In the northeastern town of Deepwood (though the vast forests for which it had been named had been cleared since the long-gone days of Tim Stoutheart), autumn winds stirred and blew. The faint chill which promised the coming of Year’s End swept through the hardy branches and dried leaves of burled oaks, stirring dust on roads no longer well-traveled. Gentle braying echoed from far beyond the town’s edge; Daniel Bryne’s herd of sheep passed over a solitary hill, spotted with the occasional youngling tree, as they grazed on grass still wet with dew.

It was a lonely sound, befitting a lonely man.

Short of stature he was, and lean to boot, though he was possessed with great stoutness of mind: it was dull, slow work, but heedless he kept watch over his herd, paying only idle attention to the thoughts that entered his head one way and disappeared the other. He wore the typical vestments of a sheepherder, covered in a simple but warm wool cloak, and despite the soft cold of the fading night he had worked up some sweat marching around the loping hillsides. He wiped it from his wenberry-blond hair to keep it out of his eye.

He no longer paid any mind when it dripped into the empty socket of his right; it had been years, after all, and one must grow used to what Gan gives them.

The gentle light of morning firmed as the sun climbed into the sky, a red crescent slowly transforming into a brilliant lantern that pierced the foggy gray of his remaining eye. Hanging low in the south, it promised the coming of the Reaping season’s Fair Day, which the people of Deepwood called Sawain. He swished through the occasional fallen leaf, crisp and with as many colors as the trees they had fallen from. He drew breath through his nostrils, indulging in the rich, earthy smell of decaying plant matter that pervaded the land.

Daniel spied a gnarled stump to rest on, not ten feet away from his sheep. Baa, baa, they called at him as he sat down and breathed a spell. He laid his smooth oaken staff across his knees and set to studying his flock with some small affection. A lazy count told him that all were still accounted for, not that he expected any different; they grunted and called as they stepped clumsily among the twists and whorls of the golden tall grass.

These animals were mostly of good stock: one of the rams had an extra horn on his back, a few of the ewes had a misshapen leg or two, but most were as good as pure thread. Some of them might even actually be pure, by his reckoning. He could only venture to guess that this flock could be one of the best left in the Northern Barony, especially this far away from the barony’s seat Laria.

Not that proximity to the capital was necessarily a good thing, anymore. He had heard distant rumors, whispers that Laria, like everywhere else, was under siege, or perhaps already sacked. It seemed this part of the world, like much else in it, was steadily moving on.

Well, he thought, our wool is fine and the mutton won’t make anyone sick, and at the end of things that’s what really matters.

Daniel soaked in the quietude as dawn turned slowly to morning, and the wild grasses on the hill were steadily consumed as the milky light continued to strengthen. He might have been lonely—he could not hide that fact from himself—but there was peace here, peace which he had been sure he would never know again. Still, he did not relax; even this close to the village, there was no telling what dangers might await his flock.

As if to punctuate that thought, he suddenly heard a steady thump-thump from somewhere behind him. His heart stirred in his chest, but just for a moment—it turned out only to be Seamus, the flock’s proper owner. A far taller man, his head was poking out from the other side of the hill, giving him a strange look of disembodiment.

“Ho, lad,” the old, burly man cried out. “Any trouble last night?”

“None, sir.”

“Good t’ hear.” Seamus approached, ending the discomfiting illusion. “Come on then, ye’ll be wanting breakfast.”

Daniel nodded and stood, hands stretched above head to restore his tired limbs. As the wind pitched and tousled his wispy white hair, Seamus whistled, a high, piercing noise, and on cue the sheep ceased their lazy chewing to mill towards the aged shepherd. Daniel looked forward to a day when they would do so for him; they did not seem to trust him fully, at least not yet.

There’ll be water if God wills it, he thought wistfully, and trudged after his master.

Back in Deepwood proper, the usually sleepy village was now bustling with the preparations for Sawain that night. There was food to be cooked, wood to be chopped, entertainment to be organized—though to the long-term inhabitants, there seemed less and less of these things each year. Not terribly surprising, unfortunately, but these people were no strangers to hardship.

Seamus had taken charge of the flock for the afternoon, guiding them to their home field and leaving Daniel free to mingle amongst the townsfolk. These were a somewhat simple people—it was doubtful any of them had ever seen an electric candle, or indeed knew of them—but they seemed happier for it. The world was moving on, sure as the sun rose and set, but by his reckoning there was little moving on to be done here.

The main square of the village was normally quite barren, but today it served its purpose admirably. A simple, one-story courthouse was long since in disrepair, and usually only used for the most serious of town meetings. Its awnings were torn, and the windows were boarded up with planks that had begun to show rot from years in the sun and rain. There had been no lawmen in this part of the world for years, perhaps decades, and on the rare occasion when it was needed the people made their own peace.

The courthouse was surrounded by a square ring of buildings all dedicated to various purposes: the town storehouse held in one corner, Gregory’s Mercantile (sporting a faded sign next to the door that still proudly claimed, “Always An Up-To-Date Goodsbook Inside!” in flaking blue paint) just next to it. One in four buildings were in disuse, people largely preferring to live in their own little shanties scattered throughout the hills that dotted the area. Everything was constructed from simple plank wood, repairs easily noticed from lack of paint.

Throughout the square, children were dressing little effigies in simple bits of dyed cloth. These were put up in the open windows and dusty stoops of each home and were said to ward off the spirits of the dying year. Some of the more dedicated children added faces with chipped button eyes and little smiles of charcoal, though many others were out playing games instead, relishing their last years of simple freedom.

The adults, indeed, were generally laboring at one thing or another. Many men were bringing small loads of chopped wood in front of the courthouse, setting up for the traditional bonfire—a simple contribution, but no less welcome. The Village Mother, a positively ancient crone with the upper half of a wooden set of teeth, was marching back and forth and making sure that preparations were up to snuff. She was frail, seeming like so much skin stretched over bones, but she moved and gesticulated with the energy of a woman a fraction of the age.

Most of that energy was being expended on guiding one particular process: there was a milling line set up in a great line across the ring’s inner wall. For weeks prior, children were charged with bringing as many acorns as they could find around town (these being ubiquitous underneath the great oaks that were the town’s only remaining trees of any real size), boys carrying them in banged up buckets and girls carrying them in their smudged aprons. A group of men set to washing the hard little tree nuts in large wooden barrels: the acorns soaked for hours until the water was a dirty brown, whereupon the barrel was drained, the acorns were dried, and then soaked again in fresh water. “Tis the most crucial step,” the Village Mother said when Daniel had asked after it. “Ye’ll poison a man with ‘em if’n they’re not washed proper.”

After several washings the cleaned acorns were crushed with wide, flat wooden mallets. Women scooped the crackings into a great copper basin, where the bits and pieces—now showing a harsh yellow on the inside—were crushed with great effort into a fine powder: acorn flour, unheard of practically anywhere else Daniel could think of.

An oddity to be sure, and he had his misgivings as to how this flour would taste once baked. Still, they purported to have been doing this for many generations. He was sure they must have some palatability.

Seamus, and thus Daniel’s, own contribution had constituted five fine heads from the flock. Good meat was all too rare now, with wild game often being harshly stunted, or muties unfit for eating.

Some had tried, though. The residents of Deepwood still talked in hushed tones of the village fool, Orlan, who some seven or eight years ago had “hunted” (some said he had stumbled on it already dead) a doe with six legs and flushed, angry red skin which showed through rough patches in its fur. Laughing at the warnings of the Village Mother (“I’m hungry, Mother, and who else’ll fill my achin’ belly if not for me?”), he had charred its flesh to try and chase away whatever foulness had made it unclean. Evidently this had not worked, as that very night poor Orlan had taken to bed with sick, and wasted away over a three-day span as painful, weeping sores opened on his face and belly.

Ever since then, the townsfolk had been a little more stern when warding their children away from such foolish nonsense.

Filled with some fresh biscuits which had been garnished with a precious little butter, Daniel ambled through the square and watched the people at their work for a little while. The autumn wind, not unpleasantly chilly, streamed through the town and freshened the air, making it crisp and light. There was chatter a-plenty, a high-pitched titter here and a whooping guffaw there as they exchanged their stories and pleasantries.

A man could be happy here, he thought. For a wonder, he believed he was.

Just a little bit, anyway.

There was still plenty of work to be done, though—he saw a young man struggling with an unfortunate-sized bundle of freshly split wood, and he rushed over to help. The first acquaintance he had made in this place since arriving a few months ago, he was a squat, friendly fellow named Robert Meaney.

Daniel gripped some of the logs just in time to keep it all from spilling onto the ground. Robert grunted his appreciation as they lumbered the bundle together to the top of the heap, letting it fall and noisily split open.

The hairy man let out his breath and a gusty ‘thankee, sai.’ Robert wiped his brow with a horrifically dirty oil-stained kerchief, clambering down from the pile and smacking woodchips from his sturdy denim overalls. He got his wind back and then leaned on a horse post—it always came out “hoss” when they said it—next to the courthouse steps.

“Brought the wooly bastards back in then? Pray tell you had a quiet night out in the fields.”

Daniel smiled wanly. “Aye, Robert. No trouble, from the sheep or otherwise.”

“Say thankya. And call me Robby, I’ve told you—‘Robert’ gets me to fearin’ me ma’s comin’ at me as when I was a wee one, with hard words ‘n a harder switch.”

Daniel laughed, short but genuinely pleased. “Sure, Robby. Can I help you with the rest of that?” he pointed at the remaining wagonload, small enough to be pulled by a human but dauntingly stacked nonetheless.

“Yar, and thankya for it.”

They passed some minutes in comfortable silence, tossing logs up to clatter on the bonfire. It was reaching a formidable size, well over the height of the average man: Daniel feared in quiet for the aging courthouse, which seemed perilously close. Still, the burn marks from last year’s Sawain—and all the years before that—fell well short of the courthouse steps, contained in a rough ring of black and gray dirt where nothing grew.

Let tradition be unto tradition, he supposed, and threw another log on the pile.

Once they were finished, Robby clapped Daniel on the shoulder and proffered a genuine smile. “Thankee again, Daniel. Come, let’s treat a little. I heard the graf is better this year than last, and that was a fine batch indeed.”

“You’re very kind,” Daniel said, letting Robby lead the way to a building in the northwest corner of the square. “I must say thanks—you and everyone else have been quite kind to me, since I came here.”

“Think nothing of it,” the brawny man replied casually. “Yer a good sort, Daniel. A hard worker from the get-go, you bring no guns with ya—not on yer person nor by harriers chasin’ ya. We don’t ask fer more than that.”

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Daniel nodded, and then followed as Robby armed his way into the village honky-tonk. It was just shy into the afternoon at this point, and there was no shortage of men (and a few women) cavorting the establishment, taking a break after the busy morning. A few were getting quite rowdy, but not unpleasantly so. It would have been immodest, after all. Daniel took a look around at the joint, which he was still not quite used to, but had nevertheless become a haunt of no small pleasure.

Though the establishment (which possessed no name to speak of) was well-maintained, the walls were largely bereft of decoration except for a couple faded, woven carpets that served as makeshift tapestries hanging up between the shutter windows, and an emblem of the town that hung above the bar proper. Juxtaposed with the generally cleanly state of the rest of the bar, this latter icon was so old and grimy that details could scarcely be made out, except for the image of an acorn situated in the middle and what were surely words wrapped in ribbon around it. No one in Deepwood could remember the town’s motto, and no one felt inclined to go to the effort of cleaning the emblem so as to find out. Those were older days, they would say, and not to do with the likes of simpler folk such as themselves.

The upstairs of the saloon was blocked by a collection of gutted, dusty furniture. “For yer own sake,” Hob, the owner of the bar, had said when asked, pointing at splits in the beams holding up the second-floor balcony. “These buildin’s is old, and they don’t need any pushin’ more than we give ‘em already.”

In the far corner was a positively ancient tack piano, though it was in a sad state of disrepair. “None’s played it in many a year,” old Hob had told him, “for the last time we were movin’ it, that fuckin’ eejit Orlan—” he spat as he said it, and he ground the wetness into unsanded floorboards with his boot for good measure, “—plum dropped his end ‘n the strings all snapped on that side, ‘n set the rest out of tune. Couldn’t get a decent song out of it now if you treated it sweet as yer own ma.”

Despite this, the bar was still lively with music more often than not. A few of the locals had their own instruments they would play on occasion: the gangly twins Knot and Locke had managed to hunt a well-threaded buck some years back, turning its hide into a drum and the skinny antlers into a set of pan flutes. They had no formal training, as none could be found within any reasonable distance, but long hours of self-practice had proven as sure-handed a teacher as any other.

A younger woman named Lenora had inherited a rusty squeezebox from her late grandfather, which she was vehemently proud of. “Wouldn’t sell this grinder if it were Gan’s wish and command,” she said to anyone who broached the topic with her. In fairness, it was a thing of some wonder: it played not one, but five different songs (and some said there were more, if they only knew how to work the box right). If that weren’t enough, she merely had to push a button to activate it instead of tortuously working a turn handle, a fact which never ceased to amaze onlookers when they saw it for themselves. This was a rare thing, however, as Lenora saved this beautiful contraption for once a year only, during Glowing Day in the height of summer. She was afraid to take it out more often than that, as she lacked the understanding to fix it in case it broke somehow.

The most common entertainment at Hob’s, by far, was a portly fellow in his 70th decade by the name of Finnegan, or just Fin if it pleased ya, who had a well-cared for violin. Passed down in his family since better days and years, Fin had taken charge of the heirloom when he was but a lad himself, and dedicated himself quite solidly to performing with the beautiful instrument. Now too old to dig in the fields or work with wood, instead he went out near every afternoon to Hob’s bar to fill the air with a staggering array of crooning melodies and bouncing folksongs, providing a small but appreciated service for those in Deepwood who still worked day to day.

Most of the time Fin played on his own, but today Knot and Locke were accompanying him, as they sometimes did. Together the trio were performing a brisk cut-a-jig, the patrons all nodding in time as the flutes hooted and the violin strings twanged and sang to the beat of the deerskin drum. When a number finished, a rousing cry of “Play on!” or “Another one, sai!” would ring out, and sure as the Beams themselves another tune would strike up. They always continued in this fashion for the rest of the season, until after Sawain was finished.

Robby picked up a couple glasses of fresh cider, with a “How d’you do” to good Hob of course, and the two sat at an unoccupied table off to a quieter side of the establishment, away from the bar proper and the musicians. They toasted gently to the season and downed their drinks apace. It was an excellent brew, Daniel thought, the taste of apples rich but not overwhelming. A pleasant, familiar heat began to spread in his belly, and though it also made him a tad sleepy, he found himself quickly relaxing in his hardback chair.

Again, he found himself thinking that he could be happy here. Every time the thought visited him, he felt a little more convinced. Undeniably, a little spark of contentment was resting in his chest.

A gentle smile overtook him, and he closed his eyes. Before he even knew it, he was nodding off, and the dreams and thoughts of a bygone age drifted down to him, setting his mind aglow.

-

“… and so they say, great Gan’s body rose to split the sky and so formed the Tower,” Abel Vannay said to the half-circle of little boys sitting on the bare, tiled floor around him. The only furnishings were a wicker chair at the head of the room, unused, and a table with an unlit lantern wrought from iron. The room was well lit with the shuttered windows thrown open—it was a punishing summer day, hot throughout all Gilead, and the class had taken refuge inside. No lamps burned, oil being an increasingly precious commodity, and no one wanted the plain classroom to be any warmer than it already was. Though they were dressed light and quick, sweat still beaded down the sides of many a young face, the would-be gunslingers of the future.

Daniel, decidedly the runt of the class, was also among the oldest, three or four years further along than many of the others. His smaller stature, especially at an age where his compatriots were shooting up like reeds in shallow water, had almost prompted an early dismissal from Cort—which his father had stopped with some choice words.

A tall, reedy man, Vannay himself was dressed in a teacher’s simple, heavy black robe. It was no doubt stifling, but he managed not to show it—his khef was strong, unnaturally so. The children did not know this just yet, and they would not know more of their mysterious teacher for some time.

Through whispers betwixt their fathers they did know that the philosopher-warrior had laid away his family’s guns for good some years prior, before most in this ka-tel were even born, though he would never say why when the apprenticed boys asked him. Perhaps this was why so many of those in training found him strange and unapproachable: none could imagine a reason to lay down their vaunted arms, the mere idea was anathema to them. Many realized gunslingers spoke sparingly to Vannay if they could help it (though, of course, they were quick enough to ask for his wisdom when it was needed).

Daniel did not understand his teacher either, to be sure, but his curiosity was more powerful than his confusion and discomfort. Far, far more powerful. There were many things to know in this wide world, after all, and within a short few lessons with his teacher, he found himself hooked by lofty ideas like a starving fish.

Where most of the class—not a one yet having lost their honor, or quietly receding into a life of aristocracy—merely tolerated Vannay’s lessons, there were a few who took to them with some alacrity. At the least Roland and Alain listened raptly, pondering at the tales the looming man told them, as he spun great stories taken from his travels across the strange lands of Mid-World and its immense, foggy history. To them and those alike, this was a promise of adventure—and perhaps glory—to look forward to later in their lives.

Yet, his mind was at just the right age where he had taken to curiosity of the greater world, and it made him as like clay for a sculptor. He absorbed every detail with the wide, starry-eyed gaze of a fanatic. Every word burned in his mind like a brand and was committed to the depths of childhood memory. These were not simply stories to him, but a gospel. There was great power in the sprawling recollections Vannay the Wise delivered unto his pupils, and as they flowed forth, in the back of Daniel’s ten-year-old mind there was an awakening. A gaping hunger sprang forth, an overwhelming desire for knowledge and information. He simply must know what was out there, as sure as his body needed water to live. The world’s secrets would be his, by his watch and warrant.

When the lesson was finally let out, the other boys going to spar or play, he approached his instructor quietly. Vannay was turned away, putting up an old but delicately treated woodcut that he had been using for visual reference during the lesson. A title was carved on its front: Workings of the Great Ones it said in the High Speech, and again in the low just beneath; there was no author, the name thereof having been lost many generations ago.

Though most of the boys still did not know their letters proper, Daniel had a little more time at his disposal (and had been quick to pick them up, anyway). “A right trig cove, he is,” or so he had heard his nurse say once when his parents were out of ear shot. He did not know what a “trig cove” was, and when he asked his father, he had received a smart pop in the mouth for “being vulgar.” He tended not to ask his da’ questions, after that.

“Teacher,” Daniel asked timidly, his teacher turning ‘round quietly, “have you really been to End-World?”

“Yes, young Daniel,” Vannay the Wise began, “I have been there not a few times, from the Gateway of Tepachi to beyond. Shall I take it that you enjoyed today’s lesson?”

Daniel nodded emphatically, his eyes still wide. “I want to hear more, teacher. Have you ever seen the Dark Tower?”

“No one has seen the Tower, not since the time of our forefathers when Arthur Eld first unified these lands.”

“How do you know?”

A simple question, but Vannay’s face darkened ominously. Strangely, he seemed unable to answer, and his eyes took on a hard, dangerous glint.

Daniel took no notice and continued, innocent of the scope of what he was asking. “What about Gan and God—are they the same person? My da’ says they are.”

“Well…” Relieved, Vannay’s face gentled and he rubbed at his cleanly shaved chin. “No, you see, the Bible tells us that the Man Jesus—”

But the boy blundered on, like a boulder which has been tipped over a hill and finds itself a slave to gravity’s will. “I want to know all about the Great Old Ones, too, and their machines. How did they work? Why did they disappear? Where did they co—”

“Patience Daniel,” the teacher said not unkindly. “Patience. These are questions of great import, and there is much we do not know about the Great Ones. I’m afraid most of your questions would have no proper answer.”

The boy tried hard not to show that he was crestfallen, though his quavering voice betrayed him. “You’ve been everywhere though, teacher!”

“Alas, no one has been everywhere, I should say. And if merely being in a place was enough to teach us everything, then we would not have to work quite so hard at educating you bright young lads,” though there was a smile on his face as he said it. “Your stated zeal for learning is refreshing, though. Many your age can barely tolerate their lessons. If you’d like, I would be happy to spend some more time with you. I can develop a more… rigorous curriculum, if that would suit you.”

Daniel had not heard this word ‘curriculum’ before, but he was delighted at the prospect of prying more knowledge from his beloved teacher. He nodded again, perhaps even more vigorously this time.

“Very good. I will find some volumes that may interest you. Be ware, young Daniel, you may not find all that I have to tell you captivating. Your mother tells me you can read already,” Vannay commented as he turned back to the shelf, peering at the various woodcuts that adorned it. “I will find something that is sure to be challenging. Perhaps one of the accounts by Frisius the Great, though I would not usually recommend her until you had a few years more on your shoulders…”

As the years passed, Daniel steadily drank in everything that his mentor threw at him. It had not taken long before Vannay allowed him direct, unsupervised access to Gilead’s library: a sacred place, guarded almost as closely as the home of the dinh in the palace, there were four soldiers positioned at the entrance and one at regular intervals inside, a deterrent to the no-doubt great number of thieves which might otherwise target this treasure house.

The first time he entered, Daniel presented a small wooden token with the symbol of a white flower to one of the men standing at attention by the door. He looked at it, boredom plain on his face, and let him in without a second glance. Stepping into the library proper, Daniel was near shock: there were more dusty tomes and delicate books in here than he thought existed in the whole of the rest of Mid-World. Each wall was organized into shelf upon shelf of work crammed end to end on each of them. The ceiling was open to the roof, displaying the open floors above. The center of the room was occupied by some humble looking reading furniture, a few wood-backed chair with faded cushions, a couple tables with small electric candles, kept off during the day. There was a staircase in the back that led to the second floor, organized in much the same fashion, and then a much smaller third floor that seemed to possess no books, its only notable feature being a window that let hot air rise out of the building. There was a guard stationed there, too, presumably for those who thought that access from the roof would make for easier plundering.

Each volume he passed, he knew, was worth more than some people made their entire lives. He stopped at one wall, as tall as two men stacked on top of each other, and selected one at random: the title, blazoned in simple black ink on a blank cover, read An Accountyng of the Stock and Trayd in the Outer Arc. Fingers trembling, he opened the front and felt at the paper—so much of the stuff just sitting here, gods above!—yellow at the edges where air had touched at it over untold decades sitting on the shelf.

Still, he could tell that this particular work had only survived in such good shape through general disinterest. The contents were disappointingly dull and boring, a lot of actuarial tables crowding words to the left or right. Some skimming taught him that the Eastern Barony exported a number of exciting things such as barley and soft timber. He scanned a few more pages, eyes briefly glancing at an exegesis on the quality of wine in some place called “Hunira,” out at the very edges of civilization. He made a mental note to research that name, if there was any information on it here, but shortly put the book back where he had found it.

He searched along the walls some more, barely registering each guard as he crossed in front of them, looking for something. At once, his eyes seemed to settle of their own accord on a small, dark book sat right up against the side of the shelf. It looked far worse for wear than the last, with corners blunted by the passing of time and through hands not his own.

As his fingers grasped at it, he felt a small shock pass into him, forcing him to give a small gasp, but after a second’s hesitation he pried it out from the shelf. Turning it over, he discovered that the title was so faded, he had to trace the imprinted letters with his finger to make them out.

“GUARDIANS”

Without a word, Daniel took this volume to one of the rickety chairs in the center of the room and gingerly opened the ragged cover. The words written therein were small and cramped, in some places horribly smudged, but he etched every word of that first page into the stone of his memory.

Chuchundra, Jasconius

Camazotz, Owsla

Garuda, Aslan

Garm, Rocinante

Maturin, Shardik

Navius, Babar

Prim Brothers, you hold aloft the pillars of being.

May your names live on forever, your service unending.

By tail and scale

By wing and ear

By feather and claw

By nose and hoof

By shell and paw

By tooth and tusk

Prim Brothers, together your ka lifts the Dark Tower.

May it always be so, that all things serve the Beams.

And Daniel read on until long into the night.