground-level. She followed the shuffling chatting crowd off the conveyance and into a clearing.

White and pink wildflowers added colour to the carpet of weeds which spread out to the boarder of wavering pine trees. The air was brisk and filled with foreign smells; tree resin, wood smoke, and crushed grass. It was different from the city, though not unpleasantly so.

The single platform was crowded with laughing and shouting people. Passengers, in crumpled clothes and wilted hats wobbled forward. Their movements were hampered by arms loaded with bags and packages. Townspeople, Sophie guessed, stood welcome before them. They were different from the travellers. Their clothing was rougher, dirtier and muted in colour. They stood with causal confidence watching the spectacle of new arrivals.

All around her, the constant throb of chatter was punctuated by shouts of joy as excited greetings were exchanged. Sophie searched the waiting faces for some familiar signs. She felt her stomach slowly sink as Yuki squealed and rushed forward into the waiting arms of an older man. Beneath the wide brim of his dusty hat, Sophie saw the scraggly edges of a beard a moment before the man embraced Mrs. Yamata.

P1040256Caught by the crowd, which had grown too large for the rough plank platform, Sophie spun trying to orientate herself. Behind her was the air-carriage, the late afternoon sunlight glinting off brass fittings and glass windows. A crew of uniformed workers were busy cleaning the interior and making ready for tomorrow’s departure.

Before her, along the western edge of the clearing was the station house. It was a log-structure, presumably made from the local pine. The round logs had been cut with notches at the corners and the town’s name had been carved into a sign that hung over the wide front stairs. The covered porch wrapped around the building, the only building. Where was the town?

Sophie’s eyes followed the shuffling mass of people, who appeared to be heading around the station house rather than into the building. Readjusting the handles of her carpet bag, Sophie followed. Though it seemed unlikely an entire city could be hidden by a single structure.

As she moved, Sophie checked each female face in view. Could she have forgotten the shape of her sister’s eyes or the pull of her mouth? Had it only taken a few months for Anika to become a stranger? None of the people in sight looked like Anika and certainly none stepped forward to greet her.

Around the back of the station house, was another platform that jutted out over the steep slope of a hill. From glimpses she caught between the trees, Sophie could see painted buildings at the base of the hill. She had not yet arrived in Dawn City. Hopefully the city would be more modern than the station house.

As she waited with the crowd, a heavy cable pulled a large basket to the edge of the platform. The metal wheel clinked to a stop and the man inside the basket called for people to load up after paying the required fee.

‘What is that?’ Sophie wondered, not realizing she had spoken until her neighbour answered.

‘The cable-basket,’ the older woman replied. ‘It ferries people between the town and the station. There are actually two. One will currently be loading people at the bottom, while this one loads them at the top. Then the cables will pull one up and the other down.’

‘How do they know when to move the baskets?’

‘The ferryman there,’ the woman said pointing a bent finger at the man collecting fees. ‘He rings a bell when everyone is loaded. There is a third man in the powerhouse operating the cables.’

Sophie swallowed. ‘Is that the only way down the mountain?’

‘You could always walk. I hear there is a narrow path that winds its way down, somewhere over there.’ The woman waved a dismissive hand back towards the station house. Sophie frowned and bit back her next comment. Instead she watched the full basket bob and bounce as it started its descent.

It was a slow process. Stuck in the middle of her basket, Sophie swayed and rocked with the constant movement. She bumped into the people around her, unable to keep her balance. While most were too dazed by their first ride in a cable-basket, several of those she assumed were townspeople scowled at her.

Welcome to Dawn City, Sophie thought glumly. The man standing with his arms crossed over his barrel chest nudged her away from him. They were more than halfway down the hill when the trees thinned and the city came into full view. Unfortunately, Sophie could see little past the tall shoulders of the other passengers.

In the small spaces that appeared between swaying people Sophie caught sight of buildings, streets and the glitter of light on water. What she did see was not evidence of a bustling city like Chesico, whose streets were paved with stone. Chesico’s downtown had buildings rising four and six stories tall. Dawn City looked small. It did not look any bigger as Sophie was pushed from the basket.

From the smaller platform, Sophie left the cable-basket and entered into Dawn City proper. People and wagons shuffled along packed dirt streets. Individuals with determined looks stood beside massive packs and crates. A year’s supply of rations piled together blocked the street to wagons. The raised boardwalks on either side were crowded with the better dressed and cleaner looking members of society. Men in dark trousers and white shirts watched carts of goods and people pass. Women in long skirts and wide-brimmed hats fanned themselves as they chatted with each other.

Timber buildings were painted in a myriad of different colours with garish trim around the windows and doors. False fronts made the buildings closer to the river appear taller and more imposing than the structures hidden behind.

Sophie walked in a bewildered daze through the streets. The press of bodies seemed to close in on her. It had looked so small from her position in the cable-basket. Yet walking from one full hotel to the next made the town feel expansive.

Her carpet bag grew heavy and banged awkwardly against her shins. The smell of bread and grilled meat wafted through the air causing her stomach to grumble loudly. How long had it been since she ate? Looking at the sun was of little help. The orange ball of light sat low on the horizon, a swollen orb that refused to surrender its place in the sky.

Fatigue and worry pulled at Sophie’s nerves. Her fingers played over the charms on her wrist. She needed help and rest; food and shelter. She turned down another smaller side street and spied the vibrant pink building. The fourth hotel Sophie had stopped at in search of a room had recommended the boarding house. She read the pealing orange letters painted on the side of the building: Patal’s Palace Lodgings.

Sophie rubbed the charm on her wrist as she climbed the wide front stairs towards the dark opening. She smiled at the miniature house nailed to the right of the front door. The carefully constructed replica of the boarding house shared the same garish paint job. It was also chipped and peeling. A nail had loosened and the miniature tilted on its perch just as the boarding house listed to the left.

The wide front door hung open. Inside the dim interior the front hall was painted golden yellow. The floor was scuffed green painted wood.

‘Hello,’ a young man said. Blue eyes sparkled curiously at her. ‘Are you new here?’

‘I hope so,’ Sophie replied licking dry lips. ‘Do you know where I can find the proprietor?’

‘I think Ms. Patal is in the kitchen,’ he waved his hand towards the back of the building, the charms dangling from his wrist jingled musically.

At the end of the narrow hall was the kitchen. Aromas of curried stew wafted out. Three young girls moved purposefully around the space from work counters to sink. The clatter of dishes and pots filled the air. Sophie salivated as leftover food was put away and dirty plates were cleaned for the night. At the centre of the dance was a tall woman dressed in bright pink and gold. Her long black hair fell in a single braid down her back. She wore a long sleeveless tunic over a split skirt.

P1040265‘Hello, hello,’ she sang spotting Sophie. ‘Welcome to Patal’s Palace.’

Dislodging herself from the kitchen, Ms. Patal flowed toward her. ‘A recently arrived adventurer? What has brought you to our magical land?’

‘I have come after my sister.”

Ms. Patal smiled. ‘Come to join your sister?’

‘To find my sister,’ Sophie amended.

‘So you will not be lodging with her.’

Sophie shook her head. ‘I … I don’t know if she is in town. I think she said she was working a gold-field–I mean a claim.’

‘Of course, of course. No doubt she will be here to greet you shortly. Until then you need a place to stay, yes? Well, let me think. I don’t know if I have any rooms left, summer is a very busy season for us…’

‘Where else can I go?’

‘There is no place like Patal’s Palace,’ the landlady sang. ‘I have just the thing. Follow me.’

Ms. Patal lead Sophie up three flights of stairs to a room stuffed in a small corner of the attic. The roof sloped. The bed creaked and sagged. The window was permanently shut in its orange frame. Atop the chest of drawers was a chipped ceramic washbasin and mismatched jug.

The landlady smiled as she gestured exuberantly at the room. ‘Meals are included: breakfast and dinner. The cost is paid by week.’ She looked expectantly at Sophie as she noted the price.

Sophie sputtered. ‘You want how much? For this miniscule space! I could easily get three times the space back in Chesico.’

Ms. Patal’s smile faded. ‘We are not in Chesico, now are we? If you don’t want the room, I am sure someone else does.’

‘No, no,’ Sophie hurried. She had already been turned away from several hotels. ‘I will pay.’

‘Don’t worry, I am sure we can fit the rest of your supplies somewhere,’ Ms. Patal said as she left.

‘I don’t have any other supplies,’ Sophie told the room. ‘And that is a good thing. I am glad Dawn City isn’t any bigger. I don’t think I could afford to stay here another week.’ She moved over to the window. ‘Don’t worry Anika, it shouldn’t take more than a day to find you. Then we can be on our way.’

Slipping out of her shoes, Sophie curled up on the bed. She let the fatigue of the journey pull her into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

Outside, the sun skimmed along the horizon. The sky dimmed but never fully darkened even Sophie drifted away in the realm of dreams.

The Coming of the Wurm

One key component to the Wurzelessern, in my understanding, is their anti-democractic stance. Reading through Derek’s descriptions, however, it has become quite clear to me that the Wurm’s beliefs are a little more complex than I initially thought. For the most part, much of the democratic structure and institutes have been left intact throughout the provinces. Even unsympathetic free members are able to maintain their freedom and property so long as they don’t interfere with the army’s goals and activities. What they focused on was simply the highest levels of the democracy. The same levels that are, perhaps not coincidentally, the ones that are the least democratic with their lifelong birthright appointments.

My inference from these notes is that the Wurzelessern aren’t so much a conquering force as they are a revolutionary one. It seems like they are at least presenting a war of ideals over material gain. While I have no insight into what the highest members of the order are planning, their actions give some hint into how the last few years beneath the Wurm’s rule may look.

This is important for my character since he is an avid supporter of the Wurzelessern. I have to reconcile an individual willing to fight and die for an organization that, on the surface, would appear to be promoting ideals that are against his own self-interests. No one would ever willingly give up freedoms previously granted unless there was some worthy trade.

Unless the Wurzelessern actions weren’t portrayed as against the interests of the common man. They still have their voice. They still have their representation. For all intents and purposes nothing has changed. Except they’re at war. Which technically means the Kaiser is all powerful so long as the war continues but surely no one expects that to last forever. Surely.

edgewood

Edge of a Wood by Jacques d’Arthois (1613-1686)

The Coming of the Wurm

The hall echoed with the garbled squawk of a dozen voices each shouting to be heard. Torches were light, bringing light to the room which appeared little more than a simple barn and hardly the grand meeting forum that it was. However, careful inspection of the rafters and supports would reveal age old jointing long fallen out of style to the experienced eyes of the natives. This was no simple home for cattle. There was a stoic pride in its construction though it might lack the fancy adornments and ornamentation of the Steinherz capital. But the men and women in that tight space were no artists. They were farmers, ranchers and survivors. Their pride wasn’t on such useless things like intricate woodwork and lavish painting. They looked upon the strength of a building and found beauty in a solid foundation, good walls and proper jointing.

Looking upon the hall, one would never think it the oldest building in the village. They would never imagine that for countless generations it had held so many families, gathering in times of change and need. It had seen untold troubles before and weathered them all. From the great plague of the walking dead that had shambled from the lost lands in the deep south, to skittering hordes of despicable roshome gathered beneath the snaking tongue of an ancient warlord as they poured from the roots of the Green Mountain. In a way, tonight’s meeting was just one in a long series of crises this hall had weathered. Nor glory decorated its walls and no celebrations were held within to sing its praises.

But it stood through it all. And through this it would stand as well.

The great staffed pounded against the front arch, beating the buzz of conversation to heel. Standing upon the raised front so all could see was an older woman. Her hair was thin and wispy, charcoal grey and dirty from a hard day’s toiling in the fields. Though age had worn against her skin, she still stood tall and erect. Growing old and feeble was a luxury for the cities and the folk of the misty hills had no time for it.

“Order!” she called, her staff thumping the last of the stubborn voices to silence. “Order, I say! The Wurzelessern army is reported in the Dusk Veld. Their intentions are unknown and the rumours in the fog are about as clear as the Stranger’s breath. We must decide if we will negotiate with this organization or defend against them.”

“This isn’t even up for debate!”

Elder Dykstra had barely finished speaking when the older man rose to his feet. Ewoud Rooiakkers commanded the attention of all gathered. While the small hamlet was hardly much more than a collection of farmers and a few small guild chapters, Ewoud Rooiakkers was the closest the village had to a mayor. More than once he had been sent to the Steinherz capital to represent the community’s interests on the Senate. A shrewd business sense and aggressive trading had made him quite wealthy by their standards. And many viewed him as the closest the hills had to an aristocrat.

He wore lavish furs over his woollen clothes. A short coat of fine linen dyed a deep crimson was carefully arranged over the finest shirt most of the farmers had ever seen. Fur boots practically shone in the torchlight and on his fingers were a pair of bright gold rings that complimented the silver necklace he wore around his neck. While most of those gathered looked like they had hurried immediately to the hall from either bed or field, Ewoud Rooiakkers looked just as prepared for a debate in the Forum of Law as he did for the simple community’s gathering.

He regarded Elder Dykstra coldly, directing his fury and disdain towards her even though she had yet to presented for either side. It was a trick to rally the people behind a threat even if that threat hadn’t been raised.

“These Wurms are nothing more than their name suggests. They are pests here to eat away at our lives and livelihood. Already the capital burns beneath their treachery. Our representatives and brothers burned when they set light to the Forum of Law and murdered in cold blood the heads of our glorious Republic!”

“That can’t be!” some voices cried out.

But Rooiakker held his naysayers beneath a harsh glare.

“The news came to me this morning, born on the wings of messengers far faster than the armies of these rebels. They are nothing but conquerors and villains. Mark my words, they shall take our fields and take our mines. They will press our boys into their ranks and they will see much blood is fed to our lands. But it will be the blood of our kin that is spilled. And it will be nothing but doom to us all. There is not but folly in their future and I will die before I see this glorious town side with these devourers!”

A few cheers erupted from sycophants and supporters. Much rumbling and whispering followed as his words were debated amongst the present members. Elder Dykstra clattered her staff for calm but before it could be re-established, accusations were already flung her way.

“Is this true?”

“Did you know of this?”

“We must gather our things and get away while we can!”

s_george

Saint George and the Dragon by Egid Quirin Asam (1721)

“I hear the Elfhorz are accepting refugees!”

“No!” Rooiakkers voice cut through. “We must defend these lands as we always have. We shall not abdicate our responsibilities. Dalmistig is a proud land. We are all brothers of these hills and mist. We shall not leave our kin behind to an uncertain fate. Only one course is clear for the land of the Maier. We shall defend our farmsteads and our homes. Let each shanty, each hole and each pit cost the Wurms dearly. They shall pay for their sins in the oldest currency of all: their blood!”

More joined in applause this time, even as others looked worriedly amongst themselves. But Elder Dykstra knew that the forum was quickly swaying to Ewoud’s words. She had seen it countless times before. And she worried the price the old man’s pride would cost the community itself.

But before she could speak, there was a disturbance at the door.

At first, she seemed to be the only one to notice the distraction. But slowly a few eyes turned to follow hers, the heads of the furthest turning at the noise. As more and more noticed their fellows grow silent, they sensed the change in the air and an awkward hush rolled through like an ominous fog.

For there, standing in the doorway, was a young man holding an older woman in his arms. He was a big lad, muscles honed from long hours pounding at the metal of Master Smit’s in the forge or carrying the heavy coal and iron the old man used in his work. And though there was a dullness in his eyes, a sort of slow, ponderous look as his mind tried to comprehend that which was so often seemingly beyond his grasp, most overlooked it because of the youth’s stunning features. He was quite a sight for the village. And it was clear where he had inherited his looks.

Leaning against his large frame was a slender woman. There was no denying her beauty. Many questioned if Femke was truly from Dalmistig. Many whispered that she carried not human blood in her veins. They heard the tales of the distant elves and of the Forhemia beauties said to enchant their victims with unearthly grace far too potent for any mortal man. But Dykstra had known her line. She had seen Femke’s family and the gift that Ika passed down to each in turn.

And even as the youth set her down on a chair, there was still a shred of that grace still present. She was clothed in a simple night gown. The white linen lay stained down the front where food and drink and spilled. Even in the dim light, there was a visible bulge about her waist where the family had to fashion some swaddling strips in a makeshift pouch. Her vacant eyes lingered on the flickering of a nearby torch, her mouth hanging slightly open as a drip of spittle fell from ruby lips.

But every now and then when she turned her head, there would be that soft glimmer of the woman that had once been. Though now all that tumbled from those lips was incomprehensible gibberish, there would be the old lilt to it that reminded Dykstra of the songs she used to sing. Her fingers picked aimlessly at odd holes in her gown when once they had carefully woven elegant garments of their own.

Smedje i Hornbæk, 1875

This one is apparently done by a Smedje Hornbaek, 1875.

Her son left her near a post so she could lean against it, even the process of staying upright seemingly a concept too easily abandoned by her mind.

The young man walked forward, an awkward silence greeting his arrival. He seemed unaware of it, but it always struck Dykstra any time the elder Van der Nevel was seen. Where once she lit the room with pleasant laughter and talk, she now heralded only silence and shamed looks. Few would dare linger in her direction. And all made a wide berth for her as if she carried some terrible disease.

But that silence was a powerful thing and it immediately slayed what exuberance Ewoud Rooiakker had stirred.

“You speak of price and sin, Lord Rooiakker, but do you know that price?”

A few gaped at the youth’s boldness. Here was young Kaas Van der Nevel, Master Smit’s quiet apprentice standing in the middle of a forum directly across for the most intimidating speaker Dykstra had ever seen. But perhaps it was the youth’s dimness that made him ignorant of his position and actions.

Ewoud Rooiakker cleared his throat.

“I dare say I understand more than you, boy. I have sat at the seat of the greatest gathering in this land. I have greeted dignitaries from the united monarchies. I have weighed decisions that would determine the outcome of many lives and held the balance of a cities in discourse. What would you know of conflict and war? You who has barely seen the tops of the hills yet never left the safety of the mist?! You can scarcely recall the price of your master’s own sword!”

There were a few chuckles, but less Ewoud would hope. Dykstra wanted to move to the youth’s side and to gently lead him away. This was not the place nor the time for whatever he had in his mind. But there was a certain look in his eyes she had rarely seen. There was a light that had once belonged to his mother that flared dangerously. She could see the youth’s hands clench.

“I know not the world as you do, my lord,” the youth said slowly with his misplaced title. “But I am all too familiar with sin. I need not make my own to see the harm it causes.”

“I don’t like your tone or insinuations, child! Be careful, least you forget who helped your precious master pay to get his forge started.”

“I have not forgotten,” Kaas said, his tone steelier than anything that had come from the fires. “Nor have I forgotten your choice to stand with the adjudicators. Or how you stood watch as they took what they wanted from my mother.”

And a deathly hush fell over the crowd. Rooiakker’s mouth gaped like a caught fish as he searched for the words to say. He knew the dangers of the ground he tread and was too aware of the eyes looking over at the drooling Femke. She had seemingly grown tired of her gown and had attempted to extract it ungainly from her body, managing somehow to remove her left arm but catching her head in the sleeve until the garment hung half over her as she struggled furtively.

The boy seemed to take Ewoud’s silence as a sign of defeat. He stepped forward, suddenly his bulk making the great representative seem much smaller. But it wasn’t Rooiakker who the junior Van der Nevel sought to address.

Turning to the crowd he gauged them all in his turn.

“Who was it that raised their voices in defence of us when the reclaimers came to hold their trial? Not the clergy, who turned mute against the charges. She was called a heretic and a witch. They claimed her a necromancer and not a word claimed otherwise. She was dragged before the representatives of Ika. They held up her pendant as definitive proof of her sins. A pendant which you, yourself Elder Dykstra, had said was not but a simple heirloom!”

And he raised an accusing finger at her which she could not defend. She simply held Rooiakker’s silence, feeling the shame and guilt burn her face.

“We live beneath a tyranny. One that Lord Rooiakker would say is freedom. But what freedom had we when they cursed my mother all in the name of Ika’s will? But that curse did not pass to me, Lord Rooiakker. I know it was not this community which voted to let them carry out their punishment against their own. Behind closed doors you elders convened and decided a fate we had no say in. Condemning a friend and a mother to a life of suffering and humiliation!

“And the Senate has done the same for as long as we have belonged to the Republic. Where is our voice in the forum? The Union and the Council must grovel before those rich lords who gain their seat by birthright alone. They must pay tithes and deeds to see their own decisions democratically passed come to form. This freedom is as elusive as the tribal Anspeals but costs all of us daily in sweat and blood. We toil in the dirt and mud so you Senators can live in your manors and fine furs. You speak of a price for sin, so what does your cost?”

It was too eloquent and too convincing. While Elder Dykstra’s heart was swaying her mind could feel something off about the boy. These couldn’t be his words. Not for someone who struggled to remember his simple arithmetic any time he carried out a purchase for his master. But while what he spoke she had heard all to similarly from Wurzelessern mouths, the passion was his alone.

“We live under strange laws and strangers’ demands. The Senators born into their roles far outnumber those we send from our farmsteads. Our own Elders hold their decisions amongst themselves, committing not those of good intention but those who can fill the most pockets. All the while some foreign Goddess dictates to us damning laws without a care for the living. Her sole concern is the dead and the rest be damned. She taxes us even more blatantly than the Senators, demanding our souls in exchange for protection from an enemy we had long defeated.

“You say the Wurms are here to destroy and that they are. They’re here to burn not just the weeds choking our crops but the thieves that would steal them in the night. Our governance is corrupted and there is only one way to eliminate impurities from good iron and that is through brute application of heat and fire. The pure have nothing to fear from the Wurms. It is those whose hearts are heavy with sin that would try and condemn others upon a true noble sword. And I see only one heart here calling for us to die in the name of men who have done nothing but abuse us. I say we see what the Wurms judgement is free from the greed of the Senate and the hunger of Ika.”

Silence followed his proclamation and only then did he seem to remember his mother. He turned, discovering her lying upon the ground in a tangle of her own clothes. He hurried to her side, helping her erect and fighting her resisting fingers to get her clothes back on. When last he had finished, he looked up, seeming to remind himself that he was in the middle of a debate.

But for once Rooiakker had nothing to say. He seemed to turn to Dykstra, the soft pleading look of a desperate man turning to a co-conspirator. But it was clear a change was on the horizon. A change that Dykstra had often quietly prayed for every year. It finally seemed time for Dykstra to say her piece.

“The words of young Van der Nevel are true. We had decided to bow before the Ikan’s wishes and it was their desire to make a demonstration to our community that disobedience of their laws would not be tolerated. Justice was forgotten beneath the priests’ offer. Co-operation would see their influence lightened upon our village but, more importantly, Rooiakker would be granted prime trade of our region with the cathedral in Nebeland. For our part, we would all be eased of our guilt through the success of the land, as Ewoud called it.”

“What are you saying?!” Ewoud cried.

“I have not slept easy since condemning a friend for your greed, Ewoud. And I shall not forgive myself for waiting for young Van der Nevel’s words to stir me from my silence. I shall submit myself to the judgement of these Wurms for my part in this travesty. I can only hope that my soul finds forgiveness from Femke when at last she joins me in Ika’s arms.”

“This… this is madness!” Ewoud cried. “Do you not see, you invite danger and death into your homes!”

“We have laid beside treachery for too long,” Dykstra said. “My seeds are planted, Ewoud and I shall reap my harvest. My only prayer is that the younger of us can learn from our mistakes. I suggest you make your peace or prepare your waggon.”

The elder Rooiakker looked about the assembly. But he did not see the support he had once drummed. Many looked confused upon the discourse, clearly not understanding exactly what had transpired. But there were others who looked upon Ewoud Rooiakker not with admiration but suspicion. They were the dangerous ones. And they were the majority. Enough time in the Senate had taught Ewoud the dangers of such a force. And perhaps it was the gentle hand of Ika which had him last set eyes upon poor Femke Van der Nevel, held coddled in her son’s arms. An unnatural role reversal played long before proper time right in front of his eyes. The Ikans believed in elimination of threats through magics of debilitating efficiency. But the Wurms believed only in death.

In that moment, it was clear Ewoud Rooiakker wasn’t sure which he feared most.

He stumbled from the hall, running into the night as the roar of the crowd began to find its voice once more. The community hadn’t reached consensus yet, but with the flight of the merchant it would finally reach it of its own accord.

And Elder Dykstra knew she would not see the man in the morning. She took a seat, letting the butcher stand to present his thoughts. She finally felt her age, her bones releasing a tension she barely knew she carried. Her work wasn’t finished tonight and she knew she would have to spend the rest of it getting her things in order. It was uncertain when the Wurms would arrive but their coming seemed inevitable now. And she suspected that she wouldn’t live to see the outcome of this council’s decision. Her only hope was that it would be the right one.

Cry of the Glasya Part 8

< Return to Cry of the Glasya Part 7

We’re at the final stretch team! It’s been a long journey, but hopefully worth it. Sadly, this means I’m going to have to create some original content in the future so my easy street ride is done. But at least you won’t have to put up with these silly pieces for awhile.

On to the show!

Glasya-Labolas

I’m reusing the image from the first Cry of the Glasya post. It’s poetry in motion or something.

“Are you sure you don’t need something else?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Head of a chicken? Beating heart of a girl.”

Keirn gave Derrek a withering look.

“Shut up and pass me the chime.”

The bones rattled against each other as Keirn held the object awkwardly in his hands. It was strange – this morbid talisman seemed to be channeling quite a lot of arcane energy lately. Keirn puzzled briefly his sister’s intentions in making it but then realized that he probably didn’t want to know her reasons. Sometimes people did things that were best left unexplained.

The seal had been formed from melting what wax they could scavenge from the packs of their colleagues. They were short on the supplies that Keirn needed for his original ritual. He wasn’t sure how necessary they were. So much of this process was as much a mystery to himself as it was to Derrek.

He held the chime aloft, letting the femurs, skulls, knuckles and whatever else stitched together to rattle emptily in his hands.

As Keirn began began the binding, Derrek shuffled over to a bunk and watched. Both men had cleared a large space upon the floor, pushing beds together and lifting trunks to the corners. Keirn then set about drawing the intricate symbol on the floor, his hands tracing the lines that his mind had forgotten. To the sorcerer, the symbols were meaningless. Possibly some ancient iconography that had been lost long before any age of remembrance. Derrek made no comment on them, quite unlike the bard who was very forward with sharing what random useless bit of trivia he knew.

And given the work Keirn had to go through to discover the seal, he would not have been surprised to discover he was the only one who knew how to draw it.

With the seal complete, Keirn clattered the chime a couple of times before breaking different bones off and setting them at cardinal points around the seal. He placed them in smaller circles drawn in the perimeter, as if the symbol had been created with the full purpose of having additional items placed within.

With the last of the preparations completed, Keirn retrieved a long knife and took his place in the centre of the seal.

“You ready for this?”

Derrek merely nodded.

Keirn took a slow breath then drew the blade viciously across his palm.

Blood pattered along the seal and dripped against the thick wax. It almost sounded like it sizzled when it struck the floor and Keirn couldn’t help but feel a familiar rise in temperature as he worked. He clenched a fist, holding his hand over the centre and squeezing a small trickle of blood upon the most prominent symbol.

During the whole process he whispered that strange incantation he had committed to rote. His words were softer than a strangled whisper. It didn’t matter how loud he was, where Keirn was trying to call was a place that wouldn’t be reached through sheer volume alone. Veracity was the key, and Keirn steeled his heart in anticipation.

The stubs of candles ringing the seal fluttered as if a massive, invisible form rushed past them. The shadows along the walls stretched and twisted as if in eternal agony. As Keirn drew close to the conclusion of his chant, darkness welled up from the furthest corners of the room like an approaching fog.

The candles sputtered again and in the growing gloom Keirn could almost see a massive form shifting in the darkness. Derrek just watched in fascination as the room darkened and swallowed him up in the emptiness.

With the last whispered syllable a ferocious rumble bounded about the walls. From the floor burst thirty six twisted and cracked spikes, ringing the seal and pinning Keirn within. Those spears formed a barrier just as much to keep Keirn within as to hold the braying beasts in the darkness out.

The metal shook and and vibrating as the circling predators tested the boundary. Keirn watched with wary eyes as darkened fangs and claws seem to scrap against the cold metal. But the spears held, though they rattled fiercely.

Further cracking drew the sorcerer’s attention to the floor. The ground swelled and burst, splitting in large sections as piles of bones were belched from the ground beneath. They jutted up in rising piles around the sorcerer, feet and hands tumbling and clattering down the piles. Where Keirn’s blood had spilled before him rose the greatest pile of skulls, an otherworldly wind echoing from their empty mouths and eyes in an unnatural groan.

With the last pile formed, a loud flutter filled the air above Keirn. From the gloom descended a ragged and bloodied eagle. Its twisted talons settled immediately on the skull pile as the bird limped upon its roost. It hopped briefly about, as if its bleeding and twisted legs were pained with its landing. Dark eyes inspected the corpses strewn around as if it expected to find some twisted carcass to scavenge. Having found nought but bone, it turned unimpressed to the sorcerer. It cocked its head before opening its beak and emitting an ear piercing wail that sounded far too similar to a woman’s last dying scream.

“It’s been awhile… demon.”

The shadows shook at his utterance, the spears rattling all around as if the force stalking the darkness was testing each chain simultaneously. The wind howled and the bones clattered and clapped against each other. The eagle merely blinked.

“You know why I have called you. I demand you release your current charge.”

The eagle ruffled its feathers, shaking its head before opening its beak once more. This time, a heavy man’s voice cried out in terrifying agony and pain.

“You know why,” Keirn replied calmly. “If you have any desire to breath this world once more you’d do well to obey.”

The bird called and a young man screamed in sorrow.

“When was the last time you drank from this place? How long was it that I last called you? You think just because you have a new binder that your freedom is assured? We both know that she can not contain you and you will burn through her in no time. She will die if you insist on enslaving her.”

The bird cried and an elderly voice croaked from within.

“I have given you plenty. And I will give you far more than that pitiful feast you have out there. Know that if you don’t obey, I will end her. And with her dies the last knowledge of your bindings. And if I have to raise my blade, I vow with my dying breath I will never contact you again. You can rot in your emptiness for another eternity with only the faintest memories of your bloodshed to drive you further mad.”

The bird glowered upon the skulls.

“I have given you a Countess, Viscount and Princess. You know that where I go death falls in my wake. You can engorge yourself now and vanish from the minds of every living thing again. Or you can leave her and know that even greater sacrifices shall be made in your name. But I won’t debate with you anymore, monster. I’ve retraced those ancient steps and recalled the first pact we made. Know I won’t bend to your will anymore but you will bend to mine!”

The bird cried out in a blood curdling scream as it took to its great wings. In a fluttered of darkened and black, oily feathers, it vanished into the dark and the fog.

“Then let the contract be sealed.”

Keirn took the knife gingerly in his wounded hand. He wrapped his fingers around the blade and cut deep into his other palm. The heat was almost scorching as he squeezed the drops on the gaping skulls beneath him. The blood pattered against cracked and bleached teeth, bubbling immediately as it hit the bone.

From the stone burst great rusted chains. They shot up, wrapping tightly about his wrists and forearms. Keirn could feel the metal scratch and dig into his flesh as they wound and bound his arms together.

But he resisted.

With an agonizing scream he pulled and twisted, wrenching the chains apart. The metal clattered and groaned, trying in vain to assert its dominance. But fire fueled Keirn’s veins and he pulled against their strength. The coarse metal dug deep into his skin, tasting blood again. But the more they struggled, the further Keirn separated his limbs. At last, the metal burst in a great clatter of iron as links smashed into the ground and tore through the scattered bones.

Then, just as loud as they came, the bones scuttled back into the earth. The spears retreated after them and the darkness lifted. Only the sounds of massive retreating paws echoed back to the two men still practically naked in the middle of the room.

Keirn followed Derrek’s gaze towards his arms. A rash of metal links stained his flesh where they had wrapped and the skin itself was raised and bumped as if the iron had been buried just beneath his skin. Conscious of the physical marks, Keirn hurried over to his pack and quickly pulled out a tunic to unroll over his arms.

“It’s done then?” Derrek asked.

“Felicia should be fine,” Keirn said.

At the mention of her name, Keirn felt an echoed whisper just on the edge of his hearing. But that trembled voice was easy to ignore.

“How much did you see?”

“I don’t understand a log in the Urðr Well, man,” Derrek shrugged. “But if you say it’s done then it is done.”

Keirn paused before the door, remembering the sound of frenzied hands pounding against it earlier. Slowly he inched it open, looking up and down the hall. There was no sign of bloodthirsty guests or rotting bodies and Keirn wondered how bad things really were and what was all part of Derrek’s complicated illusions.

Keirn waved for the bard to follow and the two cautiously started towards the hall.

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think Felicia knew what she was doing.”

“Doesn’t bother me.”

“No, I mean that I don’t think she knows how to do the binding. I think someone set her up – built the seal and inserted the chant within her song without her knowing.”

“Women just ruin everything, eh? The aria itself isn’t half bad when done by an actual professional.”

Keirn stopped, looking gravely at his friend.

“This means that someone learned how to do this and they probably learned it from me. Much like you recongized the ritual from following me at the Academy. And even though Felicia will have no idea how to do it again, whoever is behind this can always trick another. I think we were lucky this time that bards have some arcane understanding. The next time could be much worse.”

“So someone has been following us on our adventures and learned it when you did a binding before?”

Keirn nodded.

“Someone has an unnatural interest in us. Maybe we should be more careful from now on.”

“That’s unlikely to happen.”

They started again down the still hall.

“So if they learned it from watching you, how often have you been doing this?”

“How long have you been sleeping with Felicia?”

Both men looked accusingly at each other.

Derrek shrugged again.

“Forget I asked.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Return to the Short Story hub