If dishonesty and butchery were art forms, there is no doubt Jain is a master of his craft.
Danan. The Third Great Age. 3031.
his slow, startled blinks reveal bright eyes observing him from above.
"Master monk, wake up; it's time to go." Firm hands rock Danan’s shoulders before Cecil struts out of his vision in a prancing blur of self-importance.
Pale morning rays’ seep into Danan’s vast bedchamber as the gentle breeze brushes through his wavy hair. Danan grunts as he rises, groggy. The rhythmic thrumming of cicadas and crickets heralds the morning from the open window. To his own surprise, he rolls out of bed unclothed and stands stark naked in the warming sunlight. A splash of cold-water rains down some sense of consciousness. He dresses, slipping on his light black silk robes and sliding on his leather sandals. He collects a tube case of writing reeds and a small pouch with clay pots of ink and gum.
Danan then strolls through the garden, where butterflies bob and weave between the droning bees. At his feet, the brooks babble and the leaves rustle overhead. The golden sunlight of the first sun warms his sleepy face as he strolls out into the front courtyard with dawdling steps.
"Master Danan, do get on with it, this way, if you please. Don't dawdle; Lord Varesh is pressed for time." Cecil's voice, lofty and high-pitched, carries a sharp and condescending whisper from ahead. Danan dallies into the main courtyard.
"Rise and shine, cocker. Heard a scullery maid got an eyeful of his holy tackle," jests Captain Jon, smirking. The horse-mounted household guards, clad in gleaming plates, titter beneath closed helms as they sit atop fidgety destriers, eager to move.
In front of the main house stands a wooden carriage made from dark fruitwood. The four-wheeled horse-drawn carriage rocks on four large iron wheels. Its enclosed wooden body curves forward from the base of the enclosure. The outside of the carriage is carved with an intricate mosaic of mystical geometric patterns. At the sharp square end, a double rear door swings open with a gentle squeak. Atop the carriage stands a mountain of wooden chests, woven bags, and crates. All tied down with ropes, fixed tightly to the carriage roof.
"Do hurry up, Master Danan." Lord Varesh's impatient voice sounds dull and muffled from inside the carriage, his eyes boring through the dark, diamond-shaped windows.
“Well, come on then, climb in, sir monk.” Captain Jon closes his helm, then pivots his horse with a gentle shift of his weight. “Cecil, you ride up top with lard pot.”
The portly driver sticks his pinky finger up his nose, rooting around for something buried deep within. The driver mutters profanities as Cecil leaps next to the fat carriage driver, nimble as a cat.
The caravan lurches into motion, rocking the mountain of wooden chests on the carriage canopy. The driver clicks his tongue and pulls on the reins, urging the caravan forward.
Danan scrambles into the departing carriage, but the sudden jolt sends him sprawling like a felled tree onto the wooden floor. A lone lamp swings above him, in rhythmic motion, from the carriage roof. A small bed occupies most of the space and is adorned with a Thielian wool blanket, resembling more of a bed chamber than a carriage. To the side of the carriage bed, a lone wooden bench faces inward, inviting contemplation amidst the rolling opulence. Danan looks up to find Lord Varesh lounging on the luxurious bed, propped up by piles of soft cushions.
Jain sprawls, crammed onto the narrow bench, to the side of Lord Varesh. He lets out a growling snore and scratches at his questionably stained, spread crotch. His head hangs down, almost touching his chest, drooling thick globs of spittle onto his damp pants. A burp stinking of fish and stale ale erupts from his unconscious mouth.
“Good morning, Danan.” Lord Varesh gestures for Danan to sit next to Jain.
Danan squeezes onto the narrow bench, pushing Jain aside. “Good morning, Lord Varesh. Is he well?” Danan wrinkles his nose at Jain in disgust.
“I expect so; granted, it’s hard to tell. Cecil found him sprawled out on the tavern floor, unconscious and out of coin.”
“He spent ten thousand Drakes in a couple of turns.” Danan’s whisper verges on a squeal.
“Gambled, whored, drank, and smoked it. Alas, some breeds have a remarkable tolerance for debauchery,” the mage shakes his head in disappointment.
“You seem in very high spirits, Lord Varesh.” Danan finds a smile.
“Yes, master Danan. It has been far too long since I explored beyond our fair shores.” Lord Varesh’s fingers drum impatiently on his legs.
The outside world rushes by as the carriage hurtles through the western gate into an endless landscape of glorious green, fertile fields. Danan and Varesh talk of small things—Thielian society, royal scandals, food, and wine. Danan contributes little, offering somber anecdotes of monasterial life.
The journey proceeds without a hitch, except for a brief stop to relieve themselves by the roadside. The guards snigger as Danan squats to piss beneath his robes.
The journey continues, and the second sun is high in the sky. Thiel is a tiny dot in the rear distance, a speck on a carpet of lush and rich green fields. A new scent blows on a strong breeze: fresh, green, raw, rich, and savory. A new sound accompanies it—the hollering of gulls flying overhead from the carriage.
Danan gazes from the carriage window, marveling at the lush green marshes dotted with herds of grazing livestock. Plump dairy cattle and long-horned sheep coexist with wild hares. The fertile land gives birth to wild marshland flowers in whites, purples, pinks, and violets, nestled in the deep carpet of lush green.
Stone farmhouses line the single track, a road leading from Thiel to the ocean. Rows of beehives, rich with Thielian golden honey, adorn the roadside. The honey's color is as rich as the sun, and its sweet scent is a breath of wildflowers.
"The Thielian plains. Beautiful, aren’t they?” Lord Varesh wears a contented smile.
“Yes. I’ve never imagined such green.” Danan falls into daydreaming as time races by. A fine layer of dew glistens on the green marshes.
The golden smile of the first autumn sunrise baptizes all with warming hope. A bright new day emerges as Danan gazes out to endless pastures of wild green.
A convoy of escorted wagons marked with the Order of The One, thunders by in the opposite direction, toward Thiel.
Half a turn seems to pass in the blink of an eye until a fresh assault hits Danan’s senses—the scent of apples and fish baking in the sun. The whiff of ocean brine carries the pungent nose of savory seaweed.
“We are here. Rouse our friend if you can.” Lord Varesh sits up, puckering his nose.
Danan gawps from the carriage window to a tight mass of close-fitting ramshackle stone buildings, covered in barnacles and dried seaweed, knitted together by sun-bleached white stones and reclaimed ship timbers. The bedraggled, thatched roofs are covered with old seaweed and weathered moss, crowded with obnoxious gulls. The houses' chimneys bellow acrid smoke and are surrounded by lobster pots, fishing nets, and timber landing boats in a state of repair. The town stinks of the sea, where winding alleyways weave between grain houses, stables, and busy cargo holds. The narrow lanes are lined with fish mongers, bakehouses, and bustling taverns. The wet floors are littered with seaweed, fish guts, seashells, and the occasional sleeping drunk.
“Welcome to The Planks, master monk. The only hole more fetid than the darkest slums of Thiel. Home to pirates, cutthroats, smugglers, slavers, and all manner of questionable life. Rife with stabbings, gambling, and time-honored whoring. The Planks, where nature spits the ocean, straight into the taverns. Gather your wits, Danan. You’re going to need them.” Lord Varesh lets out a cynical chuckle.
Danan shakes Jain roughly by his shoulders. He stands, feeling queasy from motion sickness.
Jain’s glassy eyes open as blunt slits on a confused and hungover brow as slow recognition dawns like a hammer blow. “The One fuck me bloody,” Jain lets out a freakish combination of a long sigh and a guttural growl.
“Welcome back to the land of the living, Lord Jain of House Adair,” Lord Varesh chides. “Master Danan and I have suffered your stench on empty bellies for long enough. We dine, then sail this nightfall.”
“Sailing? Where in The One’s name are we going?” Jain scratches his head, searching for something buried deep in his puddled mind. “Where are we?” Jain’s nose sniffs the rancid air as his mouth sets in a grimace. His belly rolls, ready to erupt with vomit.
“We are sailing, as we agreed, beyond the Winter Isles. As for our current whereabouts, we are in—.”
”—The Planks,“ Jain cuts in, full of boyish excitement, his hangover a distant memory. He bounds from the rear of the carriage and jumps straight into a puddle of oyster shells and fish guts. He strides ahead until he stands on a cliff edge of white chalk rising out of the deep teal ocean.
The white chalk cliffs of Thiel are a welcoming beacon on a tranquil tide. At sunrise, the cliffs glow like embers; in the dead of night, the cliffs loom like apparitions. In the roaring melancholy of nature’s fury, the white, sheer cliffs of Thiel stand as gravestones, where at their feet lie the carcasses of broken vessels. The ships, beaten into submission and discarded in the waves, protrude their wooden bones from the broken seabed.
A precarious gangway of ledges made of narrow wooden planks coils down the chalky white cliff face. The planks dangle from iron screws and ropes tied to the cliffs.
“Runner, runner, runner,” a grubby youth sprints past Jain, carrying a heavy woven sack on his back. He weaves down the winding planks, flirting with death. His feet find extra grip on dusted patches of sand, broken barnacles, and sunbaked sea salts. More surefooted plank runners race past Jain and descend the narrow, wooden cliff path. A single-colored neck scarf marks their skill and rank.
The Port Master approaches Jain; his jiggling belly hangs over tight breeches that are too small. Bald and sweating, he holds a giant spider crab leg in one hand and a large pitcher of scrumpy cider in the other.
“Good afternoon, sir,” the Port Master addresses Jain, sucking on the crab leg and licking the crab juices from his dirty fingers. “Gray scarves, a single copper for the apprentices, still finding their feet, like.” He takes a loud chug of cider. “Yellow scarves are three coppers, a couple of seasons serving, surefooted, and strong.”
The Port Master turns from Jain and barks a torrent of abuse to the plank runners, dropping his h’s with rising a’s. “Grays, steady on the planks. I ain’t scraping you up off the rocks. If you fall, your fish bait. Red and black scarves—I want two out and six in and unloaded before sunset. Get to it, you rotten whale cock splurges. You hear me or what, you ugly sacks of sea spunk?”
“Yes, Port Master,” a breathless chorus emanates from an army of brawny boys loaded up with goods, carrying them from the heights of dry land to the ocean swell.
The Port Master returns his attention to Jain. “For nobles such as yourself,” he says, looking Jain up and down with a slight sneer, “red scarves are ten seasons serving. No load is too heavy; only a single silver Drake a runner.” He sniffs and belches, overwhelming Jain with stale sweat and the need to vomit. “Black scarves are master plank runners, twenty full seasons serving, a gold Drake each, to carry your most precious loads. Ain’t none better.”
“Runners won’t be necessary.” Lord Varesh strolls beside Jain and tosses the Port Master a heavy purse of coin. “See that my guards have exclusive use of the cranes. Should you have any issues, I trust you can resolve them without my attention.”
“I bid you welcome, Great Elim.” The Port Master bows with his left hand over his heart, spilling half a jug of cider down his own chest.
“The pleasure is mine, Port Master,” Lord Varesh responds with a courteous nod of acknowledgement.
“The Red Flower is almost ready to set sail, and Captain Sorana will join you before sunset in The King’s Pardon.” The Port Master crunches down on the giant pink crab leg and picks shards of shell from his teeth. “There is one more matter.” He leans forward and whispers into the mage’s ear.
“Thank you, Port Master,” Varesh responds with a quick nod, tossing him another purse of coin.
The guards dismount and tie up their destriers on a nearby fence. Captain Jon calls over a stable hand and slips the youth a few silvers. “See them groomed and well-stabled, lad." The boy rattles the purse and gets to work.
“Captain Jon, load our provisions, then inspect our quarters.” Lord Varesh takes a deep inhale of the sea air. “Cecil will accompany you.”
“Of course, my lord.” Cecil scampers off to join the guards, much to their dismay.
Burly men, bare-chested and ripped, their muscles inked with astrological symbols, command the cranes. The first load of heavy chests is hoisted onto a giant, hanging wooden pallet suspended in the air. Each man, with sinewy arms and flexing biceps, lowers the pallet on creaking ropes and squeaking iron wheels. The men work in tandem, and as the load inches down the weathered cliff edge, the muscles on their bare backs and shoulders ripple in the sunlight, covered with a fine sheen of sweat.
“The One bless me, The Planks.” Jain squeals with childish excitement. “May I recommend the Hope and Anchor?” Jain free flows in his happy tangent. “An exceptional tavern with private lavatories. The ladies are a little on the steep side, but they cater to all tastes. There’s a rather fascinating duo of a one-armed acrobat and her one-legged sister. What they lack in limbs, they make up for with their tongues.” Jain rummages around, searching for his heavy purse of coins. He finds nothing but an empty cloth sack. A deflated sigh and a despondent grimace appear on his face.
“Lord Jain of House Adair is bound to my service. Free from haresh and drop addiction. To do my bidding without question.” Lord Varesh’s words are as calm as a millpond, yet as unforgiving as a cold winter’s morning. “Payment in good faith made of ten thousand gold Drakes, all but squandered. Payment in full will be the return of your title and family estates. Do you hold to your house seal, or do I send you back to the king in a small box?”
Jain lowers his head with an exaggerated sulk. “As you please, Lord Varesh.”
“Excellent, let’s go eat,” Lord Varesh says, breaking the tension in the air.
A dozen tattered cutthroats stalk their next quarry, prowling in the throbbing crowds of The Planks’ winding alleyways.
Lord Varesh leads the way towards the narrow, steep cobblestone lanes. “We will dine at The King’s Pardon, a tavern reserved for private members, captains, and invited guests.”
“A rather curious name for a tavern,” muses Danan.
“Yes. Any invading captain capable of conquering the impregnable white cliffs of Thiel would receive a king’s pardon,” Lord Varesh calls back over his shoulder. “Free of taxes and without incarceration. It’s an old law from which dubious trade emerged, yet The King’s Pardon is the birthplace of Thiel’s free trade and maritime wealth.”
Danan and Jain follow Lord Varesh through the warren of cobblestone alleyways. The pungent smell of sharp vinegar and white pepper in vats of boiling cockles fills the air. Makeshift wooden stalls overflow with fresh fish, pots of live crabs, lobsters, and wooden trays of shucked oysters. Men pull wooden carts laden with heavy sacks of sea salt, splashing through the lanes. More creek than alleyway, the narrow lanes run with seawater, drunks, and a fine vein of fish blood. In the tavern windows, brazen whores flash their flesh to the streets below.
Danan bumps shoulder to shoulder with swaying drunks, who glare at him like a fish caught in a net. Beggar children run, skipping through the crowds with wandering hands in search of loose purses. Maimed beggars sit in pools of salty, stagnant water. Their hands, feet, or legs lay as stumps, wallowing in the fishy filth.
The group of tattered sailors stalks at their rear, skulking in the shadows and blending into the crowds. The shipmen are clad in beige hooded gowns tucked into dirty baggy breeches. Their weathered boots slosh through the grime. Wide sleeves to their elbows, slit at the hem, reach down for dark steels. Their hands clutch at wide boarding swords or gutting knives that hang from leather belts.
The mob of tattered cutthroats surrounds them on all sides.
“Where are the guards?” Danan’s voice trembles in a high-pitched squeak as he glances over his shoulder at the encircling gang.
“Gentlemen,” the bandit’s leader steps forward, his lisp whistling through missing teeth. A soft, florid voice emerges from his sunbaked face. “So sorry to bother you.” The cutthroat gives an elaborate bow, flourishing his hat. “My esteemed companions and I need your coin. Would you be so gracious as to unburden yourselves of what you carry? Then we will be on our way.” Another deep bow, “Thank you kindly, gentlemen.”
Lord Varesh stands silent and unmoving, while Danan cowers behind him, praying.
“This quarrel is not with you, mercenary,” the pirate says, giving Jain a shallow bow. “Step aside and let us talk with your merchant master.”
Jain scans each assailant, assessing the odds.
“It’s a big mistake to send your guards away in The Planks,” the brigand’s leader addresses Lord Varesh. “There is no need for bloodshed. Hand over your coin, and we will be on our way.”
Lord Varesh stands as a picture of serene tranquility. He stares firmly, unblinking at the leader.
“I see,” the bandit’s leader says, taking a step back.
Three cutthroats step forward, drawing brutish blades of well-worn steel.
Jain moves with a blur of fluid elegance as he glides toward the first attacker. His movements are smooth as fine silk, quick as a blink, and his gleaming blades and body flow as one. He pirouettes on his right foot, evading the first attack. In his right hand, a broad gutting knife catches the late morning sunlight, and with a single backhanded stroke, he slices deep across the pirate’s neck, releasing a spurting crimson shower. The cutthroat falls to his knees, blood bubbling from his mouth and spewing from his neck.
Danan vomits, cowering at Lord Varesh’s feet.
Jain spins and plunges into a crouched position, ready for the next attacker’s blow.
A gnarled hatchet descends over Jain’s head, striking down like a hammer.
Jain stands firm, unyielding, deflecting the blow with his gutting knife. As steel collides with steel, Jain springs up, swinging his second gutting knife forward in a vicious pendulum. The knife buries to the hilt in the attacker’s gut. Jain cuts through skin, severing through meat and organs, and splinters through bone, gutting him from rib to navel. The cutthroat dies on his knees, cradling his own intestines as he shits himself.
Fear fills the darting eyes of the third assailant as he retreats from the fray. He swings his cutlass, lackluster, at Jain’s head.
Jain ducks, almost nonchalant, and drives his gutting knife into the attacker’s foot.
The cutthroat lets out a ragged scream of agony, bending over and clawing at his bloody foot, which bubbles blood like a brook from his tattered leather boot.
Jain spins behind him in a single, fluid motion and thrusts his second blade into the back of his neck. The knife bursts through the pirate’s mouth, shattering his teeth and spewing blood onto the slick floor. Jain corkscrews the blade, grinding with the sound of a shucked oyster shell through teeth and bone, and then pulls it free.
The third cutthroat falls face first into a puddle of seawater and seaweed.
Jain then steps backward into the center of the circle and reaches inside his trench coat. His hand reemerges with a rippling broadsword, forged with hundreds of layers of folded blue steel. Its edge gleams as sharp as the golden midday sun. Jain’s cold eyes fixate on the attackers with fearless bloodlust. He swings his broadsword up in a single arch, the air sings, humming as the sword falls like a feather, coming to rest behind his neck on his shoulders. He gestures for more cutthroats to step forward.
The human wall of assailants draws their crude blades and closes in.
The air becomes heavy as Lord Varesh takes a relaxed step forward beside Jain. In a moment of eerie calm, the world seems to hold its breath. A mirage of energy ripples through the air. The mage’s eyes blaze with electric blue power as he calls upon his celestial authority, raising his hands with outstretched fingers to the gathering sky. A deafening crack of thunder shakes the ground, and then the fluxing sky erupts in a flash of powerful azure magical light. A faint whisper rides on the wind as a blue ball of rippling plasma energy descends from the heavens. Time itself seems to groan to a standstill as the ball of light engulfs the mage.
“Enough.” The Elim’s voice resonates from the depths of the earth to the heights of the furthest heavens. A colossal explosion of pure blue energy rips through the mob of attackers, obliterating their flesh and shattering their bones. The shockwave throws Danan and Jain onto their backs, their surroundings shifting into slow motion.
The pirate attackers’ eyes widen in terror, silent screams forming as they explode, one by one.
‘Pop, pop, pop.’
The bodies of the cutthroats burst into fine, vaporous clouds of crimson blood and dust. Their human vapor lingers in the still air, mingling with a fine drizzle of blood mist that coats everything in sight. Time creaks until it resumes its normal flow. Their blood hits the stone floor with a rolling splatter, like water thrown from a window.
A fresh sea breeze blows, carrying the warmth of summer. Tiny droplets of blood cover everything in sight, glistening like red morning dew. Gulls squawk overhead, circling in the sky.
Lord Varesh, Elder Mage of the Elim, stands a pillar of unquestionable power amidst puddles of human flesh, charred skin, and fragments of bone.
The Planks, once a bustling and chaotic thoroughfare, has fallen into an eerie hush. The townsfolk peer out from their doorways and windows with expressions of shock and trepidation. Danan kneels in a puddle of gore, sobbing into his own vomit, his body trembling with shock, choking on acrid bile.
Jain wipes the bloodstains from his blades and sheathes them with an air of casual indifference. He crouches beside Danan and offers him a hand, helping him to his feet from the blood-splattered ground.
Lord Varesh turns on his heels and strides up the hill toward The King’s Pardon with tears of other men’s blood streaking down his face.