Chapter Two

Jorick struggles to grasp what has happened, but succeeds in meeting some new "friends".

Cold rain fell on his face. His entire body hurt. He forced his eyes open and saw the swirling grey sky. The ground had become soft and slick, which made standing impossible. He shifted himself and managed to prop his torso up against a nearby tree. His head throbbed and he felt where the blood had coagulated.

The air was cold, but Jorick was too numb to notice. Water ran down his face; a mix of rain and tears. He’s gone. I lost him. He’s gone.

He remembered the night, many years ago, when his father left dressed in a dark leather uniform. He had felt proud that the biggest hero in his life was going to fight to protect them.

“I love you, son.”

“I love you too, papa.” His father picked him up and hugged him. Jorick remembered the smell of the freshly lacquered bow on his father’s back. The man embraced his crying wife, then kneeled and kissed her round belly.

“Eugo.”

“Hmm?” he looked up at her.

“If it’s a boy, we should name him Eugo.”

He smiled at her. “And if it’s a girl?”

She hugged him again. “I have a feeling.”

The memory changed and Jorick was crying in his bed. The messenger had delivered dire news and a package. His father’s bow and dagger were wrapped in burlap on the kitchen table and there was a large box outside drenched in his mother’s tears. They buried him in the forest and tried to move on.

There was a crash of thunder that shook him back to the present. He was shivering and soaked to the bone. What would father do? He would be brave. He wouldn’t give up.

Jorick mustered his strength and managed to stand. He was dizzy and walked carefully towards the shack. Nothing moved around him and the ship was gone. He reached the edge of the forest and looked more carefully. There was still a gaping hole in their shack that allowed rain inside, but more concerning were the pillars of smoke that rose from the town. And the utter silence.

The floor was slick with water, but he could make out deep indentations in the wood where the invaders had stepped. Fragments of now inert stone were imbedded in the walls and roof, propelled by the force of the explosion. There were three other glowstones that he removed from their sockets and placed into a nearby rucksack. He found the dagger, undamaged, and clipped it to his belt. He took his leather cloak from the far wall and emptied the shelves of any food he could find. He had no intention of staying at the now destroyed shack and gathered anything that could be useful. The last things he grabbed were the quiver of arrows and the old bow.

The rain slowed to a mist. He looked to the town again and noticed fewer pillars of smoke. He walked near the edge of the woods that surrounded the area to provide a quick escape if there was any trouble. The log wall of the town was in ruins, and completely non-existent where the gate used to be. The ground where the battle had been was a mud pit filled with dead guards.

 Far Basin had been home to a few hundred people, and he hoped that a few were still there. The wall of thick wooden spires encircled the town, but Jorick knew of places where someone small could squeeze through. If there were any of the black soldiers left, he might be able to stay hidden in the side streets.

When he was within a hundred meters of the wall, he darted across the open meadow. He crashed harder than intended into the bark and pressed himself against it, partly to listen and partly to regain some stamina. He felt dizzy again and took a drink from a waterskin on his belt.

The gap in the wall was hidden behind a large section of tree bark that had become detached from the log. He pulled it back and revealed a narrow gap between two trees just large enough for him to fit through sideways. He removed the rucksack and dragged it through behind him.

Jorick emerged behind the blacksmith`s shop, or at least what remained of it. The forge was tipped over and solidified metal had formed a silver pool on the ground. There were large holes cut through the workshop walls and the door had been kicked down off its hinges. He drew his dagger and kept to the shadows, leaving the noisy rucksack hidden in the passageway through the wall.

The town had been beautiful, once. He had grown up here, in a modest house a street back from the town square. His father’s military wages had kept the home respectably furnished and their bellies full. And now it’s just me.

Jorick snuck through a back alley and peered out into the central square. The fountain was crushed stone and the shops and homes at the perimeter of the square were covered in gnarled holes with charcoal tipped teeth. He paused and watched, but saw nothing moving.

Every building had become disconnected with its respective doors, most of them violently. Jorick began moving through them and became increasingly certain that the town was abandoned. There were a handful of dead bodies in the streets, and more in the buildings themselves. They either had bashed in heads or burning craters torn from them.

The alchemist’s shop was hidden in the north end of town, nestled in the basement of a run down two story house where the alchemist himself lived, or at least Jorick assumed he lived. Even if Fendrith was dead, the shop might still contain useful supplies. Jorick leant around a corner and peered down the alleyway. The building was still there, and remarkably untouched. It still looked like it could fall down at any moment, but at least it didn’t have any recent damage. The crumbling wood pillars were replaced with crude metal beams and most of the windows had been replaced with boards. A crooked smokestack protruded from the top, blackened from years of combustion below. A wooden sign dangled overhead, labelling the place as ‘Fendrith’s Alchemical and Magical Implements’. The door swayed gently on its rusty hinges.

Jorick approached the building and breathed slowly, listening for any signs of danger. Hearing nothing, he tapped the hilt of the knife to the door, once gently, then loudly. Again, nothing.

Something’s not right.

He pushed the door and it creaked open revealing a shop in complete disarray, which was how Jorick remembered it. Still functioning glowstones filled the space with dusty orange light. Shelves along the walls were filled with jars full of herbs, flowers, and pickled animal parts. Books, scrolls, and trinkets filled grimy display cases and strings of tiny rodent skulls crisscrossed overhead. There were papers scattered on the sales counter topped with baskets of discount potions and less-than-fresh alchemical components. Within the counter was a reinforced display cabinet that contained magically imbued weapons and implements, as well as an assortment of mana vials. Jorick remembered a particularly dim-witted patron who, after eyeing a flame charged battleaxe in the cabinet, attempted to smash it with his warhammer and take it. The magical protection on the case shattered it and sent splinters spraying about the shop. Fortunately, most of the fragments became stuck in the wielder of the hammer, who had to be carried out by the town guards to the nearest healer.

In the back corner of the room, behind a tattered tapestry, was a staircase that led to the upper floor. The stairs squeaked with each step, giving away any attempt at stealth. At the top was a locked wooden door that Jorick was reasonably sure wasn’t magically protected. He tried the handle but found it stuck tight.

Alright... quick and easy... stay low... focus...

He rested his back against the opposing wall and planted a firm kick just below the door handle, keeping the knife held tight in his hand. The impact shook dust from the floorboards. Jorick continued his forward momentum and moved through the doorway, leading with his knife hand. He landed on the balls of his feet, ready to dodge or strike at whatever might be in the room. Luckily, the straw-stuffed bed, nor the tall armoire, seemed hostile.

Okay... let’s find that key...

Dust floated around and traced sunbeams through cracks in the walls. Surveying the room, he noticed more bookshelves overflowing with scrolls and papers beside a large slanted desk. There was a large rug on the floor and a small doorway at the far end that looked like it led to a small washroom.

He checked the desk first, shuffling papers and inkwells about. The pages were covered with recipes, sketches, and diagrams, none of which made any sense to Jorick. There was nothing obviously key-shaped on the surface, so he felt under the desk for any hidden compartments. On the right side his fingers found a small metal lever, which he pulled. There was an audible click from within the desk and the top lifted slightly, revealing a narrow shelf that pulled out. There were scraps of paper, quills, and a wide variety of assorted junk. He sifted through the items hoping to find anything that vaguely resembled a key. As he searched, a drawing on a torn paper caught his eye. It was familiar and terrifying. In hastily drawn ink scratchings was a cube.

Something wrapped itself around his neck and pulled tight. He was suddenly pulled out of a moment of terror into a different moment of terror as something else slammed the knife out of his hand. He struggled and tried to pry away whatever was at his neck. It felt like an arm under a rough fabric shirt, but completely invisible.

“Who are you?!” said a low voice just behind him. Jorick tried to make a noise, but found that he was quickly running out of breath.

“Strad, give him some air,” said the second voice, high and sweet. “I’ve got his knife.”

The arm relaxed slightly and Jorick wheezed for air. He looked to where the second voice had come from and saw nothing except floating dust and sunrays. Even his knife had vanished.

“What... who...”

“Oh right, silly me.” In a split second, the empty space was replaced with a young girl, one arm resting on a slightly raised hip. She twirled the knife in her free hand like a toy. “There, better?”

“That’s my knife!”

“I know. I took it from you, silly.” She wore a charcoal grey hood and loose fitting clothing. Her eyes were emeralds framed by short red hair and a pixie face. She threw the knife into the air and caught it, smiling. “It’s really nice, can I keep it?”

“Enough games Oia.” Strad, or at least Jorick assumed his name was Strad, resumed strangling him. “We don’t have time for this. Just search him.”

“Fine. You’re no fun.” She vanished again, but this time Jorick noticed the disturbances in the sunbeams, bent like ripples on a lake. She patted him down and tied his hands behind his back. She suddenly reappeared, a few inches from his face, crouching on the desk. “Where’s your stuff?”

Strad released his neck, now sore and bruising, and held the rope on his hands instead. Jorick coughed and doubled over, trying to fill his lungs again.

“Where... everyone...” Jorick struggled to speak.

“Where is everyone? Maybe we should be asking you.” Jorick finally got a view of Strad, a massive hulking man with a shaved head and small dark eyes.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“You are the first person we’ve seen since last night. How do we know you aren’t with the Black Knights?”

“Black Knights?”

“Well, that’s what I called them. You couldn’t ‘uh missed them. They flew down from the sky, had scary black armour, and started killing everyone?” Given the subject matter, Jorick found the sly smile on Oia’s face unsettling.

“No,” said Jorick grimly. “Not everyone.”

“Hmm?” Oia tilted her head slightly.

“They took my brother, Eugo.”

“What!?” Oia’s face suddenly flushed. “Wait, that means... You’re Jorick!?”

“You know him?” Strad’s voice sounded like gravel in a kettledrum.

“Yeah, you know me?”

“Eugo talked all about you at school. I was in his class. He was... uh...” She trailed off and looked down at the floor.

“He was...?” Jorick tried to pry out more information, which made Oia recoil even further. “Nevermind. He’s gone. The ‘Black Knights’ or whatever you called them, they took him. They almost killed me. And I need to find him. So if you’re done playing burglars, I’ll take my knife back and be on my way.”

Oia passed it back to him. “I’m sorry... I didn’t know...”

“So he’s...?”

“Yeah Strad, he’s fine. Untie him.”

Jorick rubbed his rope-burnt wrists and sheathed the knife. Side by side, the two were an odd pair. Strad was a three heads taller than Oia, and twice as wide. He looked like he could pick up and crush a melon in one hand. He wore a simple tunic and workman’s pants with a many-pocketed vest.

“So, what now? I’m free to go?” asked Jorick.

“Where will you go?” Oia had a new tone of concern in her voice.

“I...” He truly didn’t have any idea of where to begin. If the Black Knights left the same way they came, that meant they were in the sky in their ship. How could I possibly get up there? “I have no idea.”

“Well... uh... maybe we could figure it out together?” She looked up at him, and Jorick realized she had been crying.

“It would be safer in a group. Hard to say if there are more knights out there. Without the town guards, we might have problems with bandits, too.” Strad’s face didn’t reveal any signs of emotion, but he had placed a massive arm around Oia’s shoulder.

“You’re right. Okay, let’s...” An image flashed in Jorick’s mind like a bolt of lightning. “Wait! I know!”

He pulled open the hidden shelf in the desk and started searching the papers. I know it’s in here. I saw it. I’m sure it was in here.

“What are you looking for?” inquired Oia from behind his shoulder.

He moved a parchment with a pen sketch of a rare flower to the side and found what he was looking for.

“This.”

Author's Note

Again, this is very much a first draft. Mostly, I'd like comments on the characters and the storyline so far. I intend to flesh out and describe the world more on future drafts. Thanks!