Chapter Eleven

Iron

Michael’s legs and lower back were stiff as cold steel when he rolled out of bed in the morning. The only light in the room was through the oil-lamps, and much like Amekot’s office there was a great dark window in an impossible position, except it was black as coal with a thin, jagged crack running from one corner to the other.

Michael blinked the sleep out of his eyes slowly and realised he hadn’t so much as stripped off his travel-worn rags before falling into bed. He hadn’t actually climbed into the bed so he only straightened out the blankets. When Michael picked up the silver arrow Aroha had given him he noticed the bedside table was covered in a layer of dust. He wondered just how long it’d been before someone new had shown up like himself.

He quietly left the room, twirling the long silver arrow between his fingers, and made his way back down the pillared entry-hall. The quiet was almost domineering by the time he reached the main doors and pushed through, at which point his breath was taken aback.

The great green forum was filled with roaming people, most of which were crowding the enormous dining tables, eating late breakfasts, drinking coffee, tea or chatting back and forth in laughter-filled conversation. Almost all of them were armed, armoured, or both, varying from short and tall, thick and thin. Mostly they were young, Michael noted, within about ten cycles of himself, but there was some folk of all ages dotted about.

“Williams!” Nichole stood up from one of the nearer benches and yelled, “Come over here, meet some people!”

Michael spotted her, clad in much more relaxed clothing than the night before and headed over.

Nichole sat linked in arms with Aroha opposite two other warriors. One of the strangers was broad with shadow-black hair, tanned skin, and a bladed-spear strapped to his back. Beside him was one of the taller women Michael had ever seen. She had unamused dark eyes and chestnut-auburn hair tied in a hasty braid, all alongside a soldier’s tan, attitude and poise. Every time Nichole and Aroha shared a gentle moment, the tall Archangel rolled her eyes and leaned on a steel-quarterstaff. Michael would’ve guessed they were both twenty or at least close to it.

Michael came to a stop at their table and waved gingerly to the strangers, before glancing over the crowd again. “You know, Nichole, I nearly thought I wouldn’t need the day-light tour...”

Aroha chuckled and Nichole nodded to the empty stool-space beside the tall warrioress. “Sit down, Michael. Meet Sidney Selene and Flinn Alexander.”

The two of them gave soft hellos and Michael nodded warmly, muttering as he sat, “Sweet Rii, you all look like you were carved out of wood.”

They chuckled earnestly and Nichole grabbed his attention once more. “Breakfast, Michael?”

Michael nodded eagerly as Flinn pushed him a large tankard of what turned out to be spiced ale. When he took it, he noticed Flinn’s eyes were beautifully bright, one green and one blue, like the sea in and out of the sun.

“Thanks,” Michael said, sipping at the drink to find it closer to juice than beer, which was a blessing. “Sorry, you mentioned breakfast?”

Nichole jerked her head to the left and Michael saw a thin crowd of tired Legacies all gathered around a ring of tables at the centre of the dining pavilion. Michael smiled his thanks and wandered over.

Atop the ring of tables were various domed metal covers. He lifted one cautiously and a cloud of steam wafted out in the morning breeze. Michael’s stomach rumbled as he saw stacks of sliced bread, lightly toasted on the left and deeply toasted on the right. Somehow nothing was soggy or burnt and as he lifted the lid higher he saw a bright orange rune inscribed on the lid’s underside, radiating soft heat.

He grabbed a ceramic plate from a clean stack and then went to work.

Beneath other covers were sausages, beans, fried eggs and scrambled, even roasted potatoes, thin-sliced bacon, cheeses and an entire display of fresh fruit. There was even a separate bench with metal drums of coffee, tea, pressed juice, hot and cold water.

Without a shred of embarrassment Michael stopped at every station. He then made his way back to the others where they grinned happily for him, precariously balancing his stacked plate a steaming cup of coffee.

“After you’re done just drop your dishes in one of the metal tubs under the tables,” Aroha gestured. “We take turns on dishes around the fort. Three squares a day. Coffee, tea and water is always here. And the harvesters usually top up the fruit every so often. Did I miss anything?”

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Sidney gestured to the low tavern building behind him, wincing before she stretched out the muscles in her arms. Michael thought he imagined it but they seemed to creak like ship ropes as she twisted her wrists, forearms and biceps. “Silvia is our resident cook. She runs the kitchens. Let her know if you have allergies and don’t complain too loudly if it’s not to your liking.”

Michael already had a mouthful of beans and toast. “Free is a taste I never complain about.” He then ate in silent joy, trying not to shift in his seat with the genuine excitement he felt at the arrangement. After he was finished, he listened politely while the others talked about obstacle course times and language studies and the like.

He picked up a couple important details. Sidney, the tall warrioress, was from Mhairia, which made him wonder if she was also a member of their rebellion. Flinn, by quite the contrast, had a refined Arc-city accent. Michael had never been to the capital, and despite all the awful things he heard about a city that size he itched to see it for himself.

After she’d finished her own breakfast, Nichole picked up the arrow Michael had brought to the table and mentioned, “We should probably get you started with some daily activities.”

Aroha went wide-eyed and said, “I nearly forgot- We have to talk to Amekot about the next recovery mission. The Angel’s Archive, one.”

“You’re right. Hey, Oliver!” Nichole yelled down the table.

A young man, a shade older than Michael perked up and looked over to them. His hair was sand-coloured and swept high by his restless hands. The young man had lovely hazel eyes but the smile beneath somehow brightened them to amber. He stood and jogged down to their end of the table.

Michael stared slightly at his beautiful grin while Nichole muttered, “You mind taking Michael to the armoury and getting him suited up? Maybe let him tag along your activities? Show him the ropes and all that.”

Oliver nodded enthusiastically and moved his iron broadsword out the way as he offered Michael his hand.

Michael hesitantly took it, a little weary, when Oliver took him gently by the forearm and pulled him close enough to see the gold flecks in his hazel irises. Oliver grinned and closed his eyes in the traditional fashion of the greeting and Michael found himself following suit.

“Aawharu,” Oliver said, in Old Crekaen. Companion.

Michael smiled in gentle surprise, already dismissing his weariness. “Ergan,” he replied properly, Trust, before they both broke into informality.

It was an explorer’s greeting, used back in the days when maps weren’t filled in and borderlines were written in pencil, not ink. Mostly used by Crekaens who would scour the world for wonders, and should they stumble upon their national kin, it simply enacted an age-old custom, one of obliged companionship and ensured trust. It was now used across the world by anyone who knew the words.

Oliver stepped back, looking to the arrow in Michael’s off-hand. “Well, a good start is getting you something a little more substantial than that. Or at least something to fire it from.”

Michael smiled at his soft voice, curious to see where the boy would lead him. “Sounds good. Farewell, guys, lovely to meet you.”

They all waved him off and the Oliver towed him along to the armoury down the forum. “So, how does it feel?”

His voice continued to be gentler than Michael had expected it to be. “What do you mean?” Michael asked as they wandered passed the Forges, the smell of hot smoke drifting high through the fortress sky.

Oliver’s bright amber eyes crinkled in his grin and they stopped outside the weapon-decorated shopfront of the armour. He pulled open the door for Michael and clarified, “To know about all this. This is like… your second birthday, is some ways.”

Michael walked into the armoury, thinking about that strange fact. Before he could come up with anything to say, he was decidedly distracted walls and walls of weapons. One great, open room, dotted with tables, racks and open barrels, all piled high and stacked thick with swords, spears, axes, daggers, and hammers. On the walls, a great array of bows and crossbows were hung over a bench lined with full quivers. Some had polished wood shafts while others were dark steel or tipped with glass.

Michael’s eyes were drawn to the tall rack of ranged weapons. He looked to the arrow in his fingers and then found himself reaching for a bronze-veined, steel recurve bow.

Michael took it from the wall and muttered, “Feels like the entire world is playing a joke on me. Like everyone’s about jump out and shout ‘We can’t believe you fell for that!’, you know?”

Oliver frowned at the bow and said, “Do you mind if I?”

“Not at all,” Michael said, handing it to him. “So, how does this situation work? We give them back every night or what?”

Oliver ran his index finger down the bow’s face until his hand touched upon the moulded grip and he stopped sharply and smiled. “Well, so long as we sign for them and log them out, they’re ours. But more importantly, check this out.” He righted the bow so it was in firing position and then delicately squeezed the grip.

It gave a dull click, and a long, slender blade jutted out of the top and bottom of the weapon.

Michael was so astonished by the weapon that he nearly missed the fact that it was technically free. When Oliver tried to hand it to him, Michael took a half-step away on instinct.

“What’s wrong?”

Michael’s heart sped up. “I’ve never owned anything that expensive before. How could you possibly be giving them away?”

Oliver sighed in understanding. He slowly drew his own long sword and presented it to Michael. “This is Iron Tooth. It’s not actually from this armoury, but the premise is the same. Basically, Michael, we live every day unsure whether we’ll get another. Dark, I know. We take an oath to serve this fortress- a chance you’ll get soon –and when the time comes, we’re expected to do so. We sew crops in the fields, train the younger fighters, we go on missions for the good of the stronghold. All these things, we do and-or are expected to do, and in return, they feed us, clothe us, and yes, arm us.”

The boy’s smile softened and he handed Michael a leather notebook, bent and worn from use. Michael hung the bow over his shoulder opened the log to a page already bookmarked.

“Put your name there and the date beside it,” said Oliver. He then scanned the wall of weapons and the empty space where the bow had been taken. The code B-13 was scrawled there, which he instructed Michael to record also.

“That’s it?” Michael asked, running his finger along the string of his new bow.

Oliver nodded and said, “Don’t worry. If you die, the weapon goes right back on the shelf.”