Slowly but steadily, the ground disgorged the sun again. Its rays hit a bunch of sweaty men who were working the mountain in front of them with pickaxes, chisels and large hammers. When this happened, a few of them turned round to briefly look at the rising sun. "Don't let up! Come on, lads, keep going!", someone called out to them. They immediately turned back to their work. So, what exactly was this work now? The miners of Szinesbanya were busily quarrying the marble from the open-cast mine in the largest possible pieces and transporting them away for further processing. Strong arms lifted the tools into the air and once they had reached the highest point, they were swung back down to hit the rock with as much force as possible. This was one of the largest marble deposits in Kaphkos. It was known for the fact that the stone here took on many different colours and shades. There was white, black, blue and red marble. Often there were also sections in the rock faces where the colours mixed and took on fascinating patterns and hues. At other open-cast mines, different colours could also be found, ranging from yellow to green. Most of these were to be found in the appropriately named "Rainbow Mountains" in Kasharovar. In any case, the vast majority of this natural resource was to be found in the eastern kingdom.
The material was now needed in large quantities. In recent years, a gigantic number of new buildings had been commissioned, but above all an immense amount of statues, which were of course to be made from the precious raw material known as marble. All the defaced and destroyed statues of saints in all the towns and churches of Kaphkos were now systematically replaced or restored, causing an explosion in demand for this rare earth. In short, the miners had their hands full. The clashing of their metal tools against the hard rock could be heard continuously, so that it basically became an omnipresent background noise for the miners.
After many hours of hard labour, it was time for the lunch break. The work colleagues sat down and ate their modest meal together. The midday heat was now beating down with full force and the men could certainly feel it. "And how is your house looking now, Györg? It should be finished by now, shouldn't it?" The addressee turned to his colleague and replied with his mouth full, "The walls are up and the roof is on, that's the most important thing. I'll always be working on additional things, new rooms and so on anyway. My wife is always coming up with new ideas. You know how she is." The others had to laugh for a moment. His colleague then said, "I've finally got my head above water for once. Luckily, things have been getting better and better over the last few years." The group unanimously agreed with him. "Since my house was destroyed by the hordes the last time, I haven't seen or heard anything at all from them anymore," Györg stated unprompted.
But his friend immediately added, "They're still there, believe me! But as far as I've noticed, they're getting weaker and weaker. In the past they used to have a reason to fight. But now that we have our own parliament and the old customs are dying out, more and more of them have decided to lay down their arms and simply lead a peaceful life." His statement was met with some discomfort from the others. They preferred to leave this subject alone. After a moment of silence, however, Györg himself said, "Those who are left have no chance anyway and will simply die off at some point. The march of time cannot be stopped." The group of men silently agreed with him. The break was finally over and it was back to work. After all, the marble didn't mine itself and their salaries wouldn’t get paid for doing nothing.
Many years had now passed since the end of the revolution. Peace had returned everywhere, even if a few still put up hopeless resistance to the empire's rule on the fringes. Law and order had come back to almost all towns and villages and the healing of all the deep wounds caused by the war and the oppression that had preceded it was in full swing. But even if everything got better again, nothing would return to the old, neither to the time of the Melgarions nor to the brief interlude of Alethic rule. There was now an Imperial Diet and several national diets, which dealt with matters of varying relevance. Gone were the days when the ruler alone decided the ministers, politics and, well, basically everything in the state. A new era had dawned, one that had been given birth to by the revolution. A new dawn had broken over the empire. A huge number of people of all kinds were here witnessing it.
In the first two years immediately after the revolution, there was little to eat. Many farmers had died in the war and many had also moved elsewhere in the turmoil. Moreover, an epidemic went through the country at the time, that also carried off a number of people. Fewer fields were being cultivated and, therefore, there was less grain to eat. In times of need, many people resorted to a bag of tricks. Baker Fritz, for example, often mixed sawdust into his bread. Everyone soon noticed this, and he was gossiped about everywhere. He earned the nickname "Mr Drybread", a name, which he has not been able to shed to this day. Even though he was certainly not the only baker who "stretched" his bread. Unfortunately, he was the one who got noticed it the most for it. The problems steadily decreased over the following years until everything was back to normal. If one could call it a return to the old, at all. Normal life remained the same, but the witch craze was now history.
Dietrich, who was himself a journeyman baker, was now on his way to work early in the morning. He briefly got goose bumps when he felt the still icy cold morning air as he walked along the streets. Neureut, a small town to the east of the Karantian Forests, had essentially remained the same sleepy place. Even at this time of day, there was already a lot going on. The craftsmen set to work and the merchants began setting up their stalls, while a few soldiers wandered about or simply stood around to keep an eye on things. They also gave Dietrich a cursory glance as he strolled past them. He walked along Courtyard Alley and crossed the so-called Martyrs’ Square. This square, relatively close to the city centre, had only been renamed last year. In its centre was still the fountain after which the square was originally named. Now a small statue of a warrior had been erected on a pedestal next to it. As one can imagine, this was a memorial to those who died in the revolution.
This was of little interest to our journeyman as he walked past the monument, which he now saw every day. His mind was already on his work anyway. Kneading the dough for the bread was hard, strenuous work. Anyone who did this job knew that. Just round the corner in the alley was the small Utz bakery, named after its owner. The elderly master baker was already open when his assistant entered the shop. Dietrich immediately changed his clothes and set to work. By lunchtime, most of the work was already done. When the man stepped outside the bakery to get a breath of fresh air as a change from the flour dust, he realised that something was going on at Martyrs’ Square. He quickly made his way there, as a few others had apparently done. When he got there, however, Dietrich realised that he had long since missed the events here. A few interested people were milling around, just like him, but otherwise there was no sign of what had happened. There was a large red stain on the ground a few metres from the statue, that was all. It was obviously blood, but the man had no idea what had happened, so he asked a lady who was also standing around.
"Did I see what happened? Yes, I did. A guy tried to butcher the monument and the city guards intervened. He punched the blokes and you can imagine what happened next." Dietrich was surprised, but not particularly shocked. Then he looked over at the statue and saw that there was a black stain on the ground directly in front of it. It was the paint the vandal had tried to deface the monument with. "What a stupid reason to sacrifice yourself!", Dietrich thought to himself. "You should know that the soldiers here can't take a joke." Of course, it was crystal clear to the journeyman baker that many of those who served in the city guard had also fought in the revolution. Their commander had even been in the Martyrs' Brigades back then. These men wouldn’t take a joke when it came to this sort of thing. After this incident, Dietrich went back to the bakery. The others would surely ask him what had happened in the square and he would tell them. Time and again you heard of people being cut a head shorter because they said or did the wrong thing. That was nothing new. Everyone knew it.
Ludo was a very quiet boy. There were a lot of things that were always going through his mind, but he preferred to keep them to himself. This had less to do with the fact that he didn't dare express himself in front of others and more to do with the fact that he simply didn't feel the desire to share his thoughts with them. There was simply no reason for him to say much. The priests always interpreted his reticence as a sign that the loss of his parents at such a young age had traumatized the little Ludo. The boy was unaware of this and simply thought that the priests wanted to be as nice to him as possible. If he had been aware of their assumptions about him... ,well, actually it wouldn't have changed anything. He probably wouldn't have told them, that he didn't even remember his parents' deaths. The only thing he could remember was walking hungrily and aimlessly through a small town when the priests found him and took him away.
The boy now lived in an orphanage with a number of other orphans. He certainly wasn't alone here. But there were only boys, no girls. “This is an institution for men, not women!”, was what Father Gregor had said to him when he once asked why there were only men here. That made sense to him. Everything had to stay nicely separated, as God wanted it! Every day the boys would do various jobs that had to do with maintenance and accomodation: growing vegetables, fruits and grains, repair work on the building, raising livestock, cleaning, and much more. However, time was always given for studying the Testament and praying. This was EXTREMELY important to the priests and caretakers. In the few months that he had been here, Ludo had already learnt how important worshipping God and adhering to his laws was. Nevertheless, the clerics relentlessly drilled the message into the boys; this was even more important to them than the work that had to be done in this self-sufficient facility. Ludo also knew all the prayers inside out.
Hail, Melgar, sacred Chosen of God!
Hail, precious treasure of creation!
Hail, your never extinguishing light!
Blessed be your progeny!
Blessed be your glory!
Praise be to God our lord!
Melgar was the Chosen One of God. The Lord had given him the power to work miracles. It was he who had prepared the way for the kingdom of God on earth. There would only be one future for them, one in which Melgar's will and the heavenly laws would be enforced in the earthly realm. These thoughts were actually running through young Ludo's mind as he stood in the empty dining room. Broom in hand, he energetically swept between the old, worn-out wooden legs of the tables and chairs. He swiped up all the crumbs and other rubbish that accumulated here every day from eating and swept it into a larger pile. He was too lazy to move the tables and chairs aside, but picked up what he could so that the floor appeared clean to the eye. "The place is cleaned every day anyway. I don't need to bust a gut here," were the boy's thoughts. Wildly and with the intention of finishing work as quickly as possible, he swung the wooden stick with straw at the end around.
Watching over all this was the picture of Wenzel hanging on the wall above. It was a very flattering depiction of the emperor, which hung in all the public and religious institutions of the empire. It was always to be found side by side with the icons of Melgar, although there was a huge difference between these two people. Emperor Wenzel didn’t want to be an object of veneration; on the contrary, he personally had a strong aversion to such things. Nevertheless, his portrait and the icon of Melgar hung next to each other like Janus. Two faces of the same entity: The Chosen One. The child sweeping the communal dining hall had no idea of this, of course. He gathered all the dirt into a bigger pile again. Then Ludo fetched a shovel to see it off into the dustbin.
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"En garde, you scoundrel!", it suddenly screeched as the double door swung open abruptly, crashing against the wall with far too much force to make a lot of noise. Nico came thundering in. Apparently, he had already finished his task of cleaning the corridor outside. When Ludo turned to him, he was holding his broom at the lower end above the bristles. The long handle protruded upwards at an angle and the boy now pointed it in the direction of his "opponent". "Wait, I'm still not ....!" Before the challenged boy could finish his sentence, his friend, who in this case was his enemy, was already swinging his "sword" at him. "Oh, God!" Ludo had no choice but to defend himself. He also changed his grip on his broom turning it into an imaginary sword. Then the duel began. It was a fiery exchange of blows and thrusts. Left, right...up? "Ow!", Ludo cried out as his opponent's sword smashed him directly on the head. He then paused for a moment. But then Nico felt something on his shoulder. It was Father Gregor's strong hand, as the boy immediately realised when he turned to look at his grim face.
"Really? Really, you two?", he snapped at them in a judgemental tone. "Look at what you're doing here!", the old man said as his wrinkled finger pointed at the ground next to them. The two boys looked over and saw that they had trampled over everything Ludo had swept up and had whirled it around. Nico and his friend immediately winced and apologised meekly. But that wasn't enough for the priest. He told them to finally finish the work in here and as punishment for their stupid mucking about they would have to do something else afterwards. Dejectedly, they complied and together, under the supervision of Father Gregor, began to clean up the mess they had made. Secretly, however, the priest wasn't really angry with them. He knew that boys were just like that, and that it was actually quite desirable that they were interested in fighting. All orphans in the empire were traditionally taken in and raised by an offshoot organisation of the church. They would and should even serve the Lord and the kingdom when they grew up. Therefore, religious education was very much in focus here. One day the broomsticks would become real swords and then it would be good, if they knew WHO they served.
The meadow behind the stables was filled with the sound of a tremendous hubbub. Children's laughter mingled with their loud cries. Stepping closer, one could see one of the lads indicating that he was going to throw a stick he was holding up in the air. He made three trial swings, all of which looked very funny and weird. Each time he swung his thin little arm upwards, whereupon it swung limply back again, his whole body went with it and swayed so much that one would think he would fall over at any moment. On the fourth time, he finally let go of the stick and threw it as high as he could into the air. Then he quickly tried to pick up a whole lot of sticks that were scattered all over the short-mown meadow in front of him. The game ended when the stick he threw up hit the ground again. That was the "stick game". And there it was. Unfortunately, Faramund had only managed to collect five sticks. The others thought that the sixth one no longer counted as the stick had already come down.
"How do you know that so precisely? You didn't even hear it hit the ground!", the boy was annoyedly proclaimed. He was right, because you could hardly hear the little stick touching the grass. But his playmates didn't want to hear any of it. "No, the last one doesn't count! You only had five. You can't cheat here, Faramund!", Viktoria told him imperiously. He looked over at the girl and snorted: "You're stupid! No wonder nobody likes you!" - "Stop it with that! You don't need to get so angry about it. It's just a game!", her friend Isolde tried to defuse the situation. The little hothead calmed down again straight away. Then it was Viktoria's turn. She took a long swing, but also swung the stick from below in a strange way, just like the others had done before her. Only her throw was powerful, and the branch flew up impressively high. In a mad rush, the girl literally threw herself to the ground and gathered as many sticks as she could. The thrown object seemed to take an unusually long time to come down again. When it finally fell onto the meadow, Viktoria had picked up all the sticks.
Gunna and Isolde were totally impressed, but of course Faramund had to complain again. "That's not possible! You must have cheated!" - "How am I supposed to have cheated here, ha? It's just a simple stick that all of us have thrown up." The boy, unsure how to rationalise his accusations, simply replied, "You know what they say about you!" - "Faramund! No!" it came from Isolde directly behind him. "But isn't it true?" At this statement, the girl looked at him even more grimly than before. But when he turned his gaze back to Viktoria, he began to feel anxious. She was standing there in a dominant pose with her legs wide apart. Her penetrating gaze struck him sharply. A fire was burning in her eyes, a fire as hot and red as the crimson of her hair. "Wi...", before the boy could even finish the word, the girl gave him a good shove, making him fall on his bum. She actually wanted to smack him, everyone could see that. When someone made her angry, she became a fury that no one could tame. But the child held back this time and simply turned round.
Suddenly, a couple of adults came around the corner of the stable. There weren't just two of them, but several. "Gunna! What are you doing here!" Dumbfounded, the boy replied, "We're playing the stick game. I..." His mother didn't let the child finish his sentence, but simply grabbed him by the arm. "You never listen to me!", she scolded, casting a disdainful glance at the red-haired Viktoria. The parents of the other children were here too. One by one, they dragged their children back home with them. One of them, Isolde, looked back at her friend as she was being pulled away by the arm. Viktoria remained here alone. No one else was there. She knew exactly why. And she hated it. Angrily, she picked up one of the sticks they had been playing with and threw it against the wall of the shed, which was in the same direction her friends had disappeared in. Those stupid adults didn't want their kids to play with her. Always the same! Viktoria was alone again, as she almost always was.
Johann carefully put one foot in front of the other as he descended the bumpy path down into the valley. He had not been in "civilisation" for a very long time. He lived as a hermit far away from everyone and everything that could disturb him. Up there, it was just him, nature and the animals. He was actually self-sufficient. There was nothing he needed from the outside world. The hermit grew his own food and kept his own goats, whose produce he processed into appropriate dishes. He took care of the maintenance of his small hut and stable himself. He had always loved horticulture anyway and now he lived it every day. Apples, pears, carrots, cucumbers, onions, cereals, herbs of all kinds, everything grew in his garden. And it gave him great pleasure to be able to devote himself to it in peace every day.
Here in Corakia, the cold season had only just ended, so he could now wander down into the valley. He had a friend there who had visited him time and again, but he hadn't been back for five full years now. Johann was worried about him, because his friend was not yet old. Could something have happened to him? Possibly, but there was no way of knowing. Since he knew where his friend lived, he would pay him a visit. It was the first time in over twenty years that the hermit had been back in a populated area. As he was walking past the first houses into the village, he saw many familiar things from his past. What he also saw, however, was a massive change. There was a lot going on in the small village streets, more than he could ever remember. He could see from people's clothes and the many renovated buildings that a new prosperity had arisen. Above the town hall flew a flag he had never seen before. A golden sun on a red background.
He walked along the muddy paths to Oskar's little house. A rather old, but sturdy, wooden door made of dark cherry wood prevented him from entering without resistance. It had apparently just been newly varnished. The man, who was already getting on in years, knocked loudly on the door three times. After a while, a voice could be heard from inside. "What do you want?" When Oskar heard that it was his old friend, he immediately asked him to come in. A lady, who also seemed a little older, let him in. He didn't see him at first, but when the hermit stepped around the corner into the living room, he realised what was going on. Now he knew why his friend had stopped visiting him. Sitting in an armchair, a man stared at him with a cool gaze. His right leg was missing, with a simple wooden prosthesis serving as a meagre replacement. When he had recovered from the initial shock, he came to him and gave him a friendly hug. Without being asked how this had happened, Oskar began to talk about it of his own accord. And what he now learnt, living in isolation from the rest of the world, made him sit up and take notice.
Apparently, there had been a major upheaval throughout Kaphkos, a revolution as Oskar called it. He too was forced to take part and was wounded in battle. Not only was a new dynasty now on the throne of Ordania, but the entire old Alethian Commune had been swept away and was now only operating underground. The witch burnings had now ceased, but a suffocating oppression remained. Only now the oppression was directed at different people than before. Full of frustration, the veteran told him all these things as he waited for his partner to bring them hot tea. There was great bitterness in his eyes. His friend from the mountains couldn't understand that at all, because he was only interested in his own existence. It all felt very unpleasant for him. He felt sorry for all the fools who went about their lives like this. Politics and intrigue, religion and fanaticism, relationships and personal tragedies were all reasons why he had renounced society. He felt strangely vindicated, however unfair this might sound to Oskar.
Abbondio adjusted his cap in an attempt to better protect his face from the sun. Unfortunately, it didn't help. Once again, it was a scorching hot day. Although this was completely normal at this time of year in Camenia, the realisation of this did not make the circumstances any easier. But the man was used to it anyway. He just had to put up with it. Reins in hand, Abbondio drove slowly onto the bridge over the Seranzo. He couldn't stop himself from stretching his head upwards and back and forth to admire the thing. The thick pylons of the new bridge were reaching high into the sky. This thing had only recently been built and it considerably shortened the distance he had to travel from the trading harbour towards the city. It was an impressively large structure that spanned a deep ravine. Deep below, one could hear the rushing waters of the Seranzo River. Their freshness was nevertheless carried up here by the air currents. What a pleasant smell and what a refreshment this produced, even if it only lasted for a short time.
The merchant continued on his way. He had to deliver a new load of goods to one of his customers’ shops. Fine silk that he had imported from across the Southern Sea. Very expensive. Trade had been flourishing in recent years and Abbondio was also enjoying this good business. A golden age had dawned for him. What his parents had bequeathed to him, he was now able to increase considerably. All his friends and colleagues felt the same way. As he thought about all this, his wagon rumbled over the small gap between the bridge and the road in the midday heat. "Badum!" it went. Then the driver was able to resume his journey at a higher speed. This bridge was just one example of the upswing in Camenia. Everywhere he had travelled so far, Abbondio could see a pile of building projects. A lot was now being invested in infrastructure, which of course helped traders like him. Roads, bridges, tunnels, harbours, but also baths and even new churches. The construction workers would not get bored so quickly.
Curtly, he took his wallet out of his pocket. He emptied the coins it contained into the palm of his other hand and began to count. Thirty-five, no, thirty-six sesterces he counted. All with the face of Vincenzo I embossed on one side. Unfortunately, they were no longer worth that much, since his successor had reduced the gold content of the coins. But even that wasn't all too bad a thing. At least that's what the merchant thought. Then he briefly reconsidered how much he had paid the importer for the goods he now had with him. He let out an annoyed sigh when he realised that he couldn't quite remember how much it had been. It was unusual to receive an invoice for something like this. That would only be the case with very large transactions. By God, he couldn't remember exactly what he had paid.... "Damn!" he blurted out. Well, it couldn't be helped. His blunder wasn't THAT bad. These were good times now and he could draw from from an embarrassment of riches. He didn't have to turn over every semi to make ends meet. Nevertheless, this certainly wouldn't have happened to him, if he'd had his apprentice with him, but he'd given him something else to do today.
His single carriage rolled on with a creak. To the left and right of the track was nothing but shrubbery withered by the summer heat. Every now and then there was an old, wild olive tree or an aloe, but otherwise it was rather barren here at the moment. Whenever he looked at this flora, he felt reminded of his youth, especially of the trips he and his parents had taken to the sea. A small breeze arose during the drive, which immediately whirled dust into the man's eyes and snapped him out of his daydreaming.
It was still a long way to one of Galadea's suburbs. He had to make it today. Unfortunately. The customers had made the appointment. "Sheesh....," he breathed out. Abbondio would be home late again today.