by Daniel Casey
Like the glassy-eyed suicide runners, Wynne was finding it increasingly difficult to see a world where life wasn’t choked out in the city. The Blockade was pure, it was perhaps the greatest military success he had ever seen severing Rikonen from the rest of Essia. There was no way to escape by sea and the northern roads to Paraonen and Heveonen though open and inviting, were leagues long through dead farmlands. Farmlands that now only yielded dust growing from twirling devils into huge brown storms. Drifts of gray dirt lacerated the roads from the fields choking off travel. The Rikonese were just as likely to die on the roads as going up against The Blockade, except that the marines would be a quicker death.
Nothing was coming out of the city; nothing was coming in. The farmlands had begun to turn the first summer of the siege. The grains and grasses died, the soil dried up and wouldn’t accept any kind of nourishment, and then the winds began. At first small dust devils could be seen in the distance off the roadway in fields that had been plowed, planted but yielding only dead earth. Then, the intriguing tiny tornados suddenly turned to huge dust storms, simooms like those talked about in the far south of The Aral, sweeping across the plains and blotting out everything for hours at a time. The brown sky would cover the small towns and villages in huge drifts of dirt, the villagers emerged plagued with a heavy, dry cough. Their mouths lacked saliva and their lungs hacked up dust. The bizarre dunes of dead earth ringed the city, dry waves crossed the plains to compliment the static bay; no one was coming to save Rikonen.
The city was feeding on itself, and Wynne could do nothing about it. He didn’t have to be in the lighthouse. He could have been out in the city looking for Fery, he could’ve headed back into the city to find the remaining civics (if there were any), or leading people out of the nightmare one at a time. But, he wasn’t, he was staying in the lighthouse fishing the dead from the bay. The isle was out far enough from the mainland and the Blockade to be disregarded. It was easy for everyone to continue to ignore the lighthouse.
The sea, which had once been the lifeblood of the city, had become a harsh reminder of their plight. The great lighthouse as it was routinely shelled by the Silvincians highlighted the poisoning of their lives. Few came to the docks, few travelled the coastline, and the few fisher folk that remained had reverted to hunting sea-rats (the gulls that coveted the filth of the city) and digging for snails and clams (a dwindling resource as well). The bay was dying, the water becoming sick and stagnant. Even in his forgotten corner, Wynne was only surviving thanks to the disgusting tiny black snails at the base of the lighthouse and the dwindling supply of goosefoot he had scavenged. He had lost nearly three stone. The simooms and The Blockade were squeezing the life out of the city, out of him. He had spent the year dying.
This night was colder than usual, so Wynne decided to risk a fire. He set a small burn in the furnace of the watch room below the light room. The warmth was welcome and he began to doze off. Not long before the dawn he snapped awake, convinced he had heard some crash below. He sat still like some timid, trapped animal. Then he heard the crash again coming from outside and definitely against the building. For a moment, he panicked—he was weak, thin, and alone, but then he remembered he was the only one that knew this. Tossing his blanket aside, he reached for his spearbow, and crawled over to the window nearest the sound.
Opening the shutters with the tip of his spearbow, he heard the crash again, this time accompanied by a series of curses. Someone was out there. Using the shutter as a kind of blind, he peered down in the direction of the ruckus. There were three men wearing what appeared to be the uniform of the civic. They were trying to pry open the main door to the keeper den. They wouldn’t get far. After the fall of the municipal when he had first arrived at the lighthouse he’d chained the main doors on the outside and then barred the den from the inside (entering from the tunnel that connected it to lighthouse proper). Soon, they’d realize the keeper den was a dead end and start to look for a way into the tower.
These men might not be scavengers, their uniforms weren’t pristine but they were still well kept, the red and grey.
Were these the real thing? He wondered. Can I take that chance?
He didn’t want to lose another home, but he knew he couldn’t wait this out. He needed to take action. Outnumbered, he still had a tactical advantage—he knew the terrain. He leaned out the window onto the gallery and took aim. His shot lodged into the main door of the keeper den, the harpoon stood out well above the heads of the men. It did what he wanted—it shocked them. The men leapt back and crouched, two drew their short swords while the third turned to look directly to where Wynne was.
“That’s enough of that.” Wynne called down having already loaded another harpoon.
Raising his hands the unarmed man’s face was one of panic, “Wait. Wait. We’re not here to fight…”
“Then why are you here? Why are you bashing our door in?” He hoped they noticed it; he had to make them think he was a multitude or else he’d be over run.
“We don’t want any trouble with you all in there.” The unarmed man called up as one of the men holding a sword spoke over him, “How many of you are left in there?”
“Then move on.” Wynne called down.
“We can’t do that. We need to talk to Wynne Landis.”
He winced; it had been a long time since anyone had said his name and felt even longer since anyone had needed him for anything, “Who are you, then? Who are you to him?”
The unarmed man stepped closer his voice less worried and calmer now, “We’re from the remaining civics, we’re…”
Wynne shot another harpoon that struck the ground a few steps in front of the unarmed man. “Close enough,” he called down.
The man stared at the harpoon but kept speaking, “We need Landis. The Alders have one last plan to save the city and they need him.”
The men with swords stepped closer to the speaker muttering something that Wynne couldn’t make out, but he could tell that from their body language and tone they were of the opinion that they could storm the tower and take him. They weren’t wrong. Wynne would probably take one out but the other two would be able to get to him with ease. There was nowhere for him to go, he didn’t have the strength to keep them at bay. Was the leader telling the truth? Was this Wynne’s chance to get back to the world? Or, at least, what was left of it?
“Do you know where he is? Can we talk to him?” The leader called up.
“Yes.” Wynne replied airily.
“Landis?"
“Yes.” He called down annoyed.
“Can we come up? Can you let us in?”
Wynne let out a long sigh, and then snapped back to the situation at hand, “No.” One of the swordsmen had begun to drift toward the tower door, so he let loose another harpoon only this time directly at the supposed civic. In a move whose quickness stunned Wynne, the swordsman was able to swat it away before it struck. Well, not entirely, the harpoon did graze him.
Wynne cursed, “Move any closer to me and the next spear will be in your chest.”
“There are three of us and only one of you. What makes you think we can’t take you?” The swordsman he struck angrily yelled up at him.
“You probably can. But I’m betting that not one of you wants to be the first to die.”
“Landis!” The leader called up.
“What.”
“We have Fery.”
He flinched as if he’d been punched in the gut. Sickness overcame him and then it was instantly replaced by rage, “Where? Where is she!”
“She’s safe. She’s at the Union, safe with the rest of us.”
“Bring her here. Let me see her.”
“We can’t do that.”
“Why not? You’re lying. She’s not with you.”
“Yes, we do. We found her after the rovers hollowed the central municipal. She’s been with us since.”
“Why now?”
“It took us awhile to figure out where you were.
And then it took us awhile to get through the city to you.” The third man finally chimed in scoffing.
“That’s weak.” Wynne was still skeptical.
“You’ve seen the city, Landis. It’s a madhouse, a maze of desperation. I’m sorry we couldn’t come sooner. But Fery is safe, and she needs you. She sent us out for you.”
He winced, he could see his face, and he felt a surge of guilt and shame. He blinked, shook his head, “You said the council wanted me? Which is it?”
“Can’t it be both, Landis? Wynne, Wynne, come down, come with us. We can give you a new home with your daughter; we can give you a chance to rescue the city.”
Wynne laughed bitterly, “Can you now?”
“He’s gone, Soren, he’s worthless to us now.” The third swordsmen addressed the leader.
Soren turned his head and said in a harsh tone, “Shut your mouth. We’re not here for what you think.”
“Seems like some dissention in the ranks.” The second swordsman began to inch toward the tower again, “And if your boy doesn’t want to be skewered he’ll move the fuck back.”
“Light be damned, Garner, back off. He’s not an enemy.”
“The bastard nearly took my arm.” Garner bit back.
“I’ll take out your eye next, boy, if you don’t hold your tongue.” Wynne taunted.
“Landis, your daughter needs you, wants you back. But, we need you back more, we…the civic needs you back. We have a plan to break The Blockade.”
“The Blockade can’t be broken.”
“Not from our side, no.”
Wynne perked his head up from the spearbow sight, Soren was looking right at him, and the other swordsmen had withdrawn.
“You have my daughter. You’re using her as a hostage to get at me.”
“We’re not criminals Landis; we’re civics like you. I’m Soren Redding, third ward.” Wynne realized he knew of this man, knew the name from his own men in his own ward.
“Redding? Redding’s the man who quelled the Graft riots?”
“Yes. Well, no. The riots weren’t quelled. They ended in…” Soren stuttered obviously choked up.
“It ended in death.”
“Yes. Yes it did. I failed that day.” Soren’s tone was genuinely lamenting. He looked wounded.
“The Alders didn’t think so.” Wynne needle the man, testing him.
“The Alders were wrong.”
Wynne smirked, “So what makes them right this time?”
“What else is there?” Soren gave a half-laugh filled with a kind of resigned desperation. He stood still looking up to the gallery.
“Sir, can we trust him? Shouldn’t we just give up?” Garner asked
Soren turned to face his subordinate, “Yes, we can, and no, we can’t. Don’t ever ask me again.” He turned back to look up at the gallery but Wynne was gone. Just then, the door of the tower opened and Wynne walked out into the courtyard. His spearbow slung around on his back, an unsheathed sword in one hand, and a stuffed satchel in his other.
“Yes, you can, and no, we shouldn’t.” he said.
Wynne shook hands with Soren, nodded to Garner, “Didn’t want to hurt you, son.”
Garner scoffed and held out his hand, “If you wanted to, I’d be hurt.”
“True enough,” Wynne smiled.
The other civic stepped up to him, “Anders.” Wynne shook his hand, and then Anders turned to Soren, “We should get moving. We have to cross the city.”
Soren nodded. As they began to walk, Wynne asked, “Where are we heading? I remember the Union being burnt out around the same time my ward was.”
“New Union.” Anders said as he moved to be on point.
“New?”
“On the western edge, in the Kairn Hills.” Garner added pointing across the bay to the grey brown hills that rose up slightly above the city line.
“There was never anything in those hills.” Wynne was a bit confused as they walked along the jetty to the shoreline.
Garner chuckled a bit, Soren shook his head, “There is now. The new Union is literally in the hills.”
Wynne raised an eyebrow, “In the hills?”
“Ward nine’s central hall wasn’t just built against a cliff face, it was built into it. Nearly half a league into the hills they say.” Garner said.
“How many are there?”
“Nearly five hundred, space for maybe another five.” Soren said.
“Just waiting it out?”
“Most of the Alders are resigned to doing just that. Trying to bring in stragglers and the civics’ families.” Anders said from the back.
“So that’s what you’ve been combing through the city for?”
“Not just, but essentially, yeah.” Soren nodded.
“And you just made it out here finally.”
Soren shook his head but it was Garner who spoke, “Top priority was finding you, this was just the last place to look.”
Wynne grinned, “Why me?”
“That’s a good question.” Garner replied.
“You designed the civics; you brought a new order to the city.” Soren said.
Strands of dark smoke rose from several points in the city, when they got to the shore a hot wind blew the city’s stench toward them; Wynne winced, “And look at it all now.”
Anders and Garner laughed as they pulled the bandanas around their necks up over their faces. Soren ignored the smell, “The Alders need you for something, and I’m supposed to fulfill that need.”
“You’re a good soldier, Redding.” Wynne said off-handedly.
“Not a soldier.” Soren replied in a near whisper.
The four of them made their way along the eastern shore of the bay. It was mostly fishing shacks but soon they entered the city proper. Their progress slowed as they moved through narrow back alleys. The main streets of Rikonen were wide and flat but littered with debris—overturned carts, mounds made of looted remains, animal corpses, and dark bloodstains now browned. Their plaster cracked and crumbling, the once glare white buildings of Rikonen with their tiny square windows were now scarred and blackened. Through the alleys, they could only move single-file. Wynne’s eyes kept darting around, but he kept getting distracted by the lines hanging overhead used for airing out clothes and passing things between homes. Garbage hung from them now and not a few charred bodies grotesquely entangled.
Wynne didn’t know this ward. They moved throughout the morning and afternoon. They encountered no one, heard no sound, the ward felt empty. The sun was lowing and the sky turning a brilliant red-orange because of the haze that hung over the city. All day they had been carving a circuitous path following Soren’s directions. Finally, the alley opened up into a thoroughfare that was remarkably clear, there were stalls with tattered blue tarps; this had been a bazaar.
Garner gestured with his head, “This would work for the night.” They looked at a large booth that had its counters shattered but had a high eave.
“Sure thing,” Soren nodded and turned to Anders, “Make a fire from what you can find, small though.”
“Just out here in the open?” Wynne looked around skeptically.
“This was one of the first places sacked by the mobs; they’ve not been back in ages.” Garner said as he tossed their gear down and began to move some of the tables to create a kind of u-shaped shield.
“We’ll be able to see anyone coming for us well ahead of any danger.” Soren said.
“Better than being pinned up in one of these homes, eh?” Wynne said and Soren nodded.
Garner looked Wynne up and down, “You need to eat.”
Once Anders got the fire going, he began to cook. It was simple fare—some well spiced dhal, a couple of simits for each of them, and some sharp yellowish cheese. Soren said he’d take the first watch and disappeared into the twilight on patrol. Wynne ate slowly, chewing each bite thoroughly, but his appetite wasn’t sated as the other two civics watched him not with awe, contempt, or concern but with a
juvenile curiosity.
“If I was you, I’d be devouring that,” Garner laughed good-naturedly, “wolfing it down, ya know?”
“Yeah, I didn’t realize how thin you were up in that lighthouse.” Anders spoke plainly, “but when I saw you come out of that door, you looked like a walking skeleton.”
Wynne nodded, scooped up another dollop dhal with his bread, raised it to his mouth and let out a weary sigh. It seemed to the guardsmen that he was eating out of obligation, as though the food had defeated him.
“All you had was rice and rock leeches?” Garner asked and Wynne nodded.
“Damn.” Anders said.
“For what? A year, maybe more?” Garner asked.
Wynne paused for a moment, “Thereabouts.”
“I couldn’t have done it.” Anders shook his head, a look on his face of refusal as though he was saying no to a bet. Wynne smirked, nodded again, and swallowed.
“But why aren’t you eating more?” Anders asked.
“He is eating more,” Garner laughed, “he hasn’t stopped eating since we met him.” And, it was true, to a certain degree. They had given him some amber ale as they left the lighthouse behind, and on the road, he was eating jerky and green nuts nearly the whole time.
Staring into the fire, he spoke to the guardsmen and they listened intently, “It wasn’t a choice, it was what was available. It was either eat the sea snails or not eat. Cooking rice in seawater, so you don’t waste your true water. Shooting down and eating gulls. It was what was available.”
