Sand and Scrap
Page 41
Haliden tightened his fraying brown cloak about his body and nudged Instar into a trot. Best to forget such things, he told himself.
For the next three days they rode hard across the abandoned countryside, stopping only to rest and sleep. By the fourth morning, Instar was frothing at the mouth again, her lungs wheezing like a broken bellows. Haliden was going to stop for the day, when a fifty footfall high, circular rampart appeared in the distance.
Home, he thought. Or a ghost of what it had been. The trees that shaded Moss Town’s exterior were all cut down, and the many traders and artisans who had once encircled the town were all but gone. But this is it, he thought.
“We’re home, girl,” Haliden spoke, rubbing Instar’s neck.
As he drew closer, he marveled at the enormity of the rampart. It had been built after the last Breath, and each generation proceeding it had added to its height, using whatever material they could scavenge or harvest from the forest. Now the mismatched patchwork of brick, mortar, steel and wood stood fifty footfalls tall and completely encircled the village.
Behind the structure sat a small but thriving town nestled in the embrace of a natural stone basin. Three enormous circular bands made up its districts, each consisting of its own families, trades and history.
The upper band, where the wealthiest residents lived, had the largest and most ornate homes, each topped with slate and thatch roofs covered in layers of thick, brown moss. Even the basin's walls were covered in the fur like growth, fed by the continuous runoff trickling down from the forest above.
The second band, where Haliden’s home had been, was where the working class lived: blacksmiths, merchants, mushroom farmers, clothiers. It was the busiest and most crowded of the bands, lined with merchant stalls and modest hovels scrapped together with pinewood and slate.
At the very bottom of the basin sat Killen's Cistern, a natural rock chamber which collected the forest's run off and supplied the village with an inexhaustible supply of fresh water.
But it wasn’t the cistern that put Moss Town on the map. It was the enormous tower erected in its center: Watcher's Spike. The massive structure stood three hundred footfalls tall and consisted of thousands of large granite blocks, all of which had been carved from the basin hundreds of turns earlier.
A wonder of our world, Haliden thought as he stared up at the tower’s crown. And built for one purpose and one purpose only: to spy the coming of the Breath.
Unfortunately, it was just a relic now, crumbling and ignored by the current generation.
Haliden could still remember the secret trips he and his childhood love, Amelina Fen, had taken to the top.
Amelina. Just the thought of her name made his heart quiver. They had been inseparable, living side by side on the same band most of their young lives. They spent countless days exploring the surrounding forest, hunting, fishing. And kissing. Haliden’s heart swelled at the memory. She had been his first, high atop that very same tower all those turns ago. His first love, his first friend.
My first everything, he thought.
But Amelina’s father had been a notorious drunk, and his distaste for Haliden and his artistic ways eventually set the two of them to blows. After one particularly vicious scuffle in which Haliden nearly lost a finger, Haliden’s father shipped him off to the tropical island of Delorous, where he spent the next ten turns apprenticing beneath Hagan Trut, the famed painter of Hamer Vale. Since that day, he had neither seen nor heard from Amelina again.
Twenty five turns, he thought with a sigh. In that time he had crossed the world twice over, had smelled the Acid, walked the toxic, dry Culver Waste and drank with princes and magistrates in Rore and Ix. He had painted the walls of Blackbird Island, sketched portraits of Elenore Twine, the wealthiest collector in all the realms. He had found fame and spread his name far and wide across all of Alimane and the dense jungle lands of Alg.
But all without her.
The thought made his heart ache. They had been soul mates, spun together to perfection like the notes of a Tritan symphony. Even as a child, he understood how precious a thing they had. And how precious a thing he had lost.
I should never have left her, Haliden told himself. For turns he had shouldered the blame for what had happened. After all, he had been the one to throw the punch when he found her father leaning over her frail and naked body. He had been the one to break the man’s jaw even after the lout nearly bit off his thumb in a blind rage.
‘The man’s a beast,’ Haliden’s father had told him after the locals dragged Trenner Fren off to the cells at the base of the tower. ‘He deserved what you gave him and more, but I won’t have you fanning his rage any further. It will only end bad for all of us.’
Haliden pushed aside his anger and stared up at the tower. He still remembered the day he first kissed her atop its crown: the golden sunset, the quarrel birds buzzing in the distant pines, the smell of Amelina’s breath: peaches and strawberry; the smell of her perfume: roses and bilberry sage. Her lips had been so soft, her touch gentle. How I miss those moments.
"You are my brother, Hal," she had whispered to him. "My friend and protector. To hell with them all. You are my love."
And how he had loved her. Deeper than anyone or anything he had ever known. But her father always stood in the way.
Haliden wondered what had become of the lout. Probably drank himself into the Cistern, he thought as Instar nickered beneath him. Or awoke with a dagger in his gut. He hoped it was the latter, but life had a way of keeping the vile alive far longer than the just. More than likely the man was a cripple now, in the care of some poor bastard who slaved over him day and night, spooning his meals into his twitching, dribbling maw.
Best he’s dead, Haliden told himself as they approached the entrance. If the old bastard wasn’t, he might just have to pay him a visit.
There was a sudden hiss as an arrow slammed into the dirt beside them.
"The wall's closed, traveler!”
Haliden looked up. A figure stood silhouetted against the ash-gray sky, a bow in hand.
"My name's Stroke," Haliden shouted. "My father was Briar Stroke. We lived on the second band beside the crone Dasden Woe."
The figure notched another arrow. "Stroke’s been gone for the past six turns. Exiled for murder." He drew back and took aim. "Still wish to keep your claim?"
Two more figures took up positions on either side of him, both armed with crossbows.
"I know nothing of murder or exile," Haliden replied. "I was sent to apprentice in Delorous twenty five turns ago and have heard of no trouble since."
"Your father was a wretch and a coward," the watchman shouted. "And if the rumors are true, he rots in the ground beyond that there forest. Now be off before I plant this arrow between your eyes."
Haliden’s heart sank. Murder? That can't be. It can't.
"Does Amelina Fren still live here?" he asked.
"And what if she does, lout? Come to finish what your old man began?"
This is madness, Haliden thought. Why would father wish to harm anyone?
"Let me speak with her," he demanded.
One of the watchmen stepped aside as a new figure stepped up to the rampart.
"You know this one?" the man asked.
"Perhaps once," a female voice spoke.
Haliden’s heart soared. Amelina!
The woman studied him for a few moments. “But the Haliden I knew died long ago. As did his father. But if you say you are him, than you can answer for his crimes."
There was a loud thud, followed by a slow wooden groan as Moss Town's two enormous oak doors slowly opened.
Instar took a few steps back, her eyes widening as a dozen bowmen surrounded them.
"Welcome home Hal," Amelina spoke as a man pulled Haliden from his saddle.
"Our headsman will be glad to meet you on the morrow."
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Chris R. Sendrowski, Sand and Scrap