Writing -- Empire, Chapter 1

Amber shifted uncomfortably.

She crouched on the high bluff looking down at the town below. It was difficult to see through the flurry of snowflakes whipped up by the bitter late-autumn wind.  Night was approaching, and even with her excellent vision she could only just make out individual buildings in the fading light.  As she looked lights began to flicker in some of the windows.

Watching from her vantage point, ignoring the cold, she tried to judge whether or not the town would be safe for her. It was unlikely her pursuers would have followed her this high into the mountains.  She'd been careful to cover her tracks and they would be expecting her to stick to the dense forest of The Fringe that skirted the foothills.

From up here the town appeared little more than an assortment of crude stone dwellings arranged haphazardly around a large central building: probably an inn of some kind. She could vaguely make out the shuffling shapes of people moving to and from the larger building.  It had to be an inn.

Amber stood and turned towards her horse. It stood patiently in the lee of a nearby boulder, seemingly indifferent to the weather. The driving wind whipped the snow around her with renewed fury and she pulled her heavy travel cloak tight.  She was cold, tired and hungry: conditions that wouldn't be helped by another night outdoors. What she needed, she decided, was a warm fire, some hot food, and a dry, comfortable bed for the night.

Her decision made Amber climbed wearily into the saddle and turned her horse onto the steep mountain path that led towards the town.

*

The common room of the Pass Inn was a large rectangular affair with a flagstone floor and low ceiling. All of the buildings in Highpass were low one-storey structures, designed to offer least resistance to the driving winds that howled down the pass for most of the winter. Low ceilings also meant low volume, so the rooms were easy to heat and keep warm, unlike the fashionable high ceilings favoured in Bantara's cities. Up here fashion usually played second fiddle to practicality.

In the centre of the room was a rectangular work area with counters running all the way around it. Anybody working behind the bar would have a good view of everyone in the common room and could easily serve across any of the four counters.

The room itself was clearly divided into different areas. The long side of the room that the door opened into had an assortment of stools and small tables where people sat drinking and talking. Around to the left of the bar the short side of the room was used as a gaming area. Here huddles of people played cards, dice and skittles enthusiastically, and varying sums of money changed hands. Set in the long wall on the far side of the bar was a large open grate in which a log fire roared, keeping the entire room warm. This area had larger tables and more comfortable chairs, and patrons sat around them eating and drinking. The other short side of the room was raised slightly, and kept free of clutter.  It was a space for people to stand and mingle, but doubled conveniently as a dais for speakers when the inn was used as an impromptu town hall.

The main door opened and a black-cloaked figure entered, the wind blowing snow in through the opening behind them. Ryan de Brun looked up from his mug of beer watching the newcomer with interest. You didn't get many visitors venturing into Highpass this late in the season. Winter closed in quickly up here, and most people stayed in the more temperate lowlands. The newcomer was a woman. She walked to the bar in the centre of the large room, all eyes upon her as she caught the attention of the innkeeper.  Ryan was sitting too far away to make out more than the occasional word of the ensuing conversation.

The moment the strange woman had walked into the room, in common with similar hostelries everywhere, all activity had ceased, the patrons curious to see who the newcomer was and what her business in Highpass might be. Seeing the woman talking to the innkeeper, most seemed to decide it was business as usual, and returned to their gaming, drinking and talking. Ryan kept watching. Something about the way she carried herself intrigued him. Even without seeing her face -- which remained hooded -- or hearing what she was saying, there seemed an intensity and purpose in her movements that piqued his curiosity.

Ryan had been in the mountain town of Highpass for some time now, posing as a mercenary: an armed escort for trading caravans crossing the mountains. His real occupation was freelance espionage – selling his information gathering services for personal profit. He was just about finished here now, and planned to head out in the next few days to spend the winter in the more hospitable lowlands. Highpass was a bleak place in winter, and he was bored with the drudgery of it all. In truth, he was looking forward to getting back to a bit of civilisation and comfort.

The woman was ending her conversation with the innkeeper when Ryan caught the glint of reflected light as coin changed hands. She had paid with gold! Nobody paid with gold at a third-rate inn in a mountain border town. Quickly he scanned the room to see if anybody else had noticed the exchange. Most of the patrons were caught up in their own activities, but a man Ryan recognised on the far side of the bar looked on, revealing a more than healthy curiosity.

Seemingly oblivious to the attention she was attracting the woman turned away from the bar, pulling back the deep cowl of her travel cloak as she walked to an empty table near the fire. Her flaming red hair was tied back in a style that Ryan guessed was to keep it out of the way while travelling. It was an unusual style, fashioned intricately to cover the ears rather than being swept behind them, as was the norm. Her features were striking, but angular, and struck Ryan as a little alien: the ridge of her slender nose, the set of her eyes, her thin face and high cheekbones  -- all perfectly proportioned, but different, somehow. She picked a table adjacent to the one Ryan occupied, lay her saddlebags and her cloak across one of the spare chairs, and took the seat nearest the fire.

A serving woman came out from the kitchen with a pitcher of wine, a bowl of steaming broth, half a loaf of fresh bread and a slab of cheese and laid them down on the table in front of the woman. She attacked the food as if it was the first real meal she'd had in a long time, and yet somehow still managed to look elegant while devouring it. Ryan finished his beer and ordered another, trying not to stare at the young woman as she ate.

His view was obscured suddenly by the bulk of the man he had seen across the bar as he approached the stranger's table. His name was Brock Alver; he was the town thug, a bully who wasn't afraid to throw his considerable weight around. This time Ryan was close enough to overhear the conversation.

'Hello my pretty,' Alver said. He was a tall, heavyset man, deceptively muscular under a layer of surface fat.

'Leave me alone!' said the woman curtly.

'My, aren't you a feisty one?' returned Alver, 'I'm just trying to be friendly.'

'I am not looking for company,' said the woman bluntly.

'Oh? Well in that case I think I'll just sit here for a spell and see if I can't work out what it is you are looking for!' Alver pulled out the chair opposite the woman and sat in it, his back to Ryan.

'I have no quarrel with you stranger; at least not yet!' said the woman, 'Please, leave me to finish my meal in peace,' the forced politeness did little to conceal the hostile undercurrent, and Ryan could tell she was losing patience. His hand went to the small crossbow hanging at his side in anticipation of trouble.

'Now, now… there's no need for unpleasantness my dear. These mountain towns are dangerous. A pretty thing like you should have an escort in a place like this; someone to look out for you,' Alver's voice took on a menacing edge. 'After all, there are some unpleasant characters around, and you can't be too careful you know?'

'I can look after myself, friend, I don't need your protection and I certainly don't want your company. Now go and find somebody else to bother.' 

Ryan saw Alver's massive shoulders tense at the woman's rebuke and readied himself to intercede on the stranger's behalf.

'You should learn better manners when you visit other peoples' towns woman. Maybe I should just teach you some right now!'

Alver rose out of his chair, reaching across the table with his right hand in a move to grab the woman by the wrist. There was a blur of motion, and the sound of snapping bone as the large man's arm twisted unnaturally. Alver was thrown to the flagstone floor by his shattered wrist screaming in agony. He landed on his back, hard, the strange young woman straddling him and holding the point of a dagger to his exposed throat. Ryan hadn't even had time to rise out of his chair.

'I told you,' the woman hissed, not even breathing hard, 'I have no quarrel with you. Now I suggest you leave and contemplate your folly. If there is ever a next time you can count on it being the last.' She increased the pressure slightly, and a small bead of blood formed at the dagger's point, growing rapidly until gravity broke its cohesion and it rolled in tiny rivulets down the creases of Alver's neck.

'Get off him you crazy whore, or we'll run you through!' shouted a male voice.  Two of the ruffians who had been drinking with Alver had moved around the bar and now stood, a little unsteady, with swords drawn ready to help their felled colleague.

Time to intervene, thought Ryan.

'I suggest you stand down gentlemen,' he said, standing to reveal the loaded crossbow. 'I'll skewer the first one of you jokers to move so much as a whisker in the wrong direction.'

'This has nothing to do with you, de Brun,' said the one who had shouted, 'why get involved? She doesn't mean anything to you.'

'I choose to get involved, Quentin,' Ryan replied, 'Alver was stupid enough to get himself into this mess, and you two can stay right out of it,' he swung the crossbow menacingly. 'I said stand down. Now!' The men hesitated, then put up their swords and stepped back.

The young woman simply stood, sheathed her dagger and returned to her meal as if nothing had happened.

Clearly in a lot of pain, Brock Alver got to his knees, then slowly and unsteadily to his feet. Whimpering he clutched his injured arm to his chest as he made his way to the door. He glanced in Ryan's direction, and beneath the agony in his eyes Ryan saw a deep hatred burning and knew that this would not be the end of the matter. The injured man staggered out of the door, followed by his cronies, and it swung closed behind them.

The inn was silent, everybody in a state of shock at what they had just witnessed. A mere slip of a girl had bested the town thug without so much as breaking into a sweat. Ryan walked slowly over to the table where the woman sat eating.

'That was quite a show, lady,' he said.

'Thank you for your help,' she said, looking up at him with searching pale blue eyes. He hadn't noticed it in her heated exchange with Alver, but her voice had a distinct lilt, an almost musical quality. The accent was hard to place, though Ryan was sure he'd heard it somewhere before. He pulled out a chair.

'I thought I'd made it clear that I'm not looking for company sir,' she said.

Ryan released the chair and held up his hands, 'Lady, I certainly have no argument with you -- but I will give you some free advice. That thug Alver is no slouch in a fight, with either his fists or a blade, yet you dispatched him like so much refuse…'

'Refuse… an apt description. What of it?' she asked.

'Have a care around Highpass lady. A ruffian like Alver won't forget humiliation like that in a hurry. He'll hole up for a while and lick his wounds, but you can be sure he'll be back -- and he's not without friends. You have made enemies here tonight,' he smiled ruefully and added, 'you and me both.'

'Sir, I am grateful for your help, but remember that I didn't ask for it. I thank you, but I could have dealt with those two myself. And I'm sorry if you find yourself in any trouble for assisting me, but I can accept no responsibility for that.'

'I accept responsibility for my own actions, madam, and would have done the same for anybody in need. Obviously I misjudged the situation. I bid you goodnight.' Disgruntled, he walked to the bar and ordered another beer. Why was he so irritated?  Why was the gratitude of this stranger so important to him?

*

Amber finished her food, thinking about what had happened. The incident had rattled her more than she cared to admit, even to herself. The oaf hadn't given her any real trouble, of course, but the fracas had drawn attention to her, and she still wasn't completely sure she'd shaken her pursuers. She had expected token pursuit after her desertion -- but four companies of elite trackers had surprised her; they had been difficult to shake.

She had fled Oraciel, in defiance of an express order from her King, to search for the truth about her human mother -- who had left her in Oraciel with elven foster parents when she was only two years old. Her efforts to discover her real father, who was elven, had proved fruitless, and had caused her foster parents significant distress. Her decision to leave and search for the human side of her heritage had been a difficult one for her, but she knew in her heart that it was the right one. She had to do this…. As time passed she felt she belonged with the elves less and less, and the urge to seek out her true ancestry grew stronger by the day.

She remembered the day two months earlier, deep in the Silverwood, when she had gone to speak to old Ethelel. Ethelel was the nearest she had known to a grandmother, and the wisest person she knew. That was the day she had decided to leave. It seemed so long ago, and a world away from the mountain wilderness she found herself in now.

The old elven woman lived alone in the woods despite her advanced years. King Arhediel's best efforts to persuade the old woman to resettle inside Oraciel's protective boundaries were to no avail. Of course the King could easily have commanded Ethelel to move into the city, and she would have complied, but all elves, their ruler included, held a deep-seated respect, almost a reverence, for their elders. In a race so long lived the oldest had accumulated centuries of knowledge and experience, and were regarded as the single most valuable resource the elven-nation possessed.  Ultimately Ethelel was free to live wherever she chose to.

It was a beautiful day, the warm, oblique rays of the early autumn sun shone through the canopy of giant oak and livewood boughs, casting dappled shadows across the small glade where Ethelel's shack stood. The old woman was sitting outside as Amber approached, and looked up when the young half-elf entered the clearing.

'Ah, Amber, sweet child, what brings you to see a weary old thing like me?' she asked, leaning on her stick as if to get up and greet the youngster.

Amber smiled. 'No, don't get up.' She walked over, standing next to the old woman. 'I need your help Ethelel,' she paused, unsure of herself, 'I need you to tell me about my parents.'

'Ardel and Gwyndal, You have known them your whole life -- what can I tell you that you don't already know?'

'No, I mean my real parents. Who was my mother, why doesn't anyone speak of her, and why won't anybody tell me about my father?' Amber was frustrated, and let her emotion show in a very un-elven display.

'Oh! Settle now child. Come, sit up here with me for a while,' Ethelel indicated a spot next to her on the crude wooden bench. Amber sat, and looked at the old woman's weathered face. Ethelel was old even by elven standards. Nobody knew exactly how long she had lived, but she had spent more than five hundred years in the Silverwood and beyond. Amber looked into the old woman's kind, knowing eyes and almost lost herself in their depth. She knew then, without doubt, that there was no emotion this woman hadn't experienced in her long life, no hurt she hadn't known, no joy she couldn't share. Amber suddenly felt less alone. She could share her pain, her anguish, her frustration, and her fear with someone who would truly understand.

After a silence that seemed to last an age, Amber spoke softly, 'When I was a child, I thought I was just like all of the other children in Oraciel. At play in the glades, the streams, out in the woods, it never even occurred to me that I was in any way different to my friends. It didn't seem to occur to them either. Then I went to school.' She shook her head ruefully, 'Master Tellar used to treat me differently. I don't think he meant to, but subconsciously he'd single me out: ask me the hardest questions and punish me for things he seemed to overlook in others. I never understood it. I thought there was something wrong with me.  Soon afterwards, all of the other children started to treat me differently, as if my peers were subconsciously picking up on Master Tellar's victimisation.  I never really fitted in with the crowd, and I put that down to a problem with me, not them. Then the bullying started outside class. As each year went by it got worse and worse, as my non-elven features became more distinctive. I realised something was different -- thought that something was wrong with me, but I didn't know what it was. I used to cry myself to sleep at night wondering how I could make myself more like them, how I could stop the cruelty.

'The other children were so callous that I just wanted it all to end. One day, when it just got too much, I took an old crossbow from Ardel's workshop and shot one of the boys in the leg. I was enraged; I lost control completely.  I wanted to hurt them all like they had hurt me; wanted them to suffer. Then after I'd leashed out in frustration all of the anger and pain flooded out of me, and I was sorry. So very sorry and ashamed of what I had done.

'It was terrible. I was branded a freak; I was a danger to others, they said, and expelled me from the school. I was sent to the military academy to complete my education. That was when my foster parents told me I was adopted. My mother was human, my father elven but beyond that there was nothing more they could tell me,' Ethelel listened intently, she knew of Amber's history but had never heard the young woman speak of her childhood before. How difficult it must have been, she thought, growing up different to those around you, trying to come to terms with those differences. Talking about it was obviously something that Amber needed to do.

'I have struggled through the last fifty years trying to find my place here -- but I still don't fit in. Now I know I never will. I don't belong here Ethelel, at least I won't until I know for certain who I really am, where I came from. The truth; all I want… no, not want -- need. What I need, is the truth.'

Ethelel sighed 'It was long ago, Amber, and my recollection is vague. It's strange, but nobody can really remember that time clearly. It's as if some sort of enchantment has fogged our collective memories of the events surrounding your birth. All I have are vague recollections: impressions if you will. There was a woman -- a proud woman of high bearing -- a woman of presence and stature. She was a stranger here, not one of us: a human. I remember that.'

'Go on,' Amber urged.

'There really are no more details I can give you, save that your father is elven and is most likely still in Oraciel -- although his memory of the time is probably as clouded as the rest of us. He may not even know you exist Amber.' Ethelel sighed again. 'You deserve the truth, Amber, but I don't have the answers you need -- and neither will anyone else in Oraciel, I'll venture.'

'What can I do, Ethelel? I can't stay here any more, I have to find out the truth, but the King has forbidden me to depart. I have a duty here! How can a member of the Royal Personal Guard defy the wishes of her King?'

'Amber, you must follow your heart, and use your head. The King will learn to understand when you are gone. I wish I could help you more, but…' she paused, as if considering something. 'There may be one way you could glean something of value, at least give yourself a starting point, but it could be dangerous.'

'Anything; tell me!' Amber said eagerly.

'Have you heard of a creature called the Dryalak?' the old woman asked.

'Only in silly children's tales mother and father used to tell me as a youngster,' Amber replied.

'Well, it exists. It was the last being of an ancient race, they say, a creature of great power. It is said that it died by force of its own will in an attempt to end its solitude and join its departed brethren, but its spirit, its very essence, was somehow trapped. Its body is long since perished, but they say its spirit is tied to a place called The Simmer Pit, high in the volcanic region where the continent's three great mountain ranges meet. They say that over a millennium of isolation has made the Dryalak a curious entity, and it will sometimes speak to people who dare to venture into the vicinity. It is rumoured to have the power of time-sight, and can grant a view of past or future to anybody who can pay its price -- but that price can be high, so be wary, and do not go alone'.

*

With Ethelel's warning ringing in her head Amber snapped out of her reverie. A passing maid had cleared away her leftovers and she had finished her wine. She looked up at the bar, where the man who had been so willing to help her stood nursing his mug of beer. Amber knew she needed help -- but she needed someone she could trust. Could she trust this stranger to help her? Her instinct was yes, but she was wary and sceptical by nature.

Amber's childhood had left her to view everybody as a potential enemy until they proved otherwise. Trust was something earned by deed, not by default. Still, she needed help, and he seemed the most likely candidate. The only other person she had any contact with here was nursing a shattered wrist and quite probably plotting revenge. She buried her reservations, stood up and walked to the bar.

'I'm sorry,' she ventured.

He turned to look at her, 'You've changed your tune then?' he raised his eyebrows quizzically, a sarcastic tone creeping into the deep timbre of his voice.

'Look, I was on edge after the confrontation. I lashed out, I apologise,' Amber said, 'but don't expect any more than that. I'm grateful for your help earlier, lets just leave it at that and let me buy you a beer, shall we?'

'Sounds good,' he conceded, 'Kirk, a beer for me, and…?' he shot Amber a questioning look.

'The same,' Amber supplied.

'…another for the lady,' he said. 'What's your name?'

'Amber,' she said.

'Ryan de Brun at your service,' he stood away from the bar effecting a mock bow.

Amber smiled. 'Okay then, Ryan, I need some help to reach a place called The Simmer Pit, do you know it?'

'I've heard of it,' he replied, 'but I can't say I've ever had cause to go there. That whole area is alive with volcanic activity. They say the ground underfoot can roast you if you wander into the wrong place.'

'So I hear,' she said, 'but it's very important for me to reach there, and I can't do it alone. I can pay you for your services, of course -- whatever the going rate is and a suitable bonus when we get back.'

'As it happens I have just finished my current contract, and need a bit of work to tide me over.  Give me some time to consider and I'll let you know tomorrow.'

'I leave at dawn. I can't tarry here, especially after what happened tonight. Be at the stables at first light if you decide to accept -- otherwise I'll assume you're not coming.'

'Lady, leaving for where exactly?  You can't travel up into those mountains at this time of year. It's suicide -- no, worse, complete lunacy. Winter is only around the corner, you'd best find somewhere warm and wait…'

'Like I said, I'll be leaving at first light, be there or not -- its your decision,' she finished her beer and left through the door at the back of the common room.

*

Ryan stood at the bar alone, thinking about what she had said. He was going, of course, he'd already decided that. This woman intrigued him and he wanted to find out more about her.  Putting off his return to civilisation for a little while wouldn't kill him -- or at least he hoped it wouldn't.

He'd been working undercover in Highpass for the last two years. The brief had been to gather as much information as possible on a renegade band of mercenaries operating out of the mountain town and to pass it on to the Merchants Guild in Ular, Bantara's second city and capital of Ulara province. The Guild suspected the wayward band of mercenaries were working out of Highpass attempting to monopolise the caravan escort trade and artificially inflate prices for their services.

The Merchant's Guild needed proof that this band of mercenaries was raiding caravans using the pass from Highpass to Quar-ylan.  The pass was the only wagon-navigable trading route linking Bantara with the Kingdom of Kural to the north, and the neutral townships of Dran-Anam in the northeastern foothills of the Barrier Range. The raids were forcing traders to travel with a far larger armed escort than was the norm, and were pushing up mercenary rates.  With an effective monopoly on the Highpass route the mercenaries were making a killing out of the hapless merchants.

During his time in Highpass Ryan had gathered intelligence on the movements of key members of the mercenary group, including their whereabouts and habitual haunts.  He sent regular reports back to the Guild who had been passing the intelligence on to the Bantaran authorities. His contact at the Guild had informed Ryan that a raid by the Border Garrison of the Imperial Guard was imminent, and that the time had come for him to move on.

Ryan smiled to himself. Their friend Brock Alver would have some time to cool off in an Imperial cell before he could come looking for either Amber or himself.