by Jay Swanson
EIGHT
ARDIN AND THE FISHERMAN STOOD ON THE CLIFFS OVERLOOKING THE PENINSULA. The city had sat empty for a few months now and showed the signs of neglect. The sun glistened off the snow that had piled high on most of the buildings. A number of roofs had collapsed under the oppressive weight of their transient blankets. The place experienced the extremes of weather and little in between.
Ardin wrapped his cloak about himself more tightly to ward off the cold. His muscles had tightened more from apprehension than the chill. He did not want to go down there. This was where it all began. This was where Levanton died.
“This was my home once,” the Fisherman said as if to remind himself. He looked down at Ardin and smiled thinly. “I left when I was just a bit older than you, to follow the Magi over the sea and fight for them in the Continental War.”
The old man sighed as he looked down on his city, hardly recognizing it from its humble beginnings. He hadn't been here in a long time.
“Why are we here?” Ardin asked finally. “No one's even down there.”
“Aye lad, outside a few brave or ignorant squatters,” he said as he started for the jagged path down the cliff. “'N that's the point.”
They talked sporadically as they made their descent. Ardin's uncertainty in their chosen path balanced out with a growing trust in the Fisherman. He seemed to know exactly where they were going. And since Ardin didn't have the first tingle of an idea forming as to what they should do, he followed dutifully.
The Fisherman told him how the Peninsula had never claimed a name for itself. It had started as a group of fishermen who simply wanted to be their own masters and make their own way. After a time they had banded together to trade with the City States. Eventually they had proved the most adept in the world at their line of work.
Of course with success comes money, and with money comes more business, said the Fisherman. A road was paved from the Peninsula that ran to the two nearest city states: Brenton and Elandir. Levanton had grown considerably thanks to that road, he told Ardin. The difference it made had been dramatic for everyone.
Many of the fishermen detested the growth of their outpost into a full-blown city, and resented the land lovers for it all the more. When the Magi had raised the cliffs and destroyed the road, they had been among the few grateful for the results. Trade shifted back under their control, strictly on the sea, and they had enjoyed a restored sense of isolation.
“Did you miss it?” Ardin asked. “Your home?”
“Nah, lad.” The Fisherman grunted as he thought about it. “Not 'til I couldn't return to it. The Old Guard were banished from the Twelve City States. I could'a tried to seek refuge here, but it would've ended badly for everyone involved.”
“Why would it have mattered? Would your own family have turned you out like that?” Ardin jogged briefly in the snow to catch up to the Fisherman. The old man was making his way through the broken gates of the city.
“No,” he replied over his shoulder. “They would've defended me, and I couldn't have that.”
“That's what family is for though! To protect each other.” His voice dropped out as he said it. He had failed in that very task, even after his father had charged him with it.
“Aye lad, protectin' 'em is what I did by disappearin'.”
They continued into the city, crossing a bridge over one of the channels that ran along the streets. Ardin marveled at the place. It seemed like it was designed as much for small boats to navigate the streets as it was for carts or trucks. He imagined men navigating the waterways with long sticks or small motors mounted on the ends of their boats.
They crossed another bridge and walked through a square where Ardin stopped. A giant statue stood at the center, armored and larger than life. It held a massive sword, the blade cradled on the thick armor over its shoulder. It towered over him, much like the Fisherman. All he could make out on its base were the words “Cid the Cleaver” and beneath it “Captain – Old Guard.” The rest had been rubbed out or eroded with time. Its head looked like it had been burned clean off.
“Is that...”
“Aye lad, c'mon.”
“They built a statue for you here?”
“It was their way of showin' solidarity, lad. Their way of havin' me home and rebellin' against the will o' the land lovin' Elandrians.”
Ardin kept walking but trailed behind, a new sense of wonder inspired in him by this mysterious figure lumbering ahead. He had thought the armor and weapons strange until now. They fit the Fisherman better in that moment than he would have ever imagined they could fit anyone.
They marched on through the snow, each step crunching loudly in the silence of the dead city. Ardin wanted to ask the Fisherman more about the Peninsula, about the Old Guard, the wars, but found his tongue stuck in his mouth. He suddenly felt like he was in the presence of someone famous; someone who didn't have time for boys and their trivial questions.
Instead he looked around at the buildings. Their hollow and gaping windows were dark and ominous in the bright light of the day. This was what Charsi had done to start it all. This city was where his family died. If not for the Peninsula, he would still have Levanton. Still have his parents. Still have John. But like the Fisherman, his home had been annihilated; he no longer had a place to return to.
The sadness of the realization was compounded with a question that broke into his thoughts. Was he capable of this? He had her power now; he carried her legacy. She couldn't influence him any more... or could she? He closed his eyes and tried to push the possibility from his thoughts. But all it did was bring images of the asylum to the forefront of his mind.
He gasped audibly for air as if he'd been holding his breath, and opened his eyes. He had stopped walking. The Fisherman's solitary footprints led to where he had stopped to wait for Ardin. Curious concern rested on his brow as he watched Ardin catch his breath.
“You alright then, lad?”
“Yeah,” Ardin took a deep breath. “I'm fine.”
The Fisherman doubled back and put a hand on Ardin's shoulder. He waited until the boy's eyes met his own.
“You won't turn out like this, lad. I promise ya that. I'm here to watch ya, and to teach ya what I can. But most important, I'm here to protect ya from yer enemies. Even from yerself. You won't turn out like Charsi. I won't let ya.”
With that he turned to continue walking. Ardin, whose raw heart felt broken in a dozen places, hoped with everything he had in him that the old man was right.
Ardin warmed himself on the pier by a fire he had made from a stack of empty crates. They had managed to find a storehouse full of canned goods and had eaten well for the first time in a week. The Fisherman told him not to go wandering into any houses. He was certain that rot and disease would have found its way into them by now. Ardin figured the cold should protect them, but he listened to the old man anyways.
He waited as the Fisherman worked on finding a seaworthy boat at the end of the nearby dock. He grunted and moaned about the condition the vessels had been left in. Then he went to work on the only one he said was even worthy to be called a boat anymore. To Ardin it looked like a floating box with one rounded end, above which stood another box that made the whole thing look off-balance. It had no mast, like many of the boats around it. It hardly even had portholes in it, as the only real windows he could see were in the small bridge at the very top of the thing. The rest just looked like small holes.
Ardin chewed on a dried piece of fruit, wondering what it had been in its former, hydrated life. The distraction was brief, however much he enjoyed the fruit. The thoughts of the morning had yet to leave him; the Fisherman's words of comfort had only a fleeting effect. He was capable of this. Capable of laying an entire city to waste. He knew it. He sighed as he finished off the fruit. At least he wasn't hungry any more. A hesitant smile crept at the corner of his mouth; things could be worse.
“Oi lad! C'mere!”
Ardin got up and walked down the dock
to find the Fisherman grinning and holding a large coil of rope in his hands.
“Hold this, lad.”
He tossed it to Ardin, who stumbled under its weight.
“Almost have her finished.”
“What do I do with this?” he asked under the strain of his charge.
“That? Nothin'. Just wanted to get it off me own moorin' line!” The Fisherman laughed as he disappeared into the ship, leaving Ardin to drop the rope on the dock in a brief moment of frustration. “Go get those supplies then, lad,” the booming voice said from deep in the ship. “We'll need lots o' food for this trip!”
The boat itself was a fishing vessel that had once been used to dredge the bottom for crab. Not terribly large, but sturdy. To Ardin the long arms that jutted out and back from the deck made it look much less stable than he hoped it was. It stood about fifteen feet above the water, though Ardin couldn't tell how deep it ran. He guessed it was forty feet long, but it was hard to be certain where you were supposed to measure from. The Fisherman had said it had a generous amount of space on board for up to eight crew members. Ardin wondered how cramped the space offered in a less generous boat must be.
Ardin trudged back to the pile of boxes he had packed all afternoon, the brief moment of contentment lost on him already. His chest felt tight. The future was always uncertain, but now the only certainties were unpleasant. Deadly even. Something loomed dark on the horizon, and he was certain it wasn't just his jaded attitude.
The light was fading early in the winter sky as he stood over the first box. The idea came to him to move them all down the dock like he had moved the blocks onto the wall at White Shores. But the thought of using his power in this place made his skin crawl. He looked up at the snowy landscape. The dark windows of the lifeless buildings stared back at him, wishing vengeance on the seal he bore. It would almost seem an insult to use the very power that left the place desolate. So instead he bent over, picked up the first box of food, and walked back towards the waiting vessel.
It took him ten trips. He had been told to pack a lot more food than he thought truly necessary, but he didn't want to argue. Even less since he had seen the statue of his companion in the square. The question of who the man really was surfaced frequently in his mind.
He had just finished putting everything on board and in the small kitchen beneath the main deck when the Fisherman started the engines. The whole thing creaked and groaned as if waking from the dead. In a way, Ardin thought, it was. The loud, chugging noise felt like a violation of the cold silence around them.
They pulled out of their berth slowly, trying not to bump against the sailboat next to them or the end of the T-shaped dock on the other side. The Fisherman's talent proved ample, and Ardin watched him put decades of practice to use. They moved steadily into their lane and out into the harbor without so much as a jostle.
His face must have shown how impressed he was because the old man laughed when he looked at him. The Fisherman simply said he loved the open sea more than anything in life. He looked all the more comfortable now that he was back in his dingy gray rain gear and broad canvas hat.
They pulled out into the choppy northern waters, leaving the safety of the harbor behind as they rounded the northern tip of the Peninsula and passed the western port. Ardin felt like he was going to get tossed off his feet at any moment. He steadied himself on the railing running along the inside of the bridge.
“I hope you're ready for some rough seas lad.” The Fisherman laughed his belly laugh. “This is gonna be one hell of a ride!”
LISCENTIA, THE FOOL'S GATE. It sat among rolling hills hidden in the middle of the Lorendian Desert. A few hundred miles south of Elandir and another hundred east of the coast. Liscentia billed itself as the world's center for pleasure. It had once been a center for research and education.
The Shadow King regarded it as the center of idiocy.
The few villages and smaller cities that fell under the protection of the city state paid for their protector's lusts in lawlessness and corruption. Few members of the Twelve City States would argue that it had fallen the farthest since the Magi had left to fight their war across the sea a generation before.
There was little that was considered illegal within her limits. Even what was considered illegal was rarely dealt with unless it stepped on the toes of some official or member of the upper class. It was often said if you wanted anyone killed, Liscentia was the place to get it done. And it was never said in jest.
The Shadow King was not here for pleasure, however. He was here for help, from the last reasonable source to which he could think to turn. This far south the weather was chilly, temperate even, though much of the desert had been freezing. He wouldn't have minded some snow. Especially now that it was raining.
The bright lights of the city's brothels and casinos blazed in the hazy blur above her low walls, breaking through the torrential downpour as he came over the ridge of a nearby hill.
He had decided to stay off the roads, though there was only one major highway between Liscentia and the cities to the north. Uncertain of how seriously he needed to take the idea of pursuit, he erred on the side of caution. There were few he feared in the world, fewer now than there had been a matter of months ago. Still, he would rather pass like smoke in the night than draw attention to himself.
The whole area to the south and east crawled with cattle. Fifty years ago those pastures had rolled right up to the city limits, but slums now claimed the area immediately under the sandstone walls. He was getting into more of the rough pastures that rimmed the north of the city now. It was the only industry that brought in more revenue than gambling and, being relatively conservative, the ranchers hated the gamblers. Though privately they found plenty of use for the local brothels, to be sure.
It felt good to leave the dry waste and sands of the desert behind. Liscentia sat right in the middle of it all. It was an oasis. It had been founded on the solitary significant source of water in all of the Lorendian Desert. And he had the sad luck to show up on the single rainy night of the year.
The city gates were open as he approached along the road. The shoddy shacks and rotted tents that bordered his path were falling apart in the onslaught of the clouds. They weren't made for weather like this. Thankfully the rain had driven the guards indoors. They were more concerned with their dice and card games than their duty in any case. And so the Shadow King walked into their midst without the slightest resistance. He smiled. This might be easier than he had imagined.
The main streets surrounding Swagger's Way were wild. Men and women congregated drunkenly outside or stumbled from one establishment to another. Every other business offered some form of gambling and almost all of them sold booze. Swagger's Way was the main street running along the northern half of the city. He had seen it once before and he didn't want to stay on it. The growth of the city had gone lopsided as Swagger's became a drain for all of her revenue.
He moved off to the right and down a side street through long rows of ill-maintained houses. A woman ran past him screaming and crying. She was being chased closely by a man who was hindered in his pursuit by the trousers around his ankles.
The sight almost made the Shade laugh aloud, but her plight caught him off guard. At one time he had been sworn to protect people like this. Against his better judgment, he intervened. He let the woman by, her laced bodice torn and threatening to fall off. As soon as the man went to pass, the Shade stepped in. He moved quickly, bringing his knee hard into the man's stomach. The man dropped into a puddle, coughing and sputtering as his hands gripped his abdomen. He stank in so many different ways the Shade couldn't be sure what the predominant source was.
He knelt and punched the man hard in the face, knocking him out cold before moving on.
“Hey par'ner,” came a drawling voice from behind. “That weren' too kind of ya, kickin' a man while he's down.”
“More a punch there, Hank.”
“Shut up, Larry.”
“Now then,” said the one he presumed to be their leader, Hank. “I reckon you owe our buddy Jimmy here a 'pology, ain't that right fellers?”
The gang of five grinned sloppily in agreement. The Shade just shrugged and smiled in turn.
“Sorry gentlemen, my mistake.”
“Damn straight you's sorry,” Hank said. “Not sorry as you's gonna be.”
The Shade smiled. “I think I'm about as sorry as I'll get.”
The group had fanned out in the narrow street, the flanks advancing to encircle the Shade. He felt his heart rate pick up; the familiar adrenaline rush kicking in. God how he loved these feelings. Fighting could only be fun for humans; he had never felt anything when he was purely Shadow. Now he relished every opportunity.
“I think we can make you sorry. What if we beat the livin' shit outta you?” He harrumphed. Whether it was a laugh or a cough, the Shadow King never knew. “I think we jus' will.”
And with that they lunged forward, thinking to overwhelm this strange silver-haired man with brute force. The first thug to reach him tasted his own blood before he was done flipping under his feet. His shins hit the ground, stopping his rotation and forcing his head to snap back down; his nose slammed into the wet ground.
The second man wasn't so lucky to catch a punch as the Shade drew his long, elegant sword. He slit the man's chest wide open in a single, broad motion: his sword traveling from sheath to ready stance. The remaining three men slowed. Hank drew his gun in hopes of ending things quickly.
“Holy shit, Hank! Bastard's got a sword!”
