Chapter 1: Bad Advice, Log Jam and… a stick-up?

  [Where d’ya want me to start?]

  [‘From the beginning’…? Alrighty then. An’ how much detail ya want?]

  [‘As much as I can give’… fuck that mean?]

  [Ah, well, I know the perfect place to start, mate.]

  [Actually, you know the destructive power of ‘I love you’? They always be lyin’, telling you that shit just needs a bit o’ courage. After all, what’s the worst she could say?]

  Throw darts at a board, and whatdaya get? Maybe five, maybe ten. Maybe thirty or fifty, if you got a helluva arm. Or, lord forbid, you got a blessed one, in which case maybe you drop a hundred. However many points you got, you got some points, right? So whatdya do? ‘Well, damn if I don’t do this again.’ And again. Again, and again. Again, and again. You dance while you play, play while you dance, darts whirling and twirling as they soar and score. Not a care in the world, for little ol’ you. Just you an’ the dart.

  But one day, it ends. Fini. Done. It ends like all things do: just like that. So, you walk away: from the darts, from the drinks, from the women, from the friends. You walk and you walk, until a familiar face crosses your vision.

  “What can I get ya?” the barkeep asks, a towel draped over his shoulder as he wipes a pair of glasses down.

  You rummage through your pockets, swaying as you flourish out a scribbled white napkin for the world to see. “In my hands, I hold the quality of my life’s work!” You roar to a chorus of cheers and jeers. “Hear me now, o’ lady of love! Beseech me what I deserve!” You hand over your count of points, tallied in the millions by my estimations, and await what is rightfully yours, like a tree rooted in place, waiting for the rain to wash away its misery and usher in a new day. After all, a million points ain’t no small feat! Worked your whole life for it! So, whatdaya get?

  Thwack! A bat to the head.

  Life back then? Was a lot like that—day in and day out. If you were to grab the most excellent painter to ever live, and paint me two paintings, one of the drunkards tossing darts and one of a group of children, either chopping trees or digging deep, I’d tell you to fuck off for drawing the same thing twice. Cause really, what’s the difference when nothing we did ever mattered?

  But enough with the poetry, let’s talk about the first moment, shall we?

  It was a day like any other. Who knows what else happened that day? Can’t remember, probably nothing. Like every day back near that squatter settlement, just a whole lotta nothing.

  …But that ain’t all true, is it? I do remember what happened that day. It wasn’t just any day of the week; it was our first day traveling to Shanty after chopping down wood from the Khatar zone. And the day my elder brother gave me the worst advice of my life.

  “Find courage, Ace. ‘Progress runs not with those who stand, ’ or at least that’s what Master Lupo says.” Tigran advised.

  The week had come to a close, and, as usual, our motley crew of country bumpkins worked tirelessly to complete one of the very few jobs ever afforded to villagers like us: tree felling. Day in and day out. Chop. Chop. Chop. Dice. Dice. Dice. Strip. Strip. Strip. Chop. Chop. Chop. Blisters infected our hands, and tears moistened our eyes, the first time Tigran and I endured a relentless day of chopping and digging. Over the years, our tears dried out and the blisters developed into tough calluses, but our monotonous work bored us all the same.

  Boredom, which led to conversation. Conversation, which led to a confession. Confession, which led to advice. Advice I didn’t want to hear.

  “Master Lupo’s,” I grunted, dragging myself over a particularly cumbersome root, “wife left him thrice over. Or was it four? Either way, you’ll have to forgive me if I ignore his advice.”

  Tigran rolled his eyes, deftly jumping over the same gargantuan tree root I tumbled over. Inwardly, I cursed him for his height — a stupid thought, given the two-year age gap. Still, which fourteen-year-old isn’t stupid?

  Sunlight brushed against the forest canopy, bathing the Khatar zone in a golden hue as we marched along, “protected” by the city guards. Rumors rose that flocks of animals were prowling the Urggur zone — their home, not two weeks prior. Normally, they pose little issue, but this particular Blazewood season was unusually aggressive. The woodlands retreated further than normal, and the dry climate scorched the air to the point it made our lungs singe. Coupled with the typically increased wildlife aggression during this time, we decided it was in our best interests to try something new.

  Under ordinary circumstances, such as any other season, a group of underaged lumberjack foresting in the Khatar zone would’ve been akin to a pagan frolicking in a whorehouse for a wife. A daring, yet unequivocally stupid idea; accompanied by screaming, swinging, running, cursing, and in the end, someone getting their ass eaten: either the pagan by the lustful whores, or the ditzy lumberjacks by any one of dangerous fauna or critters proliferating among the thick foliage.

  Fortunately, the Flamestorm and the accompanying Blazewood season assuage most of these concerns, as the combination of the two curbs the growth of dangerous fauna and burns foliage, such as the tree’s outer layer of bark, exposing the soft trunks to the cruelties of the world. Cruelties such as: the thunderous chips of a vicious widow-woodchipper, the treacherous whoosh of wind splicing apart bark, or, lord forbid, the ruthless cracks born from the axe of unruly lumberjacks focused on a profit. Following?

  Thus, the plan was born: Instead of the Urggur zone, we travelled deeper into the Woodlands, into the Khatar zone, where we would chop the Underwood trees lining the zone’s edge into finely diced logs, tightly packed in our straw-woven baskets. We would also chop long, uncut logs, dragging them across the dirt floor.

  “His wives, not wife. And they didn’t leave him — they were taken to the city.” Tigran explained matter-of-factly.

  “Ah, well, that makes all the difference then.” I mocked, grabbing his hand as he helped me to my feet. Together, we braced as felled trees fell overhead, one after another, scraping our palms bloody as the rest of our village youth worked to push another underwood tree over the root.

  The plan, which had begun smoothly, quickly spiraled as we failed to account for the towering tree roots jettisoning from beneath like tentacles. Unable to drag the uncut logs any further, we resorted to tossing the bloody trunks over the aerial roots. Which, as expected, was a bloody nightmare, figuratively and literally.

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  “All I'm saying is, nothing's gonna happen if you just sit around waiting for it to happen,” Tigran grunted as we caught another log. "Sides, Master Lupo may be a bit... ugh... loopy, but he's still twice as strong as these city guards." The end of his sentence came out as a whisper, though I doubt those louts could’ve made out his words if he screamed ‘em in their ears.

  “Pretty sure I could beat those drunken hounds,” I whispered back, darkly.

  “Still, we might be making fun of him for getting… divorced four times, but he still managed to get married four times. That deserves at least a bit of thought, don’t you think?”

  I grunted, squashing a snarky response as yet another log dropped upon us, then opted for silence as his words trampolined around in my mind, begging my attention as they slowly seeped into my thoughts, corrupting their roots like an insidious poison. Suddenly, buds of failure blossomed into thorns of hope, pricking my bubble of negativity as I began to reassess the situation. No longer was I wondering, “What should I do when she rejects me?” Now I asked myself, “Where should I take her once she accepts?”

  And so it was that we spent the rest of the trip dragging logs in silence, the words rolling through my mind like tumbleweed.

  A few hours later, when the sun had lowered enough that only its tip could be seen on the horizon, we arrived at the town locally dubbed Shanty, our ferry following close behind. The soldiers escorting us pranced off, content to drink away another day’s wages as we dragged the bundle of logs across town, over to the collections office.

  Marked by our rugged clothes as vilalow, we had to be extra cautious for the roaming bands of thieves prowling the town. Of course, the guards could help us, but relying on their assistance would be akin to betting that a morbidly obese man would adhere to a meager diet; not impossible, but a damn stupid use of chips. Doubly so for us vilalows. ‘A thief may rob us of our wallets, but a guard would rob us of our dignity.’

  Thankfully, aside from the occasional bickering spilling into petty squabbles, we faced little opposition in the hour it took to drag the logs across town, and the half-hour it took for Nahir and Tigran to finish their negotiations. When the duo finally returned, a moderately sized pouch accompanied them.

  “Our weekly wages!” Nahir reported, his crooked nose painting a mischievous gleam on his grin.

  “How much?” I asked as the remaining village youths helped the merchants usher in the fallen logs to the log pen, then deposited our axes.

  “Fifty-eight wood chips. And twenty metal.”

  I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “Woah! That’s way more than we expected. How’d ya manage that?”

  Nahir stuck a thumb out to Tigran, who blushed slightly under the attention. “Your elder brother’s a magus with his silvery tongue.”

  “Hey!” Tigran complained, jabbing Nahir, who continued to chuckle at his joke. “Don’t say that! Makes it sound like I did something dirty.”

  “Ha! What you did was dirty, not that I’m complaining.” Nahir grabbed me in a headlock, pulling me into a surprise wedgie. “Brilliant idea, by the by. Cutting down the Underwood trees. Got us a bloody good bonus, it did. Ugovur said they ain’t been getting much wood from there.”

  “Don’t get used to it,” Tigran chided, coming over to help unlock me from the inescapable headlock. “Only did to avoid the beasts prowling near our regular logging grounds. Once they retreat deeper into the forest, we’ll go back to chopping down the usual.”

  “Spoilsport,” Nahir complained, as I finally managed to free myself from his crushing grip, panting from the effort. “Let a man dream!”

  “Speaking of dreams…” I began, rubbing at my neck, “Now that we have a lil bit of extra cash, I’d like to try something I’ve been dreaming up.”

  “Oh?” Tigran asked, a sly, almost prophetic smile splitting across his face. “And what might that be, little brother?”

  “Since we’ve a bit extra for the week, what say you to running through the shopping district?” I asked, glancing down the alleyway. “Could use the extra money to blow off some steam, maybe grab something nice for the village, like a new saw.” I lied, offering up the crafted excuse like a novice chef selling baked goods: slowly and poorly.

  “Oh really?” Nahir grinned. “Since when’ve you become the altruistic type, Ace?”

  “Hey! I’ve always been altruistic!” I defended, clueless as to what altruistic meant. Nahir did that often, yanking out complicated words to confuse us.

  “Uh-huh, and I’m the mythical goat destined to find the golden stalk of life and shower the world in beans.” Nahir looked down at me, a grin growing. “Alright, altruistic Ace. Enlighten me, give me one example of your so-called ‘altruistic nature.’”

  “I, uh, I offered to take the late-night shift?”

  “Ha!” Nahir hollered. “Only so you could steal Aunt Malinda’s bakeries! Yeah, we all saw you, moron.”

  I put my hands up in mock defeat. “Guilty as charged.” I grinned, but internally I was furiously scheming up another lie. Luckily, I was saved by none other than Tigran, who stepped in on my behalf. “Oh, come now, Nahir.” He interjected; a knowing smile plastered on his face. “Even you’d steal her pies, don’t lie. ‘Sides, we could use another saw.”

  Nahir looked between us suspiciously, then sighed and beckoned the rest of the group. “Oy! Chin up, boys! We’re headed to the shopping district.” He called out to a roar of approval.

  We danced through the streets, newfound wealth putting a swagger in our step as we moved merrily. We sang as we went, our musical talents echoing along the alleys, amplified by the thin metal sheets lining the shacks on all sides, yet still drowned out by the everyday hustle and bustle.

  Beautiful hues of gold and crimson bathed the squatter camp like a wife at an altar, the metal roofs and walls glittering like her fine jewels and gems as I leapt between them, light as a cat. Any heavier, and the entire district — held together by spindly metal sheets, mud, short wooden beams, and thin wiring — would’ve collapsed.

  I cackled as the townies squealed in horror, sprinting off in search of the city guard to leash us unruly vilalows. From below, I could feel the laughter of my friends reverberate beneath my feet. We weren’t rich. We weren’t free. We weren’t even educated. But those days…

  Those were the happiest days of my life.

  And seconds later would mark the moment it all began to slip away as the crashing waves of life collapsed upon my beautiful sandcastle of peace, tearing it asunder. No, this wasn’t the moment it all fell apart, for that is still to come. But it was a moment. The first of many.

  We danced out of the alleyway, spilling into a large, circular clearing.

  The clearing broke into two winding passageways, leading up and to the left or down and to the right. The way ahead was blocked off by a smattering of overlapping metallic sheets, producing a maze of narrow alleyways large enough for the smallest of us but too small for the largest of us.

  Both passageways were hidden in shadows, an ominous presence oozing out like a poisonous mist. I stopped dead in my tracks, tensing as I examined the blazing [SUN] overhead.

  The shadows… they aren’t falling right.

  Unfortunately, my band of merrymaking fellows were not quite as perceptive as I was. They crashed into me, bouncing off my back and coalescing into a jumbled ball of muscle and complaints.

  “Hey!” Rishi’s voice called out from the back. “What gives?!”

  I turned, preparing to relay my suspicions, when six leather-jacket wearing town rats exited the alley behind us, brandishing weapons between them as they blocked off our exit.

  "Hey there, boys. Mind if we jump in?"

  Yobou's Notes and Observations

  Shanty: Local Squatter Settlement, no officially recorded name according to the Quataria

  Khatar: One of the three ‘zones’ used to informally differentiate the Qutaria Forests by their danger and distance from civilization (usually intertwined); Khatar roughly translates to Dangerous in old Quatri (language of Quatarians).

  Urggur: One of the three ‘zones’ used to informally differentiate the Qutaria Forests by their danger and distance from civilization; Khatar roughly translates to Safe in old Quatri

  Blazewood: One of the six primary seasons of Qutaria; Produced when a Flamestorm follows an Ironstorm. Primary effects: dry climate, retreat of foliage, swelling in wildlife aggression, shifts in weather patterns, higher temperatures.

  Flamestorm: Shiftstorm of Flame; To see details on Shiftstorm of Flame, please reference tome: Shiftstorms of Iye.

  Vilalows: Term coined by individuals residing in towns or cities (aka. Townies and Slavs).