by G M Archer
Go West.
Joseph scoffed, “Go west? What? You would think Varrick would want you to come towards him not away if he wants you back so badly.”
I looked up slowly, “I don’t think-”
I was cut off by Finn asking what it said, and Joseph answering him. They passed it on down the group, and confused discussion about the meaning of it started bumbling up.
“I don’t think Varrick sent this to me,” I whispered to no one but myself, and image flashing back of a painting of people walking up to dragons in a massive tree, holding such letters.
I chilled as I looked into the hollow eyes of the dead raven.
As much progress as we’d made, it didn’t seem like we’d gone all that far. Voltaren and its familiar fields had disappeared behind us, and the mountains in front of us continued to dominate the skyline but didn’t seem to get any closer.
The sun began to sit to our west, our group stopping at a farmhouse, the owner of which being an acquaintance of a couple in the group. We set up our bedrolls in the barn, lit a fire and sit around it eating and recounting stories we knew or had heard.
Swoot was the name of our cook, a sarcastic but humorous woman that looked a lot younger than she actually was. She kept spices in immaculate jars, and kept her head wrapped around our funds and rations without ever touching paper and ink. She told a story of vampires and a girl that slayed them.
Next to speak was an alchemist named Mond, who seemed to know the name of every plant and animal we encountered, and a plethora of information about such. He spun a tale about an ancient civilization that forged blades out of meteorites and clothes from gold.
Gertrude, the elderly woman, told a rather racy story about a miller and a baker trying to win the affection of a young lady. Daniel and Lakin, brother and sister, told a calmer and more amusing tale about a man that tried to work for two lords without the other knowing.
The cycle was broken by everyone stopping to watch the train roll by a couple fields away. After that no one else was brave enough to break the mass silence, so we quieted down into more private conversations.
“What’s bothering you, Atlas?” Joseph asked.
“Nothing,” I lied nonchalantly
I wanted to say the possibility that I had a brother. Or a murderous father that was centuries old for some reason. Or a note from a dead raven. But I didn’t.
I almost fooled him. I didn’t, however.
He gave me a skeptical look, “Really?” He prompted
“Really,” I said insistently.
“Fine,” he laid down, “You can tell me in the morning.”
He yawned once, and was soon snoring like several others in the circle.
I laid down. I sit still listening to everyone’s breathing and the various farm animals for a while, tossing and turning. I was weary, but I could not sleep.
I slipped out of my bedroll and walked out into the fresh night air. Alone in the still courtyard, I pulled the note out of my pocket. I looked at its two simple words, compelled by them for reasons I did not understand.
I looked back at Joseph.
But I listened to the letter. I started walking west, following a cattle trail that led through the woods. I did not intend to go far, I just had to try to shake the feeling of obligation.
I walked out into a moonlit glade and froze. Toadstools rimmed the edge of the clearing and in the very center was an intricate stone door. I looked at it, walking the circumference of the glade. It was simply a freestanding door, purposeless in design.
It was eerily still and silent, the crickets had stopped chirping, the wind did not blow.
I stepped forward over the toadstools, my foot sinking into the perfect grass on the other side. I immediately felt cold, somewhat fearful.
I almost went back. I walked slowly across the clearing, standing a couple steps away from the door.
Eyes locked on the black knob, I started to raise my hand, fingers inches from it.
“No!” the rasp of a voice screeched.
I whirled, the Journeyer at the rim of the toadstools, hands up and pressed to an invisible barrier.
“Don’t,” it pleaded, pressing its mask to the non-existent wall.
I raised an eyebrow, “Why should I listen to you?”
“Please,” its whisper begged.
“Why?” I said.
“It is an evil place,” its fingers curled in desperation.
I was fearful now, I had no intention of going in the door, but I did have a leverage on the Journeyer.
“Tell me who my father is,” I demanded, hand reaching backwards.
“No! Don’t! I can’t!” it pounded on the barrier,
“How convenient for you,” I narrowed my eyes, hand edging towards the knob.
“No!” it threw its whole body against the invisible barricade, “Please, anything else.”
“Who are you?” I challenged, “Take off the mask.”
There was a moment of tense silence.
“You don’t really want that,” it said quietly.
“Yes, I do,” I asserted.
It stepped back, drawing a hand up slowly to its face.
In my fascination with the moment, I forgot that my hand was still moving.
My fingers touched the knob, and I was instantly seized with a desire to open it. Not able to control my limbs, I turned, hand seizing the knob, the metal cold as ice. I turned it.
Someone started shrieking, an old woman’s voice, mixed with the wails of the Journeyer.
“Atlas!” Joseph called up the woods.
I snapped out of the trance, letting go of the knob. I stepped back as the door slammed shut.
“Atlas!” Joseph bellowed again.
I turned. The Journeyer was gone. I looked at the door, chilled, but the desire to open it still struggled inside of me.
I ran out of the clearing, turning back once I jumped the toadstools.
There was no glade, no door, only thick undergrowth and the trees of the woods.
I stepped back, trembling.
A thief’s lantern sliced through the trees, Joseph crashing out beside me.
“Atlas,” he grabbed my shoulders, “Why did you wander off?” and then seeing my condition, “What’s wrong with you!? What happened?”
I stammered.
“What, Atlas!?”
I regained my composer, “A bear, I saw a bear.”
“You can’t just run off like that, Atlas,” he embraced me, swinging his lantern around the woods, “We need to get you a gun. I don’t know how well you could fend off something like a bear with swords.”
I nodded, shivering.
“You need to get back to camp,” he pulled off his cloak and swung it around my shoulders, the thing dragging the ground with my height, “I don’t know how you got this far anyway.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He gave me a quizzical expression, taking me to the edge of the woods. The farmhouse looked leagues away. I had not walked this far.
Joseph took a glance at my surprised expression, “You are definitely going to speak with me in the morning.
Chapter 17- Surrounded by the Misunderstandings of Our Rage
Varrick paced absentmindedly, cape flowing around him. He took a glance at the clock tower, the hands seemingly froze. He grumbled, his stalling was doing no good. Defeated, he turned and walked down the steps to the war-room.
He paced in front of the doors for a little bit, then his curiosity overwhelmed him. He turned one of the knobs, sticking his head in the room. He seriously considered turning back, but he knew how cowardly that would be.
James looked up with a glare, alone at the far end of the table. He held a pen over a records book, orange hair swept back and a dark coat pressed over his shoulders.
Why was Lafayette not here yet?
Varrick walked forward with his legs as stiff as boards, robotically sitting down.
On the other side of the table, James slammed his
book to a close, a fake pleasant smile on his face. The two men sit in silence for a while, the awkwardness between their gazes hanging painfully in the air.
Varrick stared directly into his multicolored eyes, the image of them bringing him back to the light dying in similar ones.
He flinched, startling James slightly, then looked back up.
“Where is your father?” Varrick enunciated clearly so the boy could read his lips.
James, stone-faced, started signing,
“No, no!” Varrick held his hands up, “You know I don’t understand that.”
James frowned, “A leader should understand all the voices of the people,” he spoke with an unused voice, a raspy whisper with an odd twinge, “Does good to hear what someone is saying,” he gave a sly smirk.
Varrick sighed, “Where is your father?” he said clearly, but not with much audibility, considering that aspect was irrelevant.
“Don’t say that loudly,” he made small signs as he spoke.
“I didn’t,” Varrick gritted through his teeth.
James stopped, glared at him, “Do well to remind yourself that to the world I am simply Lafayette’s humble crippled servant.”
“No one can hear us here,” Varrick crossed his arms.
“Oh, good, have you heard about the new pistol Lafayette is testing, along with the airp-”
Varrick waved his arms, “We do not discuss such things here.”
James frowned “Oh, so no one can hear us when it affects me, but when it affects you-”
“No, no, there is just an oath concerning that,” Varrick said.
“Sure there is,” James clasped his hands in front of him.
Varrick groaned, rubbing his temples, “Where is your father?”
“Where is my sister?” James did not skip a beat.
Varrick stiffened, “You cannot compare those two inquires to each other.”
“No,” James scowled, “You can’t. I am not my father’s keeper, but you were hers.”
Varrick gritted his teeth, the two men glaring at each other.
Varrick breathed deeply, removing the crown from his head, and running a hand through his hair.
He looked up, “Why do you hate me?”
“Because you’re a tyrannical asshole,” James said simply.
Varrick snorted, not able to help it, then started laughing. James’s false smile turned into a genuine one.
“Alright, alright, fine. I appreciate your honesty,” Varrick stood, pushing his chair out, “I do not want these tensions between us, and I know you don’t either. Come for a walk with me, and let’s have an actual discussion instead of this mudslinging.”
James narrowed his eyes, opened his mouth, and then shut it defeatedly, casting his eyes downward with his expression softening.
“Fine enough,” he stood and stretched, “This whole castle makes me feel constrained anyway.”
Varrick nodded, relieved, and opened the door so the two of them could exit. He led James through the halls and out into the gardens. The night was crisp and cold, the moon was barely more than half full, highlighting everything in a white sliver of light.
A guard patrol walked by and saluted Varrick, and he acknowledged with a nod.
“I’m sure the great king doesn’t want advice from a deaf ginger, but-” James began, waiting to see if Varrick had a response.
“I need to hear the voices of all my people,” Varrick smiled as James rolled his eyes.
He continued, “Leadership,” he signed as he spoke, “Leadership is a healthy balance of love and fear. Tip the scale too far either way . . . and you lose the privilege of ruling,” his whisper faded off.
Varrick looked around, making sure the Guild knights were out of range.
He spoke, not making any sound but just moving his lips, “Only in an ideal situation. Only when the people understand your purpose. And when they don’t . . . there can be no such balance.”
James stopped, leaning on the base of a statue, “Then tell them.”
Varrick shook his head rapidly, “No, we’ve passed that point. They would think me utterly mad, and if by some far-fetched chance they believed what I was waging this war for,” Varrick’s eyes were lost, he shuddered slightly, “It would be mass hysteria. Hell. Anarchy.”
They continued to walk, James nodding grimly.
“Perhaps they’d support you,” James offered.
“No,” Varrick said, “You cannot challenge the comfort of reality.”
James watched his feet, “I suppose I have not fully grasped the stress of the situation you are in.”
“It is simply a consequence of my circumstances,” Varrick climbed the steps to the wall, stopping to gaze out at the sea.
The flat horizon was only broken by a lone ship gliding out from under the castle, its course angling westward. The vessel was a slick thing, swooping masts overshadowing a thin craft. It was an Icarus Industries Dragon, truly a predator on the water and another cruel child of the war.
James leaned on the wall, eyes on the ship, “It came from Moontear Mines, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” Varrick stood beside him, hands folded behind his back, “It’s off to Lafayette’s weapon yards I suppose.”
James nodded.
“Have you seen them?” Varrick asked, “The ships, the guns, all of it? He sent me photos, but they are of poor quality, as to be expected.”
“Yes,” James confirmed, “It’s frighteningly magnificent.”
“Do we stand a chance?” Varrick asked.
James shrugged.
Varrick sighed.
Both of them stopped, listening to a ragged cawing on the wind. A raven came barreling out of the darkness, running full force into Varrick’s chest. He yelped, stepping back as the bird screeched and filled the air with feathers, claws skittering across his breastplate.
James chuckled, putting his arm out to give the panicking raven somewhere to land.
“Do they usually behave this wildly, Varrick?” He watched the bird pant wildly, eyes darting around.
It cawed and shrieked, hopping and holding its foot up to Varrick.
“No,” Varrick brushed himself of, eyes catching the Guild knights that had drawn close with the commotion, “They don’t.”
James took the rolled paper from the band on the bird’s leg.
Eyes combing the slip of parchment, he started to read out loud, eyebrows scrunched and concerned “Dear, Varrick. Offer all your tarnished gold, but it makes no difference. Your fortress build on the bones of the innocent crumbles before the masses, and your control wanes. As an example of such,” his already strained voice broke, his hands trembling wildly, “We’ve killed-” the letter crumbled at his fingers, his whole form shaking.
“We’ve killed who!? What does it say, James!?” Varrick demanded, reached for the paper.
“Bastard!” James swung, his fist slamming into the center of Varrick’s face, sending him stumbling backwards.
The raven took off screaming, circling them.
His back collided with the wall with a clang of his breastplate, blood spurting from his nose.
James drew his arm back again. Varrick kicked his shin, sending the boy to the ground. James scrabbled on top of him, clawing and screaming.
The knights were upon them, seizing the raving form of James. They drug him backwards, his teeth gnashing and feet flaying.
His voice peaked and fell away into a shrieking whisper, flinging the paper at Varrick, “It’s your fault! This is your fault you son of a-”
One of the knights smacked him on the side of the head, “Silence!”
Varrick brought a hand up to his nose, shocked and confused, blood dripping down his chin and across his chest. The knights dragged James down the stairs, the boy turning and spitting blood in one of their faces, to which they responded by hitting him again.
A guard ran up and offered Varrick his hand. He refused, standing on his own, freezing in James’s gaze as h
e was hauled away.
“Are you alright, Your Majesty?” the guard asked.
“I’m- I’m fine,” Varrick said dismissively.
“Would you like me to escort you to the infirmary?” the guard said.
“No, return to your post,” Varrick commanded.
“Yes, Sir,” the guard saluted, and turned back to his patrol.
Varrick bent down and picked up the crumpled letter. His hands shook just as James’s had, and he stepped back, a hand over his mouth. At the bottom was a strand of bloodied blonde hair and the cap off the end of one of Joseph’s swords.
He collapsed, the guard running back to him.
Chapter 18- Swallowing Pride with the Poison of Acceptance
The rest of the trek towards the Witchwood was fairly uneventful, if not a bit dull. I confessed to my experience with the door to Joseph, but not my dream.
He believed me about the door, but I still thought he was convinced that I was hallucinating parts of it. He accepted that I saw such things, he just thought it was only me that could perceive such things, the Journeyer being the main point in question, who continued to appear on the horizon and the edge of the woods throughout our travels.
He informed me, however, that if I listened to the letter again he would tie me to his saddle and carry me like a bandit agent.
Our modest group made the march in about a couple weeks, we numbered several people, but everyone having a mount helped.
Several times we encountered a guard patrol along the way, Ram and I hiding in the covered wagon. All the patrols but one moved along with Finn’s excuse of us being volunteer soldiers he was escorting to the front. The one that didn’t fully believe him wanted to check the wagon, and with Joseph’s display of the Guild’s lion, they were persuaded not to.
The only major setback we had was when the wagon broke a wheel in the mountain pass, but a local farmer helped repair it, and we were moving again within a day.
I tried to use a bow, the archer attempting to show me how, but he immediately took it back, confiscating it for ‘the greater good’ of the group. Joseph and a few others practiced sparing with me every night, refreshing me on the basics of wielding an axe, mace, and daggers along with my swords, which I continued to favor.
