Sorens Peak

  It was the 3rd of Sumair, in the 1467th year after Monarchs Fall, and the belltowers of Sorens Peak had tolled to full attention that day, bringing chaos unto the bustling streets below.

  Two tolls for midday, one for morning prayer, three for sunfall.

  That was precisely how Amadeus had noted it. A sovereign custom, not any different from where he grew up in the western hills of Dabo.

  But to his surprise, there were four bells rung that afternoon. Four…for the Kreaman fog.

  “Fog’s rolling in! Fog’s rolling in!”

  Shouted the town criers, taking to the streets like missionaries on Tiol’s Eve.

  “Heavy and grey it will be, into the night and until dawn! Fog’s rolling in, fog’s rollin in, folks! Zip your work and head on home! Within three hours and before the rains, so says the word of the bastion!”

  Amadeus poured his coffee out into a saucer, watching on intently as the public went mad around him.

  “Quickly, Bartem, quickly–”

  A mother wrangled her children nearby, juggling three full baskets of fresh produce in her arms.

  Behind her, a well-dressed brunette and her burly husband tumbled their way into the nearest carriage ride before anyone else had the same idea.

  It wasn’t an astounding panic, but an entertaining one to say the least. The great big emporium with its green paned glass and eight different entrances had seemed to burst like a pipe, losing all of its patronage within mere minutes after the foghorn had been blown. They scattered like ants escaping a dying hill, bags on bags of trinkets and silks stacked in their arms or over their shoulders.

  Outside the emporium, amidst a sea of market stalls closing for the day, the traveling fool named Genesis and his stupid parakeet had finally shut up for once, the crowd surrounding him dispersing after they’d lost interest in his barf.

  Amadeus was of course pleased by all of this.

  Finally, some real entertainment in this miserable gutter of a city.

  Any longer and he would have cut the fool’s tongue off himself. And used the bird’s feathers to give his saddle a nice décor of greens and blues.

  “They run from it like it’s the devil,” said Quillen, his companion seated beside him.

  Hendric, their other companion, broke into a very dry pastry, crumbling the flakey puff all over their table. “Haven’t you heard?” he mumbled through his chewing, a voice thin as old parchment. “They’re saying it carries a madness now. A monarch’s curse from the everglades not too far. Few folks have up and slit themselves in the night. The Haastarians say it’s getting worse. Been making the papers all over.”

  Quillen took a sip of his black tea, green eyes still sharp and focused on the rapidly clearing market ahead of them. “I’ve kept away from the papers.”

  Amadeus couldn’t help but let a smile spoil his naturally timid demeanor. He used a finger to turn his half-empty mug in a slow and playful manner.

  “Terrifying tales of terrifying things. An effective way to justify curfew don’t you think?”

  Amadeus felt both of his companions turn to him.

  “Often it is the promise of a great evil that will do the best work at controlling the masses.”

  “Are you saying it’s all a farce then?” Hendric raised his brow.

  “No Hendric, rather I am speculating on the true nature of this riffraff. The Haastarians scarcely have tempests, most of their rains come with drab and gloom, without any of the… dare-I-say exhilarating components that the rest of the sovereignty, much less, the rest of the known world sees on a common occurrence. And the people here in the east... well, they have it very similar. I would wager to say some of these folks are deprived of reverie. Deprived of that rising feeling, that inciting fantasy knowing that any one day could be their last, that any one day, a monster, never before seen could descend from the skies and swallow everything they know and love.”

  Amadeus paused to feel the heat of his coffee.

  Not yet.

  “It’s that reverie that they hold onto that makes them malleable. A tall tale here and a tall tale there, it goes a very long way for political control my friends,” he continued. “Especially, during times like these.”

  Amadeus’ companions nodded their heads in silence as if they agreed. He was certain that Quillen had listened and understood everything he had said, but Hendric was always a toss of a coin. Most of the time the man's head was between two worlds: the real one, and his own little phony one, crammed with halfwit fairies conjuring all of his depravities. Nodding along was just a habit for him at this point, even if he’d stopped listening mid-way through.

  He was a hell of a fighter though, to his credit. The boy could win you a scuffle. Rough around the edges with his defensive technique, but scrappy and doggish in his attitude. That was the only reason why Amadeus had brought him along. Within these eastern borders, Haastar crowcaps were becoming a common sight on the city streets. They bred them like roaches now, invasive and resilient. A deadly brood to uphold the law, an outcome of the last twenty years of reign under the new Wardnik Jovan, the Usurper with no surname.

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  One or two crowcaps from a watch patrol; Amadeus could probably handle that on his own, but any more than that and he’d be risking life.

  Quillen could hold his own too, but he was useful in other, more meaningful ways. Ways that would rarely come in handy this far east. Mostly it was his loyalty that Amadeus treasured the most.

  Loyalty was a fickle thing. Hard to be found and easy to be fooled by. Any assignment that Amadeus had led in the past, he’d always chosen a man under him that he could at least defer to for a knowledgeable second opinion. And more often than not, that man was Quillen.

  “Northerlies…” Quillen noted as the wind had seemed to pick up around them, disturbing a few of the potted ivies on the patio.

  Amadeus enjoyed the highland breeze as it whisked by their table, cooling his coffee, just enough to finally indulge. He savored it with slow sips, tilting the saucer just barely to let the light brew flow down to his lips.

  Mmmm… the right taste of bitter at this joint.

  The consistency in quality brew at Baaduk’s ‘Roast at the Summit’ Saloon had been a welcome surprise for Amadeus. He’d grown a sort of quiet admiration for the establishment, despite having only visited a few times since he'd arrived in Sorens Peak.

  Never once have I been cheated out of a good coffee here.

  “-umm, excuse me – sirs.”

  Amadeus looked up from the white porcelain of his saucer to see the umber frock of the young barista who had served them earlier.

  “I hope you are enjoying your meals, but we are going to close the shop very soon. Wouldn’t-want-to get stuck in the fog when it rolls in,” she said nervously, giggling at the end as if she’d told a joke. Her accent was strong, east-harbor to be specific, they had a knack for making the sovereign tongue sound very unusual. “My deya Baaduk asked me to inform you of this.”

  “But we’ve only just paid for our meals,” whined Hendric, taking the initiative to say something first. “I’d say we’ve got the right to sit here for another hour if we wish. Tell your deya that a little fog that won’t be here for two more bloody hours shouldn’t strip me of my merits to use a table and a few chairs, yeah lass?”

  The barista was taken aback by Hendric’s words, her head dipping low as if she’d shamed herself for even bringing up the topic.

  Amadeus looked around the outdoor patio of the saloon. If he hadn’t been so distracted by what was happening in the market, he would’ve noticed that everyone else in the saloon had hurried off too, leaving them to be the only ones left seated.

  “Now now, Hendric,” Amadeus spoke up. “Let’s not take it out on the poor girl. Just because our innhouse is only a short walk away, does not mean that our lovely server here shares the same luxury.”

  Amadeus gave the barista a reassuring smile. Her shoulders loosened once again as she reciprocated him with her own.

  “We’ll take not a second more than five minutes, lass. We’ll be out of your sight just as soon as I finish my coffee.”

  “Of course, sir. Many apologies, sir. It is very much appreciated.” The barista bowed, and then quickly left without saying another word or batting an eye at the others.

  “Why so cordial with Ghordus swine?” Hendric huffed, after she’d left their vicinity. “I could practically smell the fish from her hair.”

  “Know when it is good to stand out, and when it is good to blend in, Hendric,” scoffed Quillen. “It will do you a lot of good in this field.”

  Hendric pouted childishly. “I thought we weren’t afraid to stand out here.”

  “We’re not,” said Amadeus. “But if I demonstrate proper restraint, you should learn to observe rather than question it. Besides, barking at a woman who’s just served you food and drink is ill-mannered. Do you speak to your mother in this way?”

  “Well… she’s not my mother,” argued Hendric.

  “Of course not, she looks nothing like a hog.”

  Quillen let out an audible chuckle. Hendric looked the other way, singed by the sting of Amadeus’ words.

  “See, now… that is foul, Amadeus.” Hendric frowned. “Very foul. Why is it always a jab at my poor mother?”

  “Easy pickings,” grinned Amadeus. “You make it easy pickings…”

  He concentrated on his coffee for the little time they had left remaining, pouring the rest of it out into his saucer.

  Coffee was a beautiful thing for two reasons.

  Firstly, it never failed to get his bowels moving. A quick-working remedy it was, every time he needed to cleanse the gut.

  And second, it never failed to clear his mind.

  Amadeus sat up from his seat with intention after he’d finished, clearing the table and returning the cup-ware into the saloon before they went on their way.

  When he walked back out of the saloon, he’d put on a serious gaze. One of calculated decision.

  “Off to the inn then, are we?” Quillen asked the group as they exited the market.

  The trio weaved through the light traffic of horses and carriages on the street, arriving onto a balustraded parapet just before the road curled down to the lower residentials.

  Amadeus placed his palms on the cool white stone of the wall and looked out to the long stretches of rolling hills in the distance; mossy-green caps topped jagged bedrock that had been cratered by a falling star many years ago. Sorens Peak was a scattered settlement, expanded from its original mine-in-a-crater township into something much bigger over the centuries.

  There, at the center of impact, still sat the Monarch King Soren, four hundred years old, his body made of glossy black star-rock, shielded by a beautiful mess of lichen and twisting ivies. The city was changing, different from the photograms Amadeus had seen even just five years prior. The Haastarians had brought not only their flags and culture down from the north, but their architectural aspirations as well. A new spire was going up in the aya district, tall and slender, made of a dusky grey priestess stone, that holy rock they cherished in their churches. It was impressive, you couldn’t deny it. Almost as good as the high cities in the south and the west. For such a small province, they were advancing fast.

  “There it comes,” Hendric murmured, his breath catching in awe.

  Quillen held a similar expression. “It... looks like snow.”

  Amadeus shifted his body, leaning over the stone to see where they were looking.

  Along the ebbs and flows of county road, several estates sat aged and cozy just past the crooked spire of the North Cathedral.

  Behind all of this, like a colossus of white ash, came the fog. And it was only then, after seeing it with his own eyes, did Amadeus understand.

  “Oy! Move along now! Don’t crowd the roads!”

  Across from them, a square-jawed municipal trooper was scolding a group of young men who seemed to be causing a bit of drunken mischief in the middle of the road. Flanking the trooper’s gold shouldered coat, were two crowcaps, with their signature black-feathered leather long-coats and raven-styled warhelmets. Jet-black hair ran long and carefree down to their chest, and a radiating wingsword was belted around their waist like a cummerbund.

  These were just initiates, no brooches of their own, no shadow to their armor. Simply fodder that the trooper stations were loaned to enforce the new rules. Make no mistake, even an initiate crowcap could be the equivalent of three well trained troopers. The Haastarians had constructed a formidable force — just about conquered the whole damn eastern sovereignty with it, them cocky bastards.

  Amadeus was never afraid of a challenge, of course. In fact, he quite enjoyed it, ripping the metal from their face, snatching their soul as if it was his to take.

  He’d done it twice before. And he wouldn’t mind doing it again if he had to.

  “You’ve been awfully quiet Amadeus,” said Hendric. “Everything alright?”

  Amadeus frowned, turning to his companions. “Nye, I’ve got to take a big shit. I’ll be heading off to the innhouse now.”

  Hendric eyed him funny. “Well, alright then, let’s go.”

  “No.” Amadeus stopped him. “Not you. The two of you will go fetch me my stag.”

  Hendric and Quillen shared a confused glance.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve changed my mind,” declared Amadeus. “We’re doing it tonight.”