Chapter One

Education

Life is like getting trampled by a horse: Awful.

I know what you’re thinking, ‘well that’s not very profound’. Too bad. Things are like that. Simple, disheartening, and frank. Though admittedly not always. Sometimes, Life hits you with something else. A story.

If you survive the hooves and the gravel and the wagon wheels afterward, usually you’re left with something like that. And if you don’t, well then it’s someone else’s tale to tell, isn’t it? The only real question is whether you leap out of Life’s way or try to jump on and see which way it throws you.

Michael Eddy Williams was a common name. He was from Istol, an unexciting, rather irrelevant town and spent almost all of his time imagining what any other life would be like. Michael had pale grey eyes which darkened blue when he was frustrated and thick, curled hair. His hair was the various shades of Autumn in full spin, and so inconsistent of colour that it had even inspired an argument or two. He wasn’t blond. That was about the only certainty. Though, admittedly, it made him want to dye his roots if only to rile everyone up. Even his skin tone was fairly sun-kissed for a Talisatian citizen, just enough to give most people pause before they decided whether he was some back-bent farmer or sun-bathing nobleman. And on this particular morning he was coloured with bruises and cuts from the day before, of course.

As it was, Michael had committed to the idea some time ago that he was destined to be trampled by the horse called Life, like anyone else from Dim-Side. He was born for the sole purpose of dying.

Did that matter to anyone but him? Probably not.

“You’re doing it again- the monologue thing,” said James, gently rocking him.

Michael blinked and sighed. He was back outside the lunch hall, stood in the doorway with James, stifling a yawn. “How much did you hear? I was goin’ for a while.”

“No, you only mouthed most of it. You need more sleep, dear,” James said, gentle but serious.

Michael smiled softly and leaned back against the doorframe of the lunch hall to let someone by. He glanced idly across the bustling cafeteria to see Carter flirting back and forth with a young, fine-featured person from Politics class.

James pushed himself against the wall aside to let someone through, much too broad to lean as casually as Michael always seemed to. He frowned as Carter delicately touched the individual’s hand and muttered something complimentary about the ring of their finger, and James sighed. “You know I found out it’s still illegal to identify as Noble in the Ringlands? Lawmakers probably think it’s lower-class folk trying to take power from aristocrats.”

“No, it’s because Empress Isla doesn’t understand social constructs, or that the noble gender came long before the gentry.” Michael blinked, clarifying, “Also, I think you mean Redthornia, not the Ringlands.”

James nodded in vague agreement. “Remind me of the difference?”

“The Ringlands is the continental group-thing, and Redthornia is just the biggest country in it,” Michael muttered. He glanced at James and noticed his hair was at odd ends, several tight curls sprung out like he’d been combing them through. “You nervous for Script?” he asked, reaching over and tidying his brown ringlets.

James shrugged, playing with a frayed end of his shirt. “I hope Miss Marlow got laid. Usually means she’s in a better mood.”

Michael nodded very seriously and said, “I’ll take this arrow for you. I’m very charming.”

“Good-gods, stop.”

“I’m serious, say the word and I’ll throw down some spoken-word poetry.”

James shoved Michael playfully and he broke into a fit of laughter. He then turned and saw his other companion still embedded in his courtship and Michael yelled, “Sweet Rii, Carter, will you leave Xavi alone so they can get to class!”

Carter’s delicate features wrinkled as he apologised to the young student before making his way toward the others, stepping across the pavement like it was shaped to fit his heels.

Michael pushed off the doorframe and pushed the ball of his palm into his eye, suppressing a sudden headache. “Carter, you know if you hit on anyone else from Politics it will have to be me and James.”

“Don’t be jealous, I hit on you both every day.” Carter lightly cupped Michael’s face.

Michael sighed with gusto. “You bring it out in me, Slick.”

“Actually,” James interjected as they began walking, “Mister Williams intends on making eyes at Miss Marlow to help me get through class un-abused. Which makes you the other man.”

Carter touched his heart, scoffing in insult, but quickly melting back into his easy smile.

The three boys moved through the halls as the light of After-Turning sun glared through the high windows. The faded, church glass cast colourful rays across the faded passageways, a long-forgotten reminder of the Riinin roots of their country and the god it was founded with.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Michael glanced out of the tall windows at the passing buildings, trying to ignore the throbbing behind his eye. He liked history. It was one of the few things that really enticed him in his studies. The idea that there was a group of dedicated people all over Draendica, writing down the best, worst and most important stories about the world made him feel strangely relieved.

Michael spied a tired old watchtower through a sliver of red-burnished glass. Nearly the entire top half of the turret was paved with new, pale brick.

Anyone unfamiliar with their empire likely thought it was nothing more than a spot of building maintenance. But anyone who’d lived in Istol in the last fifteen cycles likely heard about the catapult which ripped through it or felt the ground tremble as the tons of stone struck the pavement after. There were hundreds like it throughout the city and thousands more across the empire. Faded scars of rebellion and memories of those who’d tried to make a better world. Those like the Mace of Mhairia, who shone for a small moment in history before being snuffed out.

Carter turned to see Michael lingering in the hall, his mind elsewhere. The dark-skinned noblemen frowned. “Comin’ in, Sparky?”

Michael blinked hazily and rubbed his eye again, not quite hearing Carter. They’d arrived outside their midday class and students pushed in past him. Michael found himself staring at the ceiling in the hallway as more people walked around him and his head pounded.

“Michael?”

His vision swam for a moment then cleared somewhat, like he was seeing through low light. Michael nodded, casting one last glance at the ceiling tiles above before joining his friends.

James was already propped up on his elbows as he looked up to Michael. “Planning another monologue?”

Michael’s head was foggy. A clear picture of the hallway ceiling stayed in his mind. The thin tiles suspended above, worn from age, barely still white from the stains of heat and mold. He shook the image away as their history teacher trudged in and threw her jacket on the coat-hook.

“Something like that,” Michael mumbled, and the ache subsided. Very nearly.

Miss Heath was a young woman by all accounts. Probably not even thirty if Michael was any judge. She was hard-eyed and discerning but true-natured through and through, as most good teachers were. She had short wavy hair to her shoulders, a semi-permanent frown and surprisingly good posture for someone holding up the entire school system.

She began to dig through her desk until she found a sizeable, well-crinkled scroll of parchment and rolled it out onto her desk. She had the exact look of someone who knew teaching was her calling, just not in a place like Marilon Heart Public School. Heath hung it at the front of the class, showing a map of the Ringlands.

Michael took out his ragged notebook and flipped through the pages, smiling at the number of sketches and lack of work. He came to a page filled with old pictures of the Gargan Creators of Old. Or at least how he thought of them.

The drawings were faded and smudged from all the times he’d been over them. Khasm, the Void, lay resting in the heavens as they looked down over their children.

In the bedtime stories he was told, Khasm was depicted as a moving shadow, but Michael always drew them in the shape of a lounging dragon, sleepily watching over the world.

The faerie-tale gods were surrounded by other oddities and equally laughable things such as mythical monsters and heroes. There was something homely about the sketches. Michael had never felt like he had many questions about them, and as someone who was dangerously curious, that was a small sanctuary.

“Williams, come on, I can usually count on you to at least pretend to listen,” said Miss Heath with a long sigh.

Michael cast a sharp glance around the room.

Everyone was staring at him expectantly. James and Carter were hounded by poorly covered laughter, tsking away in feigned disappointment.

Michael sat up straight and blushed half a shade redder. “You can now, Miss. Sorry.”

Heath gave the barest smile in her eyes and said, “I’ll repeat the question then, shall I?”

Unaware he’d missed one Michael nodded and the moment Miss Heath glanced away, he chucked a pencil at James’ head hoping it would also miraculously hit Carter.

“What cycle did Riniglacia become an independent nation, set apart from the outer Ringlands?” Heath read from a textbook, though clearly irritated by the question as she muttered, “When was this written?” under her breath.

Michael frowned and shook his head. “Never?”

Heath cocked her head. “You sure?”

“You want an academic argument or a tavern one?”

Miss Heath shrugged, hopping up on her desk. “Tavern, why not. Entertain me.”

Michael sat up somewhat and spoke, “Well, before the Crekaens came, Old Riniglacia encompassed the entire Ringlands. It was only after the Creks committed their atrocities that the survivors moved to the isle which we call New Riniglacia... but they were never subjects of the Creks. I mean, sure, there was a degree of compliance given the circumstances... but if you visit any of the Riniglacian Yitere-villages, sayin’ they were at any point subjects of the colonisers, then you’ll wake up with half the teeth you had before you opened your mouth.”

Miss Heath looked sternly at Michael and finally she nodded. “If you take away nothing else from today- remember this. Please. History is a study of the facts of the past. Not simply what’s written. This-” she grabbed up the dusty scroll, scowling, “-is about as factually relevant to the genuine history of the world as your toilet paper. Learn from paper, but also from people. And never forget to question who gains what by some version of events or another.”

The class seemed to buzz with thought as she fell quiet.

Miss Heath let it sink for as long as she dared and continued. “And an academic argument? Anyone but Williams.”

A Riniglacian student at the back of the class named Alch raised her hand and muttered, “In cycle Seven-Eighty, when Gryffon Luck issued the peace treaty effectively forcing the Crekaen Highlord into submission. Her threat to go public about the colonising massacres is argued to be the turning point for negotiations…”

Michael phased out of focus once more and began flipping through the pages of his tattered book. He came to a page decorated by a single image, depicting the most famous Riniglacian in the Common Era, according to non-Riniglacians at least.

The Mace of Mhairia. A rebel. A commander. A freedom fighter.

Michael had managed to sketch their mythical, Javen armour in a fashion close to the real thing. The wedge-shaped helmet glowing in the hand-drawn light, like an axe-head made to be donned. The bristles arcing from his helm, whistling in the wind. The shine of the Brightsteel armour. He’d based it partially off historical artworks which were no easy find, and partially from the way his mind had always imagined him.

It was said Javen warriors couldn’t be killed. That they spoke every language and trained on frozen mountain tops. That the way fencers wielded rapiers, they could wield greatswords. No one believed it, of course. Or at least they hadn’t until the Mace of Mhairia came.

Michael darkened the lines around the Javen’s weapon hanging solemnly at their side. It was the hero’s only true difference from traditional Riniglacian warriors. Where they used their elegant, ceremonial greatswords, the Mace of Mhairia was true to his name, wielding a part-bludgeoning-part-bladed, three-foot war mace named Dark Sun.

Michael had seen the memorial statue the man in Rebec city, and never quite managed to forget the weight the sculptor had set into the artwork’s shoulders.