by Ember Lane
In a day, he would find her legacy and begin building it. For now, the health and vitality, the love he felt for his new companions, for Allaise, was too precious to be denied that little bit of extra time.
11
Joan’s Creek
A welt of red rock, perhaps fifty feet high, spread from both sides of the fissure, arcing gently away. Lincoln looked down at the map.
“This looks like it,” he said as Aezal peered over his shoulder.
“Just get me out of this damned forest,” he replied through gritted teeth.
Both Ozmic and Grimble grunted their agreement. The last couple of days had tested them. Soon after leaving Thickwick, the forest had thickened and closed in, its shadows haunting their way. For six days they had picked their way over slow-flowing streams with moss-clad banks, along narrow clefts in pressing valleys. Twice, they’d had to turn back; their way barred by a sheer fall. They’d camped huddled together; their clothes sodden by the ground; a fire just a dream. The dwarves had grumbled; Crags had argued with everyone, and more than once, they’d all collapsed in exhaustion wondering if the trees would ever end. At times it seemed like they wouldn’t, and though the others had wavered, Lincoln had forged on, determined to find his sanctuary even after they’d let the horses go. The poor beasts were unable to pick out a safe way through the press of the trunks, the peril of loose scree, and unseen slopes that took your very feet away. Even after that, he’d never lost faith.
“We’ll have our work cutout finding a route back to Allaise’s,” Grimble pointed out as they looked up at the red cliffs. “Unless we came here an ass-backward way.”
Until then, Lincoln hadn’t thought about that, though Allaise had been on his mind. They had followed the map, and the map had tried to take them in a straight line. A better way could be found once they’d forged a home of sorts, though if the vale within the red ridge’s embrace was as thick with forest as this belt of land outside, then they were in for some hard toil.
“Tomorrow’s worries,” Lincoln pointed out, and he stepped toward the fissure.
If the map hadn’t led them here, Lincoln doubted that he’d have noticed it. The great evergreen trees surrounding the ridge clustered against the very rock itself. In fact, they’d only gotten brief glimpses of the crag as they’d approached, such were the thick ranks of trunks. It was like the trees were hiding the place, though Lincoln knew that was impossible…maybe improbable…
The fissure before them was no more than a thin split in the rock, a crack that ran down its side, around three feet wide. Lincoln was reluctant to venture in, the shadows foreboding, but in he went, soon swallowed by the rock’s sheer sides. He steadied each of his steps, testing the rock, and his hands pressed against the towering walls. Cracks made for handholds, and he pulled himself up from one ledge to another. Behind him, he heard Crags calling for help, heard Aezal huff and puff; his frame too big to move easily in what was no more than a fracture in the land.
Sweat dripped into Lincoln’s eyes. His mouth gritted in determination. Lincoln clambered slowly upward. If this was truly the only way into the vale, he would be safe…but lonely. No, this path would have to be fashioned into a trail, but with guile, with the foresight that hidden was best. After a couple of hours, he guessed he was halfway up and picked out a narrow step, slumping onto it and pulling a water bottle out of his sack. Each of them found a spot, and though they were spread out over a twenty-foot-long line, they exchanged reassuring grunts.
“Are we sure this leads somewhere?” Crags asked. He was sitting next to Grimble. For two races that were supposed to be sworn enemies, they were getting on fine now. Maybe the new guild topped all tribal animosity? Or it could be that Crags didn’t want to live in constant fear. One or the other, Lincoln thought.
“Sure,” Lincoln stated without reserve. “It’s just what’s on the other side that worries me.” He looked up at the thin, scraggly streak that was his only glimpse of the sky above. It was gray, broody, like it wanted to rain, but was waiting for a better opportunity to truly drench them. Lincoln waited for his energy to replenish fully. Not for the first time, he wondered what he’d done to be blessed with such companions. Sitting back against the rocky ledge behind him, Lincoln closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It will all be all right, he thought. It will all be all right. It had to be all right. He forced himself up.
“Already?” Ozmic asked.
“Unless you want to head back and spend another night back in that forest, or worse, here,” Lincoln answered, nerves grabbing hold of his stomach, doubt cramping his muscles, eating away at the resolve he was holding in place.
He crawled, climbed, and edged up the narrow cleft. The gray sky getting ever closer, and finally, like the climb had suddenly given up testing them, it leveled. He crawled along a narrow ledge, wondering why nothing had changed, why the red rock still surrounded him, why the sky was just a slit of gray. He crawled, hand over exhausted hand, arm over spent arm until he saw the sky fall, until he saw it meet a column of green, not dank green—but a vivacious green. He saw a land that was alive. He saw her land.
“Joan’s Creek,” he muttered, and his eyes closed, relief flooding through him; his goal so close to his grasp.
When he woke, confusion filled his mind. The lush green had faded to gray. The gray of the sky had darkened to black. His back, side, shoulders, and neck all ached, and pain pulsed through him. Pushing himself up, he swiveled around, his back against cold rock.
“Did I sleep all afternoon?”
Aezal was sitting by him, a blanket tucked up under his chin. “It was only a couple of hours. We’d never have gotten down before nightfall, any how. We’ll just have to take it slow.”
“What?” Lincoln tensed. “You want to carry on down?”
“We’ll freeze up here,” Ozmic said. “Even if we could get a fire going, the wind’ll take it out. It’s been whistling through here like it was a gap in Balazar’s teeth.”
“You’ve got night vision, and we’ve got torches,” Grimble pointed out. “I’d rather scrape me knuckles than freeze to death. I’ll lead the way.”
For once, Lincoln was pleased he’d been stripped of his position as the group’s unelected leader. Unelected, as long as you didn’t count being made a guild leader by an old, dead king’s corpse. Grimble squeezed past him, pulled some torches from his sack and passed them around.
They started the long, slow climb down. If anything, it was twice as hard going down as climbing up, but bit by bit, they eroded the drop. Snag by snag, slip by slip, and scrape by scrape, they closed in on the bottom of the valley. Even as the amber of sunrise sprayed its light from behind and over the black of the land below them, they toiled on, heads down, muscles screaming in pain, and stomachs clenched in fear.
True ground, real, solid earth packed with the smell of decay and birth mixed together in a heady scent of emerging, struggling life welcomed them, as they sank to their knees on a patch of brilliant, green grass. The late-morning sun beat down on their backs, and they collapsed, and breathed in the vitality of this new land.
“We made it,” Lincoln cried, though more of a whimper of relief.
“I’m done,” said Crags.
“Eh?” Grimble looked around, confused. “I carried you for the last half.”
“Do you have any idea how uncomfortable it is being carried by a dwarf?”
“Why you…” Grimble got up, his stance threatening, but his expression, playful.
“Why I what?” Crags asked, and skipped away from the group.
Aezal rolled over on to his back. “And blue sky,” he said. “We have a deep blue sky to welcome us to this new place—this sanctuary.”
“Did you see how big it is?” Ozmic asked. “As the sun was settling, I caught a glimpse. Whaddya think? eight, nine miles around? More?”
“About that,” Aezal muttered. “We surely can’t be alone.”
“Stone dwarves, bound to be some of them.
Maybe even tree elves—I saw some forests,” Ozmic declared.
Lincoln let them chatter on. They’d spilled out of the bottom of the ravine and ventured no farther than that, yet even here, on the doorstep to this magical vale, he could feel its vibrancy. The land immediately beyond them was grass, long grass and broad-leafed trees that rustled in the breeze swirling around them. Lincoln grinned as he saw Crags’ head being chased by Grimble. Then Crags vanished completely, and Grimble looked like he stumbled, and then he vanished too, with a splash.
“Water!” Grimble shouted, and Lincoln half crawled, half stumbled toward his cries, his own thirst released.
Once they’d all drank, they sat in a circle, each waiting for another to speak, each savoring the peace of the place. Lincoln flattened the grass between them and spread the map out. Ozmic reached into the little brook beside them and fished out four stones, securing the corners of the map against the gentle breeze.
Now that they were in the vale, the map had become more detailed. It showed the looming mountain that they could see to the north and the ridges that encircled them, and now, not only the river that spilled from the mountain, the lake in the vale’s center, but also forests, bunches of hillocks marked as grassy lands, rock faces, caves, and hollows.
“The banks of the lake,” Lincoln said, pointing down. “That is where we should build Joan’s Creek.”
“No,” said Aezal. “Where the lake spills out. There,” and Aezal stabbed his own finger down. “We need to be able to link both sides of the vale. That is where we should build it.”
Lincoln looked around at each of them. They seemed to be in agreement with Aezal.
“Agreed,” he said. “Do we set a fire now and cook up some food?”
They all looked at him like he was daft. “We’re two hours or less from our destination, and you want to cook?” Crags said, and Lincoln realized he was scared.
What if I mess it up? he thought, but Aezal now stood over him, his hand outstretched, and Lincoln reached out and took it. Pulling Lincoln up, Aezal hugged him. “We made it, brother. We made it.” And like that, Lincoln’s doubts vanished.
After the deep of the forest and the press of the ridge’s cleft, the freedom of the vale lifted all their moods. Tall grass, scattered copses, and rolling hills led slowly down to glimpses of the lake. Strips of dark green told of the beginnings of woods, though they looked more welcoming than the thick forest of the outside. All the while, the mountain looked over them like a mother to a child. It was vast; a great mass of black crags and sheer, gray sides. Its top white and capped with snow. Lincoln couldn’t help but wonder if its latent power fueled the energy he now felt surging through his body.
The sun was high when they crested the final ridge that led down to the great lake in the vale’s center. As one, they sat on the grass and looked over its rippling water. Birds circled overhead, gliding, some diving into the water, some settling on top and paddling away.
“This place is teeming with life,” Aezal said.
“And it must stay that way,” Lincoln muttered. “We must grow our own food, rear our own. We mustn’t disturb this balance.” He reached into his sack and pulled out his city token. “This, Aezal, this must not break this place.” Lincoln marched down to the lake’s bank and along it to where Aezal had indicated the city should be.
“Here?” he asked.
Aezal looked along the bank and pointed to where the outflowing river was narrowest.
“There,” Aezal said.
The five of them strolled there, and Lincoln stood while they crowded around him.
“Here?” he asked again.
“Here!” they all cried, and Lincoln flipped the token in the air.
“Here,” he said.
12
Bethe
The token spun in the air, but it didn’t drop. It grew steadily bigger as it hung there and began to spray a copper-colored light around. It grew and grew, and the group began to edge out to give it room as it expanded. It began to meld with the shimmering, coppery light until it gradually dissipated and vanished. Lincoln felt a warm radiance begin to glow in his stomach; that addictive pulse of euphoria that signaled his leveling up. A beam of light shot from his body. No longer radiant white, but now the same, coppery color as the token had illuminated. It spread like a fan, then rose and surrounded him in a ball of earthy light. Lincoln felt his tears running down his face as he looked up into the pale, blue sky and searched out Joan’s joy.
The feeling slowly faded. The light seeped back into him, and he floated back to the ground.
Congratulations! You have founded your settlement. Barakdor favors those who build. You are awarded 1000 experience points.
Congratulations! You have exceeded 2500 XP. You have leveled up. You are now level 4. You have 6 unallocated attribute points.
Congratulations! You have opened up new attributes. You may now reallocate your points into Politics, Culture, and Defense.
Congratulations! You have been awarded a guide. The guide will help you carry out the tasks associated with building a great and powerful city.
Congratulations! You have been awarded the profession, Elder. You will be able to advance your profession as your settlement grows.
Lincoln looked at his stat board, but nothing much seemed to have changed.
He looked it up and down again, but could see no trace of the new attributes, nor anything that would indicate he was now head of a settlement, apart from his profession. He looked at his companions, but they were all staring at something behind him.
“What?” he asked.
“Behind you,” they said as one.
Lincoln slowly turned and saw a strange being standing before him about his height and copper in color, with a shiny, bald head. Its eyes, nose, and mouth were all where they should be, and a cloak flowed from its neck and over its feet to give the impression that it was floating. It had a tablet in its hands. The being looked straight at him.
“I am your guide,” it said. “Do you wish to assign me a name?”
“Erm…” Lincoln replied, shuffling from foot to foot. “Bethe?”
“Bethe,” Bethe confirmed. “Would you like to name the settlement?”
“Joan’s Creek.”
“Joan’s Creek,” Bethe said slowly. “You’ll find you have a new city menu. Would you like to access your new menu?”
“Please,” said Lincoln, wondering why he was so tongue-tied.
“What would you like to do first?” Bethe asked.
Lincoln shrugged and looked around at his companions. “Somewhere to stay?”
They all nodded.
“A cottage?”
A prompt popped up in his mind.
Cottage – Level 1 – Costs: 100 food, 500 lumber, 50 iron – time to build – 5 workers 1 day – provides 10 workers, attracts 10 population.
“For each cottage you build, you will get 10 workers,” Bethe explained. “Workers are not like general population. They require no food other than what it takes to perform the task, nor do they need shelter and can be set to perform a multitude of tasks from building to defense.”
“Got it,” said Lincoln.
“Do you wish me to make the resources available?”
“Please.”
A pile of logs, some nails and hinges, and a basket full of food appeared about twenty yards away from them. Lincoln waited for it to start turning into a cottage. Nothing happened. He looked at Bethe.
“Well?” he asked.
“Well what?”
“Workers?”
“No cottage yet,” she replied.
He nodded. “Right lads, let’s build us a cottage.”
Ten minutes later, they’d eaten all the food and drank the small cask of ale that Bethe had supplied too. Lincoln looked around at all of them. “Right lads, now let’s build us a cottage.”
They chose a level spot right by the shore. Luckily, the dwarves came equipped with spades, hammers, and m
allets. Lincoln had his troll pick, but Crags and Aezal had nothing. After a little, quite heated conversation, it was decided that as the warrior and the gnome knew nothing about building, they should prepare a camp for the night, hunt some food, and generally stay out of the way. After an hour, it was agreed that Lincoln should leave the dwarves to it. It appeared they had differing ideas on how to build a cottage.
Lincoln decided to walk along the lake’s shore and get a better feel of the place. Aezal and Crags had vanished into nearby woods, and Ozmic’s mallet banged away, only interrupted by Grimble’s barked orders.
Looking up at the sun, he guessed it was early afternoon. Apart from the noise of fevered construction, Lincoln could only hear the squawk of the fishing birds, the rustle of the swaying grass and the shimmering, breeze-blown leaves. A few yards of cattails lined the lake’s banks, alive with industrious insects flitting from one to the next. The swish and swirl of an otter made his heart jump, but he just ambled on, lost in the heady solace of this place. He came to a little inlet, a small copse a dozen or so yards back, and he sat there on the lake’s bank.
The city building appeared quite straight forward, but as he suspected, it was going to be laboriously slow. Though the token had given him reserves of food, lumber, stone, and iron, those would soon vanish. He understood he needed sawmills, quarries, mines, and farms to feed the village as it grew, but looking around, he also wondered if some of these things were…flexible. Then he smiled.
He wanted to understand the rules of this place. Surely he couldn’t just build sawmill after sawmill, produce endless wood, without exacting a price on the land around him. The same went for mining or quarrying the mountain, what price was there? To fulfil his promise to Joan, he had to work out the balance. What good would it be if the village was built and the land around ruined? But those thoughts weren’t what made him smile, it was because he was thinking of the land as real, and that made him happy. Aezal was real to him, as were Grimble and Ozmic, Crags…even Digberts. They were all real, especially Allaise, and Pete too.
