by Ember Lane
Stobart laughed. “Oh, they existed alright. They just weren’t made up of folk like you and me. They were made up of constructs like Quaiyl. That is what I am saying. Each lord produced hundreds and thousands of construct swordsmen, halberdiers, pikemen, bowmen, and cavalry. Their farms and forests produced the matter that made them but never affected the land. Their quarries chiseled the stone that filled their trebuchets. They waged war, Frank, terrible, vicious war, but the price of that war was tempered with acceptable costs. The constructs meant nothing to them. Dominance over their fellow lord, however, meant everything.”
“So, you’re saying…” Frank trailed off scratching his head.
Merl wasn’t sure what Stobart was saying, either. Even Desmelda was silent. If she’d had a clue, she’d have definitely said something, so it stood to reason she was befuddled too.
“He’s saying they were like stray dogs with fleas,” Billy said, and Merl was sure Billy had missed the point entirely.
“What?” Stobart shrieked, as if he was offended by Billy’s words, or mad, there was that possibility too. The single word pierced Merl’s ears like an ax striking a frozen lake.
“Well,” Billy continued, clearly intent on ruining the intelligent conversation. “A stray dog is no trouble, and whether it’s got fleas or not don’t bother no one. Now, imagine another stray dog comin’ along, and it’s got fleas too.”
“Billy!” Frank growled. “Don’t think it’s like stray dogs.”
“Hold yer pants up, Frank. I’m getting’ t’me point. Now, the two dogs wanna fight, but instead of barkin’ and yappin’ at each other, they send the fleas in, and they battle. Last flea standin’ wins.”
All eyes had fallen on Billy, who finished his diatribe and then shrunk back as if his confidence had fled with his words.
“Curiously close,” Stobart said, calm once more. “A long way away, yet curiously close at the same time.”
Stobart fell silent. Merl wondered if it was the first time anyone had contemplated Billy Muckspreader’s words.
“Constructs,” Frank said. “So, how do they work?”
“Fleas,” Billy mumbled.
Stobart grunted. He stood and reached out toward Quaiyl, but at the same time appeared to keep an exact distance away as if he knew the threat that Quaiyl concealed. “I believe each building had its own allocation of constructs. So, a level-one cottage would have, say, ten, and each of those could either build or perform a function. They could work a smithy, join the lord’s army, or make weapons in the siege workshop. That sort of thing.”
Desmelda cleared her throat. “How did you make constructs, then. If you haven’t made the cottage, how have you got the constructs?”
Stobart beamed from ear to ear. “Let me show you,” he said, and pulled a big chest out from a row of five all sat against the dwelling’s front wall. Its iron bands had rusted, and its leather straps had withered and frayed. The wood was part rotted and stained black like it had been soaked for an age. Opening it up, he pulled out a green brick and a brown brick. “These,” he whispered, glaring around, “these are resources. The green one is food, and the brown one is lumber. These are the building blocks the lords used.” He shut the chest and placed each brick on its aged lid. “Each of these equates to one thousand units. Now, the construct plowing the farm cost me twenty units of each to build, so just imagine the army you could build with a crate full of these bricks.”
Merl dashed over and knelt by Stobart’s side. “Where did you get these?” he asked, wide eyed and filled with wonder. The bricks looked plan, dull and uninteresting, but to Merl they were so much more than they appeared to be. He felt a draw to them. They were familiar.
“There are five crates. Four have resources in them. There was a shipwreck, a bloody shipwreck. It’s what started everything for me. I saw the chests being sold in Arrangale Market and was drawn to them instantly—a little like you seem to be, Merl. The chests were soaked, and the bricks were… just bricks. No one knew what they were, but here’s the thing. When I gossiped some, I learned the broken ship had been washed into the shallows, and then it had vanished. Only a few tumbled chests remained, and no one had a clue what to do with them. It wasn’t the treasure they’d expected. It was no chest full of rubies and pearls. So, I brought the lot and came up here, determined to unravel their secret, and that’s where my journey started.”
Merl scratched his head. He’d forgotten something. But then he remembered “But you made the guardians—Baldrock told me—so you can make more than just a construct that plows a field over and over.”
Stobart clicked his fingers and pointed at Merl. “That I did. I was wonderin’ if you’d spot my conundrum. But before I explain, let me ask Frank a question.”
Frank had been unusually quiet. Now that Stobart’s attention fell on him, he shifted uneasily. “Question?”
“When you make your level-one hut. How do you do it?”
Frank mulled. He scratched at his chin. “I just point, and it appears. Don’t rightly know how.”
“Bit like this?” Stobart said, and he pointed at the floor just in front of his boots. A silver column appeared. It rose around five feet high and sparkled before fading and leaving a green construct behind. “You think I can explain what happens?” Stobart pointed at the bricks. A tiny crumb was missing from the green one. “See, there’s the price I have to pay, and that construction is twenty units of food. What’s yours?”
Frank walked up to the construct. He crouched by it. “I don’t pay a price. Every time I destroy it, the blocks go back in a thing called my inventory. Not rightly sure how it all works.”
Billy started laughing. “You dimwit, Stobart. You’ve got it all wrong.”
“What?”
“That’s a farmin’ construct. It’s green. Crimson one outside’s probably a soldier.”
The blood drained from Stobart’s face. He picked the green figure up and raced outside. Merl and Billy ran after him. They ran to the field and Stobart pointed at the plowing construct.
“Grab that one, Billy. Let’s swap them over.”
Frank sat next to Stobart. The stoop was bathed in moonlight. Merl and Billy sat with Gloomy Joe by their feet. Quaiyl stood a yard away from Merl. Desmelda trod up and down, wearing a furrow in the grass. “It’s farming. I can’t believe it’s farming. Are you telling me that it’ll just keep farming and that producing these?” She held up a brand-new green brick. “What the heck are you going to do with them all?”
It was a conundrum, Merl thought. Rather that produce actual food, the farm just grew the green bricks. Well, grew wasn’t quite right. The construct ploughed the field. Then it went back to its starting point and sowed some seed. By the time it had finished doing that, the first seeds it had sown had already grown to mature plants. So, the construct returned back to its starting point, then began harvesting, and that was when the green bricks appeared. The construct would finish cropping and start plowing again. It didn’t stop.
“Do with them? I can just keep producing constructs,” Stobart said and shrugged. “Problem is, the bricks are no good to man nor beast. And it looks like one in four are soldiers, yet I haven’t got any weapons for them. It’s a conundrum. It surely is.”
“You never told me about the guardian,” Merl said. “You never told me how comes they were so different.”
“That’s because I never told you about the fifth chest. When I opened the fifth chest—”
Gloomy Joe started barking and growling. Merl heard a distant twang. Frank jumped up, spinning around. “Back! Get back in the—”
A thud was followed rapidly by another. Merl heard Stobart grunt. Blood erupted from the man’s mouth, he burped, he vomited, and then he slumped forward. An arrow pinned him to his chair. Frank grabbed Merl by the scruff of his tunic and threw him into Stobart’s cottage. Billy bundled through after, then Desmelda, Gloomy Joe, and Quaiyl. Frank slammed its door shut.
“Stobart!” Merl s
creamed.
“He’s dead,” Frank said as Scaramanza appeared in his hand.
Desmelda edged around a side window. “Soldiers. Too many,” she said simply.
“Backdoor?” Frank asked.
Billy darted into the side room. “Yup!”
“Let’s go,” Frank said. He collected some of the blocks, stowing them in his ring. Then he hesitated, and darted over to the chests, touching each in turn and sending it into his magical ring. Frank kicked at the fire, pulling its flaming logs out and setting them by the chairs. “Go! Go, go, go!” He darted back to the window and kicked out its sole glass pane. A flash of his green magic spewed from his hand. “Go!” he repeated.
Billy grabbed Merl. Merl was stunned. He wasn’t sure what had just happened. One moment they’d been on the stoop chatting. The next it had all gone tits up—again.
“What’s happening?” he screamed as Billy dragged him into the backroom and out into the night.
He heard shouts and cries—the thunder of hooves. His confusion fled as fear took its place. Billy ran toward the rough pasture. Everything glinted silver with the night. Arrows zipped through the air behind them, thudding into the cottage. Three blazing figures ran around in panicked circles, and Merl realized Frank had set the constructs alight. Frank and Desmelda emerged from the cottage. Gloomy Joe was right behind. Billy hurdled the long grass, dropping into a shallow gully and grouching down as he legged it away. Merl jumped in after him, his boots splashing in silver water. Gloomy Joe and Quaiyl caught up with him.
“Ask it,” Billy hissed. “Ask the bloody thing t’save us.”
“Safety,” Merl hissed at Quaiyl, instantly understanding what Billy wanted. “Get us all to safety.”
Quaiyl overtook Billy, running along the ditch. Merl chanced a look back to see the cottage afire. The blazing constructs had fallen now, their flames slowly dying out. Cavalry circled. Their horses whinnied. Barked orders rang out. A shout of glee rose in the now chill night.
“They’ve spotted us,” Desmelda shouted. “I’ll hold them up.”
“No!” Frank barked. “We run until they catch us, then we fight. We have to separate the horses from the bowmen”
Billy thundered on as Frank grabbed Desmelda and forced her to follow. Quaiyl climbed free of the ditch and carved a diagonal line toward the distant mountains. Billy broke cover, then Merl and Gloomy. The cavalrymen yelped with glee as their prey revealed itself. Their voices were filled with the salivation of the eager hunter. Arrows pounded into the thick grass. All fell short as if The Origin had judged its movements to the very inch.
They raced toward the black mountains, mere silhouettes against an obsidian background. The ground steepened. Merl’s calves screamed in pain. His breaths became heavy as thick, sodden earth sucked at his boots. Pounding hooves closed. Frank drew aside him and handed Merl his cleaver. Billy grabbed out and took his stupid elfen sword, and Scaramanza bathed in the moonlight, clearly eager for Alarian crimson to stain it.
Quaiyl led them into a small valley. Shingle peppered its grassy base. Small bursts of brambles surrounded the glistening slate shelves that edged its sides. The construct stopped fifty yards in and just stood in its center. It turned and faced back. Frank skidded to a halt right by it.
“Desmelda! Up there. Hit them, trip them, trap them, anything. Billy, you and me farthest forward. I’ll take this side, and you take the other. Merl, stick behind Quaiyl. Don’t hinder him. Let him protect you. Trust me. And keep Gloomy safe!” Frank winked.
“But—” Merl made to say.
“No buts. Quaiyl’ll fight like a demon to protect you. I have a feeling he’ll kill more than you ever will. Go! All of you. Positions!”
Merl darted behind the construct. He called Gloomy Joe to his side. Billy scrambled up the vale’s side. He jumped onto a rock and crouched. Frank and Desmelda had vanished. Somehow, in all the mayhem, with the thunder of hooves getting ever closer, silence fell.
It was the noisiest silence Merl had ever known.
The cavalrymen screamed in glee as they entered the small valley. Their swords flashed brilliant in the moonlight. A gout of crimson magic flared, and the first toppled as Desmelda’s thorns burst up from the vale’s floor. The next crashed into it, but then the others flowed around the writhing tangle. Frank bellowed and dove for one, taking the bastard clean off his horse. Billy yelled his lungs dry, jumping his target and slashing down with an arm-cleaving swipe.
Fear gripped Merl. It was born of inaction, of standing and waiting. The first cavalryman thundered down on him, but Quaiyl had other ideas. The construct darted forward, snapping the horse’s neck with its arms as it pivoted its feet up and wrapped its legs around the cavalryman. The rider was swept from his mount as the horse’s forelegs buckled and its dead body plowed a furrow toward Merl. The construct sprang up and tackled the next rider seamlessly. It moved from one to the next, killing with clinical efficiency. Frank decapitated another, as Billy finished off his first. Merl tugged Gloomy Joe aside, searching out a perch to spring from and help, but he couldn’t rip his eyes from Quaiyl. The construct was carnage. That should have been his name, his moniker, not Origin. Death defined the construct. By the time Merl was set, the battle was done. For a brief moment Quaiyl stood among the bodies, but then he moved forward, up the vale, and waited for Merl.
Merl sheepishly joined him. He felt tainted by his inaction, more used to being a zombay killer same as everyone else. Frank was leaning on Scaramanza and catching his breath, but he soon understood Quaiyl’s intent.
“It doesn’t think we’re safe yet,” Merl shouted.
Frank grabbed Billy, helping him to his feet. “Okay?”
“Prefer bashin’ zombays,” Billy said. “That chainmail’s a bugger t’get through.”
Billy was holding his side and limping badly. Desmelda darted down the hill. A flash of magic rippled over Billy.
“That should stem the blood flow until we can stop,” she hissed. “Any injuries, Frank?”
“Think I got away with it. They were slow—far too much armor. They were way too slow.” Frank drifted away from his words as if older memories were haunting him.
Merl couldn’t believe his ears. The battle had been an avalanche of flesh and destruction. It had been swift and brutal like a mountain storm. Yet Frank said it was slow? Merl wondered at Frank’s cloaked past, and not for the first time.
Quaiyl started forward, trotting up the valley while seemingly immune from what had just passed. Behind, the panicked bark of an Alarian soldier cracked across the night, followed by a harsher cry, an order to advance. They weren’t done fighting yet. Stobart’s burning cottage cast an apocalyptic look across the valley. Glowing embers rose in a swirling column and illuminated the advancing column. Glints of silver hinted at halberds held high. Merl shivered. Devastation filled his heart. Stobart had gone and taken his precious knowledge with him. He hadn’t explained Guardian, nor Quaiyl. Was the construct really made from bits of colored brick? It seemed ridiculous to lump Quaiyl and Guardian in the same category as a green-colored farming construct. It seemed ridiculous to imagine them plowing fields over and over.
They came to the head of the little valley. Quaiyl scaled its rocky end. The glistening slates provided an efficient, easy way that Merl and the others could follow, but their improved elevation only served to expose them to the advancing enemy. The slope ended in a brief shelf as if the hill had rested before resuming its climb to the stars. For the first time in their journey, the bright moon was their enemy. Merl let out a relieved breath as the construct vanished into a fissure in the rock. They had bested a few cavalry, but he didn’t fancy his chances against a column of infantry and bowmen. He skulked in quickly, ducking all the way as he waited for an arrow to rip into his back. Merl felt his way forward. The black of the cave was all consuming.
“Merl?” Billy’s hissed voice echoed out.
“I’m here, Billy,” Merl whispered back as he grabbed B
illy and pulled him into the dark. “Right next to you.”
“Can’t see a soddin’ thing. Can I?” Billy was breathing hard. Merl knew the fire of the fight hadn’t left him yet.
“Dark as dune cat’s burrow. How’s the hole in yer side?”
“Throbbin’ like a drunk’s noggin while he’s a’waitin’ an ale. Where the constructing thing gone?” Billy asked.
“Shall I conjure some light?” Desmelda asked “I could look at it.”
“Get farther in,” Frank said. “Let’s get out of sight.”
“I can’t see a buggerin’ thing. How outta sight can it get?” Billy spat.
Merl fumbled in front of him. The fissure was so tight his elbows kept hitting its walls. He grasped something round and cool to the touch. It was slightly oily, like grease. “I think I’ve got ‘old of Quaiyl’s bonce.” His hands slipped off as Quaiyl stepped forward. “He’s gone again.” Merl said, feeling around. “I can’t carry on. There might be a bloody great hole in front of me fer all I know,” Merl sighed.
Fortunately, Quaiyl clearly understood Merl’s words and a tiny glow appeared. It started as small, silver sparks like static, and then grew to the faintest of shining auras. It brushed the fissure’s close sides and spread in a small circle around Quaiyl’s feet. Merl breathed a sigh of relief at seeing the construct, but then the walls of the tiny crack closed in on him. The cave they were in was no more than a fault in the rock. It delved farther forward but looked as if it could slam shut at any time.
“Bit… narrow,” Billy said, and Merl turned and saw Billy’s shoulders nigh touched the fissure’s sides.
Quaiyl continued in, weaving along the rock slit. Merl twisted and turned, bending and angling his body as they delved deeper into the mountain’s side. Fear gripped Merl’s very being. He was sure he could hear the mountain groan. If it were living and breathing, one rocky sigh, one fatigued slump, would see them undone.
