The Ink spread across the world in the space of a breath. The gods had peered into the hearts of every creature that walked and talked, and pulled forth their truest allegiance. The mortals were thus marked with a symbol in Ink, positioned neatly across the throat. A warm sensation at the touch of the gods, there and gone, the Ink left behind.
Most found themselves marked by the symbol of a place. Loyalty to home and country, to the town where one was born, to the land one relied upon, to the army one fought for. A simple and clean allegiance. The warriors of Orvesis were marked with a blackbird, while their enemies in Infinzel were marked with a pyramid.
Some who had pledged their service to one of the world’s great armies found their loyalty abruptly called into question. For how could one truly fight for Orvesis if marked by the symbol of the conquered cities of Ruchet or Noyega?
Others, like the oca’em who ruled over the oceans and the trolkin who prowled the northern tundra were marked all the same, ignoring the differences between pods and tribes. They were marked as a species, their greatest allegiance to their own kind, much in opposition to their more numerous and fractured human cousins.
On some, the Ink marked a person’s loyalty not to a place, but to a guild. The gadgeteers of Crucifalia. The scholars of the Magelab. The breeders of Besaden.
Finally, there were those who found their Ink take shape in ways that didn’t yet make sense, who were loyal to ideas not rooted in cities or passed through blood or organized into guilds. They would spend the years that followed in search of one another, trying to find those whose ways were similar to their own.
And then, rarest of all, were those whose true allegiance even the gods could not discern.
--Record of the First Granting and Dawning of the Second Age
Lyus Crodd, Scribe of the Dead Kingdom of Orvesis
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--DRAMATIS PERSONAE—
Uicha de Orak, a young man of no renown, village of Ambergran, slightly too old to be considered an orphan
Johan Steadyhand, a man of no renown, village of Ambergran, manager of Uicha’s farm
Tabitha Gentlerain, Quill of Ambergran, bearer of bad news
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Wish Day, 1 New Summer, 61 AW
The village of Ambergran, North Continent
299 days until the next Granting
Uicha de Orak awoke to farmhands shouting outside his window. From their snatches of conversation, Uicha gathered the Quill had reappeared that morning by her lonesome. That meant bad news. She’d summoned everyone in the village to the meeting house.
None of the hands bothered to knock on the door to tell Uicha. He hadn’t left the main house in more than a week and hadn’t ventured off the property in even longer than that. He’d hardly cleaned himself and ate only when the need became too powerful to ignore. At first, some of his neighbors had brought by food – savory pies and vegetable stews – so that he wouldn’t have to cook for himself. Those visits had long tailed off and lately Uicha had made a diet of stale bread, beans, and the occasional egg.
There was bad news, though. Bad news for someone else. Bad news for the town. That lit something in Uicha. The dark cloud that had been pressing down upon him these last weeks lifted ever so lightly.
Misery loved company.
Uicha washed up with cold water and pulled on some fresh clothes. He had to tighten his belt a notch. He’d always been gangly, but now his shirt felt extra loose in the shoulders.
Outside, the morning was clear and sunny. The farmstead was quiet. The dozen farmhands that ostensibly worked for Uicha had already headed into town. Uicha saddled his horse, Clipper, an easygoing roan pony. He’d never taken to riding, but Clipper was gentle and made things simple. He pranced happily once Uicha was atop him.
“Miss me?” Uicha asked, his voice scratchy.
Without waiting for Uicha to dig his heels in, Clipper cantered up the road toward town.
Wish Day was typically a time of celebration. A feast in the town square where every farmstead contributed something. Enough kegs of beer to keep the farmhands drunk all day. Fireworks if the town coffers could support them. Yet, as he rode into town, Uicha thought the streamers hung across the thoroughfare didn’t seem as colorful this year, the decorations like an afterthought. Usually, the morning air on Wish Day would smell of fresh baked pies, but the ovens had been cold since dawn. It was as if the people of Ambergran had anticipated a failed Granting and, as one, decided not to bother.
The hitching posts outside the meeting house were full, so Uicha led Clipper around the side to tie him to a tree. That’s where he found the Quill of Ambergran doubled over and puking into the dirt.
The village of Ambergran hadn’t bothered electing a mayor or governor in decades, preferring instead to handle matters as a community. But only one could wield the Quill and represent the village at the Granting, so Tabitha Gentlerain had been chosen. She owned one of the largest farmsteads in the village and everyone agreed she had a good head on her shoulders. Along with Tabitha, they sent a party to the Granting comprised of two Sword Masters of middling renown, a decent Archer, and the town’s only Healer. They were farmers in Ambergran, not fighters. But they played by the rules. Every year, they wished for nothing more elaborate than a bountiful harvest, as they’d been instructed to do by the Ministry of Sulk. To wish for a bountiful harvest was to avoid ruffling the feathers of any great power and it was supposed to assure the Ministry’s protection on the island.
Uicha studiously ignored Tabitha and her puking as he tied up Clipper. When he turned back, the Quill had straightened up and was gazing at him with glassy eyes.
“Morning,” she said, wiping her mouth.
“Hello,” Uicha replied.
Tabitha glanced up at the sun, like she was trying to determine the time. Then, she gestured to the building. “Suppose we better get started.”
She doubled over again and dry heaved.
Uicha headed inside ahead of the Quill. His neighbors didn’t pay him much attention. Looking around, he saw long, pale faces, tight-lipped mouths, and red-rimmed eyes. Toward the back of the room, Uicha recognized his own farmhands occupying a couple pews. Johan Steadyhand, central among them, raised a meaty hand and beckoned Uicha over. Sighing, Uicha squeezed in next to him.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Good to see you out of bed, boss,” Johan said in a way that suggested otherwise. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder and it felt to Uicha like Johan was putting weight on him.
Muscular Johan with his thinning blonde hair and tobacco stained teeth. Although Johan was twice his age, Uicha was technically the man’s employer. Johan oversaw operations on Uicha’s farm, which Uicha had inherited two months back when his parents had died of the pink pox. He was mean and a drunk, but to Johan’s credit he kept the farm running while Uicha couldn’t be bothered. Uicha had overhead talk amongst the other hands that Johan intended to petition for ownership of Uicha’s land, citing the boy’s careless stewardship. Should the red-faced bully ever figure out the paperwork, Uicha had no notion of defending against his claim. He could have the gods damned place.
“I saw Tabitha throwing up outside,” Uicha said, feeling like he had to say something. “Any idea what’s happened?”
Johan grunted and gestured to the front rows, where a few families were already huddled together and crying. “Champions are dead,” he said. “All of them.”
Uicha blinked. That was worse than he’d even expected. In all his sixteen years, Uicha couldn’t remember Ambergran losing many people to the Granting. There were a few spread out across the years. Men who attempted to make a name for themselves as more than farmers dabbling at combat. Fools caught up in the crossfire of grander battles. Cautionary tales. Never all of them at once.
For a moment, Uicha felt an odd sense of gladness at the village’s collective grief, as if these people had finally joined him in mourning.
“What’re you smirking for?” Johan growled.
Uicha put his hands on his face, cheeks suddenly hot. “I didn’t realize I was.”
Tabitha finally entered, ascending the rickety stage at the meeting hall’s front. They held votes for the yearly budget here and sometimes hosted traveling troupes of actors and musicians. There was also a Wish Day talent show. One year, Uicha’s father had won for his demonstration of knife juggling.
“As I’m sure you’ve figured, the Granting did not go well for us,” Tabitha began. Her shoulders drooped, but she forced herself to make eye contact with the mourners in the front row.
“There’s a fucking understatement,” Johan hissed in Uicha’s ear.
“The Orvesian Witnesses declared a wish that… that is contrary to the life we’ve built here in Ambergran,” Tabitha continued. “Our champions… our friends and neighbors… they fought valiantly against them. But they were all lost.”
A chill went through Uicha at the mention of the Witnesses and he could tell that he wasn’t alone. They had set up camp on the southern border of Ambergran almost a year ago, shortly after the previous Granting. The fields they’d chosen were fallow and abandoned, outside of Ambergran’s gods given territory. The drylands seemed to suit the Witnesses just fine. They were the remnants of a dead kingdom to the south. Lessons about Orvesis at Ambergran’s schoolhouse were more like ghost stories than history, but Uicha understood that the Orvesians had nearly conquered the entire northern continent in the time before Grantings. Nowadays, they appeared collectively mired in perpetual mourning. The Witnesses caked their pale bodies with stripes of ash and wore elaborate costumes of black feathers and dyed furs, even in the summer months. There were about 300 of them camped out there, but they hadn’t done anything besides lurk around the edges of town like vacant-eyed blackbirds, so the official position of Ambergran had been to wait and see and hope they’d move on.
“What does that mean, Tabitha? Contrary to life?” someone shouted.
“Speak plainly, woman!” yelled someone else. “How was the party lost?”
“How were they lost?” Tabitha repeated the question, blinking as she did. It wasn’t like her to not speak plainly. Uicha sensed she’d been trying to break the news gently, but now something in her snapped. “How were they lost? They were butchered, Marcus. Should I go into more detail here, in front of the families and friends they leave behind? Shall I describe how the Orvesians have a Quill who is also a champion? How he fights like a madman, with magic and blade? Would you hear how his weapon drained the life from our champions and made them old before my eyes? Shall I…?”
Tabitha trailed off as the room stilled, even the crying. Most looked down at their hands, or pulled a loved one closer. Uicha stared straight ahead, at least until Johan leaned over to him.
“They were weak sisters,” he whispered. “I knew I should’ve volunteered to take the Ink. I said as much to your father, but he convinced me to stay on instead. Said he wouldn’t be able to run the farm without me.”
That was the first Uicha had heard of Johan taking the Ink. Sure, he was known to kick around some farmhands when he’d had too much to drink, but Johan had never impressed as more than an unskilled yet enthusiastic brawler. At the mention of his father, Uicha’s eyes filled with water and slipped out of focus.
In truth, Uicha always suspected that his mother and father were better fighters than anyone else in the village. They had been pirates with the Flamingo Islands Armada before they'd grown tired of the lifestyle and retired to Ambergran. Uicha couldn't imagine trading daring heists on the high seas for life on the farm, but his parents didn't seem to miss it. When he asked them once why they hadn't volunteered for Ambergran's party, his parents had shared a look. Then, his mother said, "well, they never asked."
How had a couple of Central Sea pirates even heard of Ambergran?
“Why, from a man we kidnapped,” his mother had told him. “He missed his home badly and told us such wonderful stories. After we ransomed him, we had to see it for ourselves.”
This man they’d ransomed had never come home to Ambergran to provide a recommendation, so his parents were greeted with skepticism when they’d sauntered into the village and bought up a farmstead at auction. The locals made noise about not honoring the contract. His parents spent months living out of the inn, negotiating clauses and parceling out bribes. Whenever they walked by the inn together, Uicha’s father had enjoyed pointing out to Uicha the very building where he’d been conceived. He also liked to tell Uicha about how he’d walked the land barefoot at every sunset, wiggling his toes in the dirt. Forging a connection with the land, he liked to call it. Eventually their Ink changed, the marks on their necks one day morphing from the unlocked treasure chest of the Flamingo Islands to the wheat stalk of Ambergran. The gods had recognized this village as their home, and so there was nothing else the locals could do to hold up the sale.
“Farming is like stealing from the land,” his father liked to say. “And, my boy, this land has deep pockets.”
Uicha had the mark of Ambergran upon him too, although he’d tried walking around barefoot and only scraped the soles of his feet. He was long-limbed and umber-skinned in a place where all the other children were stout-bodied and sunburnt. His parents had each other and their precious farmstead. Uicha longed for something more.
They had never even taken Uicha to see the ocean. Uicha used to beg his parents for stories of their exploits, of the faraway places that they'd seen, even just to show him how to tie some complicated knots. Sometimes, they relented and told him of the lavish coastal castles of the fourteen merchant families, and how they invited the pirates of the islands to try their best to rob them during every solstice, made a game of the cat-and-mouse. Mostly, though, they told Uicha that stories would have to wait. There were chores to do.
There were always more chores to do.
And now they were gone, all those stories left untold. Taken by the pink pox, a disease that most children got young in Ambergran and so developed an immunity for. But it was lethal in adults and not something that got passed around on the islands. Uicha had been sick, too, but had recovered with just a network of oval scars across his back. His parents had died quick, itchy and feverish, not cracking any of their jokes, their jaws locked up so they couldn’t even squeeze out goodbye. They might have survived had the Healer not been away, part of Ambergran’s party, off exploring the wilds to build his renown and increase his Ink.
A lot of good that had done when faced with the Witnesses. The man had failed Uicha as town healer and he had now failed all of Ambergran as one of the champions. That felt like a bit of justice to Uicha, but he grimaced as his own eyes cleared and he spotted the healer’s small daughters sobbing in the front row. There was no fairness in that, Uicha decided.
“What about the Sulkies?” someone asked Tabitha. “They’re supposed to protect us!”
“The Ministry tried to intervene on our behalf and did kill two of the Orvesians,” Tabitha said. “But the Ministry suffered losses of their own and… well, we weren’t their only priority.”
Johan snorted. Uicha half-expected the man to declare that he’d once been offered knighthood with the Ministry of Sulk but had turned it down because he loved farming so much. This time, though, Johan kept his mouth shut. His knee bobbed aggressively, vibrating the pew under Uicha.
“If only two of the Witnesses survived, that means their wish is only half strength!” a woman near the front declared, her voice shaking with a desperate optimism.
“What are they after?” someone else asked. “If they want ownership of those southern plots, they didn’t need to kill for them…”
Farmland. These people thought everything boiled down to farmland. Uicha leaned forward, sensing by the way the veins in Tabitha’s forehead pulsed that she was finally going to deliver the news. It would be worse than anyone in here imagined and a small part of Uicha was glad for that.
“What was their wish, Tabitha?” a tired-sounding man asked. “Out with it, already.”
“Annihilation,” she said. Tabitha’s hands trembled, so she put them behind her back. “They wished for our annihilation.”
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