Álvin’s face loses some color, and his expression turns shameful. Jáhn doesn’t care, and instead focuses on testing the energy levels of the chambers. I am relieved that he doesn’t try to open the chambers for fear of radiation. The chambers start to hum lightly as his tests are completed, and he looks marginally satisfied.
“Ten oreings for these energy chambers,” Jáhn says in a monotone, passing the coins to Álvin. “I’ll run a full check later tonight. Anything else you boys managed to salvage?”
Retrieving the parts for the servo actuator, we present the various pieces to Jáhn as he quickly starts checking them. After a moment, Jáhn sniffs and walks to retrieve another handful of coins.
“This actually seems operational, so I’ll say ‘well done’,” he says rather reluctantly. “I’ll give a total of fifteen for the actuator. Now shoo! I’m closed for the day.”
Taking the coins, I give him a smile of appreciation as we exit the garage and travel into the village. The homes are all made of tattered leather and clay, so it isn’t a grandiose place but it is home. Spanning a few hundred meters, Erron’s Ville is comprised mainly of huts but also various scrap yards, garages, and markets. A small penitentiary is perhaps the only sophisticated structure in the village, and it serves as one of the main ties to the outside world. Monthly transports make quick stops at the markets and the penitentiary between the nation of Z’hart and the salvage Pits deeper in the Pyrack.
The huts are hewn from low quality leather pieces and rusting metal frameworks. This town hasn’t really raised any architects or surveyors, so the town is really disorganized. A jagged and incomplete street made of cobblestones weaves through the center of the village. I walk past another garage that looks like an elongated shack with leather sheets draping over its roof. I can see the penitentiary towering over the huts, for it’s the only solidly built structure.
Continuing into the village, I am greeted by many of the neighbors including Holdin and his wife Lánna— both of whom I am very fond of. I almost consider them to be my older siblings. Half a decade older than I, Holdin is a beast of a man due to working in labor fields. But he has a heart twice his size. Lánna is almost as tall as me, and she is much lighter skinned than I. One of the many beauties in Erron’s Ville.
“Hard day at work?” Holdin grunts as I shake his meaty hand. “Did that old dog pay you right?”
I rock my head from side to side. “He was fair… relatively.”
As per usual, I give an oreing to Lánna as she presents me with a loaf of fresh bread. She uses a rare honey glaze during the baking process, and I’ve since bought one every day. My cooking skills are subpar, perhaps even non-existent. So I always seek the help of others in matters of food.
“Smells exquisite as always, Lánna,” I comment with a smile.
Despite some of the hardships, we all manage to find pleasantries within our lives and form tight bonds of solidarity. We are a community after all, so we protect our own. Each of us helps and supports the other in any way we can. Even Jáhn does his small part to provide work to those with a flair for adventure.
Just seeing these two on my way home makes my day that much brighter. And Holdin is always quick to show his affection for his wife. He kisses the side of her head.
“I’m heading to Slugg’s tonight, Tálir,” Holdin grunts spiritedly. “I’ll try not to drink you under the table again.”
“If I let you drink me under the table,” I retort. “Lánna won’t forgive me if your heart attacks you again.”
Lánna snuggles close to Holdin as he laughs. I smile in response, but I reflect on the grim irony at our merriment. He survived one, but he certainly wouldn’t survive a second. But they both brush off the remark.
“I’ll make sure this old oaf gets home in one piece,” I say to Lánna, drawing a snort from Holdin.
“I’d certainly appreciate that, Tálir,” Lánna says, looking at me with a smile. “See you the same time tomorrow.”
After wishing them a good night, I make a quick stop by the market to pick up a block of cheese and fill up my jug of water. With most of my earnings spent, Álvin and I continue walking a few more meters before he stops in front of his small hut.
“So, split the fifteen?” he asks me.
“That’s the idea,” I reply sardonically, splitting up the coins in my hand. “I’ll only take seven, though. You keep the eight.”
Álvin adopts a look of surprise, and a faint grin is etched upon his clean shaven face. “That’s mighty generous of you,” he chuckles. “What’s the catch?”
“You’re buying at Slugg’s,” I reply, pocketing the seven coins. “I’ll meet you there in two hours.”
Álvin gives me a mocking salute. “Aye, sir,” he says before entering his hut.
As the sun starts to set over the horizon, I finish my walk to my home as a cool breeze hits my face. Life is simple, and there is a calming escapism to it that allows me to feel comfortable. Things aren’t likely to change very much out here, so I have chosen to make the best of it.
But it is always present in my mind, that glint of a wondrous future.
Chapter 3: Tálir
Slugg’s
THE TWO HOURS FLY BY after I return to my hut, bathe, and change into less pungent clothes. Simple tunic and pants, for it’s just a night out with the guys. Almost a weekly tradition at this point. I comb back my long, auburn hair so that it drapes down my neck. A shave would usually do, but I’m not trying to impress a lady tonight.
With three oreings in my pocket, I head out to the eastern part of the village. Slugg’s is exactly what you’d expect in a sand village. An open, outdoor shack with a wooden bar table guarding the liqueurs. About twenty meters in diameter, the outdoor bar is barely covered by a canopy roof that springs from the center. Stools are planted in the ground, but most choose to stand around the bar. A large circular rack sits in the center and hold the booze while several holoprojections emit above it.
Norn, the thick-skinned, middle-aged barkeep is already passing out shares of intoxicants. Gamma pale ales, Blue Den drafts, Bac whiskey, and even O’ranian wine. A small grill and coal oven are also inside for cooking meals. The best way to keep someone drinking is to give them food to go with it. Many are gathered after the work hours and night has fallen. The stars gleam above and a cool breeze wafts by.
I walk up and pat both Holdin and Álvin on their shoulders. I sit between them and Álvin passes me a mug of ale. Holdin’s eyes are glued to the holoscreen affixed above the liquor racks.
“To the servo actuators!” Álvin toasts as we clink our mugs and drink. The Gamma ale is light but bitter, burning a bit at the tongue. I can feel it putting a few pounds on me.
“To my wife Lánna, who I’m surprised still loves an oaf like me!” Holdin cheers in a slurred voice.
“To the oaf and the maiden!”
We cheer and drink more, laughing merrily even as the holoscreen displays disturbing news from the north. As I drink my ale, my eyes curiously watch the headline.
Sahari of House Z’hart Ascends Capital Throne. Anniversary of Older Sibling’s Disappearance.
Then the headline shifts.
Lady Sahari of Z’hart City Summons Unknown Military Presence.
Pundits are confused about this decision, questioning her first royal decree since her coronation. I’ve never really thought much about the other nations, since the Pyrack is sort of a realm of its own. Not many Z’hartians travel out here into the wastes, so why bother with their politics?
“Looks like our western neighbors are about to shit their pants,” Holdin grunts, scratching his balding head. “A series of riots right before a coronation. Now this? Ha! Sure am glad we live out here away from the politics. No trade war out here.”
“We just get the ass-end of civilization,” Álvin chuckles, calling a refill of ale. “Drinking piss like this. Right Norn?”
“Frag off!” Norn replies, slightly offended. He ruffles his ma
tted sand-colored hair.
I plant an oreing on the bar table and Norn passes me another ale and a shot of whiskey. We all get pleasantly intoxicated as we discuss current endeavors, social issues, and bitch about work. Trade wars between western Z’hart and northern O’ran, more Outlander raids in the east, and the increased forecast of Roil storms. I’m more curious about Lady Sahari’s summoning of extra military forces. She already has the largest army of Imperial soldiers in the three nations. Are they under attack?
Perhaps we’d find out more on the next convoy rotation. It’ll be a while, since the Imperial convoy won’t make a trip to our village for another two weeks.
“I hear the riots spread all the way to the foreign embassy in the upper districts.” Holdin impressively holds his liquor as he drinks another pint. “O’ran might go to war if their ambassadors were harmed. Excitement might befall us, gents! Z’hart will certainly call upon Pyrack settlements, so that means we are up!”
“I don’t think Lánna would like you getting eager for battle,” I say with a chuckle. Álvin and I start to play a game of chess with the shoddy wooden set atop the bar. The rules at Slugg’s dictate loser buys a drink for the winner.
I demonstrate a king gambit. Both king pawns forward for bait. He falls for it, thinking my defense is open. But I move pawns into a wall. Pick off his pawns. He retaliates with rooks. I counter with knights. Our bishops clash. His queen approaches. But mine closes in on his king. He’s in checkmate.
It’s all about reading the opponent. If they fall for bait, they’re hasty in their movements. Álvin groans. It’s the second drink he buys for me. I give him a swig of it first, a show of good sport.
“As strategic as you are, Tálir, I’m surprised you aren’t running this town,” Holdin cheers to me, finishing his final ale. “You’re great at making friends! You’d give those fools in Z’hart City a run for their oreings! Ha!”
“I’d rather stay out of trade wars and political maneuverings.”
Holdin shrugs before rising from his stool and stumbling into the bar. He hiccups. I laugh and pat him on the back.
“You think you can make it home, old friend?” I ask with a grin.
He pounds his chest. “If a heart attack can’t stop me, ale certainly can’t!”
Lánna’s going to kill me, I laugh to myself.
Holdin stumbles away from the bar as Álvin and I watch more on the holoscreen. Footage shows dozens of rioters arrested and awaiting imprisonment. Casualties are shown. Burn victims, men stunned by bowrifles, and even a young boy killed by a bowrifle bolt to the head. I feel so much pity for that city. They needed a more secure form of stability, someone to keep them safe. Innocents shouldn’t be victim to political squabbles.
“More troops and hired militia are making their way into Z’hart City from an unknown source,” a male pundit narrates, images flash on screen. “No one knows where Lady Sahari received these reinforcements. The Council has deliberated on what action to take against these new developments.”
Álvin wobbles to his feet from his stool, and I rise to assist him. “We used to drink waaaayyy much more than this…” He hiccups.
I laugh, my own mind feeling rather sluggish after a few ales and shots of whiskey. It’s time to turn in for the night. So I flick my last oreing to Norn as a tip for putting up with our ruckus. Putting Álvin’s arm around my shoulder, I help him walk back to his hut. Well, we end up helping each other. Patting him on his shoulder, he stumbles into his hut as I calmly walk towards mine.
It’s a decent life I live. Even if it’s devoid of adventure and beautiful single women. But my family here keeps me content. I smile and enter my hut for a good night’s sleep.
Chapter 4: Tálir
A Drastic Change
THE BRONZE METAL has a distinct molten look to it—the esoteric swirls almost remind me of serpent tongues. Each piece is distinctively smooth and sharp. Pyramid designs are etched into the breastplate. The pauldrons almost have a wing-like shape to them while the gauntlets and vambraces seem like tendrils of fire. A dark exosuit underneath it all is woven of a light yet durable fabric.
A bit worn and clearly generations old, the suit of armor drapes over a wooden mannequin near my tattered cot. It sticks out like a sore thumb next to all of my belongings. My stained clothes, old wooden table, stools, and torn carpets make the armor seem divine in comparison.
It stands out and rightly so, for it is the only thing that connects me to my parents. Well, more specifically, to my father. I’ve never known my mother and my father had died when I was five. He didn’t own much, but he left me his hut and the ceremonial armor he’d inherited. It is my most prized possession, the legacy of my father.
Placing what’s left of my earnings in a clay jar, I eat a small meal of bread and cheese to sop up some of the alcohol. The buzz starts to wear off. I pack up the leftovers and clean up a bit before I walk over to examine the armor. Almost a nightly tradition in a sense, I try to polish and study it the best I am able to. Bits of technology are incorporated such as wires and compact computers in the bracers. But without a proper power supply, it is useless. Only mild electromagnetic fields are capable of powering it temporarily.
Detaching one of the gauntlets, I note the scale plating that connects the finger joints to the bracer. It is an odd design, yet it seems strangely practical. I yearn to know more about it, where it originated from, and what it’s true purpose was.
I spend a few minutes polishing the bronze metal when I hear a noise coming from outside my hut, further in the village. A consistent rumbling hum echo through the air, and it is followed by violent gusts of wind. The humming continues, but grows quieter in pitch after a moment—and the breeze calms.
The monthly convoy? I ask myself as the wind continues to blow against the leather flaps covering my doorway. They’re two weeks early.
However, that isn’t the only noise coming from outside.
Shouting erupts, and I hear several panicked screams and the rushing of boots. I can hear tables being overturned, items breakings, and the striking of flesh. A rush of footsteps starts to head my way, and I freeze momentarily in alarm. Sensing potential danger, I rush to grab the wooden quarterstaff near my bed. I barely have a hand on it when someone bursts into my hut.
Álvin stumbles in, his face dripping with perspiration and a panicked look in his eyes. He reeks of sweat and booze.
“Álvin?” I ask in a perturbed voice. “What’s going on?”
“Imperials,” he wheezes. “Imperials are scouring through the village, invading our huts! They’ve sacked Jáhn’s garage and bolted Norn! They’re heading to my quadrant!”
Fear and anger start to boil inside me. Lánna and Holdin’s place would be next, followed by Álvin’s. Imperials are a dangerous lot, and we know better than to impede their search. But sacking homes, striking fear, and threatening my friends? That, I won’t tolerate. I don’t care what they are looking for. The Imperials have no right to brutalize our village.
“Stay in here,” I say firmly. “I’m going to try and put a stop to this.”
As fast as I am able, I adorn the armor handed down by my father and fits it snugly to my frame. I strap on the gauntlets, vambraces, greaves, pauldrons, breastplate, and sabatons. I am ready to defend my home.
“Tálir,” he says, concern brewing in his panicked eyes. Shorter than I, he knows better than to physically stop me. “Wait—"
I move him out of the way, giving him a stern glance to stay inside. I hear more shouts outside and the clanking of armor. I can always tell the sound of Imperial armor, the racket their metal makes as the pieces clash together. Another woman screams, and I hear the Imperials ransack another hut down the street.
They will not ruin my home. They will not sack our village. They will not hurt anymore of my friends.
Imperials may be royal guards and enforcers of the nation, but they have no right to besiege our village. My mind doesn’t even register the co
nsequences of what my actions could bring. I am a burning furnace of anger and justice. And the Imperials shall be my coals.
Rushing out of my hut in full regalia, I run as fast as I can towards the source of the screams and commotions. I can see some small fires burning in the market areas, and the light of the moon creates an etheric white shine on my metal. With my armor shifting together as I run, I stop suddenly after a few meters. I see Holdin’s hut.
He and Lánna are dragged from their home by soldiers I’ve never seen before. Though they wear some variant of Imperial armor, it all seems less pristine and their right arms are covered by a more bronze armor. Four in total, they all brandish meter-long stunpikes. They are careful to hurt, not kill us.
Holdin shouts at them to leave Lánna alone, but they smash a stunpike into his stomach. Even his size and strength can’t help him. He convulses and shouts in agony. I know his heart cannot take the electricity seeping into his body. Tears roll down Lánna’s face as the soldiers snort in amusement.
The Maven Knight (The Maven Knight Trilogy Book 1) Page 2
