Heaven Fall

by Leonard Petracci

  “Twenty-eight?” Aleman shouted as Draysky gave him the box and his son worked to tap the keg. “That’s all you could do? You had two weeks, and all you’re giving me is a lousy twenty eight? I’ll sell out of those in an hour!”

  “Been some hard days in the ridge,” said Draysky, settling on a stool as Aleman counted out the chits before him.

  “What’s the point of working so hard if you aren’t going to make a large profit off it? Hells, Draysky, this is only a handful more chits for you than usual. It practically comes out in the wash.”

  “Well if you want to hand over more, my palm is open,” suggested Draysky.

  “No, no, we had a deal, and you won’t be having a chit more from me. You know you’re already getting a bargain from me telling you about this, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I absolutely do. More than you know,” Draysky answered, and stood to leave as someone stumbled into him from behind. He turned, reaching a hand backward to help the man reach his balance, and instead found an arm draped around his shoulders, and the red face of Oliver only an inch from his nose. He swayed, the cup in his hand sloshing ale over Draysky’s coat, the smell teaming up with the thick scent of alcohol on his breath.

  “Y’know who this one is, Aleman? Y’know?” he slurred, pushing Draysky toward the tavern owner, as if displaying a prize. “This one is the reason we’re, the reason we’re celebrating! Emptied the ridge of crystal faster than we empty your kegs, ha! Speaking of which,” he turned, looking Draysky up and down, and focusing on his empty hands, shouted out to Aleman. “Pour this ridger a beer! On me, on me. You ever had a beer?”

  “I’m fine,” said Draysky, nodding to Aleman and stepping toward the door. But Oliver stepped in front of him, cutting him off.

  “I said a beer!” he said, his voice turning harsh. “Show some gratitude, won’t you? You’re welcome for leading you past quota! Aleman, pour it, pour it now!”

  Draysky’s eyes flicked toward Aleman, and the tavern Keeper shrugged, pouring Draysky one just past half full. Easy for him to finish quick, and to depart after a long swig.

  “Smart move, keeping that pour low! Give him too many and he might just try to fight me again. Raising those fists, right?” He play-boxed Draysky in the stomach and chest, and Draysky stiffened, ignoring him as he raised the glass to his lips and began to drain the glass. Oliver’s look soured as Draysky finished, and he raised his hands, shouting above the din and calling for quiet in the tavern.

  “Aye, aye! You know who this bastard is right here? This is the monster that scoured the peaks the last few days, leaving no crystal untouched! He’s the reason you’re holding those beers!”

  He raised his glass, the liquid sloshing, as the eyes in the room turned to Draysky. The Keepers laughed, leaning back in their cushioned chairs, raising their own cups and downing their glasses. Many smoked vaporweed using Draysky’s own lighters, while two of their dogs ran under the tables, eating the scraps of meat falling from unfinished plates and growling over a bone the size of Draysky’s forearm. In the corner, a hundred chits scattered around a table with stacks of cards, the men pausing a game with more at stake than a crew of ridgers would earn in a shift.

  “The Crystal King himself!” laughed the Keeper. “No, no, wait! The Scathing Skimmer! Yes, that’s it! This one is going to make us rich, eh? He deserves a tavern song!”

  Oliver turned back to Aleman, throwing chits onto the bar so they scattered on the ground.

  “Another round for everyone, in the name of the Scathing Skimmer!” he shouted, and the bar broke out in an uproar, as Draysky edged toward the other ridgers who had finished their drinks and were collecting their coats. “Pour one for everyone! Especially for you, Crystal King! Where do you think you’re going with empty hands? Don’t you want to celebrate? Don’t–”

  Then the door of the tavern slammed open, ricocheting off the wall as a blast of cold accompanied by snow flurries rushed through the bar.

  “Shut the damn door!” shouted a Keeper nearby, his chair screeching back as a figure rushed inside. Quiet rushed over the tavern as panicked screams pierced the night, followed by running footsteps. A figure dashed inside, shaking the snow from his head.

  “Ritebalds!” he screamed, and Draysky recognized him as the same Keeper that had come by his house on inspection. “Ritebalds attacking the outpost! At least six of them!”

  “Six?” questioned an older Keeper, a clay lock bouncing on his chest, “Six? They’ve never come in groups before. Who told you this?”

  “They are now! I saw them with my own eyes, I sensed them too! A pack of ice ones!”

  “Of ice? There shouldn’t be any ice south of... Those bastards,” swore the Keeper, followed by a string of other expletives. “Of course, the storm from the north. Must have swept them down here, given them something to latch onto. I need at least ten good men, the rest of you keep out of the way.”

  “We only have two spears!” said the Keeper in the doorway. “We didn’t expect ice. We only keep them as a last case precaution.”

  If the first string of curses out of the Keeper’s mouth were creative, the next were a masterful work of art. “To arms! To arms! Every Keeper we have, move or I’ll feed you to the ritebald myself! Someone fetch Weris, we’ll need him!”

  Chaos followed. Some Keepers running to each of the three tavern doors, others hopping on one foot as they laced up boots by the fire, and the drunkards stumbling about the room as they picked groups to follow. Oliver pulled on his white glove and whipped around, stumbling over the stool behind him and crashing to the floor in a flailing mess of limbs. His gloved knuckles struck one of the stool legs and it shattered, trailing smoke as splinters embedded themselves six inches into the thatching on the roof. Draysky backed away just as Oliver’s fist slammed into where his foot had been a moment before, a blinding flash emanating from the runes on his wrist line. When Draysky’s vision cleared, the stone floor had cracked in a spiderweb from the impact, and Oliver had finally made his way to his feet. At the other end of the room, there was a crack as one Keeper fumbled with a ring, dropping it to the stone floor where six different rocks fused together, the ring sinking halfway into one of them as the molten layers between them cooled.

  “Behind the bar, boy! Behind the bar!” shouted Aleman, wrenching Draysky back and over the countertop by his armpits, succeeding in only bending him backward over the ledge. Draysky rolled the rest of the way, sweeping two mugs with his foot that smashed into the wall and their pieces clattered to the floor. Aleman pulled him down, where they crouched in a puddle of beer, the racket inside increasing as the Keepers cleared away, their stack of cards flying above Draysky’s head and fluttering down to the ground.

  “Blasted idiots, I tell them not to bring weapons into the tavern. Like getting a group of lads drunk for their first time while they’re holding loaded crossbows,” Aleman said.

  From the other side of the bar, the Keepers finally found their way to the exits, the last scrabbling out and leaving the door ajar. As Draysky stood, a single body moaned on the floor, his hand on his head where blood spurted out of a long scrape from contact with the table’s edge. Draysky leapt over the table, sprinting toward the door, Aleman shouting after him.

  “Boy! Where are you going? Ritebalds are out there!”

  “And so is my home!” Draysky yelled back, bolting through the door.

  The outpost spent the night with doors locked and windows barred, the ridgers waiting with pickaxes in hand, their families huddled together behind rows of furniture. More than one wife carried a frying pan in defense, and more than one young son or daughter held a bucket of hot coals. After they heard the battle, not a soul slept, for though it only lasted five minutes, the blasts shook their homes, and the pillars of flame rose in the distance, paired with the coordinated shouts of attacking Keepers.

  Indeed, had dawn never arrived, the Keepers would have found a newfound respect among the ridgers, for here they had fulfill
ed their end of the bargain. But when the sun crested the horizon, and light filled the outpost, so too did the whispers of what had really happened the night before. Aleman denied spreading them, but the Keepers had returned to his tavern in the middle of the night, fuming as they drunkenly recounted the story. It was so loud that anyone could have heard them, Aleman said, but the tavern Keeper sold as much gossip as he sold beer. And Draysky heard it from his own lips when he visited the next day, returning the lighter box which had been left at the tavern.

  “So the Keepers arrive in force, all stealthy like, or as stealthy as they could be, after those drinks. More like a pack of braying dogs if you ask me, they couldn’t sneak up on my dead and deaf grandfather.” Aleman leaned in, checking for Keepers on his left and right as he whispered to Draysky on his porch, then continued. “See, they had all their rune weapons with them. Those that didn’t go off in the tavern of course, it’s going to take me a week to finish repairs there. One of them managed to blast a tabletop through the roof, can you believe that? But anyway, they’ve got their weapons, and they’re being led by the most experienced among them, Shopkeeper Weris. They ransacked his shop beforehand, too, emptied it of supplies for their fight. Probably pissing their pants, who wouldn’t be at the sight of six ritebalds?

  “Either way, somehow the ritebalds don’t hear them, and they get up real close, only a stone’s throw away. They can see them in the trees, monstrous figures, at least ten feet tall each! Skin of stone, and mean. So mean, they sent a Keeper back to my tavern in case they all died, and he could carry the message to the kingdom. He’s the one that told me this—swore he could see their eyes glowing in the darkness. That when they walked, the trees would shake, and their growling was as ominous as the howling storm wind! Swore he could feel their chill from a thousand paces away. Ice ritebalds, these are, you see.

  “So the Keepers make their plan. There’s a standoff, neither them moving nor the ritebalds. They take all their fancy weapons and fan out in a semicircle around the ritebalds, like shadows in the night. Then Weris gives the command, and they fire, throwing everything they can at these ritebalds, trying to destroy them before the fight even begins! Apparently, it melted the snow in a hundred-foot radius. The patch of trees there is no more, all charred up and fallen. The shale is all pebbles, too, so hard did they hit the spot. Which is all well and good, but here’s the kicker, boy. Here’s the insanity, the wildest part after they destroyed the ritebalds.”

  “Yes?” Draysky asked, leaning in, enjoying the excited expression on Aleman’s face as he checked again for any Keepers in the area, then burst into laughter.

  “There were no ritebalds at all! Just some piles of rocks, stacked all up to look like 'em in the dark, and their faces painted up! Went and saw them this morning afterward—it’s like the Keepers went to war with the shale itself! Can you believe that?”

  “No way!” Draysky chuckled, Aila gasped alongside him. “There’s no way that could happen, why would someone want to fake a ritebald?”

  “No idea. Probably some Keeper playing a trick on the rest of them after he was good and drunk, if you ask me. But if they find out which one, they’ll skin him alive. Shopkeeper Weris is furious, apparently giving out a five hundred iron chit reward to anyone who turns him in.”

  “Five hundred iron chits? Aleman, did you see anything? Do you have any idea who it is? That’s a fortune!”

  “Oh, I have my ideas, boy,” Aleman said, leaning back knowingly. “But you listen to me here. This is Keeper business. Wouldn’t want to get involved if it were ten times that many chits!”

  Draysky frowned, and Aleman shook his head.

  “You stay on out of it, boy. Not worth it. Not worth it at all. I’m just as disappointed as you, though. None of your lighters sold, and I only made a quarter of what I expected on beer. Damn bad fortune for us, that’s for sure. ‘Spose it’s a good thing you didn’t get around to making all those extra lighters then, even if you did break your back on that mountain.”

  “Suppose it is,” said Draysky, as Aleman set the box down and departed. He stared after him, past him, in the direction of the Keepers' store. Every Keeper had been called to action, especially Shopkeeper Werin, since he was most experienced, and brought with him the spears from the store’s back rack. So much haste was he in, that he never locked the door behind him, leaving the typically guarded and sealed entranceway ajar. And when he returned, it was to a dozen other Keepers bringing their rune-worked objects back to the storeroom. So flustered was he in shouting them away, and so angry was he at the ritebald deception, that he never noticed a slight anomaly in the confusion.

  That several rune-worked items from his shelves were missing. Nothing that would draw much attention, and each of them small.

  Small enough that they fit in the hollow of Draysky’s workbench, where he typically kept his lighter making tools.

  Chapter 28: Draysky

  The plan had been Aila’s idea, after their grandmother discovered the rune on Draysky’s axe.

  There was a shriek while Draysky was stacking the load of firewood from the Keepers' store, and he rushed inside, spotting his grandmother backing away against the wall.

  “Who cursed you?” she demanded, pointing at the rune on the axe head. “Be rid of it, immediately. Out of the house!”

  “I bought it at the store, grandma. It’s supposed to last longer than the other ones, and I had to pay extra for that.”

  “Don’t you lie to me, child. No Keeper would make a rune like this, from raydrop on stone. Do you take me for a fool? Where did you find this, huh? Who did you anger enough for a death wish? Raydrop on stone, the idiocy.”

  “Idiocy? I’ve been using that for weeks and there’s barely a scratch on it. It’s as if it were made out of a completely different type of metal.”

  “Who made it so I can whip them with my own belt?”

  “Me. I drew it, and I’m happy with it!” Draysky said, and his grandmother gasped.

  “Where did you learn that rune? Thank the heavens that you never used that on a lighter, there would be Keepers running around with their faces burned off.”

  “You knew this rune, then?” Draysky demanded. “Why didn’t you tell us about it then? We could have used this on all of father’s axes! Do you know how much money we could have saved?”

  “First, because of abominations like that,” she pointed back to the pickaxe. “I am no expert in runes, child. What I know is rudimentary at best, but if there is a lesson I do know, is that you do not go mixing different materials on a whim. You’re lucky that it worked like you expected. Quite lucky! When I was your age, one of my needles that I made heated up so much that it nearly burned straight through a patient.”

  “So you meddled with them too, then? You have no right to be angry. If you never taught me them, it’s not my fault I tried something. And it did work.”

  “Yes, I meddled with them. But I learned, child, not to do it again. To stick to what I know.” His grandmother sighed, closing her eyes and rubbing her fingers on the bags underneath them. Then she gestured to the furnace and sat in her chair beside it, her hands resting on her knobby knees, indicating for Draysky and Aila to join her. When they settled into place, it was as if they had leapt backward in time by ten years. It was like she was about to tell them her fables once more, her haunted tales and warnings before she brought them to bed.

  “Tea, Draysky. If we’re to have this discussion, heavens know I’ll need it. I am old, and these memories are among some of my oldest.”

  Once she was sipping on a cup, the brew steaming, she began, her eyes unfocused, as if staring into her own past.

  “It was not always that we lived at the outpost. This outpost is old, but not as old as you may think. A hundred years, perhaps? But no more than that, for my own grandmother was one of the first to arrive here from the kingdom. It was all shale back then. No one would be so foolhardy as to live so close to the Kriskian Mountains, and your
ancestors did with it what they could. They built the outpost and developed ridging, for it was either that, or die.”

  “Why wouldn’t they just go back to the kingdom? Why did they even come here in the first place, if it’s so much worse than everywhere else?” Aila asked.

  “Oh daughter, they did not choose to come here. No, quite the opposite, they were exiled. It was this, or death—to live under the law of the Keepers or face the gallows. Ah, we were stronger folk back then. I still remember the Keepers that they used to send to keep us in order. Nothing like the ones today, pah! No, there were those that could split the earth with a shake of their finger, or call down lightning from the heavens. The Keepers were wardens, daughter, making sure that the orders were followed. To ridge, and nothing more.

  “My grandmother did not agree with that order. Back then, to use runes among the ridgers was death. A single one of your lighters would have had our entire family hanged, Draysky. The knowledge was forbidden—not just using it, but merely knowing it. There were those who were killed simply because they possessed it. They had traveled all the way to these outer reaches just to have an accident befall them. Those that were skilled and passionate, dying from a collapsing rooftop, or from a storm that struck their home with lightning. It’s no coincidence that the Keepers could call lightning down, and without supplies, our own magics were nearly worthless. The Keepers overlooked her, my grandmother. She never let on how much she knew, that she had studied at the universities in her youth and abandoned the arts to care for her children. Among the best, she had been. But when the tide started to change, she read the signs earlier than anyone else. And she hid her talents.”