You can get a full copy of the entire novel pdf at:
http://www.solarsendit.net/dd528N6NT4AStE38
or a doc version
http://www.solarsendit.net/dy3mT1w6Qw1NYRBf
Karde was wet with sweat from a hard day’s labor as he trod
down Miller’s road to Miram. He was the only man of his crew to take the
northern way to go home. The rest lived
in the quiet comfort of Wheeling to the southwest, a village of tiny cottages,
a single pub, and a blacksmith who spent equal time playing fiddle for spare
coin. Karde, however, was not plied by
such uncomplicated comforts. Despite
harsh words from his peers about the heartlessness of it, he was loyal to the
urban life.
Karde was pretty
average amongst those with whom he worked, not exceptionally tall, with an
average build and a tiny bit of a gut he’d developed over the course of his weekly
visits to the public house on Sab’nday.
While few would have called him handsome, he had an exotic nature that
drew the interest of inquisitive barmaids who often made a game of guessing his
heritage.
His face was the
product of mixed lineages, which made it difficult to place him into a specific
culture. He had the chiseled chin of his
Verdani grandfather, but the chin scruff of his Delian ancestors. Part of him was sad he could never grow what
his barmates called a
pwapa fische beard,
but he never let it show. One of his
traits did stand out, but in the way that a carbuncle sticks out on a sore
foot. His eyes were bright and blue, a
feature usually found in the lower classes – Karde had no idea of which
relative he could thank or curse for such a distinctively low trait.
On a payday,
however, Karde’s thoughts were far from thinking about himself – at least not
directly. His biggest concerns were his
full pouch, the warm ale that awaited him at Porder’s Pub, and the loud blisters
on his feet. It was hard to ignore the
hard ground when his soles shouted the agony of every step. Such was the fate of the humble pedestrian.
The path ahead was
paved in the carved stone tiles that were his namesake – why Karde? He wasn’t sure – he’d never even thought of
asking as a child. As with many commonly
used words that were folded into the common tongue, a hodgepodge hybrid of
Delian and Verdani, there was likely some older meaning behind his name that
his kin had lost over time.
Many called the road
he trod upon “Mill-Karden” for the simple reason that it was one of the few
paved roads east of the mills. And while
his namesake stones might be great for cart travel, they wore on his tired feet
quickly, convincing him to stray off his normal route to follow a sole-friendly
riverside trail. He would miss the
chit-chat of the
Vagonners
as they passed, but his sore feet would thank him later.
As the ground
shifted to the soft silt of the riverbanks, his weary toes begged for a dip in
the cool, beckoning water only a few strides away. Despite such temptation, he kept his focus on
the path ahead - especially since he’d just been paid his weekly wage - twelve
silver coins, thirty and a ninepence as a bonus. He certainly didn’t want to risk a chance
encounter by carelessly traveling with such a loud heavy purse. For the next hour, though, his feet were torn
between the expedience of the warm earthen path and the promised comforts of
the lazy river that dangled its relaxing prize just in of reach.
Unlike the Mill-Karden, the riverside trails were
seldom patrolled by the Miram guard, especially so far from the gates
proper. This realization made Karde pick
up his pace as he headed for South Wall village. Bandits had been pretty scarce, but it felt
like tempting fate to linger amidst such succoring snares.
The men that
watched Karde from the shadows of a shore-side shack were aware of the mill
workers’ recent paydays, and they saw his lone figure as easy prey - especially
since he didn’t have a blade at his side.
Karde felt an encroaching foreboding of trouble as he neared
the derelict structure, but he hadn’t yet spotted the source of a threat. He’d learned to rely on his instincts as they
were accurate more often than not – but without clarity and direction, he could
only prepare for the worst.
Unsure of
whether he should move on or flee, he stopped for a moment at the river’s
edge. He picked up some pebbles and
began to skip them on the surface of the slowly churning water, partly to
unleash some of his anxiety, but also to sort out a potential weapon if needed. He discovered a couple of large stones, one
nearing fist-sized, and planted them tightly in his palm. Suddenly realizing that he was indeed being
watched, he angled his path back towards the paved road - but he knew it was
well out of earshot, much less eyeshot from where he stood.
His pursuers made
little effort to mask their motions. Two
circled from behind the shack and the other two headed directly at him. Karde’s muscles still ached from a long day
of labor and there was little chance of outrunning the fresh legs of his
antagonists.
“Oy! You there with
the janglin’ pocket!” the tallest of the lot began, “Set down some of yer
burden and I might be convinced not to slice yer gullet!”
To the man’s left, an unsteady bandit tried leveling a
crossbow in Karde’s direction.
The men from the back flanked him and drew their blades –
ready to block his chance for flight.
“Certainly such genteel men such as yourselves need nothing
from a hapless peasant such as I?” Karde rebutted playfully, trying to keep the
tone light.
The tall man smiled, revealing a mouth devoid of teeth, save
a single gold-plated monstrosity dangling precariously from his otherwise
barren gums.
“We’ve been taught proper to never discrin-imate,” he
slurred coldly.
While his smile may have seemed at least marginally genial,
his icy stare carried the desperation of a man willing to kill for absolutely no
reason at all.
“No need to…” Karde began, reaching towards the strap on his
pouch.
“One thing drops right now!” the obvious leader bellowed,
sensing potential shinnanigans.
Jabbing in his direction with an excessively threatening
gesture of his hand the leader added, “Either yer pouch, or you!”
The theatrics were designed to distract Karde’s attention
while the two flanking men rushed him.
Karde, however, recognized the tactic and he swiveled on his
feet to respond. He hurled two stones in
rapid succession – somewhat surprised by the audible “crack” that accompanied
each as they flew from his hands like the bullets of a sling.
The first struck the
sword hand of the man on his left. The
antagonist dropped his blade as if it had been a stinging viper. He stopped dead in his tracks from the sudden
sharp agony – and blood trailed down his shattered wrist from twin cuts that resembled
the bite of an asp.
The second stone flew a low arc - a
trajectory that perfectly invaded a gap in the leggings of the man to his
right. The hapless fellow crumpled like
a sack of wet flour, clutching his groin as his sword fell forgotten and out of
sight.
“My Dinklage!” he shrieked in a surprisingly high-pitched
voice.
By the time that anyone could respond to his unexpected
assault, Karde had rolled towards the one clutching his bloodied hand and
retrieved his foe’s blade.
Letting instinct
guide his motions, Karde sidestepped a few inches and watched as the
crossbowman’s quarrel missed him by less than a span of a hand. The errant projectile sank into the neck of
the unsuspecting burglar behind him, shifting the robber’s attention from his
would-be target to the wooden shaft jutting from his neck.
Driven by a force he
merely trusted, but really didn’t understand, Karde hurled the blade he had
seized towards the fearful sniper. The
addled archer was trying desperately to bend over and reload, but the
unexpected force of a blade-hilt against forehead snapped his head backwards
and dropped him forcefully to the ground in an unconscious heap.
Only the leader
remained, his smile still intact, but his bottom lip quivering nervously.
Noticing that he was still armed, and his opponent didn’t
even have a rock, the bandit suddenly puffed up with renewed bravado. An insane glint sparkled in the cutthroat’s
eye as he charged Karde with his menacingly extended blade. His grin grew manically wider as he drew
ever-closer.
Karde’s focus was not upon the foe who faced him, but
instead upon a broken tile between them – a single errant karde that should
never have been here. He would have
mused at the commonality between the lost stone and himself, but he was under
threat. He used an acrobatic roll to snatch
it and using the inertia of his movement flung the projectile with the force of
a punch. Once again, to his amazement,
the air snapped like a whip as he released the stone.
The karde traced a
path directly for his enemy’s wide left eye, but was deflected slightly by a
seemingly lucky positioning of his foe’s blade.
However, as the stone found its new mark, a sudden crack and an
agonizing yelp echoed in the air. The
tile had struck the would-be robber in his only tooth, ripping it from its
roots and cracking his upper jaw. Blood poured
from the horrible wound like water from a fountain.
The leader tried to
spray a curse over his bloody lips but the words became an unintelligible bark.
Realizing his effort was lost, the bloodied antagonist retreated
for cover in the distance while his former companions suffered on the
earth. Karde left them alone, only
stopping once to pick up a gold tooth from the ground as he left the scene.
“No matter how hard
I try… blood always finds me…” Karde
mused, spinning one of his father’s curses with an optimistic finish, “… at
least this time it paid in gold.”
He wondered
momentarily on the strange fortune that befell him as he replayed the attack in
his mind. Sure, he was good with darts,
but his aim with the stones had been uncanny.
It felt as if the projectiles had been following his will, rather than
his hand or eye.
And the sword - no
matter how many ways he tried to rationalize his amazing precision, Karde found
himself utterly puzzled as of the how behind it. He was downright horrible with the throwing
axe, and his swordsmanship was the laughing stock of even novice trainers. With no logical explanation, he could only
chalk up the victory to blind luck.
While he was still
shaken over the sudden attack, he felt a sudden optimism. He hoped that the trend would last.
Karde pocketed the fallen tooth and returned to the path for
South Wall whistling a jaunty tune.
The sun was still not yet abed as he came within sight of
his beloved home. The reassuring image
allowed him to shed his worry like a basket snake’s unwanted skin.
South Wall was, to
pretty much every peace loving soul from the nearby countryside, a jarring
spectacle. Its haphazard array of
shacks, tents, and impromptu merchants – some hawking wares from wagons, others
from oversized jackets – was a sudden (and often unwelcome) break from the
relative calm and order of the pastoral lands nearby.
The upper tier of
Miram called it an eyesore. The guards
called it a bloody nuisance. Most
everyone else called it a shit hole.
In some sense, the
latter description was more accurate than anyone wanted to admit. With the lack of covered sewers or persons
dedicated to full-time cleaning, the few public cesspits for what could only
partly be called a village reeked constantly, and were always one severe
rainstorm from overflowing.
With its constant
motion and growth, some, like Karde, saw South Wall as a living entity - though
even amidst that number, most saw it as a stubborn tick clunging remorselessly
to Miram but refusing to die.
Certainly, no sane person could look at the village with
anything resembling fondness.
Karde was no sane
person, however, and felt a sense of relief and happiness when he saw the
familiar gritty cloud that rested lazily over his home village. Miram’s southern wall effectively shielded
the community from the few breezes that might have carried away the sooty mass,
leaving the place perpetually shrouded in a murky haze that smelled of roasted
meat, smelted metal and human waste.
Most of the residents
of the makeshift village would have been glad for some time in the clean
country air, but Karde was not one of them.
He looked forward to his return to what he called “an air you can sink
your teeth into.”
If nothing else,
South Wall had a palpable atmosphere. As
the melting pot of a dozen cultures, the place was steeped in a variety of
colors, scents, sounds and textures that kept the streets abuzz with activity
even into the wee bells of morning.
Karde grinned
broadly as he made his way from the guard-patrolled South Road to the “watched”
South Wall Road – snared by South Wall “proper” like a fish in a net. He was immediately beset by half a dozen
hawkers trying to steer his attention to their various trinkets and hand
crafts. He usually dismissed them
without a second glance, but a familiar item in the hands of a Verdani merchant
caught his eye.
It was an
Eagle-crested pendant, much like the one his father had worn. Given the rarity of such an item, Karde
couldn’t ignore it.
“You there!” he
said, a little too anxiously, but the merchant seemed not to notice, “That
talisman… broach… thing… where did you get it from?”
“A family heirloom,
passed down through many generations,” she said, with the slightly lilting
accent of a native of the Green Lands.
Karde knew that the
eagle pendant was assigned to ranking soldiers of the Novus Order – a group
unique to the kingdom of Del, which lay several treacherous months of ocean
travel away. The order was also less
than twenty years old – making her story impossible by the most casual
reckoning – yet her eyes seemed as sincere as any he’d ever known – a fiery
amber tone with piercing pupils that dared him to question their claims. Such a contradiction was something he could
not pass by without explanation.
“Could we barter
privately?” he asked slyly, jingling his pouch to make it seem as full as
possible.
“I hold no blanket other than the grass,” she retorted - the
Verdani colloquialism for homelessness – even though her eyes doubted the claim,
he let her keep it nonetheless. There
were greater truths to be discovered.
“I have a dwelling in the Bricks District,” Karde said,
pointing towards the eastern portion of the wall. He’d let his eyes linger a bit too long on
her hips and she responded as if insulted.
She glared at him suspiciously and pulled her robes over her
form with sudden modesty.
“I’ve no trade for plowshares!” she snapped a little too
knowingly.
“I’ve no interest beyond… a fair… and private trade…” Karde
said softly, stumbling over the Verdani adage, and finishing cleanly “…not an
interest in your fair end’s private trade.”
The woman instantly
relaxed at his knowledge of her culture.
“I will follow, then.
But I expect barleycorn for my barely corns,” she chuckled – asking in
her people’s way for a drink in exchange for her time.
Seeing the woman in tow, the remainder of the nearby hawkers
returned to better opportunities – trailing a keenly-dressed demi-noble who had
wandered into the area out of curiosity.
Karde took a place by the woman’s side and scanned her
casually. She was certainly younger than
he’d originally guessed, though certainly not a child. Her peasant robes were more common to the older
people of her clans. Had she been
dressed like her peers, she’d have been wearing a brightly dyed tunic and skirt
with dark, usually green, leggings.
Karde thought most
Verdani youths looked like garish flowers (which was likely the point), but he
was glad for the girl’s alternate choice.
It meant she was likely to be more grounded and practical.
Such an observation
was important, because he’d never met young women as fickle as the daughters of
the green lands – their reckless passion made them fantastic lovers - but unfaithful
and treacherous wives. Who knew what
else that such fickle hearts were capable of?
He chuckled to
himself for thinking about such nonsense as he scanned the girl more closely. The looseness of her robes and gauntness of
her cheeks told him she was uncharacteristically slender for her people. And the way her left hand hovered near a bulge
at her hip told him she had a small weapon tucked into the folds of her
robes.
He was about to see if he could make out more of the face
that framed her intense amber eyes when his attention was derailed by a tug at
his waist. It was a scruffy looking
child about half his height with wide round eyes and a form draped in dusty
sackcloth. His skin was surprisingly
pale underneath the grime. It was
unusual to see a person of even mixed Aulden stock in this region, much less
amongst the poorest of the poor. He
should be in some court supping on roast pheasant or playing on manicured
lawns.
“Soffer a pents,” he
begged in an accent that was clearly of the lowest caste.
“I’m sorry lad,” Karde said in an apologetic voice, “I’ve
not but ninepence to last the week.”
He winked at the woman who stood beside him.
The child’s head drooped as it probably had at least a
hundred times before.
Karde spoke suddenly in mock surprise, “Why, lad… what’s
this? Why are you asking me for money
when I see a coin resting atop your dome as clear as the one over Miramsgate?”
He swooped his hand over the child’s pate, tussled his
matted hair, and pulled back a copper coin.
He then handed the coin to the child who smiled like a
beacon. The boy’s snaggle-toothed grin
was infectious and Karde followed suit.
“Thankye!” muttered the child as he rushed to a nearby
purveyor of toasted breads and rat-soup.
“That was a strange
kindness,” the woman said in a voice softer than any she had used before.
If the saying meant
anything in Verdani culture, it was well-beyond Karde’s comprehension.
As he wended his way
down the street, he felt a little self-conscious about what his companion had
said. He’d been able to decipher her
words before… what had she meant? The
distracting question made him look at everything around him with more clarity.
In his mind, he’d
built up South Wall to be something rugged and unique, which it was, but
clearly not in the way he’d seen it in his head. In that realm of nostalgia and memory, it
still had the innocence of its early days.
Sure, its origins were steeped in squalor, but since its birth, South
Wall had grown to acquire the seedier elements of lower-class neighborhoods
everywhere.
Theft often took
place openly in the street. Women’s virtues
were not held with respect. And beneath
the patina of grime, Karde had noticed the pale skin of his charity child was
covered in bruises. Why hadn’t he even
thought about it until now?
He tried to
rationalize his oversights through the lens of the people around him. With everyone so fervently struggling to
survive, perhaps they just didn’t have time to commit towards community. He had no family here, only strangers – short
the few familiar acquaintances. No
wonder the people of his beloved village were so easily downtrodden. No wonder he found it so easy to pass off a
starving abused child with a scant coin.
These realizations
chilled the mirth that he’d clung to so desperately. He was trying to laugh through something that
was tainted with darkness – and trying to allay his guilt the cheapest way
possible. His single coin was indeed a
strange act of charity – more done to make him feel better than actually help
the suffering child.
His blindsided conscience suddenly entertained a host of dangerous
ideas – but he wasn’t sure where he could let them reside.
Surely, I’m not the cause of all the depravity and desperation that I
see around me, but… do I truly do or say anything in the defense of my
community?
This sudden guilt
weighed heavily on his weary feet – and he felt as if he’d been forced to
accept a harsh and heavy burden that he’d clouded from himself with nostalgia
and false humor.
He didn’t like the
lenses that his companion had handed him, but he knew that he would have to
bear them nonetheless. Yes, the world
suddenly seemed less wonderful than it had – and in truth, it seemed pretty
grim – but his new eyes allowed him to assess what had to be done.
Karde struggled in
his head with a number of piecemeal efforts that he could make to help, but his
heavy conscience could not be deflected so easily. Even he could see that half measures would
not work.
I’m going to have to stop this horrible thing. And the solution isn’t here on the
street. It’s up there, in that
unassailable white fortress.
He stopped, dead on
his feet, at the implications of what that meant.
He was not only
going to have to face down the laws of the last twenty years, but also the
powers and king that had put them there.
The task seemed too overwhelming for the moment. Motionless clarity gave him the opportunity
to take another hard look at things as they truly were, desperate for some
lifeline from the immensity of the task ahead.
The diversity of his
village home was a gift beyond measuring - to be sure - but suffering was too
common. Even the healthy and well-to-do
people of his makeshift community were at risk of losing everything at a
moment’s notice. The king’s watch had
already proven with a single edict that entire boroughs could be taken down
overnight. He couldn’t cling to cultures
for succor – nor could his kin.
With no surety of
the future, everyone was put under stress, and it showed in their averted gazes
and defeated stances. Most of them had
given up hope on anything better, and worse still, had forgotten how to trust
their neighbors – something that Karde suddenly missed from his childhood
days. How could things have changed so
quickly?
Even he knew that
things hadn’t instantly transformed into the bleak existence that drifted
around him. The erosion of hope was
something done slowly, lest someone might have raised their hand against
it. The posting of a single city guard
within their village was seen as the king looking after his interests. But now, as he surveyed the village, the
watch was everywhere. The change had
crept in gradually, like the workings of a master thief – only the fact that
Karde had been suddenly awakened allowed him to catch the rogue in the
act. He renewed his vow to do something
before it was too late.
He mused that a
watch presence didn’t have to be a bad thing.
If such men were incorruptible, perhaps the people might have felt safer
– and more importantly actually been safer.
But these people who had been trusted with the safeguarding of the
populace let their personal greed get in the way of their duty to king (and
more importantly) the citizenry who funded their wages. The best of them was taking bribes from at
least a half-dozen interests, just to make sure they could afford to bribe yet
another official so they could keep their crooked posts. The worst were so mired in the corruption
that they had an interest in every crime on their block.
When the guard
wasn’t turning a blind eye to theft and abuse, they were participating in
it. Just up the road, several uniformed
men openly beat an old lady in the street.
Karde wanted to
help, but realized something quickly. If
he’d acted alone, he’d be inviting an even worse punishment for interfering
with the king’s guard.
Despite his pledge
to help his community, he couldn’t act on it right away. The contradiction burned at him as he saw the
lady fall yet again from a kick to the gut.
He wanted to confront the corruption head on – to take out some of the
abusive guards while he could, but even he realized the folly and innate
wrongness with such an approach.
Some of the guards
nearby were trying their best to speak up and act as a conscience for the
watchmen who were out of control. Karde
wondered if they felt alone. If not a
single peasant stood up for their fellows, how could they be emboldened to act? Such thoughts almost pushed his feet to rush
to action, but his eyes were sober. This
was not the moment for martyred heroes.
This was a moment for planning.
Karde turned from
the scene as best he could and suddenly looked to his companion apologetically.
“I am sorry…” he said, for lack of better words.
She explored his eyes for a moment as if she were scanning
his soul.
He felt self-conscious under her deep scrutiny.
“I… didn’t even ask your name…” he said, realizing that he
hadn’t even treated her with the common courtesy of a normal person because
he’d labeled her as a lower caste. Her
insights were acute and her heart seemed noble.
How had he dismissed her so easily on sight alone? He wondered if his other prejudices ran so
deep and so silent.
The girl raised her
brows as if to challenge him, but in the end, relented and replied in a firm,
even tone, “I am Liberty... or so I was born.
But I insist you call me Libby. I
am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Karde, compelled by
politeness, bowed before Libby and she returned with a surprisingly
well-executed curtsy. She might know poverty
now, but she’d once been a Lady of some standing, of that, Karde was convinced.
“Well met,” Karde
added in a fashion, ending his bow with a tiny flourish that he’d seen
performed in noble homes.
The passersby looked
upon the couple strangely, but aside from that, they went about their various
drudgeries with little notice. Only a
cluster of children nearby seemed to take much note, and all they did was point
and snicker a few times.
“Shall we?” said Libby, pointing to the cluttered road
ahead.
“Indeed…” Karde added as he began walking again. He thought of saying more, but felt like he
was starting to become a parody. There
was a point where too much politeness could almost seem like an insult, and he
was not eager to cross that line.
Karde made the way
to back to his home slowly, casting out his gaze with new eyes - both
discouraged and encouraged by what he saw.
Complete
neighborhoods of people of moderate success tried distancing themselves from
the poverty and despair around them with flimsy walls of scrap wood. These barriers could easily fall to the
smallest efforts – but they insulated their thoughts from the troubles of the
streets nearby. Karde was embarrassed
that people would choose to barricade themselves from guilt, especially since
he’d been a part in the travesty that kept his kin from confronting the
atrocities all around them. Karde
surveyed these isolated boroughs with a sense of guilt and regret, and sudden
understanding.
While care was
something that seemed in short supply in his initial assessment, Karde had
noticed a few promising signs. Some of
the people in the streets were talking – a few openly complaining about the
problems they all faced. He knew that
others discussed more radical possibilities, but usually only in the confines
of public houses – at least to his knowledge – though few men could afford to
patronize such places in times of such hardship. Just speaking, though was no solution.
Karde’s most
important observation was that most people still seemed to hold love for their
children. It didn’t seem like a lot to
build on, but loyalty to one’s own blood had brought many to rise up in defense
of their homeland. Perhaps that love
could be fanned into one that embraced their community. If so, they stood a real chance of making
things better.
That realization
gave Karde the strength to go on, and he walked silently to his home with a
humbled heart and a troubled mind.
Karde’s home was smack dab in the middle of one of the best
neighborhoods of the Bricks District.
The wall that had separated this borough from the street was actually
anchored into the ground, unlike any of the other fences that separated the
various neighborhoods. The homes were
also, likewise anchored, though the wall and house itself were comprised of
scraps of lumber from across the land.
Various tones of wood gave the place an almost patchwork appearance that
Libby seemed to find amusing.
“What’s the matter?”
Karde asked as he unlocked the bolt on the door to his house.
“Just thinking to myself how safe these people really are behind their walls of waste timber.”
She replied, stifling another chuckle.
Karde almost thought to reply, but Libby went on.
“I mean, at least I don’t have all of this…” she added, waving at the home – and then the neighborhood,
“to slow me down… if I needed to leave in a hurry.”
Karde was wondering what kind of day he was having. Luck seemed to be giving way to something
darker. Was the riverside robbery
attempt a sign of things to come? And
worse still, would his awareness of the world ever be the same?
His head was heavy
with sudden revelations and responsibilities.
He opened the door with a slight bow and allowed Libby to go
first.
Karde followed and closed the door, latching it behind him.
He had almost forgotten the reason he wanted to speak with
her when he stepped inside. His mind
swam with so many unexpected and burdensome thoughts that he had to stop and
think for a moment before he spoke. He
simply pointed her to a chair while he mused over what he would say. He sat on a rug nearby and finally spoke.
“Look…” he started, “I know that your eagle pendant isn’t
some long-aged family heirloom. It
couldn’t be.”
“While your assessment is untrue,” Libby began, “Your
interpretation of its age will have no bearing on how much I sell it for.”
“My father’s emblem
is only two decades old,” he retorted, matter-of-factly, “And it’s the only one
of its kind I have ever seen… until now, that is.”
Libby’s eyes perked
at the comment in a way that made Karde feel suddenly ill-at-ease. Her sudden closeness made him feel a bit
uncomfortable.
“Show me!” she barked rather insistently, barely restraining
her excitement.
Karde felt a niggling protectiveness over his father’s
secret affiliation, but relented in the sake of curiosity. His father had rarely told him of his order,
and he still had a number of unanswered questions that kept him up some nights
in wonder. Perhaps this girl could grant
those answers.
He reached into a
snuff tin that was squirreled away with a drawer full of smelly socks, and
produced a pendant, which at first glance resembled Libby’s.
“Novus Ordum,” Libby said without a hesitation, “They were a
bit misguided, but true patriots of Del, every one.”
She pointed at
several features on his pendant, then compared it to her own.
“Do you see the base of the Eagle?” she said with restrained
excitement, “His feet hold a bound scroll, representing the law of Del… on mine, his feet hold crossed swords,
representing the might of the Del army.”
Karde squinted in the light of his sputtering lamp to see
the details that Libby was so quick to spot, but he did have to agree, she was
right. He listened raptly as she went
on.
“You will also note on your pendant that the eagle’s
wingtips are folded, as if they are being unfurled. This was to represent the new coming of Del
law to the other lands. And his head is
in profile, representing the desire to look back upon the past to guide the
future.”
Karde nodded as if he understood, but he wasn’t wholly sure
where she was going.
“On my pendant, the eagle’s wings are stretched,
representing the willingness to stretch across empires. Both eyes look boldly to the future. It is a challenge to all.”
Karde nodded once and she continued.
“In the early Ordum Delandium, the members believed in an
aggressive flame of liberty passed on through might. They were a naïve people, but they too were
patriots. They didn’t realize that the
same strength that had given them freedom could so easily be turned against
it.”
Seeing the confused look on Karde’s face, she clarified her
statement.
“Those who rule by
might always find themselves confronting other forms of power – often from the
same people they sought to free. You
cannot force a single vision of liberty on a people who do not understand
it. You have to educate them to its
nature – and allow them to choose the form it will take.”
Her words were fascinating, but as alien as the thoughts
that must lurk in the mind of a dragon.
“Freedom always
comes at a price – and that cost is either paid in commitment to education or
blood. Yet many are unwilling to pay the
former, despite the foolish cost of the alternative.”
Karde still seemed a
little confused, but some of the points seemed to be taking hold.
“So Del… it’s a place
of freedom?” he asked sincerely, “What does that mean, exactly.”
“Well,” Libby said, “I don’t know any of this firsthand, but
from what I have heard, it’s a place where the kings all share a common
table. They meet and discuss the matters
of their kingdoms in an open forum where all can hear.”
The idea seemed logical, but impossible to his mind – though
he still tried to follow as she spoke.
“And the kings are selected not by birth, but by a public
lottery where no single person holds advantage. Merchants and peasants alike each stand a
chance to become king.”
The more she spoke,
the more incredulous Libby’s story seemed to become. Karde shook his head in disbelief.
“So how do these eagles come into this idea of freedom?” he
asked.
“Well,” Libby explained, “In Del, the military is
accountable to the king, but has various groups within it to make it more
responsible to the needs of its community.
These armies don’t just wage wars or defend castles. They build roads and buildings where needed. They provided security, instead of just
watching idly as crimes go by…”
Seeing the unspoken comment in Karde’s eyes, she added, “We
don’t call them them the watch around
here for nothing. Well actually. Since they do nothing but watch… you get what
I mean.”
Karde chuckled a little uncomfortably.
Karde listen raptly as Libby returned back to her tale, “Each
of these groups, or orders, called an ordum, was created to tackle a different
aspect of need. Some specialized in
service to community, others to the service of the securing the king or
kingdom, and others to a specific cause.”
Karde nodded, still unsure of the veracity of her story. If it were a fiction, it was the best he’d
heard in ages, so he sat and listened carefully.
“Ordum Deledanum was
a group that sought to spread the Delian ideals of freedom to other realms –
and while their goal was noble, they often became very short-sighted about how
to interpret freedom.”
Karde suddenly realized that he’d forgotten to offer his
guest a drink. He swiveled behind him
and grabbed a couple of wooden cups and poured out some of the burnt-wine beverage
his father had called “brandee.”
Both of them took slow sips and Libby nodded
approvingly. Satisfied at the quality of
the alcohol, she quaffed the remainder and returned to her story.
“Del’s
self-righteous claim to freedom was one with dire consequences. They trod recklessly upon the rights of
sovereign people, such as those of Espani - a humble group who lived like
gypsies upon their lands, taking only what they needed to survive. The Ordum saw them as lawless tribes of
rogues and crushed them before even considering that they might have as
valuable a form of freedom as was offered by the Delian king.”
“These Espani… they were the forebears of the Verdani, from
Del, right?”
“No,” she corrected, “They were the residents of Hess – a
sovereign nation that only became part of Del by force. They aren’t from the Del, the Del took
them.”
Libby calmed herself a moment to regain her composure.
In the gap, Karde asked, “How could you possibly know so
much of the history of a land so far away… or of orders so long dead?”
“Because my great-grandmother was an immigrant from Hess.”
She sighed, and tapped her glass for another drink, knowing
another story was coming.
“Great Gran paid for
her passage on a leaky boat with her virtue.
The trip left her with two things - the bastard child of a Delian
captain and the golden emblem from his cloak – stolen, of course. She vowed to never let her family forget what
her freedom had cost her – so they would never take it for granted.”
Her eyes fell upon
Karde in a way that made him shuffle his feet nervously.
“Her stories lived
on through several generations… until the current one, which hardly knows the
tales, and seldom speaks them. And what
do we have now that her words are ignored?
A clan of people who value linen over Liberty - people who don’t realize
the value of wisdom or family. They’ve
forgotten how to carry the song of freedom in their hearts - distracted by
games of chance, local fashions, or gossip.”
Libby sighed for a long moment and continued.
“Of six sisters, only
I stayed to help with the family farm.
Only I honored our traditions - and the vow to carry the warnings of the
past into the future….”
The tale was broaching memories that she was uncomfortable
to recall, much less relate. She tapped
her glass to remind her host of her desire for another drink, which Karde
offered eagerly.
“To be honest,” she
added, choking on the wine she could not drink quickly enough, “Such knowledge
makes me feel ill of a people and tradition I should hold dear. Of my clan, only a handful keep vigil to my
ancestor’s dream – to never stop learning, and never stop striving as long as
liberty is threatened – and that number seems to fade by the hour.”
Karde shifted uncomfortably and felt a sudden uncertainty
about the relic he held. Libby sensed
the discomfort, but had no time to allay his worries.
“I know you probably
are upset at me for making you lose pride in your father and the symbol he
wore, but that’s an unfortunate side effect of the truth - and the truth is
that as much as I want to keep this thing as a testament to the sacrifice of my
forebears, I am at an unfortunate crossroads where I have to choose between my
loyalty to the past or the present – and in the end, this is just a lump of
gold.”
“What do you mean,
‘choose’?” Karde asked.
“My father has been taken by the watch. The reason why is unimportant. But I am not certain the gold I could get by
having this melted down would be able to bribe enough guards to earn his
freedom.”
“But you just talked
me out of wanting this thing…” Karde said, frustrated, “And there is no way I
could offer enough for your needs, even if I did.”
“It’s still an item of much value, as I will soon explain,
but more importantly, I am not looking for gold, but instead for an honest
person to act as my advocate. A person
to undertake a simple task that should take but a few days.”
“I just don’t see where…” Karde began, but he was cut off by
Libby’s insistence.
“These emblems, while of no value to us, would be of extreme
value to any number of people. If you
could find a current member of the Delian order in Miram, they would pay
handsomely for their return – though given your birthright, they would likely
try to recruit you.”
Libby looked to his
eyes to see if he was warm to the idea – then offered another choice.
“As for the other
option, you could offer them to one of the king’s advisors. They would certainly give you an even tidier
sum for such a thing, but they’d want you to come up with at least two faces to
tie to the emblems lest you incriminate yourself. It would be a terrible thing to do to a
person, but I cannot be the mother of your conscience.”
Once again, Libby
watched his eyes for a response. There
was no glint of greed, merely concern.
She relaxed and continued speaking.
“Just suffice to say
that either emblem would be worth a small fortune, and both would be more than
doubly valuable. The king does love his
conspiracies.”
Karde briefly
entertained the idea of implicating a couple of the guards that he’d seen
abusing the old lady in the street, but his sense of righteousness rejected the
possibility, at least for the moment.
“So what would I
need to do?” Karde posed, his face suddenly becoming as hard to read as a book
of Dwarven limericks.
“I need you to go
into the city proper and find a barrister, a specific one. Her name is Victa. She was once a member of the White Hand, but
for now… we’ll say she is a servant of the people.”
“Sounds easy enough,” Karde replied, “What’s the catch?”
“She will need gold.
At least 100 coins. And this
document…” she answered, pulling a paper from the ruff of her sleeve.
“A hundred gold?!”
Karde choked, “Where would I get that kind of money?”
“And that’s the sticky part...” Libby said, “…listen
closely.”
As a daughter of the
lands of Ferrik, she was burdened with the predominant traits of her kind – a
mottled brown skin tone and a bald pate.
Only a few rare people of her clan grew any hair at all, and even then,
it clung tightly to their skulls like moss on a rock. Such obvious physical distinctions made her
immediately noticed virtually anywhere she went. Peasants either scowled at her approach or
ignored her completely. Guards’ eyes
fell upon her constantly with intense suspicion. Many would even rest their hands upon their blades
as she passed by. Nobles would either
curse her laziness and lack of personal hygiene or simply look down their noses
at her in a way that burned more than being ignored. Even her own people would not speak to her –
mostly out of fear, but also out of a deep sense of racial shame.
Not that she knew
much freedom to travel. Her only outings
were when the young Lady she served deigned or needed her accompaniment – or
when the Lord or Lady of the house insisted.
Such trysts were few, perhaps once a week. Aside from those treks, her existence was
usually defined by a few hallways and rooms in a corner of a grey stone keep.
Praud had really
only one escape from the weight of her many duties, and that was the time she
took at the end of each day to unwind.
During these precious moments, she felt free of the persecutions that
clung to her like a stinky coat of sweat.
Mostly, she just tried to look and listen without the shadow of
judgmental glares following her every motion.
Life within the city walls of Kos-Al was a constant
spectacle to be sure. Even late into the
night, bright lights lit the streets below, obscuring the stars from her lonely
eyes. Loud music and the obnoxious
laughter of revelry below drifted in on the few breezes that blessed her skin
with cool comfort. She stretched her
lean yet muscular legs and then her slender arms, yawning like a cat. In many ways, her mottled skin and slightly
almond shaped eyes gave her the appearance of a mischievous feline as she
peered over the distant waters. As she
dangled her feet from the balcony of her tiny loft, her thoughts drifted many
places, first thinking of her native land.
Even in the shadow
of greater nations, Ferrik had still been a better place to be. Some had called it a nation of impoverished
peasant villages lead by unpredictable zealots and chieftains, but at least the
people had some sense of personal pride.
Individuals had the opportunity to seek independent success without
skirting the law. Communities were
sacrosanct. And her people had a deep
respect for nature and the blessings it offered.
Now all that
remained of her country was a broken people.
Their warriors never stood a chance against the might of thousands – and
the fact that their conquerors were dressed in full metal plate seemed yet
another insult to the honor of battle.
The best her nation could offer were hide-wearing men, women, and
children wielding farming implements.
The cost for
defending their kind was either death or servitude. The villages that survived the razing torches
of the invading Delian armies were splintered.
Families were torn apart. Men
sent to labor in mines or work camps. Women
were tasked to mills or brothels.
Troublesome or rebellious children were slain on the street like mad
dogs. The few that were too young or too
cowed to offer resistance were offered as prizes to the noble houses.
Praud was one of
these children. Now seven years in
servitude following seven years free and she could barely remember her father’s
face. Yet she somehow she could still
remember the face of the man who had clad her in irons and drug her away from
her pleading parents.
Of course, her inner voice mused, it wasn’t hard to remember the face of a man who had beaten and
violated you hundreds of times.
While she had vowed
to end the man’s life by her own hands, Fate had denied her the privilege. He had choked upon a berro bone following a
particularly grandiose meal and died face first in a plate of steaming
meat. Praud felt a bittersweet joy at
the memory, remembering how none of his servants lifted a finger to render
aid. They were not allowed to touch the
master without his permission, and the bone lodged in his windpipe had rendered
him mute. His guards, hired for muscle
and not brains, simply watched him perish, unsure of what steps to take to save
him.
Her owner’s death
had placed her in the hands of the man’s niece, young Lady Eleana. Despite the fact that age made them peers,
Eleana never saw Praud as anything more than a pet. In fact, with the opulent treats that the
mistress lavished upon her hounds, Praud could say honestly that she had been
treated worse than an animal.
She tried to divert
her mind from such negative thoughts by counting the few freedoms she still had
left, and accounting for how much better things had become since her old
master’s demise.
She had a room, be
it small, that she could use as she saw fit.
It didn’t have a door for privacy, but it least it had a curtain of
beads that kept prying eyes from casual glances.
She had a bed of
sorts, a pile of woolen blankets in the corner that were surprisingly warm on
cold nights and were able to fend off the chill that clung to the stone beneath
her.
Her room had
shutters to keep out strong winds and most of the rains that could spring up
without notice.
She had a few feet
of garden space on the grounds below for her own use. It wasn’t going to feed her often, but it did
offer her a chance to honor the traditions of her people – who saw all life as
sacred – and valued the act of nurturing plants as a spiritual duty.
She was no longer
the victim of a brutal man’s lust.
Admittedly, the Lord of the house would sometimes give her a drunken rut
when he was bored, but he would never beat her.
He would merely waddle off in the night and avert his eyes for the next
few days.
Considering the
treatment of her kin, she was actually doing quite well, but it didn’t keep her
thoughts from occasionally straying into dark places and leading her into bouts
of depression.
The one thing that
made her life truly tolerable was a plant called Goldleaf. Native to Ferrik, the herb was once a part of
every person’s daily ritual. The ground
leaves of the plant were smoked in long stemmed pipes at the break of every day
as the families discussed their morning plans.
Whole leaves were placed into foods as a spice. And small bundles of the leaves were burned
as part of religious ceremony and rituals.
The leaves calmed
the mind and soul, circumventing the barriers of fear and guilt by opening up gateways
to long-thinking spiritual exploration.
Praud maintained a
small number of the plants in her personal garden space, keeping their growth
low because her master considered them weeds.
She planted some tomat and mercat vines to obscure them from sight,
meaning she occasionally had fruit in addition to her daily gruel.
As she slowly
rocked her legs back and forth from the edge of her balcony, Praud smoked a few
leaves of her sacred leaf in a makeshift pipe and tried to urge her thoughts to
even better places.
Hope sparked in her
mind only shortly after she had sparked her pipe. As she exhaled, she wondered if she should
allow it to burn.
If such an lost concept as hope is to be a pipe dream, Praud mused,
so be it.
One of the first
things she had learned as a servant was to listen to everything. The confidences of two voices down the hall
could have long term consequences on her well being. She’d certainly taken notice of his rants
when the house Lord had been drinking too much.
If these rants became argument, she could expect a visit. It was better to partake of the leaf before
his arrival to keep away even darker memories of her childhood.
Lately, there were
talks of problems with the noble house.
Late night arguments in hushed shouts about “dangerous documents”
drifted down the hall. Apparently,
recently-surfaced papers revealed that her Lord’s family had long ago supported
the outcast King, Miram, as he took flight.
While she wasn’t sure why a family would be concerned with the sins of
their ancestors, Praud did her best to listen closely when such conversations
arose.
Hope drifted in
during one of those recent conversations.
The Lord was apparently making efforts to “wrap up his affairs quickly”
and he’d been taking more late-night meetings with people of a low station. Swarthy men with scruffy faces and dangerous
eyes would discuss “means of safe egress” to the tune of rattling coins.
While some of the
words that were exchanged were beyond her understanding - from the perspectives
of both language and station – Praud was no fool. She understood the gist of what was being
said. The noble family of Drakestone
would be leaving the land of Del for good – and quite soon. Perhaps in the hurry to leave, she might be
left unattended long enough to escape.
She let that hope
flicker ever longer as she lit another bowl and scanned the reflected motes of
light on the distant waters of the harbor below.
