The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 4

Previous: Episode 1 | Episode 2 | Episode 3

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

Jira and Perin watched as the last fastboat, riding low in the water with its load of surviving raiders, rowed slowly away. Around them, on the breakwater and the harbor, the soldiers quietly performed their post-skirmish duties: securing the eight raiders who came ashore to surrender; towing the last floating fastboat into the harbor; and—worst of all—bringing in floating bodies and laying out the half-dozen of their own who fell to lightning or arrows.

“They look pale,” Jira whispered to Perin. “None of them have ever seen battle?”

“The hazards of a long peacetime,” Perin replied. “Unless you would call attempting to subdue a pack of the mad a battle. They have done much of that in the last year.”

Jira grimaced. “Our prisoners look half-starved,” she said. “If a cohort fights with its stomach, then it’s no wonder we gained the upper hand so quickly.”

“We did have the advantages of preparation, as well as superior arms and magic,” Perin reminded her. “And, of course, our force is well-fed. Although I suspect that many will go hungry tonight, by choice.”

“Hundred.” A runner joined them on the breakwater. “I was told to report to you, as you had a message to be carried.”

“Indeed,” said Perin. “Write this out formally. To Captain Anlayt, of Ak’koyr: We were set upon by four fastboats from the East. The cohort here repelled them successfully, sinking two and capturing a third, with light losses. However, the watchers spotted four more fastboats moving south toward the Straits. They will have likely reached you before this message—”

“Hundred,” said Jira, “I have a captive falcon. Let us send the message that way, to give Ak’koyr time to prepare.”

“In that case, we have the luxury of time. Runner, you are dismissed for now. Let us question the captives. Perhaps they will tell us what their fellows intend.”

• • •

The captives were indeed Eastern, by their looks and refusal to speak the language of Camac. They marched silently, hands bound behind them and legs roped together, across the breakwater and into the small detention area. It most recently had housed the least violent of the mad, until all finally succumbed to whatever it was that The Madness did to them.

Perin summoned Striker Nars, who himself was Eastern, to speak to the prisoners. He gave other orders, which lightened the hearts of the soldiers receiving them. “They’ll talk, one way or the other,” he told Protector Jira with a smirk.

Striker Nars looked at the eight raiders, then put his right arm across his chest and lowered his head in the traditional Eastern salute. One of the captives began speaking rapidly, but Nars cut him off. “I am not your brother!” he hissed in the Eastern tongue. “You attacked us with no provocation, and your mage killed several soldiers under my command!”

“Apologies, sir—” one of the raiders began, speaking in Camac’s language, then stopped. His fellows glared, but said nothing.

“Good,” said Nars. “We have established that you do speak the language of our nation—your former nation, as I understand it.” Two soldiers rolled a cart, covered with a large cloth, up to the cell. They saluted and departed. “Do you know what this is?” he asked them.

“Torture us all you will, barbarians,” another Easterner snarled. “We will die proudly, as soldiers of Ryddast.”

“I hope there is no need for that,” Nars said mildly. He whipped the cloth off the cart with a flourish, incidentally wafting the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread their way. He smiled, watching the wide-eyed prisoners trying not to lick their lips. “Answer a few questions, and then we’ll roll this cart in there. All of you look like you could use a decent meal. So tell me, what was your purpose?”

The Easterners looked at each other. “Food,” one said.

“After you answer my questions.”

“Eh? No, that’s why we came. The madmen. They destroyed much of our harvest last fall. Your Captain, the one who made his tour before the equinox, he and his crew looked well-fed.”

“Why not ask for aid, instead of throwing aside your allegiance?” Jira asked. “It was ever Camac’s tradition to see to the needs of our folk. Were we all that is left of Camac, we could have done at least a little.”

“Our lord is fond of asking, Why swear allegiance to a city of rubble?”

“And…” another looked at his comrades, scowled, then continued. “If we die, we die. That many less mouths to feed at home. Those who have the lord’s favor have what they need. Others…” he shrugged. Two of the others nodded.

“What of the other fastboats?” Perin prompted. “Where are they going?”

“Koyr. Their under-hill granaries should be intact. They will capture a larger ship and bring home what they can carry.”

Perin and Jira looked at each other for a moment, but Perin continued the questioning. “And the your fastboat, the one that retreated?”

“They will not return home, if that is your hope,” said one.

“As heavy-laden as they are, if they row hard, they could catch up with the others,” said another. “Are you finished with your questions?” This one stared pointedly at the food cart.

“One more question,” said Jira. “Why is your force all men?”

“It was always the tradition in the East to nurture and protect our women from harm,” one Easterner said piously. “Your crown has forced us to consider women little different from men, over the years, but we have regained more than our independence. We have regained our culture.”

A flock of harsh rejoinders came to mind, but Jira suppressed them. Waste not your words on those who will not hear, the saying went.

Perin nodded, and Nars opened the cell long enough to roll the cart in. The eight Easterners wasted no time setting to. “A fine last meal,” said one around a mouthful of meat.

“I would rather not see anyone executed, when so few are left,” said Jira. “You shall become laborers. Your first task, after you have eaten, is to name and lament your fallen comrades.” And you will be nurtured and protected yourselves, she thought sourly. And, like Eastern women, little more than property in time.

continued…

The Lost Years: Season 1, Ep. 3

One of the good things about serializing this is that I can include definitions for Termag-specific jargon at the end of each post.

Episode 1 | Episode 2

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

Before The Madness, Jira had enjoyed the solitude of her posting. Near the tip of the Northern Reach, North Keep was near the important Straits, and only a few days’ sail from Isenbund and the islands of the cold Northern Sea. But the Northern Reach itself was rural, almost remote, a land of farms and hillside vineyards. Its primary settlement was the Keep itself and the adjacent military outpost. Like the rest of the world, most Reachers died in the Madness or its aftermath. But its relative isolation shielded many of the survivors from the after-effects, and the surviving soldiers, brave men and women all, helped Jira maintain some semblance of order.

A few weeks had passed since the unfruitful trip to Ak’koyr. Phylok was now in Isenbund, but they devoted a ketch to carry information and essentials between Isenbund and the Reach. Jira and Phylok had urged Anlayt to do the same for Ak’koyr, but the Captain insisted that all their resources were needed for rebuilding.

“Notable.” Striker—no, Hundred Perin now, she had promoted him to command the cohort that remained—stood at the door to her chambers. “The watchtowers are signaling an alarm.”

“Is a drill scheduled?” Jira could not remember a time when the watchtowers had ever signaled more than a drill.

“The flares are yellow,” he said. During a drill, the watchers would add copper salts to the fire, to turn the flames blue or green.

“I assume you have placed the outpost on alert?”

“Indeed, notable.”

Jira rose. “I will lend my aid, if needed. Ready a runner. If there is an incident, we should let Ak’koyr know.”

“Whether they deserve it or not,” said Perin.

“Indeed, Hundred.”

• • •

A runner from Point Watch met them at the outpost. “Eight fastboats, from the East,” she panted. “No banners. Four of them turned south toward the Straits. The others are heading around the Point.”

“Perhaps they are trying to establish trade routes?” Perin suggested.

“Given Captain Phylok’s reception, when he made his survey,” said Jira, “I will assume them hostile until I see otherwise.”

Perin nodded and gave orders. On either side of the harbor mouth, banners were raised: red, with a white horizontal stripe. No entry, was the message.

Another thing I have seen only in drills, Jira thought. She reviewed what she knew: a fastboat could carry two or three strikes. If these were indeed raiders, four fastboats could carry an entire cohort, equal in strength to this outpost. Whether they had a mage with them or not, Jira expected to take part in any skirmish. As a Protector, she knew combat magic, but had not specialized in it.

Well offshore, the fastboats struck their sails, deployed oars, and arrayed themselves. “Flying Diamond formation,” Perin spat, pointing to the approaching ships. “Fools. They’ve given away their intent.”

“If they land in the harbor, we could have trouble,” said Jira. “We need to repel them before they reach the breakwater. Let us reposition ourselves.”

“Indeed.”

Standing in a sheltered nook on the breakwater, Perin gave orders to the Strikers: “Keep the harbor clear. I don’t want a single one of them setting foot ashore, unless they’re surrendering. We’ve drilled in defending the outpost, you and yours know what to do. For the glory of Camac—” Perin swallowed past a lump in his throat— “the glory of Camac That Was!”

“For Camac!” the Strikers shouted as one, then hurried to their posts. Two strikes, one on either side of the breakwater, operated the concealed ballistas. These were fearsome weapons, like gigantic crossbows; a well-placed shot could breach a ship at the waterline or pin together half the rowers on one side of a fastboat. On shore, the catapults were ready. Jira held her breath as the attacking force drew ever closer.

The offshore mooring posts had a second use; they marked the effective range of the outpost’s larger weaponry. As the lead fastboat rowed through at full speed, the Strikers gave orders. Two ballistas loosed their bolts, aiming for the waterline. From the shore, the first catapult launched its own missile. Rowers in the lead fastboat, the focus of the defenders’ first response, broke rhythm as their ship took the onslaught. One ballista fell short of the mark, the bolt plunging into the water and slowing harmlessly. The second went high, wounding several rowers. But the catapult shot was true, sending a heavy bronze ball smashing through the hull.

Lightning crackled from the fastboat closest to Jira as it passed the mooring posts, slamming into one of the ballista emplacements. Jira stood and sent her own lightning in return, aiming to shear the oars along one side. The second ballista on Jira’s side of the breakwater returned fire, aiming toward the source of the lightning. A volley of arrows came Jira’s way, but she had already raised a fender and ignored them. She called the water, her primary element, and sent a mighty wave at their broadside, nearly capsizing two fastboats and swamping them both.

The battle had been joined only a minute, and already three of the fastboats were disabled or sinking outright. The fourth backed oars, trying to stay out of range of the outpost’s weapons, ignoring the shouts of their fellows and the taunts of Camac’s last cohort. Archers on the breakwater continued to shower the other three with arrows, confounding the crews who were trying to return fire or simply bail out enough water to keep their ships afloat. At last, Perin gave the order and the arrows ceased. A soldier struck the No entry banner on one side of the breakwater, and raised a banner of blue and yellow. This signal offered honorable surrender to any who reached shore unarmed. The attackers gave no response, but those who could on the lead fastboat abandoned ship. A few swam to shore to surrender, but most swam to join their fellows at one of the other ships.

Jira nodded, as Perin rejoined her in the sheltered place. “Do you notice something odd about yon raiders?” he asked.

“Besides their bent to war, when every living soul is more precious than ever?”

“Send your vision across the water, noted Protector. Tell me what you see.”

Jira closed her eyes. “One of the fastboats I swamped—there is no bailing out that one.” She sounded satisfied. “A man with a red sash floats dead in the water—your ballista crew aimed true, Hundred. Men scurrying about or swimming… hoy.” She opened her eyes and turned to Perin. “Not a single woman among them?”

“Indeed.”

“But why? The women in our cohort would make three, maybe four strikes.”

“And women or men, they fought bravely.” Perin grew grim. “But perhaps they…” He paused. “A dead woman cannot carry the next generation forward.”

continued…

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Terminology:

Fastboat: a long, narrow ship with both sail and oars. Favored by raiders and navies for their maneuverability.

Strike: 10-12 soldiers, commanded by a Striker.

Cohort: 10-12 strikes, commanded by a Hundred.

The Lost Years, Season 1 Ep. 2

I have a good start on the next episode. So far, so good!

Episode 1

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Credit: Roy Lathwell

“I wonder if this is a calculated slight,” Captain Phylok muttered. “Sending an open ox-drawn cart, instead of a proper carriage.”

“Perhaps.” Protector Jira sounded distracted, as she looked about. All around them, the once-proud city of Koyr lay in char and rubble. The main thoroughfare, River Run, was cleared—perhaps at the expense of side roads, most of which were blocked by debris. “But this is comfortable enough. The weather is agreeable, and seeing is easier. If all the world’s horses were as hard-hit as our own, perhaps they have nothing but oxen to pull us.” She paused. “I presume Isenbund is better preserved than Koyr.”

“Indeed, notable. At least the Old Town, the walled district, survived in reasonably good order. Much of the wooden structures outside did not fare so well. But the Old Town is more than enough to house the survivors.”

They said little else as the cart followed the road, which in turn followed the Vliskoyr River. But when they passed through a gap that was once the famed Iron Gate, Phylok spoke again. “What happened to the gate? No madman could have carried that away!”

“I rather expect to pass through it yet,” said Jira.

• • •

The acropolis was ancient, perhaps predating Camac itself. Seven walls, one inside the other, climbed the hillside. The acropolis proper was inside the highest wall.

Phylok nodded with approval at those who guarded the first gate. “One could choose a worse place to sequester oneself at the end of the world,” he mused. “A hundred good soldiers could defend this place from any army you could field today.”

“There are granaries and storehouses under the hill itself, I’m told,” Jira replied. “Koyr used some of them, but the shafts and tunnels go on and on. The sages say it might at one time have been a Goblin fastness.”

“Let us hope that none are left sleeping there.”

They continued up the hillside, gate by gate, until they reached the top. Jira chuckled at the sight. “The Iron Gate,” she said. “As I thought, our hosts took it down and moved it. They must intend to live here, far above the chaos and debris. An interesting statement.”

Through the Iron Gate, the acropolis showed no signs of the recent chaos. Yet, there was much evidence of patching and construction on the ancient buildings. Here, the narrow streets were laid out in rings, an echo in miniature of the walls outside. The cart wormed its way around and through, until at last the driver pulled the placid oxen to a stop before a squat circular building.

“I believe that was once a tower,” Jira replied. “The ancients could have seen for miles from here.”

From the outside, the building was unimposing, its circular walls the only distinctive feature. Workmen stood atop a roof that once was higher, laying brick and stone.

“The center of the center,” Phylok whispered. “I wonder whether this is a statement as well.”

• • •

The driver announced them: “Protector Jira, of the Northern provinces. Captain Phylok, of Isenbund.”

“Enter, in all peace and harmony,” came the sharp reply.

Captain Anlayt is not pleased to have us here, Protector Jira thought, as they entered the Council Chamber. The chamber took up much of the old tower’s ground floor. It seemed far larger than necessary, but perhaps they would close off sections later.

“Welcome to Ak’koyr,” Anlayt greeted them. “I trust your sail was uneventful?” His expression lacked the warmth of his words.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” said Jira. Spring in the North was often stormy, and the fastboat had been tossed like a rag before they reached the Straits, but Jira had resolved to make no complaint. “Captain, have you made a survey of the Gulf region? What is there to report?”

Anlayt gave her a dismissive look. “Forgive me, notable, but I report to First Protector Nisodarun. This is not your domain.”

Jira drew herself up, looking down at Anlayt, her swirling blue cape and her anger making her seem even larger. “The First Protector fell to the Madness! Have you forgotten the rules of succession?”

Anlayt fell sullen, as those nearby stole glances in their direction. “Of course I am familiar with those rules.”

“Good. Then you know, until we appoint a new Protector for the Gulf region, then the nearest Protector is to take charge. Of the nine Protectors, only myself, Protector Kontir of Stolevan, and Protector Borvin of the Spine have survived the events of the past year.”

“Truly? No word from the East?” Anlayt could not hide his surprise.

“I myself surveyed the East,” Phylok spoke for the first time. “If any of our mechanisms of government survived the last year, they have been swept aside. Those provinces not lying in anarchy and ruin have thrown off their allegiance.”

“Pah. Ungrateful wretches, the lot of them. And I myself am Eastern.”

“So what news of the Gulf?” Jira insisted.

“You saw the rubble of Koyr for yourselves. Vlis is much the same. Camac is worse.” Anlayt sighed. “The Pearl Throne was smashed. I have seen it myself. I cannot be certain, but I believe the scattered remains in the throne room were those of Her Sublime Majesty.” He turned away, and nobody spoke for a long minute. “And you?” he finally continued. “Have you other news?”

“Stolevan has fallen, but Protector Kontir tells us that several other coastal cities have maintained or re-established order. I will let Captain Phylok speak for Isenbund.”

“Isenbund lives,” said Phylok, “but the summers have grown shorter in the last few years. If that continues, we shall be icebound in a generation. Do you know of any other Captains in this region, besides the two of us, that have survived? No? We three may be all that is left of Camac’s governing mechanisms, outside the southern coast.”

Anlayt nodded, the silver plume atop his helmet bobbing in counterpoint. “Then you should urge your folk to gather here, Captain Phylok. The more we have working together, the more likely we can recover from this crisis.”

“They would not, Captain Anlayt. The Northern folk are proud citizens of Camac, and they will not lightly throw aside their allegiance. Nor will they lightly abandon their home, until it becomes absolutely necessary.” He drew himself up. “And as Captains, we should defer to the surviving Protectors.”

Anlayt gave Phylok a sour look. “Much of the old order, by necessity, must be put aside, no?”

“Perhaps,” said Protector Jira, “but it is our duty to preserve what we can. What of the eastern Gulf?”

“Only the cattle are left,” said Phylok. “They roam wild through the streets of the old fishing towns and across the plains. If any folk have survived, they stayed out of sight. Our remnant, Isenbund’s remnant, and the three of us are all that is left of Camac.”

continued…

The Lost Years, Season 1, Ep. 1

The four centuries between the fall of Camac That Was and the Age of Heroes is commonly called “The Lost Years.” These are the stories of the remnant who tried to re-establish order and civilization.

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Year 1, Spring

Credit: Roy Lathwell

The last of the mad ones was dead, and Protector Jira felt a guilty relief.

“Bury her,” she told Striker Perin, looking out her window at the sea, grey and cold as her thoughts. “Do it properly, and erect a marker. She had a name—Linya sam Tiegs—so give her a proper grave.”

“It will be as you wish, notable,” said Perin. “But indulge my curiosity: why do for this one, what we could not do for the thousands of others?”

Jira sighed. “Most of those had no name. Or no name that we could put to them. And Perin, I am weary. We burned so many bodies over the winter, I fear the soot will cover the entire Northern Reach forever. We had to cover the burial pit last week for the smell. And the smell of death is one I hope to be done with for a good, long time.”

“Understood, notable.” Perin saluted and departed.

“It’s over,” Protector Jira said to herself, trying to believe it. Not a year ago, people began to go mad, for no known reason. It spread across Camac’s vast domain like a virulent disease. Many who kept their wits fell victim to those who did not, or simply died in the general chaos, or killed themselves in despair over loved ones. Jira herself had considered the latter.

Spring is the time of renewal, she reminded herself. But what is there to renew? Take twenty of the folk. Twelve of them fall to The Madness. Seven more perish, by the hands of the mad, starvation or accident, or their own hands. One is left to carry on, the horrors of the last few months forever etched on her mind. Could this tiny remnant re-establish order? Was it even worth trying?

Jira left the window, crossing the room to a map of Termag. Jira marked the places in her mind. Rumors said the great cities—Camac, Stolevan, Vlis, Koyr—were all smoldering ruins, and that seemed likely. There had been a brief message from Protector Kontir of Stolevan, claiming the cities east of Stolevan had managed to maintain a semblance of order. Captain Phylok of Isenbund had traveled across the Eastern provinces, to see how they had fared, and now his ship stood in the small harbor outside the Keep. Perhaps that was a good omen—Phylok’s safe return on the same day the last mad soul took her longest journey. Any hope was worth clinging to, these days.


“Notable,” a runner called from the door that Jira had left slightly ajar. “Captain Phylok.”

“Enter, in all peace and harmony,” she said. Phylok was a Westerner, short but broad and strong. Jira, a Northerner and a sturdy woman herself, stood nearly a head taller.

Phylok saluted. “Noted Jira, I am ready to make my report.”

“Good news, I hope.”

“As I see it, good and bad. The Eastern provinces were stricken hard, perhaps not quite as hard as ourselves. However, every one of them with any semblance of government has declared independence. Most refused us harbor. We can expect no help from the East.”

Jira shrugged. “And the southern coast is too far away to focus on anything but its own needs. As expected, it seems we are on our own.”

Phylok paused, gathering courage for a question. “Have you received word from any other quarter?”

“We have heard from Captain Anlayt. He was able to gather survivors in the acropolis outside Koyr. They have named it Ak’Koyr.”

“But not Camac?”

“First Protector Nisodarun fell to The Madness,” said Jira. “Perhaps Captain Anlayt has made a survey of the Gulf, but he did not see fit to give me any kind of report beyond the fact of his own survival.”

“Perhaps we should join him there. I’ve seen the acropolis, it’s defensible, and the climate is better.”

Jira gave him a sour look. “If relocate we must, climate be damned. I would rather relocate to Isenbund. Captain Anlayt is… intractable.”

Phylok looked down. “If summers get much shorter, we may have to abandon Isenbund. The remnant is in good order—we gathered three, perhaps four hundred sane folk into the city—and the farms above the city were not greatly damaged. We were organized enough to bring in the harvest, and we actually have a surplus of food, but this was the first winter in the last five that we were able to feed ourselves.”

“Good thing. There has been little we could have done here.”

Phylok nodded. “Indeed. So what do we do now?”

Jira thought a moment. “As unpleasant as Anlayt is to deal with, we cannot shun him—or any living, sane soul—in these times. We shall ask him if he has surveyed the Gulf, and what he has found. But, as much as it pains me to do so, I believe I must make this request in person.”

continued…