The Breaking Point

Like a clockspring wound too tight, something snapped. He could hear the shattering in his mind; feel shards of broken idealism tearing at his consciousness. He was overwhelmed by a cold chill, but he wrapped himself in it: cold, empty, focused, enduring. Nobody cared anymore about Argen the boy. They did not care about him, only what he could do. They only cared about Argen the tool, Argen the Cavalier, the First among Equals. He stood straight, black coat rippling, fingering his revolver, the gift from Steven: Steven had cared. There was no going back, he could only move forward.

The Rally Point

The old bark was rough, easing his ascent. His dull coat and breeches blended with the colors of the leaves, but the gusting wind left him wishing for a cloak. Sticky sap clung to his hands, adding sweetness to his unwashed odor. The only tree for leagues, he crept as high as the thin upper branches allowed. Scanning the horizon, the autumnal landscape held only sparse farmhouses and fallow, harvested fields. He was close enough to the rally point to see others arriving. Turning the revolver over in his hands, he sat and leaned back against the trunk to wait.

The Thicket

The stream babbled, cutting a shallow gully through the sparse thicket. Anya dismounted and smoothed her green dress, near black, embroidered up the sleeves with the forked lightning of her house. Her grizzled guardsmen and simple country maids dismounted and began building a fire to make tea for lunch. The sky was clouded, and a sparse mist hung in the gully, but this thicket reminded her of her estate to the east. Her family produced lumber, wool, and ale since being raised to nobility. Her parents had mismanaged and squandered the family’s power, but she intended to reclaim her birthright.

The Van

He sighted down the long barrel of his rifle. He fired; an oncoming captain tumbled from horseback. Outnumbered as they were, thinning the disciplined officers was necessary. Working the lever, his years of experience and training took over: sight, fire, reload. Rapid shots cracked as the enemy closed. Ten more officers fell. Steven slid the discharged weapon into the rifle boot buckled to the saddle. At his signal, the line rushed forward, gathering into a wedge. Leading the van, flanked by hornblower and bannerman, Steven’s cloak flapped behind him. He stood in the stirrups, arms extended, elegant, engraved revolvers thundering.

The Conductor

Steven stood shock still, gaping in terror towards the keep. For him to sense it at this distance, a tremendous quantity of rift energy was being drawn in the keep. Nobody living could conduct so much without disastrous results. He spurred Morningglory onward, rushing towards the keep. His long coat streamed behind him, his wide-brimmed hat bouncing, held by the cord across his neck. Dread filled him as he passed the walls of the keep, the power showed no signs of abating. No matter who or what the source, it was likely the most dangerous thing Steven had ever encountered.

The Shattering

Argen had exhausted every defensive stance. Edric was an excellent, relentless duelist, possessed of significantly more training and speed than Argen. He was not burdened by fear, exhaustion and several wounds as was Argen. Edric swept in for a killing blow and was… pulped; his remains creating a shower of gore. Argen’s confusion was overruled by a new internal struggle. Energies surged through him, contained only through force of will. There had been a sense of shattering, then the raging, chaotic power rushed in. Argen knew if he did not release it, he might suffer the same fate as Edric.

The Visions

She braced herself on the table, heaving with the intensity of the shock. Several townspeople looked at her askance. The merchant whose stall table she leaned on shot her a disparaging look, as if she were drunk. She flashed a smile and curtseyed, flashing her leg through the slit in the side of the blue woolen dress. Choosing a few fruits at random, she paid the man and stalked into the crowded market. As best she could tell, no time passed during her visions, though they often seemed to stretch for hours. They were becoming more than strange and inconvenient.

The Flesh

A line seared across his vision. He felt warm, wet blood running down his face, and the smell of burning flesh permeated everything. He had been hurled a dozen paces from where he had stood. Smoke wafted from his ruined clothes. The Cavalier approached him and knelt. Argen could just make out the older man.

“Be still. This is never pleasant,” the Cavalier growled.

Argen tensed to the point of breaking as the energies flowed into him, reshaping his flesh, wiping away his injuries. He did not realize he was screaming, interrupted only for ragged breaths, until it was done.

The Road

The road to Alanafel stretched ahead of her, cutting through rolling low hills covered by new wildgrass and flowers. The grey sky relinquished cool breezes. It looked like it might rain. Both her good wool cloak and her plain grey dress were solid, fit for travel. A pack containing food, supplies, bedroll and clothes was strapped to her back, and an old rake handle served as a walking stick. Until today, she had never traveled farther from home than Ventin, where father had sold their produce and wool. She may be mad, but she wanted to know who killed father.

The Inn

The common room was any of a thousand across the Riftlands, the split log walls sealed by plaster, a heavy bar next to the door. A platform in the corner elevated a musician playing fiddle, somewhat drowned out by raucous laughs and boasts from the patrons. Farmers, goodwives, and young unmarried filled the benches and four long tables. She approached the plump, vigilant proprietor, behind the bar between kitchen and common. Opening her cloak to show her dress made it plain she could pay. Rosalyn inquired after a room while scanning the crowd. With luck, nobody had followed from Alanafel.

The Hall

The blade sprang into his hands, emanating soft radiance, crackling with energy. The dancing blue light lit the dark corridor, making the red runner seem a shifting purple. The smell of recently extinguished lamps made it likely his target had fled this way. He did not need the blade, the energy coruscating in him made little light enough to see by, but with the rift wrought blade it was bright. He started down the hall, calm and collected. Argen had watched too many men die by the Rift-lord’s hand, the sorcerer’s hand. Whatever he was, he was still a man.

The Temple

Sunlight streamed in through the tall, thin windows, set off from the deep shadows by smoking incense. The altar was carved from white marble, and the benches that filled the temple were polished slabs of the same. The floor lacked the glossy polish, but was cut from similar black stone. A choir sang nearby, men and women of the faith raising their voices in tribute. Steven sat, legs-crossed, before the altar. His long duster was tossed across a bench, his hat nearby. His weapons were left at the entrance. He was no longer young, but the Rift would still obey.

The Sewer

The smell was unbearable. Ankle deep in filth, he trudged through the pipe. His body burned form the beatings. The pitch dark engulfed him, like in his cell. The muck bubbling and rushing underfoot drowned out all sound. Unconsciously, his hand touched his sword’s hilt. The girl who freed him brought sewer plans, some rough clothes, and his sword. He had to repay her somehow. They were to meet at an inn in the foreign quarter. He worked through the pipes guided by moments of referencing the plans. He hoped those plans were not altered when these sewers were built.

The Night

The horizon glowed with the hues of the Rift, blues, greens and purples of every vibrant shade. She lay on her back, peering up at the clouds which obscured the stars. The colors danced among them. Ever-present, the Rift had been docile her whole life. The long, soft grass beneath her held the scent of home. Adjusting her white linen blouse and straightening her plaid skirts, she stood. Life on the farm was simple; difficult, but satisfying. She turned towards the cottage, her ear catching an oath and metallic clatter. If Father burned himself cooking again, she had choice words.

The Bulwark

A map lay on the table, held by glass weights. Steven traced a line from the Rift to the bulwark. The Lord-Captain of Alandren, Alaric, stood opposite, clad in mail. Steven made strange contrast; Cavaliers did not wear armor.

“How many?” Steven sighed.

“At least a hundred thousand,” Alaric shook his head.

“You scouts are sure?” Steven met the younger man’s gaze. Alaric nodded. A hundred thousand riftspawn; twenty thousand men at the bulwark. “You have sent to the other Riftlands.”

Alaric set his jaw, “Messengers left a week ago. At best, the closest will reach us in two weeks.”

The Lady

The antechamber, wood paneled with fine tapestries and carved furnishings, was stifling. Anya held the silver goblet close, letting the coolness seep in. The wine was iced and refreshing, but strong. She stood, to not sweat through her shift. The Lady Adrenin had made her wait some time, insistent the many windows stay shut, with the curtains open. She suspected the waiting was to put her off guard. The lady suspected she would drink deeply of the chilled strongwine. Anya tempered her patience, and refused to drink. She would learn where the boy was sent without revealing what she knew.

The Cell

The cell, pitch dark, wet and cold, did not leave enough room to stand fully, nor to lie. Argen was forced to sit uncomfortably; his head between his knees. He had been stripped bare and beaten. His welts burned angrily; mottled black and blue must be covering him by now. Voices drifted through the rough iron door, muted and muddled. How long had he been here? When had he been fed last? There was a shuffling beyond the door. The unlocking was defeaning. When a red head of curls poked through blinding light, Argen croaked in wonder, “Who are you?”

The Flight

The pain in his knee was crippling. Steven rolled out from under the mare as she flailed; she had taken a thrown spear in the attack and carried him a mile out of the woods, across the plain, before succumbing. The long grass was cold with dew, his coat streaked with mud. Surprised his leg was not broken, he slowly stood, wobbling on the bad knee. Limping, he retrieved his hat and rifle from where they had fallen. “Earthen-born, to earth we return,” Steven grieved as he put a bullet in the mare’s head. They would not be far behind.

The Wish

The house was small, but comfortable. Fresh baked bread sat on the table and a fire crackled in the hearth. Mother kept everything tidy. He could barely recall his father’s face; he remembered the day Uncle Din brought back his father’s sword. He laid on the soft, woven rug, looking up, admiring the long, slightly curved blade, with its angled, heavy cross-guards and two-handed grip. He was excited to see the city, but apprehensive about being sent to learn with Din. It was his father’s dying wish that he become a swordsman, and Uncle Din meant to enforce that wish.

The Bedchamber

The curtains rustled in the summer breeze. The prince laid asleep, taking shallow breaths. Rosalyn slid from bed onto light feet, as to not disturb him. Sweat beads, scintillating diamonds on milky white skin, flashed when she crossed the moonlight to her dress. With care and haste, she donned slip then dress, silently buttoning up her back. Catching her flushed features in a mirror, she smoothed her unruly hair of time spent in bed. Once out the servant’s entrance, she smiled. The slow poison was deadly; there was no antidote, no signs. The prince would be dead inside a month.

The Rift

There was no sky, no ground, yet he did not fall.  There was firmness below his feet, but just by thinking about it, he seemed to sink; looking up, he reached above him, and he rose slightly.  The Rift was chilly and thick, like after spring rain.  Blue, purple, red, and green, eddied throughout the rift around and through him.  An ethereal hum permeated everything, he felt poised as a crystal about to shatter from resonance.  It made him young, fearless, enthralled, virile, alive.  Steven set his jaw, and drew his revolver.  This was the domain of the Rift lords.

The Mire

Bent, burdened trees choked the light filtering into the swamp; an uneasy foul mist hovered menacingly over the lagoons.  The stench was undeniable, released by sporadic bubbles on the surface of the viscous pools.  There was no path; only rabbit runs between the brush and hoof prints in the mud.  A shack occupied one small tract jutting into one of the foul pools, thick smoke issuing from the crooked chimney only intensifying the filth of the mire.  A soft song rose from the shack, haunting the environs with its raspy, intoxicating croon.  Nobody visited Grandmother Nass unless they had to.

The Cavalier

Translucent skin stretched thin across the back of his hand as he clutched the message. The paper was worn, but the seal had been unbroken; the letter had been cared for on its long journey. Steven stood slowly, his robes ghosting his frailty as he poured more wine. Rebellion had broken out in the Riftlands; the bulwark was in danger. There were few Cavaliers left. The last rift-war had been costly. Steven eyed the unadorned lever-action rifle, his eternal companion. He was a tired, pale reflection of the Hero of the Hinterlands, but there was no other Cavalier to go.

The Swordsman

Argen, wrapped in cold calm, tightened his grip.  Blood trickled down his face through sweat-matted hair.  Argen’s coat was slashed in places, and wet red patches slowly grew.  Three men lay dying already.  The last brigand rushed, bellowing a bestial growl, cudgel raised.  Argen rolled to the side. The man pivoted to correct, but the curved blade opened him across the belly as cudgel crashed down on Argen’s shoulder.  Calm exploded with pain, as he rose to survey the fallen.  Stiffly, he cleaned his blade, replacing it at his hip.  There were more brigands than ever this year.  Why?

The River

The early morning fog rolled across the river, slicking her red curls to her head.  Standing ahead of where the fields gave to the rocky bank, grass pricked her feet.  Calm, quiet bubbling rode the flow into the loch.  Her skirts, tartan red and black, gently bounced from her knees as strode across the bank.  She shivered as she stepped into the water, letting her skirt drop.  Working the dirt from her hands, careful not to dirty her bleached woolen blouse, grey eyes looked to the green rolling hills beyond.  The farm had not been right since her father died.

The Quest

The lethargic, sandy breeze rustled through the sparse weeds and stunted shrubs.  On the horizon, the sun was cloaked by dusk’s scarlet, purple and orange.  The heat of the day faded; he paid it no notice, green eyes fixed on the mountain rising like a dagger from the arid plain.  His loose robes, dusty brown like everything else, kept the heat at bay and shielded him from cold darkness.  His cracked, dry lips parted for a moment as he raised his water-skin.  The lukewarm fluid soothed his thirst.  The mountain beckoned.  Fingering his revolver, he could not forget his vows.

The Ball

Music filled the gilded hall. Servants bustled about carrying trays, weaving through the nobility.  Dresses in silk and samite, accented by jewelry, glided across the dance floor.  The men, stiff in high-necked, long coats displaying their house colors, provided severe contrast to the willowy grace of the women.  The Shandra was an intricate dance, only known in Alandren, and then only by the blood.  It served, among other things, to establish status.  Anya entered, poorly dressed next to any but the servants, ready to prove her blood.  The steps came easily.  The difficulty was the prince, and his young heart.

The City

Wisps of foul mist floated, visible in the thin shaft of sickly light filtering from a flickering gas-lamp.  She stared into the puddle, fresh rain already tainted with myriad colors slicking the surface.  Close to her breast she clutched her damp, dirty, once-grey dress, to retain a bit of warmth. The face that stared back through ripples was drawn; cheeks marked with filth, the hair tangled, infused with the eternal smog.  It was a face unremembered.  Soot and smoke choked the air; the train rumbled uncaring along elevated rails, steady sounds of metal on metal drowning her muted, wretched whimpers.