The district was more fortunate than most with a paved sector that entered into a small chiselled plaza and various stalls selling luxury goods. Statues dotted the sidelines of a grassy park, stone tributes to figures far faded into Kag’s militaristic path. Their gazes tore into the winding streets in front, generals, scholars and statesmen forever immortalized in stone yet forgotten in the people’s hearts. Trimmed bushes followed a neatly tended path as a few trees provided a lush canopy over the sporadic green. A gardener tended to the nearby ferns. Sprouts trickled to life as they tilled the soil, tendrils of power seeping from their hands as the flowers blossomed infront.
Laura turned down the street. She let her feet guide her down an all too familiar path. Her hand lifted towards a nearby fence, letting her palm slide along the metal railing while she drifted forward. A flowerpot lay sideways on the road, the tomato plant inside almost screaming for help with it’s vines scattered along the sidewalk, desperate to latch onto anything in fear of being swept away. Laura straightened the plant to lean forward and turned to stare at her grandmother’s house.
It was a two story build, a white brick townhouse with a front garden and three windows on each floor. A cherry blossom tree still grew in the front yard, it’s roots sifting through the well-tended grass. Her parent’s had been both been high cleric’s before Crous’s attack. They were respected and revered. Trusted researchers and authors who had travelled much of the western coast both gathering artifacts for Irwain and conducting assessments on behalf of the Emperor's coin. Few had penmanship as refined and a combination of diligence, linguistic skill and loyalty to Irwain had gained them endless favour. Laura still had copies of their work, squirrelled away to the very last ink dripped letter and smear. Twelve hundred articles and sixty books written in their lifetime, maybe over a hundred if it had lasted longer.
In total, sixteen thousand copies had been made and millions more through magic in imperial service. Sometimes at night, when she was a child she would spend hours reading novel after novel. Candlewax dripping on the ironwood floor, her grandmother busy on some forgotten venture as she fumbled through the words desperate to transcend their meaning into whatever scattered vision it could bestow. In the beginning, the bookcases seemed to loom overhead, thick plumes of paper soaring towards the heavens or at least a very tall ceiling. When she got older she would try to soak some semblance of their personalities from between the swirling lines. She would hope to glimpse a sliver of the souls trapped within such chartered academic worlds. Her grandmother laughed as she outlined instances where they had snuck jokes into descriptions of groundsprout or annotated the margins of famous works.
When she was seven, she discovered her mother had written the foreword to a paper on geofulminology. The writing was nice, a clear stray from the monotone academic descriptions or enthusiastic letters tailored for grants and publication. It was the first real glimpse she had into her feeling, a desperate and unyielding passion and love for discovery. A furious plea for the chance of truth and hope geofulminology could unfold. It even included distrustful remarks and shoddy insults at researchers and techniques that dragged into sordid tone. Common squabbles that would provide more insight than a thousand rigoured tomes. She would hold those few creased pages in her tiny palm, watching as the words danced the memory of a world that should have been. She turned her head once more, catching a glance of a few pumes of smoking rising from the chimney. The puffs drifted among the scattered clouds, pale imitations of the beauty that swept above.
Now there wasn’t much left to their legacy but their papers, a few hushed tones of remembrance and a monthly allotment of quands that while daunting at first seemed to dwindle more every year. Sixteen years prior, they had a small fortune to their name and while they still held coin, far too much had been spent. In a few years Laura would become the sole provider and while she could fullfill their legacy, there would be big shoes to follow.
It was one of the reasons Irwain had first paired her with Jan. Her family’s name still carried weight. Lanu, a common name but revered among the select few who still knew it’s worth. She was to be trusted, a stable consistent figure who would keep Jan from straying down a shoddy path. A guiding hand of the same age who would add to the strict oversight. It was a masterwork by Irwain. What he considered one of his greatest achievements as a father figure. He never suspected they would actually become friends.
She twisted open the door handle to find it unlocked as usual. It was a safe street and her grandmother had enough enchantments on the house to disway most attacker's. There was still a nick in the wall from when a landscaper had accidentally smashed the bottom window while cutting the lawn and got thrown back fifteen feet by a patch of booby trapped grass.
Luckily the prospect of free healthcare softened the blow.
Even the cherry tree gave haunted glimpses at passersby in the dead of night. It wouldn't overtly move or howl like some unbequoth branchy atrocity. Instead it would simply wait, ever present, vibrant leaves itching to spring it's once forgotten purpose to life and defend the home from whatever invaders dared emerge.
She stepped forward to feel a rush of hot air brush toward her. Her grandmother had a fire going, most likely lit by magic and fresh logs. For a moment, Laura cursed, mud streaking across the floor as she took off her shoes and left them on the mat below. She was old enough to live away from home, people like Aloat had fought in wars by now, the least she could do was get an apartment. However it wasn't likely she would be going anywhere any time soon.
She was about to call out her grandmother's name when she noticed a note pinned to the nearby closet door. The parchment was fresh with neat handwriting complementing the clean interior.
Gone to council, be home at sundown, don’t let Jan near flowers
She had always been straightforward. Never one to embellish her words in unneeded descriptors or bad prose and she had certainly met Jan.
Looming bookcases and scattered dining room furniture made up most of the sitting room, with two couches surrounding the brick hearth. A few paintings dotted the walls, but none were recent purchases. It was either commissioned art gathered along the road or portraits that offered an oil-tainted window towards a sentimental past. The kitchen was small, stove and pantry well stocked and an enchanted icebox, capable of freezing most goods. Three bedrooms and a bathroom marked the upstairs with an attic Laura never entered else brush with cobwebs or tussle with what few arachnids dare call it home. A weapon rack sat in the furthest corner, but apart from a dull broadsword and crusted old bow it served as more of a hatrack.
Like clockwork, Laura reached towards the icebox, opening the wooden door to see a mixture of meat pies, apples, fish, sausages and bacon. Harvest wasn’t for some time so she was lucky to see what few fruits lay within even if they were a little too ripe. Her stomach grumbled and carefully she grabbed a plate from the cabinets above placing it on the table and turning on the sink to let cold water flow from a barrel above. An enchantment would restock the water each morning. It was expensive but commonplace in wealthier homes. Taking out a fish from the icebox, she slowly placed the fillet over their woodstove and watched it crispen. There was an art to cooking she had yet to master but Laura enjoyed the chase. The thrill of a squirt of lemon or a sprinkle of salt cascading towards the tumultuous list of ingredients included in each swirling recipe of her father’s cookbooks. She liked to think that with each meal she cooked was an inch in the crawl to sublimity. On days like this, that wasn’t hard to believe.
Ten minutes later Laura sat down at her dining room table. She had arranged everything to almost immaculate perfection. A single dining plate was flanked by knife and fork, napkin tucked under the silverware as frost gathered on her glasses’s rim. The fish was roasted to a light pink it’s beady eyes in a dead glaze as it lay dormant in a soft grave of olive oil, potatoes and roasted carrots. The smell wafted towards Laura’s face. She smiled as she picked up her fork, letting the prongs sink into the delicate starch and a tiny hiss of steam to…………..
THUMP
A rough knock echoed through the first floor.
THUMP THUMP
The blurred image of a speedy branch crossed through the window.
Oh no
“Laura open the door!!!!!” Jan coughed.
"Opeeeen the dooooooorrr!!!!!"
In a moment, she scrambled to twist the handle and a dishevelled Jan to sprawl on the carpet like river onto rock. He moaned in pain, writhing as the cherry tree leaned backwards.
“The tree attacked us!! The tree attacked us Commander Laura!!!” the tiny rocked screamed.
“It isn’t safe for you here! These terrible jannic’s with their monstrocities, that’s it I’m calling for evac! I won’t stand for this! This is inhospitable!!!” Sill continued.
Laura helped Jan to his feet and gave him an amused expression. The tiny rock began to buzz and burr as it lit up with a few scattered lights before faltering and muttering something about slow response times.
“Forgot to knock?” she muttered.
The young scribe looked startled. Barely scraping the leaves off his coat as he straightened himself.
“Knock!!! Knock!! That derelict deciduous discombobulating….demon almost knocked off my head!” Jan gasped.
“Relax, you’ve been here before, did you hurt it?” She asked unfazed and with a slight smile.
For a moment, she poked her head near the window to see a few scattered pile of twigs among the freshly cut grass.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
“Did I hurt it??! Did I hurt it?!” he repeated the words as if they had been breathed under a madman’s dying breath.
“It has a name you know?” She laughed.
“A name!!!! Everything has a name!” Jan breathed. He was flailing his arms like a chicken as his eyes brimmed as wide as dinner plates.
He was sitting on one of the couches now with Sill resting on his lap. His cloak sank into the soft fabric, and he relaxed letting his head lean back.
“You must have touched the flowers….sorry my grandmother left a note” Laura relayed quickly. She felt guilty but not that guilty.
“Sill to orbital relay 18276 Coordinates 29.9773° N, 31.1325° E…… I repeat requesting immediate eva…..orbital bombardment my position,” the tiny rock muttered on repeat.
Jan noticed this and placed him in his front pocket hoping to calm the inanimate’s confused mind from the barken horrors that had just unfolded infront.
“Look you scared Sill so much he’s doing math!”
Laura shrugged at this and reached under her couch almost as if she had prepared for this exact moment.
“Relax, here Sill what do you think of this?!” She replied.
In one swift movement she pulled out a pwol board and let it rest on the wooden coffee table. It was fancier than most with gilded edges and clearly good craftsmanship.
“Pwol!!!” the tiny creature lit up in excitement.
It’s tonal shift was a little unnerving to Jan, but regardless, it was a good distraction. With Sill occupied by an empty board, the two began to talk.
“Laura is it a good time? I’ve been thinking about ways we can get enough money to start the college.”
“Well I was just ea….” She gestured to the dinner she had made, only to be cut off mid-sentence by Jan’s rapid talking.
“Oh nothing?! Great come here!”
Jan lifted his cloak to reveal a spindly piece of parchment. Laura rolled her eyes before looking back at her meal. It would have to wait. He spread it across the table to reveal an ad that she recognized a little too well. Crossed swords over bright red letting and a big flashy number of 100,000 quands. The paper’s top was frayed, likely because it had been pulled from some street corner in the middle of the night.
“The tournament?” she uttered in a shocked tone.
Jan nodded simply. Eager for her approval.
“You want to enter the tournament?”
He seemed so happy with himself, picking up Sill and letting the tiny rock sit in silence as he awaited her response. Laura clung to every word and let the syllables grind through her tongue.
“I know! It solves all of our problems! I had a stroke of genius, this will be amazing!” Jan spoke excitedly.
“Stroke of genius? You had a stroke! That is the worst idea I have ever heard in my entire life” She retorted.
“Do you even know how to fight?” Laura was driving this in.
“Yes of course!” He responded a little more dismayed.
“I’m not talking about scuffles from the guards, I work in requisitions Jan, I know what the people do not and a Jaen is going to be present at that tournament, a literal Jaen!” Laura added.
Visions of great deeds and inhospitable climates slid through Jan’s mind. Spiralling peaks blanketed in ice and snow as enemy soldiers marched like ant’s towards one centralized location.
“Those guys eat dragons for breakfast! This one is hand of the Arlon! He’s got enough enchantments on him it’s ridiculous!!” Laura overexaggerated.
Jaen’s were legendary fighters, generals and leaders who served as hands for the kingdom of Arlon. As someone who had read countless of their “newspapers” and informational works from Damnu’s punishments, Jan knew a little too much about the rival kingdom. Unlike Wei, Arloni held good relations with the Emperor yet enforced it’s own religious doctrine with an iron fist. He could almost taste the imposition of religious and imperial authority clinging to the air. Cited as a demi-god who dared walk the path of peasants in the hopes of fashioning a better world, the Arlon was a controversial figure who led the Kingdom of Arloni. Between narcissistic naming choices, subjugation, suppression of information and authoritarian control, support for the Arloni religion centred around the “Arlon” a supposedly reborn version of their predecessor, who would eagerly take the mantle of their past crusade. While each Arlon was supposed to be a faucet of virtue, it was well known that the Kingdom regularly starved and while criticism of the Emperor was barely tolerated, harsh words directed towards the Arlon were often met with swift death.
In the past Arlon’s would often be heralded as charismatic leaders, mud-struck soldiers who would give lofty speeches and scurried across kingdoms in the hopes of spreading both faith and expansionist power. Wealon the Great had ordered the construction of over five hundred miles of aqueducts. His taxation had even resulted in better distribution of wealth among subjects with basic rights attributed towards common citizens for living off crown land. Today’s Arlon was paranoid. Jan had heard from Irwain that he hadn’t left his castle in years.
He had a right to be.
Twelve days ago, the young scribe had pulled a muscle copying sixty pages of exploits for the latest addition to the Arlon’s works. Somehow, Damnu had a reputation as a great writer that attracted foreign coin. Six pages involved surviving poisoning, another seven were dedicated to a long line of well-wished assassins who had grazed the Arlon’s cheek with crossbow bolts or accidentally seasoned his cheese instead of poisoning it. The closest had been a coo in late winter where over five thousand traitorous Arloni guardsmen had descended upon an undefended keep in an attempt to transition the nation to a republic. Only eight hundred soldiers remained loyal to the Arlon. The Jaen was one of them.
It was hard to know what really happened. Information was often distorted, but when truth, rumour and lie intersected, they always stumbled upon the same few lines.
When loyalist reinforcements arrived, the castle reeked of blood. It was a killing field. Scorch marks tore up entire segments of earth while burnt trees stuck like toothpicks out of blackened rock. The ceilings of every hallway were coated red and fires raged over a barren hellscape. The defenders had fought room by room. Floorboard to floorboard. Only fifty people were left alive.
They found the Jaen. Standing on top of a pile of bodies almost four feet high.
They found him and his thirty broken swords.
- - - - - - -
“Eh, if he doesn’t use magic we can take him” Jan replied.
Laura facepalmed.
“I agree with Commander Jan, Laura, regardless I’m sure this tournament is like any regulated entertainment venture and will have a plethora of protocols and adjunct legislation to protect against verifiable harm and direct physical injury!” Sill added shortly.
“Actually it does! People rarely die! Only six died last month, and the rest recovered in hospital!” Jan added.
The other scribe let out a muffled grunt. She couldn’t argue against these facts. It was considerably safe. At least safer than being out in the wilds. She paced around the room, considering the tempestuous string of life choices that caused two of her current friends to have the complexion of a rock and an idiot.
“Wait, someone’s coming” Jan muttered slowly.
He cast a glance out the window as he supposedly responded to an instinct Laura could barely feel. In an instance, he drew the curtains and hoped not to draw attention. He could feel the tendrils seeping through the air. A vibrant strain of power slithered from the ground to coalesce into a tornado-like fissure.
“Who?”
“Can’t you feel it? Tastes like burnt chocolate, I sense powerful magic, most likely…..”
“Irwain” Laura replied.
The archmage’s face appeared on her front lawn. A small convoy of carriages and soldiers trailed behind as his retainers cast short glances towards the rooftops above. They were a mixture of lesser mages, bureaucrats and soldiers. Individuals whom Jan considered either too lazy or too skilled to be in the regular army or skilled in political acumen. Their shields bore Irwain’s coat of armour, and each carried a sword and bow. It was a versatile group. They were an adaptive force created as bodyguards for a mage who hardly needed to lift a finger in any real confrontation.
“Oh no, the tree!!” Laura screamed.
In an instant, the cherry tree began to move only for Irwain to flick his wrist and have its roots slink back into the chalky dirt. The deciduous horror froze in place almost as would a soldier in the presence of high command. In seconds, the enchantment was stunned, allowing him to pass through.
Maybe there was more to learn from Irwain after all
The two sprang into action. Laura quickly cast a few spells, hoping to clear dust off the floor and arrange books sprawled over the floor into semi-neat piles. Jan cleared two plates, sliding them towards their final resting place under the couch.
“Quick hide Sill. He won’t think it's an inanimate as he won’t be able to sense him. Sill be quiet, whatever you do, don’t speak or you’ll be taken away forever,” Laura quickly whispered.
The tiny rock buzzed before going silent. A clear acknowledgement of the other scribe’s lengthy terms. Ducking under the windowsill, the two instantly shifted towards the Pwol board and arranged the pieces as though they were regularly playing a game. A piece slipped, ricocheting on the hard floor as Jan leaped back, placing it down just in time. Irwain was halfway past the flowerpots now. He had left his entourage at the gate with thirty dignitaries staring at the half-deserted street.
Suddenly the door opened.
“Laura!! How nice to see you?” Irwain exclaimed.
The archmage stepped forward, careful not to track mud on the carpet as he beamed at Laura. He seemed genuinely happy to see her, or at least pretended to be ecstatic as he placed his staff in the hat rack and let his shoulders relax. The two greeted like old friends as Jan hung back and waited for their usual dialogue. Irwain was less dressed up than usual, only wearing plain brown ceremonial robes. Daylight reflected off his grey speckled beard as he took in the surroundings. In an instant, the Archmage turned to shoot his young consul a look that contained a mixture of disappointment and fatigue.
“Jan” He nodded coldly.
Laura exchanged pleasantries and the two waited for Irwain to speak. Their words caught on their panicked breath, uncertain what to say next, as Jan felt Sill pressed like a hot rock against his chest. It felt odd that Irwain would fail to detect an inanimate object so near.
“Laura once again sent my compliments to your grandmother for the enchantment, it's quite impressive.”
He walked over and sat down at the pwol board. The archmage picked up a piece and stared at it half intently, mulling it over in his palm.
“Pwol?! It's great to see you teaching Jan more important studies, Laura, sadly it seems he barely learns a thing these days.”
He seemed happy that they were spending time with the game. His presence was both comforting and terrifying as his unfurled cloak draped on the cold floor.
“Yes, Jan is getting better. I think he’s going to be quite good.”
He grunted at this and cast another eye on the board.
“I suspect you will win in, say, five turns?”
She laughed at this and threw in a playful comment to earn the archmage's praise. Jan scoffed at how easily she set up the board in her favour. The other scribe cast him an all-knowing “I had to make it believable glance”.
“Is there a reason you’re here Irwain?” Jan asked suddenly. There was a hint of annoyance and surprise twisted through his words not unnoticed by the archmage’s temper.
“Why don't you both come with me and we'll find out?” He replied with a subtle smirk.
The hair on Jan’s neck stood on end. This wasn't good.
Jan sat up and brushed himself off. Had Longsa tattled? Did Irwain really have spies upon spies? He cast a glance at Sill in his pocket. If they had to break him out of Irwains hands they would. The rock’ presence had grown on him alot over the past few days.
“Oh and Laura” Irwain said as he pointed at her delicately prepared meal going to waste at the table.
“There will be food”
A few minutes later, they stood on the lawn and prepared to clamber inside one of the carriages. It was fully enclosed with glass windows and a velvet interior.
“Uh, Commander Jan, don’t tell Laura this, but I did send that message. The fleet picked it up but they have a delayed response.”
Jan rolled his eyes. Poor thing was still traumatized into thinking it could commune with some higher command. Perhaps this was some allegory to a religious life or a pious upbringing steeped in divinity before Crous’s unspeakable antics.
“And?” He replied.
The rock stuttered for a moment before letting out a loose whisper so that no one else could hear.
“In 146 years, Commander Laura may need to get a new house.”