One thousand years after The Great Calamities and the fall of human civilization, The Trinarchy dominates what was once the United States of America.
Warlords, High Priests, and Magi, along with their kith and kin, rule over most of the population, protecting Civilians from the barbarians outside the walls.
A series of city-states known as Neopolii scatter The Continent, united in a system of alliances that stretch from coast to coast.
While traveling east in a Merchant convoy, Byron and Jalen of Selenia have a chance encounter, take a chance on a coin flip, and come to discover that the World they knew is much larger than they could have ever imagined.
***
January 22nd, 3090
The following events are, to the best of my research, recollection and honor, accurate in the extreme. I exhibit neither bias nor prejudice in its writing, although I am fully aware of the incredulity of those statements.
Adam Iscariot
⁂
The longest Merchant convoy on record is reported to have been roughly three miles long. A horse running at full speed could have sprinted from end to front in just over 10 minutes, though legend tells of a stallion named Bolt who made the run in nearly half that time. There weren’t any convoys that long anymore these days, and there certainly weren’t any horses like Bolt. There were, however, still children being born who believed in the tales that gave them hope for the future, even if the present was beset by the obstacles their ancestors had left behind.
Jalen of Selenia playfully dangled his feet as he sat on the back of his father’s wagon, watching as the trailing dust and rocks kicked about in a chaotic fashion. Just moments earlier, he had been relieved of his duty on the horses, as he was now old enough to be assigned the reins yet still young enough to revel in the joys of being a kid.
“Good work today,” his father, Byron of Selenia, commented as he stood at the rear of the wagon’s driver-side railing. “You’re gaining their trust on the road. But you still need to spend more time with them at home. We’ll work on it more when we get back,” he nodded to himself as if making a mental note.
Byron and his son were of hearty stock, both having been born and raised in the vast Territory known as the Central States Authority. Their home Outpost of Selenia was a smaller settlement, founded less than two centuries ago. Residents from that part of the Continent traced their lineage to Vikus, a tall, pale, bearded god who had descended from the Northlunds, bringing fire to the Primitives.
Jalen turned back towards his father. “Thank you, sir. For the opportunity to learn.”
Byron smiled and returned to the reins. A Merchant’s wagon was his “home away from home,” as most would have phrased it, although Jalen had once called it a “rolling domicile,” and Byron could only laugh and agree. Nearly seven yards in length and a third as wide, the wagon served as a storefront once a location was established and a campsite en route.
It was the first convoy in quite some time that Byron felt at ease on the road. The Scourge, a nomadic tribe of horsefolk, had been raiding the convoy’s current location, the Sunrise Highway, for nearly a year and with much more ferocity than normal. They were a people whose numbers swelled and waned like the tide. At their peak, they raided the various highways, Merchant Outposts, and smaller settlements. When their population was threatened, they were but windswept shadows.
Reports of their activity had diminished since the formation of a Unified Militia between a dozen Neopolii. Rumors persisted of the demise of their leader, forcing a majority of The Scourge back to their homelands. In the past, the Unified Militias would normally disband upon the conclusion of their mission, but several Neopolii remained in pursuit of the retreating threat.
It was many months before the first snow would begin falling, and Byron loved this part of the Continent during the current season. The Earth was lush with colors; greens, yellows, purples, browns, and reds. A beautiful blue sky filled with fluffy white and gray clouds hovered above. Seagulls increased in numbers, bringing their scavenging squawks along with them. The sun was now on its daily descent, warming the backsides of the weary convoy.
The Merchants traveled east, bringing summer wares toward the Atlantic Coast on what was a lucrative and generally pleasant convoy. One was lucky enough to draw this route once every couple of years, and this happened to be the second in a row for Byron and Jalen. It was customary upon drawing the same route three years in a row to trade with another family to avoid gaining animosity from the other Merchants. As the old saying goes, “Luck is only for the living.”
News of the Unified Militia’s successes had bolstered confidence in many of the Merchant Outposts, and this convoy was flush with a variety of goods, much of it from the Territories of the Kingdom of Angels and the Montana Free Zone. A surplus had been building since the most recent Scourge raids, but it was now safer to move the sought-after luxuries. From the Kingdom, citrus fruits, avocados, dried Pacific fish, and turquoise jewelry were only a few of the items loaded onto the wagons. The Montana Free Zone provided an assortment of dried herbs, purified tinctures, and other medicines.
One of Jalen’s favorite wares was books, especially on the subject of history. He had inherited that passion from both his parents, who understood that knowledge about the past was key to foreseeing the future. Like most Merchant children, Jalen was raised until the age of ten at his home, Outpost’s Market, by his mother and the elders of the settlement. After learning the basics of the Market and how to value various wares, most children began taking routes with their fathers, training to one day take their place. While no official retirement age for Merchants existed, the elders tended to take routes less often, giving in to the urges of their bodies to sleep in a bed rather than on the ground or in a wagon.
Reading, of course, was one of the mandatory skills of any successful Merchant. Selling food and clothing to the cold and hungry was one thing. But convincing a stranger to spend chips on a desire rather than a necessity was an art that required the gift of storytelling. Byron’s generation had been the first in nearly 1000 years to gain regular access to books. Until his time, they were a rarity, having to be hand copied by monks, scholars, or madmen. The Ancients were said to have had so many books that they could stack to the Heavens. But most of those had been destroyed during the Great Calamities, along with whatever secrets the Ancients held for creating such an abundance.
As the convoy rolled along at around five miles an hour, a gathering of children playing phute appeared to the south of the Sunrise Highway. The highway was divided into four lanes, the northernmost being reserved for the movement of militia, members of The Trinarchy, and postal carriers. The middle two lanes were where most Merchant wagons traveled, shifting positions throughout the journey. The bottom lane was designated for slower-moving animals and broken vehicles. Jalen moved to the passenger side of the wagon and then jumped onto the road before dashing off to join the game.
Byron waved at his son and cheered him on as he ran past his father’s wagon, controlling the ball with practiced skill. Without any specific field or goals, it was almost impossible to keep a score in their game. The winners tended to be the kids who displayed the most talent on the field, as they were the ones who received the most adulation after the game had ended for the day. As the sun was finally setting for the evening, the convoy pulled off the road and decided to set up camp for the night.
The Merchants had made good time, arriving at a familiar site shortly before total darkness. Jalen had come back to his wagon after noticing the convoy slowing down. He helped his father set up for the evening, then ran off to a nearby woods to look for kindling. While they had brought plenty of wood to get them to the next Outpost, smaller branches always helped start things up. Jalen was disappointed to bring back only a small bundle under his arm.
“Not a lot to choose from, Father. Looks like it’s been picked pretty clean,” Jalen said as he began to break up the sticks to build a bed for the fire.
“The Unified Militia has been patrolling the Sunrise Highway for months now. I’m surprised you found what you did,” Byron noted as he finished unharnessing the horses before tying them to the side of the now stationary wagon.
“That’s true. We should probably buy some smaller pieces at our next Outpost,” Jalen suggested, knocking bits of bark off his hands into the fire pit.
Byron smiled. “No need for that.” He grabbed a log from its box and set it on the ground in front of him. He then pulled out a hand axe and proceeded to slice off small bits of wood as he spun the log in a circular motion.
Jalen’s eyes widened. “Can I try?”
“Of course. Now, be careful. Always strike the blade away from your body. And hold it up towards the top for more control.” Byron gave Jalen instructions for creating kindling from a larger log. He relished moments like this, knowing that one day he would be too old for the road, and Jalen would pass on these techniques to his son, as his father had done to him.
The traditions of the Merchants went back so far that it is believed to have been created during the time of the Primitives. But the current Merchant organization could trace its roots to the end of the 26th century. The population of the Continent was beginning to recover following a devastating epidemic that wiped out nearly half of every man, woman, and child. At the same time, after almost two hundred years of what was known as the Anarchist Continuum, interest in restoring the Trinarchy emerged as well.
It was in 2587 when the first Transcontinental Caravan was held. Traders from every territory gathered to form an alliance that would not only preserve their way of life but also give some semblance of order to a world that needed it. Merchants from dozens of Outposts signed the first Charter of the Transcontinental Union of Merchants. The Charter set certain guidelines for prices, protection treaties, limits on distribution, and stable routes. It also established the Merchant Assembly, the governing body of the various Outposts. To consecrate the Charter, Merchant households betrothed sons and daughters to one another, creating essentially one large, extended family.
The Charter had been revised on several occasions, but Caravan was still a yearly event, bringing together males and females who had achieved the age of 25 to be paired together in marriages arranged well in advance by the elders of the different Outposts. Byron had been introduced and then quickly married to a young woman named Monica of Skyhome. Jalen was born at the end of that same year in Selenia.
“That’s probably enough for now, Jalen,” his father suggested as he took the hand axe back from his son.
Jalen had sweat beads upon his brow, and his breathing was slightly labored, but he marveled at the amount of kindling he had produced. “That should do it.” he proudly proclaimed, standing up and looking down at his bounty.
“That it should. You’ve earned a little adventure. Why don’t you make an offering at the altar? I think I saw some of the other children headed that way with the Sacred Fire.” Byron had scooped up the kindling and set it on a nearby towel.
“Oh yeah! I wonder if I’ll be chosen this year?” Jalen shouted with a hop.
“It is your last chance. But don’t worry, I wasn’t chosen when I was your age. Next year you’ll walk the Burning Bridge and become a Trainee. It’s time you learned more about the rituals you’ll take part in. Go. Listen, and do not speak.” Byron’s normally cheerful face had transformed into a stern mask.
Jalen knew what that look meant. It was no longer playtime. He grabbed his dagger from under the front seat of the wagon and then scanned the horizon for a sign of yellow-orange light.
He heard an older gentleman’s voice whisper, “They headed west. Chasing the Sun.”
Jalen smiled at the hint and sprinted ahead, catching a subtle purple color in the far-off distance.
The older gentleman turned towards his companions. “That oughta keep ’em busy for a while.”
“The Tale of the Sacred Fire. Byron that is by far one of your best ideas ever,” another Merchant named Casius admitted to his cohorts.
“It lets the children act as adults,” Byron replied with a grin. “And the adults act as children,” he finished as he pulled out a leather flask filled with Selenian Rye Whiskey. The recipe was a secret, and Selenian Merchants made considerable profits from the immensely popular liquor.
A couple of other Merchants heard the distinct squeak of a cork being removed from its container and made their way toward Byron and Casius. The group of half a dozen casually strolled towards the nearest campfire and sat around it, telling stories of youth and sharing an intoxicating drink. Soon a couple of instruments appeared, along with the folk songs that accompanied the acoustic ritual of the Merchants.
Our Fire, Our Future, to Vikus, we Pray
The Light of Your Gift Will Show us the Way
These Cold Lifeless Plains Need the Warmth of Your Presence
We Offer our Voices as Signs of our Penance
Half a mile away, the Ritual of the Sacred Fire had commenced, where the oldest of the children always got to play the part of Vikus. From the ages of thirteen to twenty-four, the males of the Transcontinental Union of Merchants trained to one day take their fathers’ places. But they were still not of the age of marriage and therefore held the dual role of student and teacher.
This year, Vikus was being played by a young man named Gary. Vikus set the Sacred Fire down upon the altar, initiating the ritual. As the ceremonial torch burned, he started pacing the altar as the older participants began discussing who would play The Squall. This part was normally bestowed upon one of the children, as it required no recited lines. It was a great honor to be selected as The Squall, for it showed that the young men had noticed your talents and would report your progress to the elders.
Jalen let his shoulders dip as another boy named Colin was chosen instead. It was his last chance to have been selected. Male Merchants usually take to the road at the age of ten, and only a few ten-year-olds are chosen to be The Squall. Twelve years olds are the most common, as they have already had two routes under their belts. He heard his father’s voice in his head, “Those who stare at the ground in defeat miss the lessons of victory.”
He quickly changed his demeanor, smiling and cheering at Colin’s selection. As the white blanket was placed over Colin’s body, the comparison in size between the child and adult became evident. Gary was fully dressed in Vikus garb. A long, purple cloak hung from his shoulders. Upon his head was a leather cap with the horns of a bison attached. He wore a long braided beard as white as snow. His right hand clasped the hilt of a sword shaped from bone.
Came down from the Northlunds to Find Early Man
Who Hunted and Gathered with Stick, Stone, and Hands
Oh, Mighty Vikus, Who Witnessed Our Plight
Offered Protection for Us Through the Night
As was customary, The Squall stepped off to the side. A small group of children and young adults gathered in front of the altar, smearing dirt under their eyes while sitting around in a circle. They picked at the ground like wild animals, pretending to eat small bugs from the ground, imitating the Primitives. Suddenly, one of the young men came charging into the group on all fours.
“Behold, the Mighty Beasts!” one ritualist shouted.
The Primitives scattered, pointing and shouting at the Mighty Beasts. With his bone sword, Vikus stepped into the circle. He raised his weapon high above his head before coming down upon the Mighty Beasts. The battle was over quickly. The Primitives gathered around Vikus and fell to their knees, prostrating themselves before the Mighty Bearded God.
From Fresh Bloodied Corpses, He Cut Away Flesh
Made Clothes for the Women, Children, and Men
He Built Them a Shelter and Taught to Shape Bone
Then Vikus Proclaimed, “The People are my Own.”
The group playing the part of the Primitives had washed away the dirt from their faces. They all wore cloaks, like their god, and carried bone swords. Mighty Beasts would occasionally charge the circle, only to be run off by the group of Vikus worshippers. At that point, The Squall was given his cue. An older participant patted the young ritualist playing the part on the back, sending him running forward at full speed. “The Squall!” shouted a participant, causing The Squall to stop in place and begin spinning around in circles.
The Primitives fell to the ground. All but one remained motionless. The lone Primitive began crawling towards the altar where the Sacred Fire burned. Vikus stood behind it, beckoning the lone Primitive. Once he arrived at the base of the altar, the Primitive stood and took the Sacred Fire from Vikus. The Primitive then turned and held the Sacred Fire above his head. “Behold the Sacred Fire!” he shouted.
“Behold, we live by its light and cook by its warmth,” the ritualists responded in unison.
The lone Primitive walked forward with the Sacred Fire. The Squall had stopped spinning on the cue from the last chant. With his right hand, he held the Sacred Fire above his head. With his left, he gently removed the white blanket, representing The Squall. As the blanket fell to the ground, the remaining Primitive actors awakened and turned towards the Sacred Fire while remaining on their knees. They raised their arms to the sky. Everyone began to sing together,
Our Fire, Our Future, to Vikus, we Pray
The Light of Your Gift Will Show us the Way
These Cold Lifeless Plains Need the Warmth of Your Presence
We Offer our Voices as Signs of our Penance
As the younger Merchants concluded their Tale of the Sacred Fire, the older Merchants were opening up their second leather flask of whiskey. For those who understood the mechanics of the Heavens, today was the longest day of the year, the Summer Solstice. For the younger Merchants, it was a chance to celebrate one last season as a child and look for inspiration as one prepared for adulthood. Beginning tomorrow, the night would approach quicker with each passing day. And that meant every moment of sunlight held even more importance. So, tonight was the night to indulge in the excesses of summer and prepare for the eventual scarcity of winter.
By the second flask, the group had grown to nearly twenty men and three women. While there weren’t any rules forbidding female Merchants from the routes, traditionally, most road Merchants were male. On occasion, some males would prefer to stay at the Outpost Market. As long as the individual did their job well, was committed to their family, and worked for the betterment of their community, no qualms were made over any one Merchant’s preferred specialty.
Close to one hundred Merchant wagons stretched over nearly a half mile of the Sunrise Highway. Individually, they were nothing. Without one another, each Merchant family was some predator’s next meal or a bandit’s victim. But the convoys kept everyone safe, for the most part. And the Charter made things fair, again, for the most part. Of course, the Transcontinental Union of Merchants was only one element of today’s social circles on the Continent.
The Warlords of the Neopolii were in charge of maintaining the peace. For centuries, they had been the de facto Knights in Shining Armor the legends spoke of. And today, they maintained whatever semblance of honor they claimed to uphold. These were the warriors who kept the Neopolii safe from invasion, rode into battle when necessary, and trained the militia who would protect the people for future generations.
The second faction in the Trinarchy was the High Priests. This order of holy men and women wrote, debated, and interpreted the Law based upon their communions with Higher Powers. These Higher Powers, the gods, and goddesses of the World, rarely spoke to the Realm of Mortals. But when they did, the High Priests and their faithful committed themselves to the dictates of the beings who seemed to know mankind better than it knew itself.
Completing the Trinarchy was the Magi of the Neopolii. They were by far the most secretive, and therefore most feared, members of the social elite. Their understanding of magic was without equal, and the gifts they had bestowed the other people of this World did much to alleviate those fears. Yet there remained a constant suspicion for the group who seemed to hold the most potential yet showed so little interest in the World.
Among the almost 100 Merchant wagons, there were perhaps 350 people. Each wagon was helmed by a Proprietor and often operated along with their son. Some Merchants would hire additional help depending on the specialty of their wares. Other times, Mercenaries were brought on for security purposes. There were also entertainers and artists who made their way along with the various Merchant convoys. Sometimes, if the money was right, criminal elements were allowed to take part in the convoy.
While they weren’t experts in the martial arts, the Merchants had learned to become adept fighters in their own rights. What they lacked in firepower, they made up for with solid defensive techniques and the ability to use their supplies if necessary to adapt to their situations. One of the Merchants’ most famous sayings was, “The true value of any object is its usefulness in life or death situations.”
Byron was cackling with laughter as tears streamed down his face. He waved off the offer of whiskey, wiping the wetness from his eyes as the flask went to the Merchant seated to his right. The effects of the Selenian Rye were in full swing, and inhibitions were at their low point. Byron wasn’t known to be much of a drinker, while his companions were much more practiced.
“I have to water the gravel,” he announced as he stood up and walked away from the campfire.
“Don’t sprinkle your ankles,” one drunken Merchant warned.
“You’ve a better chance of drenching your drawers,” Byron retorted with a chuckle.
The two dozen Merchants broke into laughter at Byron’s response, including his target. The chatter of discussions got quieter as he moved down the line of parked wagons. The horses had been tied up a short distance away, giving them a little room to wander and plenty of food to replenish their stomachs and spirits.
As Byron relieved himself, the shouts, screams, and laughter of the children and younger Merchants could be heard in the distance. The end of the Tale of the Sacred Fire always concluded with a treasure hunt, a tradition that rewarded the kids for their patience and reverence for the stories of their ancestors. It also gave the adults a little more time to indulge in drinking, music, and other merriments.
The road was a dangerous place sometimes, and lowering one’s guard through the use of intoxicants was not a usual Merchant activity. So on those occasions when celebrations were to be had, the grown-ups did their best to extend the festivities, knowing that a night like this would boost morale for weeks to come.
“Folding your hand?” Casius asked, his feet crunching on the gravel.
“I believe so. I think I’ll be calling it an evening,” Byron admitted. “Each year makes for an earlier bedtime, it seems.”
Casius laughed as he approached his friend. “It does, yes, it does. There’s something different about this season, this route. I can feel it in the air. Am I mad?”
Byron had finished his call to nature and was now turned, facing Casius. “No, you are far from mad. I sense it too. Yet, I can’t find it on a map.”
“Nor, me,” Casius confessed. “Yet, it is everywhere.”
“It’s said that the Warlord thinks with his gut, the High Priest thinks with his heart, and the Magi thinks with his brain. But the Merchant is always thinking on his feet. You’re right, Casius. It is everywhere,” Byron replied staring into the Heavens
The green-colored torch of a sentry approached Byron and Casius. The sentry spoke calmly as he came within earshot, “Tracks of The Carniss have been discovered nearby. We recommend harnessing the horses and sheltering in the wagons.
“The Carniss? Out this far from The Ruins? Are you sure this isn’t some sort of mistake?” Casius questioned, suddenly feeling much soberer.
“The tracks are distinct. No, there hasn’t been a direct sighting for generations. But we’re trained in their signs. I’d bet my life we’re being stalked,” the sentry swore.
“What do you think, Casius?” asked Byron.
“It would be irresponsible to not take precautions,” Casius considered. “Yet, if it is a false alarm, we’ll have ruined a favorite holiday.”
“Better to have one holiday ruined than to have no other holidays at all,” Byron replied with a shrug.
“Good point. I’ll round up the children if you’ll help spread the word,” Casius recommended.
Byron nodded in agreement. The two split up and went about their tasks. Byron and the sentry went in opposite directions, informing each group of Merchants about the sighting. It took some convincing of some groups to take action, but the overall seriousness of Byron and the sentry convinced enough for there to be majority rule.
As Byron was rallying the grown-ups, Casius had been doing his best to herd the younger Merchants back towards camp. The times following a ritual were always the most difficult in convincing the kids to come back to reality. The rituals walked the line between what was real and what was a legend. There were some who saw the stories as only that; stories. Lessons from long ago were taught to create a sense of unity among the people. Others took the tales to heart, having full faith that the stories happened exactly as they were told.
Once Casius had gathered enough of the more mature of the group and set them into action, the younger kids began to fall in line. The remaining stragglers were discovered by their elders and promptly guided back to the safety of their wagons and the collective protection of the convoy. Any naysayers were quieted as they noticed the increasing number of green sentry lights walking around the outskirts of the campsites.
“This must be serious,” Jalen noted towards the group of peers he was traveling with.
“I agree,” said Colin.
“Could be The Scourge,” one young Merchant suggested.
“I heard The Carniss.”
“I bet they ran out of whiskey and need us to tuck them into their beds,” Gary shouted from the darkness. A roll of uneasy laughter followed.
In a period of just under half an hour, the children and younger Merchants had made their way back to their wagons. The possibility of danger had sobered up the fathers, and they explained why the evening had been cut short. While most of the Merchants had been prepared to get very little sleep this evening, the reasons for it had changed. Eventually, even the most paranoid drifted off into sleep, letting the sentries do their jobs.
The night passed without any incident. At four in the morning, as per norm, a few of the Merchants called Roosters began stoking the fires and preparing breakfast. This was a rotational position and different Roosters took the responsibility each night, giving up a few hours of sleep for the benefit of everyone. It was always best to get back onto the road before the sun had risen.
The convoy started to stir awake to the smell of frying bacon and eggs. Soon, conversations broken up by the warnings from the sentries were started again, and the life of the convoy returned to normal. Quite a few of the Merchants felt blessed that the warning had been given. Had they continued drinking at last night’s pace, the consequences would have been difficult to ignore this morning.
Byron approached Casius with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. “I haven’t heard reports of any more sightings.”
“Me either,” Casius replied. “But, better to be safe than sorry. We’ll be past these Ruins in no time. And before long, we’ll be enjoying the salty waves of the Atlantic.”
“It is something to look forward to,” Byron conceded. “I think Jalen is old enough to really appreciate the route this year.”
“I’m sure he will,” Casius agreed. “I should do a final check. Convoy will be moving out here shortly.”
“Agreed.”
With practiced precision, the Merchant convoy returned to the Sunrise Highway and resumed its journey east. Jalen had climbed onto the top of the wagon and decided to spend most of the day looking for any trace of The Carniss. It seemed like everyone knew someone who had heard from another person of an encounter with The Carniss. And while it appeared all had persevered through these encounters, supposedly no one survived a meeting with The Carniss. It was the boogeyman of which all were aware, and yet no one knew why they believed.
To the north, Jalen thought he saw something coming slowly toward the convoy. “Father, I need the goggles of farsight,” he requested, leaning down from the roof towards Byron’s seat.
Byron knew Jalen wouldn’t ask for such an expensive artifact without reason. “What is it you need them for?” he asked.
“To the north. Look. Something’s coming this way,” Jalen pointed.
Byron could tell from the seriousness in Jalen’s voice that it was something to consider. “Alright, Son. Come down and take the reins. I’ll grab the goggles.”
Jalen did as commanded and Byron went into the wagon’s storeroom to retrieve the goggles of farsight. These goggles were imbued with magic, allowing the user to see objects that were far away as though they were nearly within shouting distance.
Once he had retrieved the artifact, Byron began scanning the horizon towards the north. It wasn’t long before he found the object Jalen must have seen. “Pull the wagon to the north. Leave the convoy,” Byron commanded, his voice shaking.
Jalen did as requested, although he wasn’t sure why. But he had learned to trust his father and had no doubt if he was being asked to do so, it was for a good reason. “What is it?” he asked.
Byron handed the goggles of farsight to Jalen and then started to unharness an experienced mare named Cloud. He directed her to the side of the wagon, where he grabbed a saddle from a hook, then tossed it across the horse’s back.
Jalen had to look several times before he registered what he was seeing through the goggles, even adjusting the settings to their maximum. Objects blurred the closer the zoom, but what appeared to be a teenage girl shambled forward, her right hand pressed against the left side of her torso, hand covered in a dark red.
“I’m going after her, Jalen. Get the medicine bag from the wagon and lay down some blankets for when I get back,” Byron ordered before kicking the horse into a sprint.
Jalen did as asked, while Byron and his horse closed in on the wounded girl. At the same time, a sentry noticed their wagon had left the convoy and made his way over to investigate.
“What’s going on?” the sentry asked Jalen as he was following his father’s instruction.
“We spotted a girl in the distance. She appears to be wounded. My father, Byron, is going after her. We could use someone with medical expertise. But we’ll do our best in the meantime,” Jalen explained.
“Of course. I’ll see what I can do,” the sentry replied before riding along the convoy shouting for help.
Byron couldn’t have arrived at the wounded girl any sooner. She collapsed onto the ground as he was swinging his body off the back of the horse. He ran over to her side and lifted her head towards his chest. She was a beautiful young woman, although most of the color had drained from her face. Her breathing was shallow but steady. Byron pulled her blood-soaked shirt up to reveal the wound while trying his best to maintain her modesty.
Four parallel gashes ran down her side from under her armpit to just above her waist. The wounds weren’t too deep, but it was apparent they had been bleeding for some time. Byron gently tapped the girl’s cheek. “Stay with me. My name is Byron. What’s your name?”
The girl whispered something, but Byron couldn’t understand. She was responding, though, and that was a good sign. Byron lifted her up onto the front of the horse and then climbed up onto the saddle. He made his way back towards the parked wagon, doing his best not to hurt the young girl who now rode with him.
Byron was pleased to see his son had done as asked. Blankets had been laid down on the back of the wagon, and the medicine bag was set next to the bedding. “Here, help me with her,” Byron requested.
Jalen and Byron lifted the teenage girl from the back of the horse and moved her onto her back into the wagon. With tools now available, Byron carefully cut away at the girl’s shirt. He took two liquids and mixed them together before dumping a bit of the mixture onto a clean cloth. He then applied the medicated cloth to the girl’s wounds with the hopes of stopping the remaining bleeding. The sounds of a couple of horses approaching the wagon could be heard, and Jalen turned to see who had approached.
The sentry had returned with one of the convoy’s doctors, easily identified by his red trench coat and skullcap. He was part of a loosely affiliated organization known as the Kavo Korun. They lived by one motto and one motto alone; “We are only as healthy as our sickest patient.” A convoy this large usually brought along at least three doctors plus a number of nurses. Times had never been better, but things could always get worse without the appropriate staffing of a convoy. The doctor dismounted as the horse was coming to a stop before sprinting towards the wounded girl.
He removed his backpack and set it down on Byron and Jalen’s wagon. “You just found her?” the doctor asked.
“Yes, within minutes. Jalen spotted her, actually,” Byron informed the doctor.
“Good, good. We can hand out trophies later. Right now I’ve work to do. Please,” the doctor gestured for Jalen and Byron to exit the back of the wagon so he could work in peace and also give the teenager privacy.
Jalen and Byron immediately hopped down, knowing full well not to argue with a doctor. The sentry trotted up to the father and son.
“If you won’t be needing me anymore,” he began.
Byron reached up and shook the sentry’s hand. “Thank you. Jesse, is it?”
“Jerome,” the sentry corrected.
“Thank you, Jerome.” Byron patted the sentry’s held hand with his other.
Jerome tipped his cap, then spurred his horse and proceeded back into formation.
Jalen was staring in the direction the young female had come from. “There’s no Outposts or Neopolii to the north, are there?” he asked aloud, only halfway questioning his father.
Byron placed his left arm around his son’s shoulders. “Not on any map I’m aware of. The only thing to the north of here is…”
“… the Ruins,” Jalen finished. He shuddered at the thought as countless memories of horror stories from around the campfire flooded his imagination. The Ruins were all that was left of the once great cities of the Ancients. It’s been said that as many men, women, and children lived in those archaic settlements as there were stars in the sky. Jalen had tried counting the stars one evening, only quitting because the sun had risen and drowned out their light. Even then, he knew those numbers were most certainly exaggerated.
“She didn’t come from that place. She couldn’t have. No one survives the Ruins,” Byron explained.
“I’ve heard tales. Of a lost civilization.”
“Stories. Only stories, Jalen. The Ruins are overrun with mighty beasts of all sorts. No man or woman could survive in there. The Ruins have been lost for centuries,”
“But last night, The Carniss. What of that?” Jalen asked.
Byron remembered the wounds on the teenage girl. “I don’t think we have anything to worry about. The girl’s probably from a party of settlers who got lost. If the doctor can patch her up, we’ll drop her off at the next Outpost. If the group she was with is still alive, they’ll be looking for her.”
Jalen wasn’t content with his father’s answer, but he was old enough and smart enough to know not to push the issue. If The Carniss was around, then the adults were just as concerned as the children.
The flapping of a wagon tent door could be heard, and both Jalen and Byron turned to see the doctor coming down from the back of the wagon. The smell of rubbing alcohol accompanied the doctor as he cleaned off his hands with a towel soaked in the liquid. “Good news or bad news?” he prompted.
“Good,” requested Jalen.
“Bad,” Byron replied at the same time. He smiled and looked down at his son. “Good news, doc.”
The doctor draped the towel over his left shoulder. “Good news is that the girl’s gonna be just fine. The wounds were long but not very deep. Must have been a near hit. But it’s a good thing you spotted her. She might not have had the strength to make it to the highway alone. A few days, and she’ll be up and about, but I’m sure quite sore for a few weeks,” he concluded.
“So then, what’s the bad news, doctor?” Jalen asked.
“Well. The girl’s a Warlord’s Daughter,” the doctor flatly stated.
“A Warlord’s Daughter? Are you sure?”
“She bears the mark of a Warlord. I’m certain,” the doctor assured Byron.
“The next Neopolis has to be, what, 15 miles southeast from here?” Byron calculated.
“Closer to 20, I’d reckon,” the doctor offered. “Best of luck to ya.” The doctor began walking towards his horse, who was off eating grass.
“You’re not coming with?” Byron asked, a bit surprised.
“Nothing much more I can do. Just change her dressing every couple of hours. If she comes to, I left something for the pain,” he finished as he got on his horse’s back. “I’ll see you, gentlemen, if you can catch up with us.” He then trotted back onto the Sunrise Highway and merged with the convoy.
“What are we going to do, Father? A Warlord’s Daughter? Surely there’s a search party out looking for her. And where do you think she came from? Is there any way…” Jalen blathered.
“Whoa, whoa. Slow down, Son. I need to clear my head for a moment,” Byron requested.
Jalen watched as the end of the convoy appeared and then passed them while his father paced back and forth in short steps, mumbling to himself. Jalen took the opportunity to check on the status of the Warlord’s Daughter. He pulled the curtain aside ever so slightly and peered into the back of the wagon. The Warlord’s Daughter shifted her position a bit, then spoke under her breath.
Jalen leaned forward to try to hear what she was saying. It sounded pretty incoherent, like a jumble of nonsense. It was rare for a Merchant to hear a language with which he was unfamiliar. Most Merchants spoke at least five languages, as was a necessity of their craft. Continental was a common language used by many of the regular folk. It was descended from the language of the Ancients, albeit an elementary version, and utilized a system of hand signals as well. Merchants didn’t need to converse with their clients much more than, “What is that?” “How much do you want?” “How much will you give?”
“Is she still doing alright,” Byron asked, placing a hand on Jalen’s shoulder.
Jalen jumped a bit, “Wha? Uh, I think so.”
Byron stared at the teenage daughter of a Warlord. “She is fascinating, isn’t she? Even in her sleep, there’s a… attraction isn’t the right word. But it’s easy to be drawn towards her.”
“Magnetism?” Jalen offered.
“Yes, magnetism. Playing those word games with your mother is paying off.” Byron knelt down to meet his son face to face. “And speaking of paying off. I’ve done the math. We can’t afford to get behind the convoy. We wouldn’t be able to afford to pay for a sentry to come with us until we caught back up. And it’s too risky not to use one. We’ll drop the girl off at the next Outpost. They can send a messenger to the nearest Neopolis. Someone else will have to get her home.”
“No, we can’t do that. She can’t be much older than me. Would you trust a group of strangers to get me back to my home? We have to help her,” Jalen argued.
“I’m not disagreeing with you on principles. I would love to help this poor girl. But we have a family to think about as well. Between this year’s profit and last, we’ll be able to skip a route and stay home. We’d be able to fix up the house during the warmer part of the year. And spend more time with your mother,” Byron countered.
“But the Warlord will want his daughter back safe. And he’ll probably give us a reward. Plus, he’d send an escort with us until we get back to the convoy. I think that’s a bigger opportunity than just another trip to the Atlantic Ocean,” Jalen presented his plan.
Byron stood up and patted his son on the head. “Oh, to be young and idealistic again. You make a good point,” he began.
Jalen started to bounce up and down.
“A good point. Not a great point.” Byron pulled a plastic coin from his pocket. “I’ll flip you for it.” It was marked on one side with the face of a long-dead Magi and a crest for Selenia on the other. He then sent it spinning into the air with the flick of his thumb, “Call it.”
“Heads,” Jalen shouted.
The coin landed in Byron’s right palm, and he quickly slapped it onto the top of his left hand. He peaked underneath without showing any sign of emotion.
“Well?” Jalen asked after what felt like an eternity of silence.
Byron pulled his hand away to reveal an engraved profile of the Great Magi, Steve of Silconium.