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Coming up on the snow season meant my unit had a full season of training. The snow season truce prevented any action along the borders. We lived in huge, poorly constructed and maintained barracks and trained incessantly.
Few know much about the shield maid corps now. To enlist as a shield maid required passing an initiation. Most other units will take a warm body in a uniform. Those who survive basic training ship out to the front and may or may not return for the more advanced training to become an officer. For the majority, army life was that simple. The shield maid initiation is a series of tests designed to weed out any imposters. The first requirement was verification by a touch healer that the candidate was indeed female and a 'maid'. Touch healers are so much more rare now, but even then I knew little about the workings of their abilities. The second requirement was some strength of arms. Batches of candidates were assigned to battle each other in tournaments which were judged by the uppermost commanders of the corps. It was extremely rare for one who lost their tournament battle to be judged worthy of continuing to the third test. I was such an exception, having had, in the first round, the misfortune to be set against a general's daughter with advanced training. I had no hope of winning, but just enough training to prolong the battle to the bell. The judges decreed I had potential and passed me along. The third test was a set of puzzles in various forms. Words, numbers, colours, mazes, interlocking rings... finesse and intelligence were required to solve the required three quarters of all presented puzzles. Few candidates have ever solved all of them. Of those doing the initiation with me, only one other managed the feat. The fourth test was the most subtle and again involved a variant of touch healer, the ones who dealt with illnesses of the mind. Shield maids must have Potential. What a nebulous concept Potential is. It can refer to psy gifts. It can refer to an extraordinary destiny. It can refer to sheer determination to succeed. Some candidates have a combination of those. Some only have one. None are told exactly what Potential they have. Part of being a shield maid is learning that for ourselves. By the time initiation was over, the snow season truce was in effect for the year. Of the hundred or more candidates going into the first test, only a score of us remained, just enough for a training class. We were sent for uniforms and haircuts, assigned to barracks and an instructor. Everything was training. Everything was discipline. From rolling out of bedrolls before dawn to dropping into them late at night. The score of us did everything together, rubbing away the frictions between girls from all stations in life and counties of the kingdom. The past came to mean nothing between us. Only our present, our chilly, exhausted, incessant day in, day out routines. By the end of snow season, we knew each other as well as we knew ourselves. We had been rubbed raw and rebuilt, ready to take on active duty as shield maids. The first battle of the blossom season was to be a decisive strike against our neighbours to the west. Our unit was to spearhead an attack against a border fort which had been rebuilt during snow season. Instead, later blamed on poor communications, we ended up behind a cavalry unit and saw little of the failed action. Through the next year, we would be on the wrong end of strange orders and confused communications. While we saw some battle, none of it was anything like we'd been trained to expect. Some began to curse at us, claiming we'd been favoured by an upper level general. Others thought we were cursed. So it went for two more years. Snow season saw us in increasingly advanced training. The other three seasons saw us caught on the fringes of the action no matter where we were sent. Worse, whatever potential each of us supposedly had, none of us were able to establish what it was. If any of us had psy gifts, there was no evidence. Unless one of us was destined for extreme obscurity, there was no sign of anything extraordinary. The determination we went into our first year with deteriorated over subsequent years until, by the end of our third year together, many were thinking of resigning or requesting to be transferred. What we'd found ourselves in the midst of wasn't even close to what we'd signed on for. We were ordered to one last battle, one intended merely to be a limp last effort at taking a border village before the snow season truce came into effect. There was no value to the village beyond a few potential recruits for the general army. There was no strategic value to the land, nor were there exploitable resources left. Placed behind a battle weary unit of regular foot soldiers, there was little chance of us seeing much action. Officers were few on the field and orders were to take the village, if possible, with as little loss of life as possible. I doubt orders for the other side were much different, although it was a defensive battle for them. They had evacuated the villagers and, in all, it was to be little of anything. We went out, dispirited and disillusioned, and the half hearted battle began. Suddenly there were twice as many opponents on the field, but these new soldiers were fresh and dressed in uniforms no one had ever seen before. They fought with abnormal strength and determination and the regular army units fell around us, slaughtered to a man. But these new soldiers, these unheard of strangers, didn't engage us. When we tried to engage them, they backed away. We found ourselves surrounded. And then we were nowhere at all. There's a kingdom many days travel from here which is constantly warring with all three of its neighbours. The fighting stops for snow season, with promises and rumours of peace negotiations come blossom season, but the fighting always resumes instead. This constant state of war leads the nobility to keep their women and children confined to estates well away from the borders. It's these estates, with their carefully managed farmlands which keep the kingdom self-sufficient and without need of trade partners instead of enemies. But to be born a child of the nobility there is to be sentenced to life in a gilded cage. Perhaps the cage extends to the next nearest estates, but it's still a cage. There is no travel beyond these central estates. There is no word of life beyond them either. The whole world is the estates which keep the kingdom running well enough to perpetuate the war.
Curiosity is a curse in a child so born. The curious are silenced and punished until they fall into line with the demands of their elders. Well, in most cases. The few who persist in their curiosity eventually find some means of escape and the tales told of their fates, true or not, provide material for crushing the spirits of the next generation. I was a curious child, but in the care of a wise woman who recognized it early and took care to channel my energy into seemingly appropriate pastimes. To all others, I appeared to be a complacent, dutiful young girl. The means by which my curiosity was kept hidden were as secret as the trait itself. I didn't know then, who the allies of my nurse were. Who kept her supplied with the books which introduced me to a world beyond both the estates and the eternal fighting on the borders. I was taught, in secret, real world history and geography, natural sciences, self defence and wildland survival skills. I learned to recognize accents, weapons, and plants. To properly identify animals and their tracks. To count and name all the kingdoms of the known world. It seems it very suddenly occurred to my father that his daughter had grown into a woman. For one day I was treated as a child and the very next my marriage to the son of the nearest neighbour was announced. I knew the young man in question well enough to know marriage to him would be torture of the highest order. He was as ignorant as a pupil of his tutors could remain and viciously cruel to every living being around him. These traits were concealed, if poorly, from his elders, but all too obvious to those his own age. Our wedding was to be held early in the next blossom season, although arrangements began the day of the announcement, which was made in the midst of the elder season. Before the first elder moon phase had passed, my nurse procured for me the clothes of a common boy. My woman's shape was concealed by means of tight, body altering garments which could be concealed beneath the shirt and trousers. There was an old all-purpose knife such as a common boy would own and a pack which held a second set of clothes and some food and water. My hair was cut after the fashion of a common boy and I was instructed in the proper accent of the local common folk. In this disguise, I was smuggled from the estate in the back of a cooper's wagon. I was aware both my parents and my intended would seek me out. The cooper's cart carried me across three estates, but nowhere near far enough from my home. I had to walk cross country, across freshly harvested fields to reach the outer edge of those central estates. Even then, my parents had guards who were capable of seeking me out so long as I remained inside the kingdom's borders. My nurse suggested I seek employment at an inn for a time until I could find a traveller I could convince to smuggle me out of the country. Being less convinced of my own powers of persuasion, I changed my disguise for the garments of a poor county undertaker's daughter and enlisted in the army in a shield maid corps.
In the very deep south, beyond the majority of human held cities, there is a vast jungle. In the depths of the jungle are the ruins of a city greater than anyone now could imagine. From the air, it looks like an entire country of crumbled buildings and sunken brick roads. I don't know much about whoever built it in the first place, but I do know the jungle is slowly taking it back.
Before I met Gor, I always travelled alone. And I was very much alone when I first encountered the ancient city. On first sight, it seemed completely abandoned. However, I hadn't gone far when I encountered a wizened old man sitting on a broken wall, his nose buried in a huge ancient tome. He seemed completely oblivious to anything around him. Or at least until I got close. “I've no use for fay. Buzz off.” His nose never left the tome. I don't know how he knew I was there. He never looked at me. He never looked up either. “I've no use for grumpy old humans.” I retorted before turning back the way I had come. “Human?” He sounded outraged at the idea, “What makes you think I'm human?” “Well,” I turned back, “If you aren't, then I've never seen a race like yours. But you're definitely grumpy and old.” He hmmphed at that, still without looking up. I glanced around before picking a direction to fly off in. The only time I glanced back at him, he was still sitting there, nose still buried in the huge book. I wandered the city for a while, poking my nose into buildings and digging around to see if whoever had lived there had left anything of interest behind. There really wasn't much left to see, but I kept going for lack of anything better to do. When night came, I flew up to a stable looking rooftop and rolled up in a blanket. The night sounds in a jungle are always strange, so nothing I heard that night sounded odd to me. I just slept and woke with the sun. Then I went back to poking around until I came across the wizened old man again. And again, he was sitting with his nose in a huge book. “I told you yesterday to buzz off.” As before, he never so much as glanced at me. “I left you alone yesterday,” I shake my head, “And I'll do the same today.” And I flew off in a random direction. Once he was out of sight, I went back to my exploring. The same thing happened the next two days. On the fifth day since I had entered the ruins, he actually looked up from his tome and glared at me. “You're not welcome here, you addled fay. Go home!” I returned his glare, “You can't share a ruin the size of five holdings with one creature half your size? You're the addled one!” I turned to fly off. “Just how big do you think this place is?” He sounded grumpier than ever. “I can fly, remember? It looks far bigger from the air than it does from ground level.” His thick bushy eyebrows rose right into his hairline, “What kind of fay are you?” “A sprite.” His eyebrows rose even higher. Then he shook his head, returned his nose to the huge book, and didn't say another word. I flew off and left him to his reading. By this time I had established there was really nothing overly interesting about the ruins and was ready to move on. So I headed for what I believed to be the edge of the ruin. I had no idea how deep into it I was, so it didn't bother me when I didn't reach the edge before nightfall. I simply slept, woke with the sun and continued on. Until I encountered the wizened old man. This time he was seated at a slab of rock, writing on a scroll. As usual, he didn't bother to look up at me. “Go home, foolish fay.” “I'm trying.” I flew straight up into the air in an attempt to get my bearings, so I didn't hear anything else he said. From a vantage point above the tallest of the crumbling towers, I could see I was still somewhere in the middle of the ruins. There one only one direction in which I could see jungle. I headed for the green, remaining high in the air, and kept going well after dark. Only once I was thoroughly exhausted did I drop down, nearly landing on the wizened old man because I was too tired to pay proper attention to what I was doing. I barely managed to avoid him, but ended up blacking out almost as soon as I hit the ground. When I woke, I was in a bed inside a run down building. There was a bowl of food and a mug of water a a low table beside the bed. Feeling starved, I helped myself before venturing outside. The old man was again reading a huge tome. “I've never met a fay... a sprite no less... who could be trapped by magic.” His nose never left the book. “I'm trapped here?” “Apparently.” I groaned, “Are you trapped here too?” “I don't know,” He shrugged his shoulders carelessly, “I suppose I'll find out when I'm ready to leave.” “Well, if I'm trapped for certain, you'll be stuck with me 'til you're ready to find us a way out of here.” I plopped down on a rock, crossing my arms. I lost track of how many days I spent sitting around while the wizened old man worked. I still don't know what he was doing, beyond a lot of reading and writing. I do know I was bored and a bored fay can become a nuisance very quickly. I soon discovered, for as grumpy as he seemed, the old man actually had a lot of patience. Once it was established we were stuck with each other, he never complained, no matter what I did to keep myself amused. Then, finally, one day he packed all his tomes and scrolls and other belongings into a large trunk. When he was done, the trunk sprouted wheels and followed him through the ruins. I stayed close as we walked and, the next thing I knew, we were out of the ruins and into the thick jungle. But even the tangled vines and huge trees didn't slow him down. I don't know how he did it, but it seemed as if the trees moved themselves out of his way. Within two days, we were out of the jungle and into pasture land. “Well, foolish fay,” He actually looked at me, “Here we part ways. Try not to entrap yourself again.” “I'll try.” I grimaced. After that, he went one way, vanishing quickly across the grass. I flew off towards the nearest city in search of fresh supplies and news of a less hazardous place to poke my nose.
The encampment is invisible to all but those who know of its existence. The canvas of the tents is coloured to camouflage with the surrounding barren mountainside. The few fires permitted are built of the driest fuel available. Any smell of cooking food is somehow dampened as are any sounds made by the residents. Even the smallest children present are nearly silent.
A small cloaked and hooded figure slips through the encampment. Small bare feet cross the ragged rocks of the mountainside as if they were smooth. None of the few others outside the tents pay any attention to the figure. At the door of the centre-most tent, a frail hand reaches up to touch the small bell hanging from a slender cord. No sound comes from it, but the tent flap soon moves aside enough to admit the cloaked figure. Unlike the exterior, the interior of the tent is warm and vibrantly colourful. Soft rugs cover the ground and brilliant tapestries line the walls. Warmth is rolling off a small stove in the middle of everything. Low beds covered with bright blankets take up one side. Chests and shelves of all manner of items take up the other. At the very back is a small table with a chair on either side. One of those chairs is occupied by an ancient, frail woman wrapped in layer upon layer of shawls. The small cloaked and hooded figure stops by one bed to shed the hooded cloak. Beneath that garment, which gets laid across the foot of the bed, there is a thin grey shift dress not quite to the knees. Wildly curly copper hair now cascades down a thin back. The girl herself is so frail looking she appears to have been recently ill and little recovered. “Come sit and eat, girl,” The ancient woman makes no effort to move, “And tell me what it was you saw today.” The girl obeys, helping herself to some dried foodstuffs and a mug of water before taking the chair opposite the woman. The first few minutes pass in silence while the girl eats. Only once she is less hungry does she look at the woman opposite. “The battle is over,” The words are matter of fact, in no way reflecting the horror of the battlefield, “None were left alive this time.” The ancient woman nods to herself, “An increasingly common tale of late. What else?” “The raven came.” “Scald-Crow?” The ancient woman frowns in her surprise. The girl nods. “What did She say?” “A change in perception is coming... if the last oak can be found before the day of the dead.” “The day of the dead is tomorrow,” The frown deepens, “And there are no oak left.” The girl shrugs and returns to her food. While she continues to eat, the ancient woman eases herself to her feet and begins moving around the tent. From one shelf, she takes an old hard bound book. From a chest, she takes a folded cloth. From another chest, she takes several stones. From a second shelf, she takes a small chalice. Each item gets set on the table. “If you've finished eating, go play. I've work to do.” The girl slips from her chair, takes the now empty mug to a stand containing other mugs, reclaims her cloak and leaves the tent. Just outside, she pauses to fasten the cloak around her neck and pull her hood up over her bright hair. Slipping silently uphill through the tents, the girl begins to climb the mountain. Nimble fingers and bare feet easily scale the barren rock. It is not a large mountain, barely big enough to be worthy of the name, and it does not take the girl long to reach the small plateau at the very top. Up there, she sits with her feet tucked under her to survey the surrounding land. Battle after battle in a seemingly endless war has left the countryside a blasted, muddy mess. Forests have been either chopped down and hauled away for mysterious purposes or blasted with chemicals until all the foliage is gone. Swamps have expanded to take over fields, aided by relentless rains. While no rain is currently falling on the mountain, ominous clouds hang in the sky above. The girl seated on the mountain top can see for kilometres in all directions and in none of them can she see a living tree. What she can see is the approach of more uniformed men accompanied by more of their war machines. There only appears to be one group, but they are rapidly nearing the hidden camp. Drawing a deep breath, the girl lets loose a warning howl, then a second and a third. She slips off the plateau and scrambles down the mountain as fast as she dares move. The camp is all but gone by the time the girl slides the last short distance. Only the centre-most tent remains and the ancient woman is standing in the entrance, waving to the girl to hurry. Small bare feet slip and slide across the rock in her haste. As soon as she is close, the girl dives into the tent, curling into a ball on the floor as the ancient woman allows the flap to drop. As the girl huddles on the tent floor, her eyes squeezed closed, the world tilts sideways. Her stomach also tilts sideways. However, the girl is used to the sensation and does her best to ride it out until the world around her settles. She spends a moment just allowing herself to relax before opening her eyes. Slowly, she uncurls from her position on the floor and eases herself to her feet. Looking around, she spots the ancient woman sprawled on the tent floor not far away. Frowning in concern, the girl goes to examine the woman. As she does that, another woman, a younger one, slips inside the tent. She glances around before coming over to the girl. “Is she alive?” The girl shakes her head, “She was working a ritual when the warning sounded. She didn't have the strength.” The younger woman's shoulders slump and she sighs, “We won't be safe here long. The armies are everywhere.” The girl slowly straightens up, her green eyes passing over the contents of the tent. “Did she teach you anything?” The younger woman also straightens up, “What ritual was she working even?” “Our only hope,” The words come slowly, “Is for one of us to find the last oak by the day of the dead.” “That's no hope at all. The day of the dead is nearly upon us and there are no oak left.” The girl shrugs, “The words are the raven's.” The younger woman swallows hard, “I suppose it must be possible then. 'Though I don't see how.” Silence falls over the tent for a short time. Then the girl draws in a deep breath, straightening her shoulders. “Take care of her. I must go.” Before the woman can stop her, the girl slips away, out of the tent and through the camp. Instead of being on a mountainside, the camp is now in the depths of a swamp, the tents arranged on the limited patches of solid ground remaining. The girl is cautious as she makes her way across the murky ground, her bare feet picking their way from solid earth to solid earth. Without any real direction or destination, the girl keeps herself moving as the remaining daylight fades. The moon rises early, allowing her enough light to continue on, but once it sets, she is forced to stop and rest until dawn. Having left the swamp far behind, the girl is now out in the open, her only source of concealment her cloak. She huddles down in it in the pitch dark, praying to every deity she knows of for safety and guidance.
"Dragons aren't real!" They scream at me from the sidewalk. Half a dozen of them, standing there, bare hands stuffed into pockets, shivering in light jackets, jeans, and running shoes. Too "cool", I guess, to dress appropriately for our cold and deeply snowy weather.
I ignore them and keep working. Already I have eight snowballs, each as tall as me, lined up more or less in a row. I pack snow in and around them to form a long, sinuous body. Next I add a carefully tapering tail, barbed at the end, and wings laid back along the sides of the body. Then a ridge of spikes down the middle of the back, followed by fore and hind limbs with clawed toes. I mould scales all the way from tail to head. The details of the head take longer and much more careful sculpting. The brow with a pair of curved horns. Giant, heavy lidded eyes. Tooth filled snout. Lines of whiskers drawn carefully back along the face. I'm too focused on the work to be cold. Too engaged to notice when those on the sidewalk grow bored and walk away, laughing among themselves. At last the sculpture is good enough. I dig the scrap of paper from my pocket. Unfolding it, I smooth out the creases and crinkles. The symbol is as clear as when I copied it from the huge, old, leatherbound tome Grandfather keeps hidden in his study. He's allowed me to read it, a few pages at a time, under his strict supervision. Now, painstakingly, I copy the symbol onto the brow of my snow dragon. Then it's done and I step back to survey my handiwork. It's impressive, if I do say so myself. "Hey! Kid!" Frowning, I turn toward the street to see a man holding a professional looking camera. He's waving enthusiastically. "That's awesome work! Did you do it all by yourself?" "Yessir!" I can't help a proud grin. "Would you mind if I take some pictures of it? For a local interest piece." "Sure." I stuff the scrap of paper into my pocket. Then I step back, away from the snow sculpture. "Ed Trake, photographer," He walks across the much trampled snow of the open field to hand me a business card for the small local free paper. He has a laminated press ID on a cord around his neck which says the same thing. "My editor will love this." He adds as he holds up the camera and begins taking shots. He circles around to capture the dragon from all angles, "How long did this take you?" I glance at the sky which is beginning to darken, "All afternoon." "Just today?" Ed's surprise is clear, "Fast work for something this big." I shrug it off. When I'm focused on a project, I lose time and nothing distracts me. He takes one more picture and gives me a smile, "Thank you. This really is awesome work." Then he's gone and I have to run. The sky is nearing full dark and Grandmother is a stickler for punctuality, especially for meals. One hundred and sixty-five years ago, the monsters came together to perform the Darkening, a curse ritual on the forbidden scale. The sky turned dark with thick, unyielding clouds and all celestial lights were extinguished. However, mankind is nothing if not adaptable and quickly found ways to survive without those natural lights. What they couldn't escape was the predators, the beasts and blood-thirsty who now hunted without restriction.
And now it's all come down to me, the last human to walk their world. In the beginning, there was mankind. We walked the world, masters of all we surveyed. We created and destroyed, we loved and hated, we procreated and died. Then came the question: What happens after death? And no one had a satisfactory answer. Some suggested this life was all there was. Others developed unprovable theories about various after lifes. But without a concrete answer, death came to be feared. Those who believed this life was all there was created the Deathbed Ritual and became the blood-thirsty. Their spirits remained in this world for eternity and they were strong or weak depending on their willingness to consume the blood of the living. Those who believed in an afterlife created the Blood and Skin Ritual and became the beasts. They remained mortal, but with the ability to shapeshift into one animal of their choosing. They were strong or weak depending whether they preferred their human form or their animal form. But some chose to carry on living as if the question had never been asked. We remained human and lived out our lives as we saw fit. However, we were the minority and preyed upon by both the blood-thirsty and the beasts. Still, we thrived for a time, being more willing to live in the full light of the sun, moon and stars. The beasts and blood-thirsty shunned the celestial lights almost as if afraid of something up there, watching them. And then they came together and performed the Darkening, cutting off the celestial lights. The minority became the hunted and dwindled rapidly. Some chose to undergo the rituals and become monsters themselves. More were hunted and killed for the appetites of the blood-thirsty and the sport of the beasts. A few of us learned to protect ourselves even in the darkness and built a hidden community where we were safe for a time. We discovered the weaknesses of those who hunted us and used them for protection. But our supplies, although carefully preserved, were not enough to last indefinitely and none escape old age. When our suppliers stopped returning and my father succumbed to disease, I didn't care to remain in that place. So I gathered everything I could and made a new place for myself. I have everything I need to survive and protect myself for the rest of my life. Unfortunately staying sane all alone could prove more difficult. |
AuthorAlexandra A. 'Lexa' Cheshire is the author of numerous novels and short stories published through Howling Wolf Books. Lexa is a wife, mother, cat owner, and music lover. Archives
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