Gemworld

by Jeremy Bullard

  Sal spun quickly, bringing his sword up like a golf club. He caught the student’s sword and sent it spinning away, then brought his own sword down on the nape of the student’s neck, dropping him face first into the turf.

  “Kill,” Aten’rih announced again. “Hon’as, return to the lines.”

  That left Tribean. The two closed on each other and began circling, both reluctant to commit to the first strike. They jabbed cautiously, each feeling the other out.

  Finally, they exchanged blows. The clack-clack-clack of the swords filled the air as both fighters sought each other’s flesh. Sweeps were dodged, thrusts were parried, but neither opponent gained ground on the other.

  Sal spun and blocked, desperately trying to work a hole into Tribean’s attack. But no matter what he tried, Tribean doggedly pursued, never letting up. As good as Sal was, he had to admit the possibility that maybe Tribean was better. How could a man so young be so good with a sword and not be shol’tuk? Was it a family thing? Or maybe cultural? Had he’d actually earned a hilt or two before signing up, only to disavow his honor while among the Earthen Ranks?

  Caught up in his thoughts, Sal did not see the maneuver until it was too late. Tribean’s sword flew through a set of prescribed motions, forcing Sal to block in a specific pattern. Then it happened.

  By the time Sal recognized the series of sweeps, his sword had already been drawn into position. With a low arc, Tribean knocked the sword from Sal’s hand, sending it across the barracks courtyard, flipping end over end.

  Sal spat a curse as he dodged the thrusts that followed. Tasting victory, Tribean stepped up his attack.

  Sal ducked a high slash, leapt back from a low jab. Tribean chopped relentlessly as Sal dodged, each strike coming so close that Sal could hear the rods creak against each other as they swept past.

  Tribean snarled his frustration, and slashed straight down at Sal’s head. Sal threw an inside block with his hand, batting the sword away to the left, then again to the right.

  Tribean chopped a third time. Sal caught the wooden blade between his palms, and thrust the sword backward into Tribean’s stomach. In his surprise, Tribean lost his grip on the sword. Before he could reclaim it, Sal yanked the sword free.

  In one fluid motion, Sal flipped the sword, caught it by the hilt, and batted the wooden blade into Tribean’s stomach, driving out the mage’s breath with a whoosh.

  Momentum carried the sword free, drawing a line in Tribean’s armor that he doubled over. As he did, Sal brought the sword back down, connecting with Tribean’s skull with a loud clack. The student fell face first into the ground, dust billowing outward from the impact.

  Behind Sal, the rows of other recruits loosed a cheer that echoed through the courtyard. Other classes picked up the cheer, having paused in their own training to watch the spectacle.

  “Well done, Sal!” bellowed Master Aten’rih. Other instructors called out over the din, voicing their approval. Out of breath, Sal could do little more than raise his head in acknowledgment.

  When he looked back to Tribean, the emerald lay on his side propped on one elbow, his lungs still heaving. Sal extended a weary hand to him. The student had angered Sal—insulted him, in fact—but in victory Sal could afford to be gracious, and show the emerald that there were no hard feelings.

  Tribean studied the hand for a moment, then looked deeply into Sal’s uncovered eye, as if trying to divine some ulterior motive. Sal had none. He simply thrust his hand forward again, determined to put their feud to rest.

  Whatever Tribean had decided about Sal, he accepted the proffered hand, and Sal helped him to his feet. Standing there, Tribean held the hand a moment longer, then gave a nod so slight that Sal almost didn’t catch it. Finally, the defeated student dropped Sal’s hand, and went haltingly to retrieve the other sword.

  ***

  Master Aten’rih was a fair man and a wise instructor. In his thirty years of service to the Earthen Ranks, he’d learned well how to mold unruly young men and women into a unified fighting force. It took determination, discipline, and trust. His techniques often seemed unorthodox, if not downright insane, but they were never questioned, only obeyed. Every emerald under his tutelage knew his history, his methods, and he had no qualms about pushing each student to the absolute limit of his endurance, be it physical, mental, or emotional.

  So it came as little surprise that he appointed Sal and Tribean to guard duty together that very night.

  A brisk wind blew off the Sea of Ysre—or the Sea of the Learned, as it was alternatively known by the non-Ysreans in Bastion—stirring the early autumn air. Sal shut his eyes and breathed it in deeply, savoring the mixture of aromas. The fresh scent of the lake water. The fading smell of roasted meats, wafting up from the civilian district below. The perfume of late summer blooms, releasing their final breath before they bed down for the coming winter. The smoke of burning leaves, the first of the year. So much of it reminded Sal of home.

  He had only to open his eyes to dispel the illusion.

  His back was to a fortress wall, guarding a huge oaken gate that gave entrance to the Academy of the Four Orders. Tribean leaned against the far jamb, gazing off into the deepening night.

  Easily the most defensible point in the city, the Academy was the easternmost structure in Bastion, built directly into the side of a mountain. In the distance to either side, Sal could see where the city walls terminated at the sheer base of the mountain.

  Sal followed Tribean’s gaze out across the darkened approach and into the city proper. A cobblestone lane rolled down a lazy slope to join with the main avenue, which divided the city cleanly into northern and southern sections on its way to the wharf, and to the harbor beyond. To the north were the privileged folk—Academy instructors, the Patriarchs, politicians, “old money” and the like, all living comfortably in their palatial estates. Even from this far back, Sal could point out the various parks, temples, and amphitheaters scattered across the area, for all the world making the northern section look like something right out of ancient Greece. Yeah, the northern section of town was proud of its half of Bastion.

  The southern section of the city was known as the Commons. Here were the “honest” folk, in Sal’s opinion.

  Some of the buildings closer to the central avenue were multistoried, with a shop on the ground floor and the shopkeeper living above. Signs jutted out from the storefronts, declaring the wares within.

  All the shops along the main street seemed to be in excellent repair. It was a mark of good business for an owner to have his shop on the Thoroughfare, as the main street was known. The buildings were expansive and beautiful, and the streets were brightly lit.

  The streets grew noticeably darker, both in spirit and in truth, the further south that Sal looked.

  The seedier districts of Bastion lined the southern city walls. Brothels, gambling houses, and taverns filled the area from the mountainside to the harbor, cleaning up just a tad around the southern city gate. A dirt road rolled out from the gate, leading to the Earthen Rank training camp where Sal was stationed, and they onward past scores of outlying farms—and the boulder where Sal practiced his “herb lore”—to the Granite Spire, barely visible in the far distance.

  The Commons definitely had its dangerous side. But “honest”? Yes, Sal thought. Or more honest than the rich folk, in any case. The hooker you found on any given street corner was testimony to that. She wasn’t proud of the abominations she committed against the Crafter because of her line of work, but she didn’t make excuses for it. Got to admire her candor, if not her career. She does it for the money, and has no illusions about her place in life. Compared to the scheming, manipulating debutante who dared still consider herself a “lady”, the whore was honest. Twisted and deplorable, yes, but honest.

  “She sure is something, isn’t she?” Tribean remarked softly. “Bastion, I mean.” Sal nodded in response.

  The emerald sighed his awe and wonder. “Thousands upon thousands of
people, living—thriving—in the middle of nowhere. More than a day’s sail to the nearest shore, and yet she’s entirely self-sufficient. Well, as much as any city under the Highest can be, anyway,” he quickly added.

  Sal caught the undertone, but let it pass for the moment. “You sound like you’ve never seen a city before,” he said instead. Sal, who’d grown up in a city only slightly smaller than Bastion, had to admit that he was impressed himself. He was just better at hiding it.

  “I hadn’t, before coming here,” replied Tribean candidly. “I grew up in a small mining village in the Dragonspire Range, north of Aeden’s Runoff, on the banks of the Dragonspring. You know, it’s said that the Dragonspring once flowed from the heart of Aeden’s Lost Garden, as the tributaries feeding the Rhu’sai do. But the Day of the Crafter’s Tears saw many changes, not the least of which was the appearing of the Dragonspire Range. There are still a few tributaries that flow from the Garden into the Dragonspring, but the main artery is now fed by the snows of Dragonspire. You couldn’t tell the people of Aeden’s Runoff that, though.”

  Tribean’s face came alight as he wove through his story, first with interest in the vast warehouse of trivia he had about the Onatae homeland, then with affectionate nostalgia for his life as a child there. “When I was a kid, my father was the ferryman for the village, and every year he would take me with him when he moved ore downriver to Aeden’s Runoff. The Runoff is about half the size of Bastion, with about eight thousand permanent residents when the inns are empty.”

  The emerald chuckled at the memory. “Now that I’m grown up, I realize just how permanent their residence is. I’ve only been in the city for a few years, but it’s already happened to me. I’ve already become too ‘civilized’ to live off the land if I had to. So many changes in so little time. I can still see myself as that little sooty-haired rock chucker, gawking at the sights and wonders of the Runoff. It was the whole world, and I lived on the outskirts. But this...” He swept his hand before him, taking in the sleeping city. “The Runoff is nothing like this.”

  “Sounds like you miss it.”

  “Yes, I do,” Tribean admitted. “Not a day goes by that I don’t. But my duty is here.”

  To Sal, the words sounded hollow. “Right, ‘duty’. You can call it that if you want, but I’ll never believe that you actually wanted to enlist,” he said, careful to hide the observation in a playful jibe.

  “No, I did not,” the emerald returned, his green eyes flaring angrily into the night. “Why would I? To risk my neck to further the ambitions of a man I’ve never even met before? To see the world? I tell you, I’ve seen enough of the world to last me a lifetime. There is nothing, nothing I would not do to drink from the Dragonspring again, to feel the grit of ore beneath my fingernails. I’ve no home here in Bastion, no family among the Ranks. The only home I’ve ever known was a three-room shack, and I’d rather have that back than a palace among the Patriarchs.”

  They both fell silent for a while, each taking measure of Tribean’s heated words. I knew it, Sal thought excitedly. By God, I knew it!

  For weeks, he’d been noticing little things among his fellow recruits. Facial expressions, slips of the tongue, undertones that went unnoticed to those who might not be listening for them. But to him, they hinted that the soldiers of the Earthen Ranks were not as loyal as the Highest would like them to be. And now, on this dark and peaceful night, one of those soldiers had admitted it.

  Sal was careful to keep his emotions in check, lest the other’s secondary vision reveal his hidden excitement. He took a deep breath and centered himself, silently ticking off his hilts as he gained control over his body. His pulse slowed, the adrenaline flow eased. He was calm again, lazily leaning against a stone wall in the dead of night, seemingly bored to tears with his watch. Only a slight smile marred the facade. He was right!

  Sal thought over his next words very carefully, seeking to draw Tribean out without scaring him off. “So, why did you enlist then?”

  Sal knew it was the wrong question as soon as he asked it. Tribean confirmed his suspicion with cold silence.

  Sal silently cursed himself for being too impatient, wanting too much too soon. He wondered idly if this was how Spartacus felt when he first spoke to another slave about rising up against Rome. Sal glanced over at the other, found him looking pointedly out in the courtyard, his body rigid with pent-up emotion. Tribean’s tension flared brilliantly in Sal’s emerald sight, and he knew that he’d get no further with Tribean that night. He grudgingly let the moment pass, and settled back against the wall to resumed his watch.

  “My brother,” Tribean breathed after some time, startling Sal from his private musings.

  “He was never satisfied with the miner’s life,” the emerald continued, “so he got out, bought some land, and planted an apple orchard.” He fell silent for a moment, then added solemnly, “The Highest is fond of apples.”

  Sal understood immediately. “You honor your family with your sacrifice,” he replied. “Not every man would pledge his life and principles to a total stranger in order to protect his family.”

  “It’s just a job,” Tribean protested weakly.

  “When you’re ordered to kill innocents in the name of ‘patriotism’, is it just a job then? How about imprisoning your own countrymen for ‘treasonous acts’? Or marching to war against those you grew up with?”

  “You have the sound of a man who knows,” Tribean observed probingly.

  Sal had actually had a wonderful experience in the United States Navy, serving a worthy cause under a president who stood by his principles. Had he agreed with everything? Absolutely not. But in looking back on the history of his own nation, he’d seen his fair share of ulterior motives. The War of Northern Aggression. Vietnam. Persian Gulf One and Two. Caspian. But whatever the political motivations of the higher powers, the lowest common denominator was freedom. Freedom to live as one sees fit, to exercise one’s rights free of the oppression of a totalitarian government.

  “I know a few things about patriotism and loyalty,” Sal said evasively, honest without being too direct. “As I said, your sacrifice honors your family.”

  The emerald said nothing, but Sal’s magical vision caught the nuances that the other’s body was giving off. “But your father didn’t feel very honored, did he,” he said, turning the question into a statement.

  “No, he didn’t,” Tribean sighed in defeat. “He is a very devoted man, to tradition, to honor, to the Ways of el. He felt for a long time that Tiernan’s troubles were payment for his breaking of family custom.

  “See, my father was a miner. His father was a miner, and his father before him. Custom demanded that we become miners as well. But Tiernan hated the mines with a passion. They were dark, cold, close, dank—everything that he despised. He wanted the warmth of the sun, the freedom of the open sky, and so he left. He took a month’s worth of ore—his due, he figured—and went downriver. He bought a small farm north of the Runoff. The farm had an apple orchard on it.

  “Seeing that orchard as a token of the Crafter’s Will, Tiernan worked it until his fingers bled. Sunup to sundown every day, by himself that whole first season. The next year, he hired a helper, and they both did it. After the fifth season, their hard work began to show.

  “What had started as a rundown hobby farm was now one of the leading producers along the Dragonspring. His orchard was still young, and didn’t produce a fraction of the apples that other orchards put out, but his trees were of rare quality. Cider houses from as far off as Darsen’s Way asked for him by name. Even my father had to respect Tiernan for his labor and the fruits it bore.

  “Then the publicans took notice of my brother’s farm. Now a plantation, they decided that it was large enough to tax, and exacted tributes from Tiernan by the barrel. The larger the orchard grew, the more tribute the Highest demanded.”

  Tribean paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Sal already knew where this was headed, but he waited p
olitely for the emerald to finish his tale. When he continued, his voice trembled with emotion.

  “A year before Tiernan left, the Recruiters came to our mining village to test all of us who’d come of age. Myself and two others were brought before them to touch the Tiled Hand.

  “I ascended,” he added with a too-casual shrug.

  “My father is far from rich. He couldn’t afford to send me for formal training at the Academy, so he sent me to the Runoff, to train under the Heads of Order there while waiting for a scholarship to Bastion.

  “I was away when Tiernan left.

  “They would both visit me from time to time, Father and Tiernan, when business would bring them to the Runoff. But I was unable to help either of them, in the mines or the orchard. All I could do was watch as events unfolded.

  “Two years ago, Father took ill. I was granted leave to go upriver. I was able to heal him, but not as efficiently as a more learned emerald would have. His lungs remained weak, and he would take every sickness that came his way.

  “So he moved to the plantation. The climate suited his condition much better than the dank mines, and the orchards gave him more than ample opportunity to break his back working. All in all, I thought it a good arrangement. If nothing else, I thought it would help ease the burden of Tiernan’s tributes. Not so. The publicans saw my father’s move as a sign of increased prosperity, and increased the tribute accordingly.

  “I was distraught. As much as I wanted to help my family, I dared not move to the plantation myself, for fear that the Highest would possess the lands completely. Then my tutor, an assistant to the Head of the Emerald Order, told me of the Earthen Ranks. He said that military service was often substituted for tributes that families were unable to pay.

  “I knew what Father would think. He is a devote man, given completely to the service of the Crafter. He sees the Highest as a fraud and a heretic, a false prophet sullying the name of the Crafter with his deeds. I knew he wouldn’t stand for any son of his to pledge allegiance to such a man, regardless of the reasons.”