The Vitalis Chronicles: White Shores

by Jay Swanson

  “Then what's going on sir?” His voice but a raspy whisper as he leaned closer, the creaking leather of his saddle almost drowning his words.

  “Hell if I know, Nick. A whole city doesn't just go silent overnight.” He paused, handing Stern a slice of apple without breaking his stare. “Even if they had lost power, their ships would have continued sailing, there would have been news.”

  “Damned scale suckers had better not be playing a joke on us.”

  “They aren't,” Briggs finally looked at his big sergeant. “But we have to be sure.”

  The gates to the city wall were open; ajar may have been a better word for it, Lieutenant Briggs thought. They looked almost like they'd been punched in by some Titan from the old tales. He tried to reassure himself that they had simply been left unmaintained over the years. No one used these gates any more.

  The cursed white mist curled out from under the broken wood and around the stones. It must be more humid than he thought, or at least so he tried to reassure himself.

  Briggs turned his horse around to face his mounted scouts, each one worth every penny the army paid them and more. The lines on their faces had deepened, and none moved to join their lieutenant.

  “Alright,” he said, speaking as though he were afraid to wake someone nearby. “I want you to break into pairs. We've all read the maps; you should be able to figure out your routes. Everyone is to meet in the center square in forty minutes.”

  The men checked their watches, eager for a distraction as their horses fidgeted uneasily beneath them.

  “Don't lose sight of your partners, and radio in if you find anything.”

  “Sir, our wireless still don't work.” Thompson pulled out a hand-held unit, his thumb firmly pressing the 'talk' button, releasing a broken stream of static and warped noises.

  “Damn.” Briggs tried his own before shoving it in his saddle bag. “Well, don't get lost. Mark anything of interest on your maps and we'll figure out what to do when we reach the square. Any questions?”

  They all sat quietly in their saddles. Each looking to the others before the awkward silence forced their attention back on their lieutenant. He too waited for any excuse to delay, but finding none, turned and walked his horse towards the gates.

  “Forty minutes boys, don't be late.”

  “Alright maggots,” said Stern notably missing much of his usual enthusiasm. “You heard the lieutenant! Stop yer mullin' about and get in formation!”

  Briggs heard his men fall in behind him as he approached the city. It was a comfort to know there were men he knew and trusted behind him. The gate's shadow reached out to him as he pressed forward. The pace of his heart quickened.

  “Thompson, you're with me,” Briggs said.

  “Great,” came the reply from the private.

  “What was that worm?” The sergeant quipped, but Briggs had stopped listening.

  He eased through the gate; there was just enough room for one mounted horseman to get through at a time. The unused dirt path turned into cobblestone streets as they passed the gatehouse. Briggs looked up as he passed under the MARD repulsors. They were large lantern-looking things that would hang from entryways such as this and along the walls. It appeared they had been ripped out of their sockets and discarded somewhere. Aside from the doors it was the only sign of violence he could make out.

  Briggs motioned for Thompson to follow him as they turned to the right and headed down the northern-most road. Briggs knew it should lead them around the perimeter of the city. It felt like the worst road of all to take.

  Stern made his way straight into the city with one of the privates, an old market place greeting them as they continued from the walls. It didn't appear to have been used for commerce in quite some time, probably because this gate was no longer a source of traffic for the city.

  The other scouts broke off into pairs and made their way among the buildings by various routes. None of them picked up much speed in the narrow streets. The two and three story buildings were once light and welcoming. Now, they seemed to lean in over the visitors, their windows dark and lifeless.

  The mist was rolling around Stern's feet now, his horse's chest leaving a wake as they moved forward. It seemed to thicken even more as he passed between the residences of the fishermen. Increasingly reclusive for the past few decades, the scale suckers, as he liked to refer to them, hadn't had much regular contact with the rest of the world outside of trade. Stern didn't care. They stank, and so did their city.

  How a town this far north could remain this hot most of the year was beyond him. The collar of his uniform used his sweat as an epoxy as it clung to his throat. It grated against the stubble of his unshaved neck. At least his horse seemed to have calmed, her nerves restored by movement.

  They took a slow corner and were greeted by a row of shops. Horseshoes on cobblestones and stretching leather the only sounds to break the silence. Butterflies rose in Stern's stomach, and his neck grew tenser as they continued. He didn't dare speak to the private following him; the lump in his throat wouldn't have permitted it anyways.

  Briggs came to the first pier along his route. It was smaller, reserved for private fishermen and families. There weren't any warehouses yet, only a few small shops stood to service any boats in need. He turned to Thompson who was following a few seconds behind and motioned to move out onto the lower docks. The gentle lapping of water on hulls was barely audible; everything felt muted.

  His daughters had always loved the water. Boats held a romantic appeal for them. He never completely understood it, having grown up inland. He had never really cared much to take them to the ocean. Somehow now he wished he had. He shook the thought free, clearing his vision for the task at hand.

  This looked like a marina, Briggs thought to himself, but the defined difference evaded him as he dismounted. A number of boats were left tied to the dock; others floated free or were lodged where the tide had left them.

  As they descended the gangway between the pier and the floating docks below they failed to see any signs of life. Some nets were left out as if dropped while being cleaned. Most of the boats had inboard motors, but the masts among them stood naked against the sky.

  The lieutenant tapped a few windows, but resisted stepping on board any of the boats. He felt a knot growing in his stomach as he continued down the dock. Every step became more difficult, the silence assaulting his ears. He only made it half way before turning back, wordlessly bidding Thompson to follow him.

  Stern crossed a large, ornate stone bridge; the hidden stream below trickling gently, as if to remind him of security long lost. He couldn't tell if the small sparkles of light below came from the water or something else. The duo stopped as they entered another large square in front of a tall, armored statue. The base was difficult to read through the mist, but he was certain whoever it was held the title “Cleaver.”

  Anyone with a sword that big must be compensating for something, the sergeant thought to himself with a silent chuckle.

  The cause for curiosity, however, was the scorched plain where the statue's head should have rested. It appeared as though it had been burned off, which Stern assured himself wasn't possible. He swallowed heavily at the thought and moved his horse past the statue and through the open square. The private fell in line dutifully behind him.

  As the walls closed in around them again, Stern started noticing faint marks on them, as though someone had scraped giant matches along the buildings in order to light them. He slowed his mount to a halt, shifting the reins into his right hand. Taking off the thick leather glove on his left hand he reached out, placing his fingers on the rough stucco and running them along the mark. The light gray dust gave way under his fingers and drifted to the ground leaving smooth marks as he dragged them along the surface of the wall.

  Then he heard the scream. He whipped his horse around and faced the white faced private behind him.

  “Did you hear that?” He looked around, trying to determine w
here it had come from. “C'mon Private! Move!”

  He urged his horse into a trot down a nearby alley as another scream echoed through the streets. It was followed by a horse's screech that was cut off as suddenly as it had begun. Stern lowered his head and rode hard towards the sound.

  He entered a large square with a fountain in the center, the trickle of water deafening in his ears as he spun his horse around searching for any sign of life. He was alone. Then another scream rose and fell from the alley behind him. He turned back, the damned private!

  He kicked his steed into the mist as he heard another scream, rounding the corner in time to see the riderless horse sucked down into the mist. With a screech and flash of light it was gone, only the faintest scent of singed hair remained to prove it had once existed.

  The sergeant froze as the mist churned and began to rise around him. He pulled out his pistol, cocking the hammer back before he had so much as leveled it at his invisible opponent.

  Lips pulled back tightly over his gums, he yelled his challenge. His wide eyes frantically darted to and fro for a target. His horse fidgeted side to side, feeding off her master's fear. The mist began to rise in streaks and reach for him. Was he going mad? What in God's name was this?

  His massive shoulder tensed, gloved hand clutching his faithful weapon so hard it became an extension of his arm. As if in response to his tension it came for him then; hot, white light streaked out of the mist as ethereal tendrils spiraled out to grab him.

  He bellowed as loud a war cry as he could muster and unloaded his firearm into enemies he could not see.

  “ARDIN THEODORE VITALIS!” The commanding voice of a mother scorned resonated through the tiny two-story house. She stormed over to the base of the stairs ascending to the bedrooms and roared.

  The house had been built by her father when she was a girl, and was meant for a much smaller family than the one she now had. She furrowed her brow as she held on to the polished wood banister leading up the stairs. Brown, framed family pictures lined the short hallway that led to the kitchen and bordered the living room. She glanced towards the mantle in the living room; her rage aflame over the vacant space on its left side.

  “Get down here right now young man!”

  Luckily Ardin had hidden himself quite thoroughly in the loft of their equally small barn and wasn't about to come out. Something about the venom in her tone told him it might be better to add disappearing to his growing list of sins. Easier to ask forgiveness after she had cooled down. He should have at least brought something to read, he thought. This could wind up being a long day.

  The idea had barely passed before a hand firmly grasped the back of his neck and shoved his face into the hay he had hidden himself in. His startled cry was muffled by a golden sheet of silence.

  “What do we have here?” came the voice attached to the hand. “I do believe I hear an angry mother calling for her son, and he seems to be nowhere in sight!”

  Ardin rolled onto his back as the grip on his neck loosened. He stared up wide eyed as his discoverer sat on his legs, effectively pinning him.

  “John!” His hands clasped on the forearm of his older brother, whose palm was now pressed firmly into his chest. “Please!”

  Ardin couldn't help but glance up towards their house as he clenched his teeth and writhed under the weight of his captor. John was four years his senior. Twenty years old and eager to leave home and join the army. He was still big enough to master Ardin with ease.

  “You can't!”

  “Now why on earth couldn't I?” John's smile was framed by the loose scruff of a young beard; he couldn't help the grin as his hostage squirmed with a growing sense of despair. “Someone broke Mother's favorite vase, someone with a penchant for playing soldier it would seem. There was a wet sword left among the flowers and shards of glass.”

  “I just wanted to see it, John! Father never lets me hold it!”

  “I guess now we know why!” He flicked his index finger against his victim's forehead. The sting caused tears to form in Ardin's eyes. “Now, what to do with such a poor soldier.”

  “Please John!” He said. “Please!”

  John sat there for a moment, puckering his lips slightly as he pondered his brother's fate. The moments passed in excruciation for Ardin.

  “Alright little Ardin.” He finally let up on the pressure and rose to his feet. “But we'd better be quick about it. Mother is coming out as we speak.”

  Ardin twisted up on his side quickly, craning his neck to see through the crack in the large double doors below. He could make out the floral print of his mother's apron as she marched from the house. John laughed as he backed towards the large window at the end of the loft and lightly dropped from it to the hay bales below. Ardin scrambled over and looked out after his brother, clenching the window frame as the two story drop reeled in his mind.

  “C'mon Ardin!” his brother hissed as he crouched behind a broken down wagon. “She's coming!”

  Ardin took a quick breath, set his jaw, and jumped through the window using his arms to vault his passage. There was an audible thud as he missed his target and wedged himself between two of the bales. Lights swirled in his eyes as he found his torso firmly pinned. His legs stuck straight up in his face and his arms flailed awkwardly as he sought to grab hold of something. It was no use, he was stuck.

  After a moment he gave up, exasperated and out of breath. He looked up to discover his brother standing over him, working to contain his laughter.

  “C'mon little brother.” John took hold of Ardin's arms and hoisted him out of the straw. “No sense letting Vern's cows get you either. It seems you're destined to be eaten alive one way or another.”

  The two villains slunk through broken down farm equipment. Most of the wood had rotted away over time leaving their rusted skeletons scattered among heaps of rocks and dilapidated shelters. Ever since their father had lost his leg, their farm had been leased to neighbors. Even the hay in their barn wasn't their own.

  John stopped behind a particularly large pile of stones, pulling his charge down to a seated position. He grinned.

  “You're not so bad on your feet you know, when you manage to land on them at least.” He wrapped his arm around his little brother's head, pulling him close and squeezing. “But now we'll both be in trouble for your little battle with the ‘Great Soldiers of Floria!’”

  “Come on John,” Ardin said. “I just wanted to try it out, see how it felt. I just wanted to hold Father's sword.”

  “It's ok.” He released his grip and leaned back into the rocks. “You'll make a fine soldier someday, Ardin.”

  “You think?”

  “Sure, we just need to work on your disappearing act! I may have taught you how to fight, but now you need to learn how to run.”

  “Soldiers aren't supposed to run.”

  “Sure they are. It's one of the first things you're taught in the academy. So, if you're going to hide right under Mother's nose you'd best do it in a place she'll never look. Or at least one she's unwilling to go.”

  Ardin scrunched his nose as he looked up at his brother. Their mother's anger was still audible across the remains of once maintained farm equipment.

  “I don't think there's a place on earth Mother wouldn't go to whip me.”

  “Oh sure there is! You just need to know your enemy. That's the key to finding their weakness.”

  “And then what?”

  “You exploit it.”

  “How?” Ardin wasn't so sure his mother was his enemy, but when she had a spoon in her hand he was equally uncertain of her friendship.

  “Well,” John picked up a stone from the pile and tossed it in the air. “There are two scenarios to think about. In this one you want to repel your enemy because you're weak. Right?”

  “Okay.”

  “Therefore, you have to go someplace you'll be protected, somewhere they'll be too scared to follow if they manage to figure out where you've gone.”

  �
��So... I should go somewhere Mother would be too scared to go.”

  “Exactly.” John put the stone down. He smiled faintly as his little brother's brow furrowed and his fingers fidgeted.

  “Where on earth would Mother be scared to go...?”

  “What's she scared of?”

  “Nothing that makes sense... mice for example.”

  John laughed and patted Ardin on the shoulder, “Which means what?”

  “Which means…” Ardin looked around the makeshift graveyard. “Which means she won't dare to look for me in the cellar?”

  “Less likely the crawl space under the house.”

  “Ugh,” Ardin grimaced at his older brother. “I'm not so sure I'd want to go there either.”

  “'In war we must often do what we deplore if we are to avoid what we fear.'”

  “What the heck does that mean?”

  “It's just an old maxim, Ardin. C'mon.”

  “Wait.” Ardin put a hand on his brother's sleeve to stop him from rising. “You said there were two scenarios. What's the other one?”

  “When your enemy is weak.”

  “What do you do then?”

  “You do something that will draw them to you. And then you spring your trap.”

  TWO

  THE FAMILY DINNER table had been built by old man Vitalis. It was a wedding gift to his son when he married Emily. It had served them well for the first few children, but after their fourth it quickly became too small. Don Vitalis hadn't been a carpenter like his father, but he wanted his family to be able to all sit at the same table when they ate. And so he had built extensions as time went on.

  By the time they had seven children, they were simply out of space in their dining room, each child crammed against a wall or cupboard as they stuffed their little faces with food. But they made it work. Don was grateful that there was food to put on the table in the first place. Ever since he had left Elandir's army it had been difficult to scrounge a living from the ground in his home town.