8 Days Later

1

Morning sun peered over the walls of the city of Utenvik, the proud capital of Dharva, bathing the rooftops in its warm glow. At the same time in the western city, two people stepped down from the entrance of a certain building. That sturdy stone building of four stories had, up until the recent days, been the very icon of post-war desolation and depression, complete with its dark windows and untouched front door, which the sign “closed” often decorated. Average citizens generally had little use for the services of said building. In fact, a great many had forgotten its purpose altogether, in spite of the fact that said purpose was given away on its facade, in large, bold brass letters, half coated in fluffy snow.

The National Bank of Dharva.

Only very recently, that building had seen a sharp increase in activity—to the point that to have one’s business taken care of in a timely manner, it was better to visit the bank either early in the morning, or right before the closing time at night.

The two people descending the stairs, a young man and an older woman, were not citizens of Utenvik, but merely passing visitors. Yet, they had just now finalized the necessary formalities of opening permanent personal accounts with the northern nation’s banking services. Carrying all of their earthly possessions along wherever they would go next had become glaringly impractical, forcing them to depend on the aid of local professionals to safeguard what was left behind.

So it was that while greatly reduced in manpower, not empty-handed did the international archaeological expedition return from the ruined city of Eylia.

Beyond the wealth gathered from the underground residential districts, a considerable fortune had also been removed from the treasury, in the brief hours between its opening and the rampage of the daemon. “Swift are Dharves in affairs of coin”, as the persisting saying in other lands claimed. In fact, so loaded were the sleighs on the way home that it would have been a puzzle of intense difficulty to fit in the passengers, had they retained their original numbers.

“We may not be able to buy off the Empire,” Gronan Arkentahl could be heard saying. “But we will damn well try.”

Many things can be said about the people Dharva, their character and customs, but they kept ever true to their word. The loot was divided precisely according to contract, and all the survivors received their rightful cut upon return. And even the smallest of shares had turned out quite something, by any standards. It was doubtful that any of the returnees would have money trouble again in their lives, no matter how untalented they were with numbers and budgeting.

In theory, that is.

Instead of keeping the fruits of their labors all to themselves, the men of Dharva pooled most of their share to the nation’s restoration effort, to buy cattle and rebuild ranches, to build better schools, better homes, start new enterprises, improve mining facilities, advance technology and research, and so provide work and food for those who previously had none.

Not all the coin went for the benefit of Dharva alone. According to unsourced gossip, a certain University in Cotlann received a sizable, anonymous donation around the same time. Perhaps even more so than for the money, the scholars of that small land were thrilled to receive the journal of late professor Acquiescas Van Hortz, which contained notes of most extraordinary nature. Though the man never made it back home from his adventure, his work did not go in vain, but would go on to enrich the lives of future generations, and lay a solid foundation for the work of future archaeologists, as he had intended. For his outstanding achievements in the field, a statue of quite striking likeness was raised in the University’s front yard in his honor, and there it likely stands to this day. Although, the scholar himself likely would have appreciated a different type of tribute.

Ren and Vil of the clan Innsland undertook the massive effort of correcting local history, to fill in the 4000-year gap between present day and the disappearance of the Precursors, when the Dharves’ ancestors had ruled the city state of Eylia in the mountains. The local scholars aside, it was bound to be a dire uphill battle to get the international science community to accept the uncanny truth about Dharva’s forgotten past. Fortunately, they had brought plenty of evidence to support their outlandish claims.

Aft Canning resumed his duties as the head of the clan Wrenchfill, and many were the technological improvements seen in Dharva under his guidance. His snowmobiles improved the efficiency of trade between the northern nations manifold, and the tricks he’d imported from the ancients’ city increased work safety in mining and other heavy industries by at least as much.

Minsk of Alelard sold all his weapons and dedicated the rest of his life to cooking. He opened a vegetarian restaurant in Utenvik, the first of its kind, and though it never became terribly popular, he insisted that profit was not the point.

Selver and Trod of Rawround helped the Bank of Dharva back up to its feet, but declined to direct the establishment, instead choosing to remain in advisory position, offering occasional counsel regarding investments. Shaken by their experiences, both avoided publicity and led a quiet life.

Helmich and Elvir had always cared deeply for the health of their fellow people, but this calling now had been taken in them to a whole new level. They turned the dwindling House of Healing in Utenvik into a proper hospital, where the poor could receive treatment for free. Understandably, these two became eventually revered as nothing short of saints among the locals.

Gubal of the Isle of Estua, having completed his harrowing job, did only as a mercenary would, and shortly left Utenvik in search of new contracts. Not because he needed money that much, but because such was his life and he knew no other. A professional to the end.

Hrugnaw the Crulean departed from Utenvik as well, and all human lands. She accepted no payment, but declared her days as a wandering freelancer over. Instead, she sailed back to her people on the Northern Continent, to help spread awareness of the threat that daemons posed to the world, and to rally more support for the colony of New Metonzyne in Amarno.

But what about our heroes then?

“What a trip!” Waramoti exclaimed with a sigh, shrugging his shoulders, as if to shake off a great burden. “It feels like we went to another planet and back again. Does that make me a transmigrator too?”

Izumi wouldn’t comment his joke, stepping ahead seemingly absorbed in thought. They walked down the street westward, towards the inn they stayed at, feeling deep gratitude and joy for the sight of the hustle and bustle of human life. Even the temperature had turned milder, a few degrees above the melting point, and the gale blowing through the city from the west was gentle.

“By the way, I heard an interesting rumor,” the bard said. “Apparently, Hiyrland is planning to step aside and make Gronan the new Steward. Think there’s any truth to that? I'm sure no one would oppose, but I wonder what that'll do to the political climate? Think her majesty will approve?”

“Who knows?” Izumi muttered.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do with your money yet?” he changed the topic, sensing her disinterest. “What an absurd sum it came to be! Here I was wondering what to do with all that unspent silver in the Empire, and now I have an even bigger pile of coin to deal with! Good grief! It’s not like I’ll ever need all of it. Suppose I’ll become a patron of arts myself—but how silly is that?”

“Yeah…” she said. “Don't know about you, but a three-course meal someplace nice might be a start. And not vegetarian, that's for sure.”

“Keeping it simple, I see,” Waramoti noted with a resigned smile. “It wouldn't hurt to plan a bit further ahead every now and then, you know? Speaking of which, where are we off to next? Have you decided yet? Is it time to return to the Empire now? It’s some incredible report to make to our friends. Or do you perhaps have your sights set on another outrageous adventure along the way? You’ve found healing, you have money, what else is there left to achieve? Suppose it’s your glory and renown as a sword hero, yes?”

Not answering right away, Izumi stopped and looked up. Waramoti stopped as well, directing a questioning look her way.

“Say,” she spoke, “do you still believe in destiny?”

“Eh, of course?” Waramoti answered without much thought. “Why are you even asking this? How could I not, after everything? Even at the risk of repeating myself, I don’t see how we could still be here, if it was not meant to be.”

“Ah, you’re right,” Izumi replied in a lighter tone. “That’s true. What am I doing, overthinking such complicated things? It’s not my style at all. Life’s too short for worrying about stuff you can do nothing about. I can't play the role of an angsty teenager anymore.”

“Right.”

“Destiny-meshtiny, never mind all that,” the woman said, turning to the bard with a wide smile on lips. “You wanted to know the plan? Well, I’ve made up my mind, so I’ll tell you.”

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Yes…?”

“What I have in mind next,” she cheerfully announced, “is the great adventure of retirement!”

“Er...what?” Waramoti stared at her, blinking.

“That means, I quit,” Izumi added. Explanining no further, the woman turned around to resume along the sidewalk west, waving her hand. “So long, kid!”

Waramoti stared after the woman for a brief moment, dumbstruck. Then waking from his daze, he hurried to chase after her. “What are you talking about? What do you mean, you ‘quit’? You can’t quit! The song’s not finished yet! Wait! Where are you going? Izumi!”

2

Heavenly tolling of bells carried through the open windows. The grand cathedral of Walhollem was summoning believers to morning service. In the living room of the nearby apartment, barely conscious of the bells, Enrid was putting on his necktie in front of a small, foggy mirror on the wall. The mirror had dropped to the floor a couple of days ago and cracked, he couldn’t see too well what he was doing. All it displayed properly was the top of his balding head.

Nila, Endrid’s daughter, passed by, apparently on her way to the bathroom. She was in no hurry, her school wouldn’t start until sometime later. How good it was to be a child and ignorant of the troubles and rigid schedules of adults. As if to get some payback, Enrid decided to depend on her counsel in his impatience.

“Hey, how does it look?” he turned around and asked, lifting his chin to show his collar. “Is it straight now?”

“Dad, you’re a scribe, not a banker,” Nila replied with disinterest, only sparing a quick look. “It’s fine.”

“I might be one day,” he retorted. “And it’s not fine if it’s ‘just fine’!”

Sighing, Nila stopped and faced him. “Here. Let me do it.”

Gesturing her father to move his hands out of the way, she unraveled the necktie and tied it again from the beginning. The improvement was undeniable. It would’ve been a necktie fit for a banker, black, tidy, and symmetrical. And a waste of effort. Nobody would look at it where he was working. Enrid had his private office, which he rarely left during the day, and nobody important had any reason to visit him either.

“There, now it’s better than fine,” she told him.

“Thanks,” Enrid said, looking at his daughter's face. It felt only like yesterday when he'd first held her in his arms, a little drowsy bundle of life that knew nothing about the world, and now she was already fifteen, making proficient neckties like it was nothing.

“I love you,” he said.

“And I love you too,” Nila replied with a somewhat sarcastic tone, raising her brows. Her father wasn’t the type to say such affectionate things, or express his feelings much in general. Yet, he had an abnormally emotional look in his eyes now. She thought it was odd.

“Where’s this coming from?” she asked. “Is it my birthday?”

“Just thought I should say it,” Enrid told her with a shrug. “I’m not saying it enough, and Lord only knows when I get to say it again?”

“What are you even talking about?” she asked.

“Nothing. It’s just, I’ve got this weird, nervous feeling these days. Like something big is coming. Everything’s going to change, and nothing will be the same again. Ow, maybe I’ll get promoted today.”

“In your dreams,” Nila said with a laugh, rolling her eyes, and continued to the bathroom. Enrid had been employed as a scribe by the same banking company for twelve years, and there was certainly no sign of a promotion to be seen.

Enrid put on his coat, picked up his leather briefcase, double-checked his appearance in the broken mirror, and headed for the door.

“I’m off! See you later!” he shouted in the bathroom’s general direction and stepped out.

“Bye.” Nila washed her hands and face, dried off with a towel, and slouched back to the living room, examining her face in the mostly intact bottom half of the mirror. She was feeling a little unwell, though she couldn’t tell why.

The inexplicable anxiety her father had talked about—she exactly knew what he meant.

Like something big’s coming. Why would he think that? Had he heard something?

Was the Empire finally going to attack? Would there be a war? The old folks in the neighborhood were saying it was only a matter of time. Tratovia had Luctretz in their chokehold already, no one would come to Langoria’s aid. Everything would burn. So many were going to die. There would be poverty. Famine. Diseases. What were the politicians doing? What was the King doing? She couldn’t understand. Did the adults love war so much?

Nila left to the kitchen to make light breakfast, when there came a knock from the door. A quick rap of knuckles. Who could it be? They rarely had any visitors, especially this early in the morning. Enrid obviously had his own key. Was the neighbor missing something? With slight caution, Nila went to the door and opened it only a little.

Outside in the hallway stood only Enrid, against expectations, looking exasperated.

“I forgot my keys,” he said with a helpless shrug.

“Geez. Get yourself together, Dad,” Nila scolded him, letting the man in, feeling stupid for ever worrying. Why was she being so jumpy? “You’ll never be a boss like that.”

“Not another word!”

Enrid headed upstairs to his room to retrieve the keys, mumbling curses under his breath, while Nila returned to the kitchen to continue with the breakfast. She got a loaf of bread and cut a decently sized slice off it. Just one. She wasn't too hungry. She went looking for butter and ham, when there came a knock from the door again. A busy day, she thought, put down the knife and waited. There was no sign of Enrid, not footsteps in the stairs. He must have not heard the knock. Maybe it was one of his colleagues coming to pick him up? She should tell them to wait a moment.

Nila strode across the living room and opened the door.

In the hallway outside stood Enrid, looking exasperated.

“I forgot my keys,” he said, shaking his briefcase.

Nila stopped in the doorway, staring at her father with a confused frown.

“Dad...?” she mouthed. “Didn’t you just come back? A moment ago?”

Enrid answered his daughter with an incredulous look.

“What are you talking about? How could I be here then? Are you still half asleep? Hurry up now, or you’re going to be late for school. You haven’t even changed yet!”

Unbearable dread suddenly gripped Nila’s chest. She couldn’t let her father meet the other Enrid or something terrible would happen—she strongly felt so. But then she quickly dismissed the thought as absurd. Senseless. There was no way her father could be in two places at the same time. There had to be something seriously wrong with her today. Maybe she was getting sick? Shaking her head, Nila tried to clear up the disorienting feeling, and made way.

“Hey. You okay?” Enrid asked her, halting briefly at the doorstep.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she slowly replied. “I must’ve been dreaming it.”

Iron Mountain | END