Of Wind and Waves - Chronicles of the First Age, Book One

by Nathan Quiring

  Chronicles of the Third Age

  Book One

  Of Wind and Waves

  Nathan Quiring

  The smaller figure gurgled and gasped, fingers ripping feebly at the massive fist crushing his throat as he dangled more than a foot off the ground.

  “Nothing personal, mon amie, but I can’t have someone like you to stir up trouble, now can I?” Gerard’s deep musical accent was all the more dangerous for its subtly powerful grace, mirrored in his tremendous physique.

  “I would apologize, but that would be a lie, non? You leader types always cause mischief, and we just can’t let that happen.”

  He applied more pressure and was rewarded by a satisfying crunch, then released, watching the limp body crumple to the dirt.

  “A pity, but such is life.”

  One

  Leif

  The man stood on the precipice. A pebble, nudged over the edge by his booted toe, was lost in the roar of the waves crashing against the base of the cliff.

  “There it is.” He said in a deep growl, his words whipped away in the same wind that pulled at his shoulder length brown hair. His long duster flapped as well, slapping up against the heavy pack strapped to his back. In his hand was a wide brimmed hat; ideal shade against the harsh sun, and belted to either thigh were two short, wide blades. Everything about him, from his bearded face to the creases of his heavy leather pants had the look of long, hard, and constant wear with an equal amount of attentive care.

  The boy at his side had the same look, save for brilliant gold hair without his father’s streaks of grey, and a clean face. Perhaps with his youth came also a softer, warmer aura, but only slightly. The boy, not quite sixteen, had no blades. Instead he held a thin and supple staff, even taller than his lanky six feet, only half a head shorter than his father.

  “That it sir? The Pacific?” He glanced, when he spoke, at his father, then turned his gaze back across the distant waters. It fell upon a vast, unmoving mass surrounded by the steady waves; a long dead ship, rusted far beyond any possible use. Slightly closer could be seen the tips of giant buildings, barely reaching above the waters that had engulfed them so long ago. Vivid white clouds drifted smoothly across the wide blue sky as the persistent ocean breeze rustled through the tall grass and bushes covering the rolling plain behind the solitary figures. The sun beat down upon it all, unrelenting as ever.

  “Yes. And now, north.”

  Though he appeared to be near fifty; face full of hard lines, almost like a weather-worn statue, and streaks of grey contrasting his deep brown hair, Cal was only approaching his thirty-third winter. It was the same wherever he went; no one lived much past forty, not since the day the world died. It must have had something to do with the harshness of life outside those shell-like cities of his ancestors, that and whatever fallout occurred when the amassed technology of the world instantly and violently failed. He had only been nine when his whole world collapsed, yet Cal, unlike most everyone else he met, continued to search for that life, for some remnant of what was lost.

  Early that evening they discovered a small grove of apple trees sheltered at the center of a dell, a few of the bright red fruits still clung to the branches, well ripened. They gathered wood and had their first real fire in a while, a welcome comfort in the night, cold as the day was hot. Rising before the sun, they packed as many apples as they could and set off north, the sky still full of brilliant stars with the barest hint of blue on the eastern horizon. The expansive plain they had been traveling across westward for months was finally beginning to change. Only half a day north and the forest began to gather itself ahead of them, at first an occasional stunted birch, then groups of taller evergreens, and finally a vast, seemingly endless blanket of deep green and shades of orange. By then the mountains had revealed themselves, majestic enormities garbed in green, white summits piercing the blue sky. Off to the west they saw ominous grey clouds darkening the ocean, moving slowly eastward. Cal, walking at a steady pace a short distance ahead of his son, glanced towards the storm then back to Leif. Catching his eye, they both nodded and began to jog, it would be better under the trees when the rain arrived.

  The storm subsided by the day’s end, though the water left behind continued to fall for some time, occasionally spilling from the canopy of thick leaves. Two nights later Cal and Leif found themselves much deeper in the thick forest, seeking warmth in the familiar cold of night. The small fire was dying down, bright coals surrounded by ash, and Cal had lit his pipe.

  “I like the smell of this place father, it reminds me of something; I’m not sure what though.” Leif gazed up at the few stars visible through the trees, his voice drifting off as lazily as the aromatic smoke wafting from Cal's rough wooden pipe.

  "Yea, it does." Cal responded thoughtfully.

  The fire went through a fit of pops, as if it knew its time was up and wouldn't go without a fight. Another puff on his pipe, the glow brightening and momentarily illuminating his deep green eyes, and another waft of white smoke drifted up, swirling and mixing with the thin stream of grey still emanating from the embers on the forest floor.

  “Father,” Leif began, looking intently at Cal’s shadowed features.

  “Yes?”

  Leif took a long pause, then asked the question. “What was mother like?”

  Cal sighed, he had nearly forgotten. “Guess it has been about a year, hasn’t it?”

  His now sixteen year old son’s eyes were lost in the embers. “Ya, I suppose it has.”

  “Can’t imagine why you keep track like that. It’s not just because of today, is it?”

  Leif shrugged, “Why not?”

  A few minutes passed, then Cal sighed again, a long, heavy sound, full of weariness. “Oh, I suppose... Why not, eh?” After another weighty pause he continued, his voice strangely dead. “Jesse was beautiful, unlike anything else in this world.” Then he let out a mirthless laugh. “Never really will forget, will I? I see her every time I look at you. Only thing you got from me is your height.”

  This was even less than Leif got from him last year, and that had been nothing he hadn’t heard many times before. Today marked both his birth and her death, and it was the only day he could really expect anything even resembling an answer from his father. He had never known his mother and the only source he had was actively trying to forget her. His anger surged.

  “Was she really that horrible?” His words forced themselves out with the force of a yell even though he hadn’t raised his voice. “If you want so much to forget, why even keep me around?” He knew it was nonsense, but he couldn’t hold it in anymore. “You won’t even tell me what happened and every time I ask, which is hardly ever, you just… I don’t even know. Where do you go in that head of yours? Do I really have no right to know?” He had stood up by then, he couldn’t remember doing it but it felt right somehow.

  Cal drew at his pipe again, not even looking at his son, then tapped out the ash.

  “Fine.” Leif shot vehemently from under his breath, “I’m going to sleep.”

  He was still wide awake some time later. At first he had been too angry to sleep, thinking furiously through all the arguments he should have made, all the things he should have said, then he cooled down enough to regret some of what he had said, and finally withdrew into the numb, disconnected part of himself where he could always find control. Then his father spoke.

  The fire had died, leaving behind a pile of ash and a wispy trail of white smoke. Cal, completely lost in memories, had refilled his pipe, its pale orange glow the only light in the black night. He had barely been con
scious of what had so upset Leif. His question, as it always did, sent him back to a time he tried so hard to forget. Suddenly the memories began spilling out, like a powerful river breaking through a rusted and desperately patched old dam.

  “I was fourteen. I was starving. I remember stumbling up to an old house and collapsing. When I woke up I was in a bed for the first time since escaping the city, and she was next to me, just sitting there, sleeping in a chair. They took care of me like I was their son. It still seems like a dream even now. It was like nothing had ever happened to the world, like everything was the way it should be. Everything was perfect for almost two years, me and her, her parents, the rest of the town. Then she got pregnant and we were even happier, then something went wrong. We didn’t know what to do. You both should have died, but somehow you made it. It hurt so much... It still hurts, in a different way… But I had you to take care of, and your grandparents to help me, we were going to be ok. It hurt, but we were still a family.”

  Leif didn’t want to interrupt, but after a few minutes of silence he rolled over and propped himself up on one elbow. “What happened?” he asked tentatively after another long pause, wanting desperately to know more yet worried he might break the strange spell his father was under.

  Cal glanced up, seeming almost surprised to see his son there, awake. “A few years later some raiders came.” He said, back to his dead voice. “When I came back everyone was dead, except you. Either they couldn’t stomach killing a child or they just didn’t care… Maybe they got off on the thought of leaving you to die of exposure.” He stood and brushed some pipe ash off of his pants, then smothered what remained of the fire with his heavy boot. “They were long gone when I got back, or I would have killed ‘em myself. Would have gone after ‘em, but I had to think of you first.” He spat over his shoulder and in his usual deadpan rumble said “Get some sleep. We should find another town soon.”

  Some trick the trees played on the sunlight caused Leif to wake up late for the first time in quite a while. His father seemed unaffected though, as he was already preparing breakfast.

  “Kata first, then breakfast.” He growled without glancing Leif’s direction.

  “Yes sir.”

  Two hundred and fifty-five unique movements merged into the slow dance that was the Kata, both soothing and straining Leif’s entire body while he thought over the previous night. The motion, so intimately natural to his muscles from years of practice, allowed him to focus completely on his feelings; examining, accepting, and slowly releasing the tension. A light breeze, laden with the earthy smells of the forest, cooled his body as he neared the final steps and he reflected on how similar it was to his Kata. It flowed around him, easily obstructed but never held back. The Kata was much more than an exercise, it governed his every movement; how he ran, how he fought, how he thought. He had finished then and as his body relaxed so did his mind. It wasn’t so much that he had regained control as that he had released it, flowed through it like the wind through his hair. Another day had come, he had accepted it and was now ready for what it would bring. Time for breakfast.

  They stood at the top of a low hill; the root of one of the mountains to the east, and before them a large clearing had been made in the center of a wide valley. The town, a collection of rough wooden buildings and dirt roads, bordered a narrow river that drifted lazily down to the ocean.

  The group of men that greeted them wore heavy leather vests and carried thick clubs or makeshift axes.

  “Welcome to Rivertown,” The biggest one grunted, “you’re goina need to hand over those weapons if you want to enter.”

  Without a word Cal drew his blades; two lengths of scrap metal sharpened and honed to be nearly identical, the handles strips of leather wrapped tightly around the narrow end, and tossed them to the earth halfway between him and the townsmen.

  “It’s just a walking stick.” Leif said when they turned their glare toward him, though he knew it was unlikely to dissuade them. The one who had spoken shook his head and gave a grunting laugh, pointing at the ground, so Leif added his staff to the pile.

  The largest building was both trading post and tavern and appeared to be the only public structure in town. The typical response greeted their entrance, a few seconds of relative silence as the few patrons stared them up and down, then returned to their drinks and conversation. Cal walked straight to the bar and began haggling, trading their collected skins for dried goods and information. Leif stayed by the door, leaning against the wall, appearing relaxed though prepared to interfere with any trouble that might ensue.

  It was still early in the afternoon, so the large room was mostly empty as everyone was out tending to their livestock or gardens, hunting or gathering wood. By sundown the place would be packed. The front door and two crooked windows in the back were the only portals allowing the daylight to invade and the small hearth fire did a poor job of lighting the rest of the musty, low ceilinged tavern, not that it would have made the grimy interior any less depressing.

  “Hey, boy, where ya from?” One of the men lounging at a nearby table had addressed him. He appeared to be another town guard, just as dirty as his surroundings. His query wasn’t harshly made but it had an authority behind it that required an answer.

  “Nowhere, not really. Been traveling as long as I can remember.” It was true enough.

  “Ok, where ya visited then?”

  “Lots of towns like this one, I’ve been to a few shells too.”

  The guard looked amazed and equally disgusted. “What did you do that for? Those shells are evil, haunted” He said with a shiver that seemed at odds with his authoritative bearing.

  Leif started to laugh, then stopped abruptly. Was he not supposed to talk about exploring the dead cities? Cal normally did all the talking and, now that he thought about it, Leif couldn’t remember his father ever mentioning why they asked about them. He quickly began laughing again. “Just pulling your leg of course, why would anyone want to go near those things?”

  The guard looked mostly mollified, only a slightly tilted eyebrow gave question to the sincerity of his returned chuckle.

  “Leif, come!” Cal was waving him over, it appeared that they had come to an agreement on the trade. When Leif approached Cal he noticed someone else behind the bar, it was a girl. She looked like a younger version of the woman his father had been trading with, long auburn hair and pale pink lips that broke into a smile when she caught his eye. He smiled back, not exactly sure why. Just then his father grabbed his shoulder and turned him around.

  “We’re staying here tonight, killing a pack of wolves in trade.”

  Leif nodded, this wasn’t unusual. Skins wouldn’t go very far around here where they were fairly plentiful. Sometimes townsfolk would accept the gems and gold they gathered in the shells, but perhaps this town’s superstition was too strong for that.

  “We're going to wait ‘till morning to go hunting then?” Leif asked.

  Cal nodded. “I’ll ask ‘round about their den, you unpack. Our room is there.” He pointed to the far side of the tavern where two doors stood open. “Left one.” Leif took his father’s pack and made his way to the indicated room. It would be so nice to sleep in a real bed again; he might even get a hot bath. Leif smiled.

  Most clothing was either hand spun wool or boiled leather, but one of the unexpected prizes of shell hunting was the occasional piece of old age fabric. It was incredibly strong and comfortable and required almost no maintenance. The only downsides were its lack of serious protection from both intentional malice and unintentional superstition, creating the additional necessity of leather armor. This leather occupied Leif for most of the evening; the oil he used was one of the goods for which his father had traded.

  “Need any help?”

  Leif looked up suddenly, how had he not notice the door open? “Uh, um, not really,” he stammered, it was the girl from behind the bar. Her wool dress looked like it might have fit her a year or two ago and she had de
finitely grown since then.

  “You sure? Looks like ya still got a lot to do. I’ve oiled my father’s leathers a bunch a times, I know how.”

  “Um, I guess, if you really want to.”

  Most everyone he had met spoke the same way he and his father did, but she didn’t. He couldn’t quite think what was different, but she seemed to draw out her words and string them together in a bouncy sort of sing-song. It didn’t sound wrong coming from the bubbly girl who had barged unexpected into his quiet thoughts.

  She danced over and plopped down on the bed beside him, her bare feet hardly seeming to touch the wood floor. She stuck out her hand, “I’m Mandy!”

  Leif took it, not exactly sure how to respond. “Um, I’m Leif.”

  She giggled, not unpleasantly, “I know that!” Another giggle, “Heard the grumpy man yell it at ya, didn’t I?” She grabbed one of his vambraces and a wool rag soaked in oil and began rubbing. “Those are some pretty muscles ya got there Leif.” She said with a tiny smirk.

  He looked down and felt his face turn red, he forgot that he had removed his shirt. When she saw him go blush she giggled again, then turned her focus back to the leather. Deciding that the damage, or whatever it was, had been done, he neglected to restore his shirt; it was hot in the tavern already with the cook fire in the kitchen and oiling leather could be sweaty work.

  After his face returned to its normal color, Leif tried to restart the conversation, asking something that had been nagging him slightly. “Where is your father anyway? Doesn’t he help run the trading post?”

  “Naw, he’s town sheriff, mother runs this place by herself, with me to help of course. He’s been sorting out the men guarding the animals, ya know, from all the wolves.”