Chapter 1

Week One

700 Years Later

Chapter 1

“Is something wrong, Viscui?”

“I’m not entirely sure, Palsqa. There seems to be something on the wind.”

“Knowing you, it’s probably nothing. Being a leader always seems to make one paranoid. Not that I’d know anything about that.”

“True, but I cannot go by anything if not by my instincts. Remember what happened with Thalon in Ylikna?”

“You do have a point there.”

“Maybe you should contact your charge.”

“You know that I don’t want to do that, Tersia. He seems much more fragile than the others. I fear that he will not listen as yours did.”

“He listened to me once. Now I don’t know about him. Or Quillis’”

“ Nevertheless, I shall not contact him unless a move against us is made.”

“You really think that will happen?”

“You can never tell what will happen, but we are more vulnerable than ever.”

“Well, we’ll be vigilant this night.”

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Farron awoke to the sounds of men shouting in the night. It was amazing how easy it was to dismiss the sound, as he had done so many times in the past. It was not unexpected; on the contrary, such things were common in his city of Su Barcha, located in the Morstasian Empire on the continent of Flakon. When Morstasia fought an alliance of Rellibast, the Vasilon Peninsula, and Sulvasta for twenty years, you got used to the sound of border skirmishes. Farron was seventeen, and so had been listening to these sounds on and off since his birth. He sometimes wondered if the Alliance was as evil as they taught at the Academy. He recalled the words his sword instructor had said on his first day, two years ago. “The Alliance is nothing but a conglomeration of presumptuous peasants. They can never stand up to the might of the Morstasian army! They are uncivilized, especially the Instigator,” he had said (the Instigator was Rellibast, the starter of the war), “The Bastions,” (the people of Rellibast), “Are the most barbaric of the bunch. They sit there, eating their raw fish on cakes of rice and seaweed and call it supper.”

Farron’s parents had been no different. They had lost Farron’s older brother Tilern to a Bastion raiding party in the Plowsi desert, just north of Su Barcha, ten years ago. Their minds slowly deteriorated since then and they went over the edge a few years earlier. He had lived with his neighbors for a while as many physicians tried to bring them back from insanity, but to no avail. Instead of being sent into the Orphan System, due to a lucky coincidence of an imperial official in the area who had taken pity on him, a governess had been sent to watch over him. Her name was Pultira, and she took care of him almost as well as his mother had. She was kind and thoughtful, but there was something odd about her. She never seemed happy with his choice of activities. He had always been a studious boy, ever since he was little, and he spent many of his days reading books. His family had not been wealthy, but they were well liked and the local bookseller always allowed him to borrow as many books as he wanted. Pultira, however, didn’t seem to like his reading. She had always wanted him to practice more of the sword techniques he had learned that day at the Academy, or exercise to make him “as large as the mightiest of men”, as she said.

He sighed, looking at the strange wooden contraption sitting on a small stool next to his bed. One of his neighbors was an inventor and, although eccentric, had immediately secured a place as one of Farron’s friends. When Farron had turned sixteen, old enough to be a reservist in the Morstasian army if required, the inventor had given that thing as a present. If Farron turned a small crank at the back of it every three days and set it to a specific time, a small bell inside it would chime at that time every day. Farron had found it a useful little thing to wake him up when it was time to prepare for the day. Judging from the position of the crank, there was only about fifteen minutes left before he had to get up. Might as well now. Border skirmishes were not an excuse to miss school; on the contrary, sometimes the instructor took them to watch so they could learn how to fight Bastions.

He rolled out of bed and turned the crank so it wouldn’t go off in a few minutes, grumbling about the injustice of the school system. It was winter and still dark out, but this was when most of the boys in Morstasia would be getting up to go to another day of grueling military education. He stumbled down the hall, avoiding the creaking boards to keep from waking Pultira. She trusted him enough to let him get himself ready. He quietly opened the door to the bathing room and stepped inside, locking the door behind him. He took a small blade and a piece of flint from its hole in the wall and lit a fire in the pit under the small metal tub, then filling it with water from a barrel in the closet. The dark room became illuminated as he lit the two lanterns on opposite sides of the room. He took off his sleeping clothes, a pair of soft cotton trousers and a simple tan shirt. He looked in the mirror as he always did.

There wasn’t much to see. Although Farron was seventeen, he still had some of the boyish features as when he was twelve. His face and chest had not started sprouting any hair, and he was shorter than most of the boys his age. His black hair curled slightly as it ran down his forehead, nearly hanging in front of his eyes. His eyes were dark brown, which made him frustrated; all the girls he knew adored the boys with blue or green eyes. They hardly paid him any attention. His nose was on the small side, which only gave the bullies at school more to tease him about; they called him “pig-face” and awful things like that. Pultira had complained to the headmaster of the Academy, but he disagreed with her concerns, saying that Farron needed to toughen up and allow the boys to speak freely. And so he endured it.

Funny how much being alone helped Farron think. He never considered these kinds of things except in the early morning while he was bathing. It was his only time when he was beholden to no one. He could think about how to make friends with Delany, the prettiest girl in the town, even though his face had suddenly broken out in angry red spots. How embarrassing.

Farron checked the water and found it hot enough. He stepped in, flinching as the hot water engulfed some sensitive places, and just sat there for a while, thinking some more. Eventually he had to reach for the soap and wash himself. Farron thought that maybe he’d need his hair cut soon; the boys with short, military fashion haircuts were more likely to be attractive to girls.

He finished his bath and stepped out, emptying the tub by pulling a stopper at the bottom; the water would stream through the hole into a pipe that led to the ground outside, another gift from his inventor friend. He dressed himself in clothes from the closet set into the wall. The school uniform was comprised of a black shirt, leather vest, and tight black pants; they needed to look militaristic without actually wearing armor or a soldier’s uniform.

An impossibly loud, piercing scream shook the house and caused him to jump. Where had that come from? It sounded almost like it was all around him. He opened a hatch in the wall and looked outside.

He was horrified at what he saw. This was no border skirmish; it was a citywide raid. Somehow the enemies had gotten past the border patrols. Bastions, Vasilons, and Sulvastans streamed from the North and East gates, some even coming on small boats across Lake Tharso at the city’s edge. Many boys on their way to school were trying to defend, but the soldiers were taking them and killing them so they couldn’t scream. Farron watched, horrified, as his good friend Denken had his throat cut after bravely stabbing a man from behind. Some boys had the sense to run and raise the alarm. Farron felt tears beginning to break free as he saw many of his friends die in order to warn the city.

As people began looking out windows and yelling for help, a Voice from nowhere shouted, quite clearly, Farron! DUCK! Farron dove away from the window as an arrow shot in, clearly trying to kill a boy who most likely had at least some military training. It sank into the wooden wall behind him, quivering with expended energy. He closed the flap and dashed out of the room.

Pultira was stumbling out of her room, still wearing her nightgown. “Farron?” she said drowsily, “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

“It’s a city raid, Pultira!” he responded urgently, “We need to get out!” Her eyes widened, and she immediately sped into her room and closed the windows. Farron turned around as she speedily changed into traveling clothes. They hurried down the stairs, but Pultira’s foot slipped down a step. She cried out as she overshot the stairs and she nearly toppled, but Farron caught her, though he nearly fell himself under the weight. She chuckled weakly, and she tried to move, but immediately crumpled with a small whimper.

“Are you alright?” Farron asked.

“I think I twisted my ankle,” she said, dejected, “I can’t walk. You need to leave; I can stay here.” She sat down on the stairs.

Farron’s eyes widened in fear. “But they’ll take you!” He knew what the rebels did to Morstasian women.

“I’ll be fine!” she said, “I can lock the doors and stay inside. I’ve lived through raids before. I didn’t always live in Ul Kara. Now take your sword and go!” He nodded and ran out the door, snatching his Academy-issued sword on the way out.

The city outside was in chaos. Half the town was in flames and people ran about; it was very hard to determine friend from foe. He stood in shock when a Sulvastan soldier ran toward him, obviously trying to gain entry to the house. Farron quickly shut the door behind him and engaged the man, hoping that the lock had fallen down with the force he had used to slam the door. He was satisfied with the thump as the door locked itself.

He knew there was no way he could kill the man; he was a fully trained soldier. He exchanged a few blows, then dashed away, trusting his smallness to enable him to dodge people in other places that the man couldn’t. Sometimes it helped to be shorter than everyone else.

Incoming! The Voice said in his mind. He saw another soldier barreling towards him, trying to catch a potential enemy fighter. He wasn’t as trained, though; Farron could see that he was holding his sword wrong. When he raised his sword to attack, Farron was ready. The man attempted for a sideways swing, but it was clumsily executed, and Farron caught the sword at the wrist. He twisted his blade around and knocked the man’s sword to the ground. Farron ran after that; he had no desire to kill, even if it was an enemy. It had always sickened him when they practiced with the wooden dummies that spurted fake blood when you landed a hit. He hated how real it seemed, even from a roughly moving automaton being controlled by a series of cogs turned by an assistant.

He hid in an alleyway that was hardly visible. Where to go? Taking the main road north to Lake Tharso wasn’t an option; he had seen boats taking enemies across. He could head east, and he considered it, but he had no idea where to go after that. Could he run and hide just outside the city walls until the raid ended? He doubted that he could be that cowardly. Farron could fight, but where would that leave him? His heart stung at the thought of poor Denken, laying in a pool of his own blood, slain at the hand of a Bastion.

Anger filled Farron’s mind, blinding all else. How dare these rebels enter his home and attempt to burn it to the ground? He was about to emerge from his hiding place when the Voice whispered, Bad idea. Stay here. Farron ignored it and tried to run out, but something stopped him. It wasn’t anything he had ever felt before; something was holding him in place. Something that was not simply his indecision.

“Let me go!” he growled to the air, wondering if he was even really talking to something he couldn’t see.

No, the Voice replied, I think not. You cannot expect to stand up to this force. You need to escape the city- it stopped, almost as if it were listening to something else.

Change of plans, it said suddenly, Get out of this alleyway. Now.

Farron didn’t need telling twice. All he wanted to do at this moment was to stop every Bastion, Sulvastan, and Vasilon in this city. He wanted to purge it.

He ran out of the alley and slashed his sword at a Vasilon who happened to be running by. He heard a sickening squelch as the blade dug into the man’s torso. Farron didn’t even check to see if the man was killed; there was no time. He let his anger drive him forward, hacking at every soldier that came near him. They eventually noticed him and advanced, taking care to not let his sword near them. Farron retreated to the small textile shop on the main road. A few of his schoolmates were there, too, trying to keep back a small group of soldiers.

“Didn’t think to see you here, Farron!” one yelled, but Farron couldn’t recall his name.

“Didn’t think we’d be doing this, either!” Farron shouted back. No time for talking. They continued swinging their swords through the common Morstasian fighting techniques, but the soldiers were quickly advancing. They knew the basic forms, and knew how to counteract them. The boy who had spoken earlier fell with a cry as a Bastion soldier stabbed him in the chest. Farron fought harder, but he knew that there was no chance of survival.

You’re hopeless, the Voice said out of nowhere, Let me help. Farron started as his arm began to move, not entirely of his accord, in a fighting style he had never learned. It involved much more stabbing than a Morstasian normally used, and he even used the butt of the sword as well to club his opponents. The enemies momentarily hesitated at this new style, and it was all the time he needed. He lunged forward and stabbed a Bastion in the chest, then not even slowing as he slashed a Vasilon in the belly. He didn’t even remember what happened next; all he saw was a whirlwind as he spun in a dance of metal and blood.

A dozen dead men lay at his feet when he finally slowed. Two of the boys who were still on their feet, checking the wounds of their comrades, stared at him in shock. “What was THAT?” one asked, almost to himself. Farron stared at the blood dripping off his sword point and at the bodies on the ground. Did I do that? He thought. He started to shake, and nearly collapsed when the two boys took him and had him sit down, leaning against the wall. “Rest for a bit,” one said, “We’ll defend you.”

Farron knew that that was what he should do, but he couldn’t. There was no time to let his sense of morality interfere; the Academy instructor had always told him so. Now was the time for action. People were dying, his home was being attacked; right now, Farron needed to fight. He could deal with his emotions later. “Do we have any sort of plan at all right now?” he asked, jumping up and conferring with the other boys. There were no soldiers in the area at that moment; the ones raiding this street had either ran off or been killed by the boys. Farron had killed many of them himself…

Don’t think about that, Farron thought. Now was not the time to go into shock.

“Not really,” one of the boys said, “We never really thought about what would happen if we stayed alive.”

Farron nodded; it was a reasonable outlook in a situation like this. “This is what we’ll do,” Farron said, bringing them into a sort of huddle, “You take the wounded and keep them in this shop; try and make yourselves out to be weaklings who couldn’t hurt anyone.” He was telling them this, not because he had thought of the idea, but because the Voice was whispering it in his mind. A stab of revulsion hit him as the Voice outlined the next part, but he recited it anyway. “Next, you need to take one of the fallen civilians and place it where we are now, at the center of the soldier’s bodies. If any other soldiers come running by, they’ll assume that the man had fallen as he defended you from the soldiers.” The boys’ faces were of utter horror. “I know that it’s horrible, but we need to focus on staying alive right now!”

They still seemed uncertain. “What will you be doing?” one asked.

“I’ll try to round up as many other civilians as I can and bring them here. Hide them in the storage cellar underneath the shop where the owner keeps all his cloth! GO!” The boys scrambled to do as he said, and Farron ran off, following the sounds of the raging soldiers.

That was nicely done, the Voice said, you handled that rather well.

“Shut up,” Farron said to it, out loud, “I don’t know who or what you are or what you did back there, but I can’t have voices talking in my head right now!”

Even when they help keep you and all around you fighting? Be reasonable, Farron, it said, with the slightest hint of condescension, as if it were scolding him. Farron ignored it.

The soldiers had all but abandoned this ransacked part of the city; they had stripped it of all its valuables, and, in some places, had stripped the people. Farron averted his eyes from the naked corpses of some of the wealthy people whose clothes had been stolen by the soldiers. Did Bastions or Vasilons have no sense of decency? Even in war, no one should be as cruel as these men were.

War is harsh, the Voice said quietly, the quicker you learn that, the faster you can set your emotions aside. As you said, one can grieve, but not when you and your city are in danger. You cannot imagine the things people will do in war. Farron nodded numbly.

He heard harsh laughter emanating from a few streets over. He turned towards the sound and, with horror, saw a plume of smoke coming from the rough position of his own house.

Pultira, he thought, running. He ran into sobbing women and children, but he paid them no heed. One of his neighbors recognized him and said, “Turn back, Farron! There’s nothing you can do!” He ignored the woman; Pultira needed to know that someone was trying to protect her. He burst out of a small alleyway and stopped short.

The Bastions were standing in a ring around the house, laughing as a fire crept up the sides. “Got to flush the little rat out,” one said, laughing, “Then we can have some fun with her!”

Farron felt more rage than he had ever felt before. He felt something near him, like another person, except one who wasn’t physically there, joining in his anger. Strange, it almost felt like it was a physical thing, the anger, inching into every part of his body. He felt like he was on fire, the heat filling him up, making him stronger. He let out an ear-shattering howl of anger.

NOW IT’S MY TURN, the voice shouted, impossibly loud in his own head. An impossibly bright flash of blue light blinded him.

The next thing he knew, all of the soldiers except one were on the ground, dead. The fire had been put out, and in the light from the burning buildings round about, Farron saw one person left standing. Farron caught a glimpse of him, a soldier who wasn’t that much older than Farron, before he bolted. Farron ran and pounded on the door, shouting, “Pultira! Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” she called from inside, “Something put the fire out!”

“The soldiers are gone! You can come out; I’ve tried to set up a safe house in the clothing shop.”

“I’ll try to make it there, but my ankle still needs rest. I might need someone to carry me. I’ll unlock the door.” Farron placed a hand on the doorknob and waited for the sound of the latch being undone.

He never heard it. A bright ball of energy crackled as it raced above Farron’s head and burst into flame, setting the house ablaze once more. Farron jumped back and spun around. The Bastion soldier was back, but this time, he had brought company.

Three Bastions stood near him, all with small opal gemstones tied to a leather strap around their upper arms. Sorcerers. From what Farron could remember, those gems were the source of their power. “NO!” Farron shouted, raising his sword and charging at them, but something was wrong. His body didn’t seem to be reacting fast enough He tried to move his arm, but it move a fraction of a second too late. The soldier drew his own sword, but one of the sorcerers chuckled and casually raised his hand. Farron stopped dead in his tracks. He couldn’t move as the soldier stepped forward and plucked the sword out of Farron’s paralyzed hand. He then hit Farron forcefully on the head with the butt of his own sword. Farron collapsed, and the last thing he could see was his home ablaze, while he was being dragged away from it. He blacked out.