Just Resolution: A Fantasy Romance Action Adventure Story

9781483533025

Chapter 1

Riss looked up from his sausages, and gazed across the valley. In front him, the wild grass-covered slopes stretched out towards the silvery river and up again to the next ridge some distance away. Behind him, hidden by the wall of hills, were the snow-capped mountains and the city. Hidden, yes, but always on his mind, like a threat.

No threat today, however, as he looked back to the sausages on the iron plate. He wore just an off-white robe and leather sandals. His grey-white hair was too long, well past his shoulders, perhaps grown so to compensate for the thinness of it up top. His pale face was toughened but not tanned by his recent years of living out of the city.

The small cooking fire made little smoke, just a shimmering blue trail dispersing into the light breeze. Along this side and across the valley there were a few hints of similar fires, Riss’s ‘invisible’ neighbours, just the kind he liked best. By listening extra carefully, he could hear a very distant clatter of a steam powered generator, an extravagance that was rare in this spread-out community of recluses.

He speared a sausage with his fork. His stomach growled its anticipation, even though it had already partaken of some fresh vegetables. Riss nibbled the end just a little, not wanting to burn his mouth like the previous night.

And then his perfect day was interrupted. Sunshine, gentle breeze, green hills, sausages, and a tall, bright flash of light opening up not twenty paces away, there in mid-air. Like curtains parting to reveal a bright interior, only without the curtains. Open, then in a second, shut again. Where the light had been, a man stood whirling around in confusion, a sword held out before him as if searching for his opponent, which is what he was doing.

His long dark hair swept around, settling thickly on his shoulders. His dark eyes were wild, matching his panting, open mouth and flared nostrils set into his thin but aquiline nose. His jaw was angular, and the fair skin was darkened by stubble and dirt. He wore predominantly leather riding gear, with a charcoal cloak which was pulled clear of his outstretched right arm.

For just a moment, he seemed to relax slightly, and his searching eyes found Riss. However at that instant the light returned, or a new one appeared, a few paces to his left, and another figure was spat out. This one had short hair, very light, and steely cold blue eyes set in a pasty white face that would have looked boyish had it not been for the grimace of violent intent.

The newcomer was dressed in light, silver mail armour, and also wielded a sword. He too spun around as if to get his bearings, quickly finding his opponent and just as quickly ignoring everything else. The two of them focused their entire beings upon each other, circling each other and tensed up for the slightest trigger.

Riss had been transfixed by the spectacle, sausage before his open mouth, grey eyes only now starting to blink, at least that he was aware of. Slowly, he started to lower his fork-bearing hand, but then thought better of it and took a bite of his sausage. Well! he thought, and for a moment he couldn’t think of anything else.

It was ‘Blondie’, as Riss thought of him, that broke the tension by striking out. Parried by ‘Darkie’, then returned in kind. Steel clashed and sparked, the noise surprisingly musical, Riss thought. He had never actually witnessed such a duel in real life, and he found it professionally fascinating.

As the contest continued, Riss speculated on the possible outcomes of the contest. Perhaps they would be equally matched, and kill each other. No, he thought. Too convenient, too much to hope for.

Perhaps the victor would stride off without so much as noticing or bothering about Riss. Again, too much to hope for. So the victor would have to be, what Riss once would have called in professional flippancy, a ‘good guy’ or a ‘bad guy’. He ran – shuffled quickly – into his shack, just a few paces back up the slope, and came out again with his sword and some extra sausages. No harm in being prepared for either eventuality, he reasoned. Then he sat back down on his favourite rock to await the outcome of the fight...

... which had progressed little since Riss had gone inside. There had been a few more clashes of steel, but for the main part the two seemed evenly matched, content to circle each other and wait for the other to betray some kind of weakness.

Suddenly, the ‘dark’ fighter’s foot struck something in the grass. Formerly hidden by the tufts, a shiny silver cylinder, thinner than a finger but longer, flicked into the sunlight. My pen! cried Riss, but the others ignored his voice.

The gleam of the object, however, caused both of them to glance down at it, but the fair warrior recovered first from his curiosity. Taking advantage of the other’s distraction, he cut across quickly, not finding flesh but pushing Darkie’s sword aside and leaving him exposed. Darkie knew he would not have the speed to bring his sword back and protect himself, so he allowed his whole body to follow the movement of his arm, and twisted into a roll which sent him to the ground, but for a split second out of reach of the other sword.

Blondie had not expected this, but hesitated only slightly. He slashed at the prone figure, his sword only just blocked by the other, a hair’s breadth (it seemed) from tender, exposed skin of his neck. But then Blondie fell back, as Darkie’s powerful leg crunched into his knee. Unplanned, this fall, it gave Darkie the opening he had hoped for, and in the blink of an eye he was back on his feet and at the other like lightning.

In the next instant, it was over, Blondie’s blood flowing to the grass from a punctured heart. No scream, Riss noted, just a gasp and a grunt, and mercifully fast oblivion.

Immediately, the dark-haired fighter swung around to face Riss, who was surprised to find he had not been forgotten. The man hurriedly wiped the blade of his sword on the grass, and put the tip down to the ground, grasping the hilt with both hands. Getting down onto one knee and dropping his gaze down as if looking at the tiny hole in the ground his sword was making, he said quickly, I pray you pardon the desecration of your presence by such violence, my Lord. I am at your mercy.

Riss was momentarily dumbfounded. Sword and sausages. He was prepared for good guy or bad guy. Not raving lunatic.

Uh, that’s okay, he said at last, standing up. He felt embarrassed at the other’s behaviour. Definitely not the police-guard, he thought. Probably not a threat at all. Look, it’s okay to face me, he continued. Who are you? Are you hungry?

The man looked up slowly. When he realised that he had not been struck blind, he studied Riss more closely. The long, white hair, the white robe, ancient face. They were expected. Then he saw the barbecue and the sausages, the small wooden shack, and around to the side of the shack, a line strung between two poles with clothes hanging to dry.

I, er, my name is Glade, my Lord. Of the Overbrooks. He looked again at the clothesline, the sausages, and then stared intently at Riss.

Glade, eh? muttered Riss. A name from common words, not like those with a long tradition, words perhaps borrowed from other languages or changed over centuries. Like his own, he thought. Common names for common people? Mine’s Erekris Gallathorindor.

Glade tried unsuccessfully to repeat it to himself. What do men call thee, my Lord?

Riss looked wistfully at the air for a few seconds. Well, he said, "most would probably call me the late Erekris Gallathorindor, I suppose. But call me Riss. Everyone used to. And get up off your knees. Come and have something to eat, so I can too."

Glade arose, but remained standing there. He was obviously baffled still. I pray thee, my Lord, he began.

Look. Enough praying. And what’s with the archaic pronouns? You’re not from around here, are you? Riss sat down and speared another sausage. He didn’t wait for Glade to join him, just took a bite.

Pardon me, my Lord...

I am not your lord! he managed to say through a mouthful. The name’s Riss! Or why did you bother asking in the first place?

Pardon me... Riss. Glade swallowed hard. Are you not the Creator?

Riss looked up sharply, stopped chewing, and glared. "I am a creator, he said slowly, heavily stressing the indefinite article. Used to be, anyway. He chewed, just to clear his mouth. He had lost his appetite, and could not taste anything anymore. Who was this man? What did he know, and how? Exactly where are you from?" he asked.

Glade was even more confused. You don’t know? Is this not the land of the Creation?

Riss considered what that could have meant. I am no longer a creator, he said at last. There are some in the city. He gestured behind him, to the unseen mountains behind his ridge of hills. Maybe four. Maybe five. Now answer my question.

Glade looked at the hills, then back at the sausages, then at Riss again. I am sent by my master, the Most Noble Sedran e ta Jerahal, order of the –

What land, you idiot? burst out Riss. The name had meant nothing to him, and this in itself troubled him.

Adruval, my – er, Riss.

Riss swore. It was as he had feared. He had never heard of the place, and Glade’s strange behaviour seemed to be confirmation. He was not from Rithual, this land. He was not, it seemed, even of this world. He had come seeking his creator, and Riss was not the one.

Looks like I’ll have to take you into the city, he grumbled. No way you’d find your own way around. He pointed a finger at the man. I might – might – know where to find your creator, he said, partially in truth. The fact was, he could not have Glade wandering around asking the wrong questions in the wrong places. He could be picked up by the law as a lunatic, or he might go to the palace itself and really stir up a commotion. He would be asked where and how he had come to Rithual, and might lead the police-guard back here. That would make Riss’s faked death and self-enforced exile rather less faked.

Perhaps Riss could just pack up and find another place to hide in. But no, just knowing he was alive might be enough to spark off an extensive search, even after all these years. It was not a risk he wanted to take, having this unknown variable blundering around in complete ignorance. Best to be able to control where he went and whom he saw. Besides, Riss added to himself, sparing a thought for Glade, the poor guy would have got hopelessly lost, and he was obviously on some sort of a quest.

It meant going back to the place he had fled so many years ago. Would they have forgotten him? Thought him dead? Or would they recognise him?

It was the previous king. No, the one before him, he remembered. Two kings ago. Would they still have his picture at the headquarters of the police-guard, he wondered? Was the search still active? It was a big deal when Riss had been discovered in the palace library, snooping around his creation. The police guard had found him, and Riss was surprised at how seriously they had treated what was, after all, just simple curiosity. But when the new king, Asheknaral Galluintarathinal, had found out, anyone would have thought he had been engaged in an act of espionage. He had been held prisoner and, he was sure, to be put to death by order of the king. Ha! King Ashek. Ashek ‘the Generous’.

No, it was better if he stayed right away from the city, or any city, town or village. He had somehow managed to fake his own death, and as far as he knew this was the reason he was still alive. The new king and the police-guard surely wouldn’t simply have given up.

His creating days were over anyway, and he was happy enough here. Until now, that is. He looked at Glade. Still confused and clearly disappointed that Riss was not the creator he had hoped to find.

Your creator, he tried. I don’t suppose he has a name, does he? Maybe, just maybe, he thought, his creator had been vain enough to code his own name into the name the people called him.

Glade brightened slightly. Perhaps just because the robed man before him was taking him seriously. Uh, He is called Emendil, my Lor – Riss, he said, getting down onto one knee again as he spoke the Name. He might have been expecting Riss to similarly humble himself in its speaking, but the latter simply chewed on a scrap of sausage that had become dislodged from his teeth.

It was an ancient-sounding name, one with tradition, he thought. Its etymology probably derived from the term meaning ‘Lord of all’, which would make sense. So, they were monotheists. That might help narrow down the list of possible creators, Riss hoped. God knew, he would trust only two or three of them: some were in thick with the king and would betray Riss just to get their stories published, but at least the ones he felt were safe would have created monotheists. A weak start, but a start.

Okay, Riss said at last. Here’s the deal. I’m going to have to take you to the city, to find your creator. Whatever happens, you have to do exactly as I say, or I turn you in. The people here would kill one of the created who dares enter the land of the Creation! Probably true, too, he thought. It was certainly true that they would kill Riss, he reasoned, and that made the threat worth giving.

Glade looked happy enough that Riss was offering to help, but he was no less confused. You have a city of creators? he wondered.

No, Riss replied patiently like a tutor to a moron. Remember, I said there were four or five at the moment, real ones anyway. But – well, never mind. Just do as I say. He found he had little patience for the newcomer and did not want to explain anymore, just like he could not be bothered finding out more about him. He resented being interrupted at lunch. He resented having to go back into the mouth of danger at the city. He resented the fact that some creator had given one of his creatures a way back here, or for that matter, that the creation had turned out to be real at all.

He walked into his cabin, after curtly instructing Glade to wait outside. After a few minutes, he reemerged dressed in sturdy leather trousers, a loose white cotton shirt, and leather boots. Over one shoulder he had a satchel with a few provisions. His long white hair was tied back in a ponytail. For good measure, he had a wide-brimmed felt hat shading his wrinkled face, and a light cotton grey knee-length cloak – not a necessity, but he thought Glade’s looked pretty nice.

Glade stared at him, mouth agape.

What now? growled Riss.

Glade shook his head. Your robe. I thought, I mean...

Riss rolled his eyes. You thought I’d take you to the city in my bedclothes? he said. He knew he was being hard on the man, though. The whitish robe and the long hair would probably have fulfilled most peoples’ expectations of a creator’s appearance. He wondered what his own creator – the real creator, he supposed – looked like, and if he also lived in a city like Dralith.

Riss found his gardening spade round the side of his shack. He gestured to the body of the other warrior, then to the remains of his brunch. You clean up your mess, he said, simply, and I’ll clean up mine.

Once they were underway, the walk to the point overlooking the city took them into the late afternoon, over higher ridges and thickening woodland. The wide, dirt mountain road wound up the slope in a forest of conifers and elms and oaks. Every now and then, the trees to one side thinned out a little, showing ravines and fast-running streams, the life-blood of Dralith’s technology, the constant source of her power.

Glade kept his eyes on the road – evidently he was used to such terrain. Riss did likewise, but more out of apprehension than out of familiarity. At any turn there could be a patrol. Even a chance encounter with a familiar face could lead to disaster. He had grown his hair, shaved his face, and even changed his usual dress, to alter his appearance to the casual observer. And of course, he had aged, his crown thinned, hair completely bleached of colour, face lined, and after so many years it would be unlikely that anyone could recognise him, but still he felt as if he were wearing his name on a board, or as if the posters that adorned the police quarters had changed their features accordingly.

Then, around one turn in the road, the city spread itself into view. Covering the undulations in the huge mountain-ringed hollow it pushed the forests back up into the slopes, trees sparsely strewn over the grass, buildings of all shapes and sizes far more numerous. The main cluster of taller buildings, of course, was in the commercial and geographical centre of the city. Grey, white or brown structures, many squat, several up to ten storeys tall, stone faces with large glass windows.

The streets were paved, some compacted dirt, and for the most part packed with people and horse-drawn vehicles. Glade assumed he was mistaken by the distance, but he thought he could see several vehicles that moved along without any visible means of propulsion.

A river bisected the hollow, the downstream portion of the confluence of many mountain streams that fed the enormous dam on the far side of the city. The wall of the dam was visible, even from where Riss and Glade stood, as a long unnaturally straight line at the foot of the slopes. The massive pipes that guided the waterfall into the generators were visible as a few threads running down that line, the only evidence of Rithual’s industrialisation, at least from this distance.

Glade saw only the lake, and the city, and the palace in the centre of the city, but it was enough to dumbfound him. Again.

Welcome to Dralith, Riss said dryly, with just a hint of the irony he intended. It’ll take some hours to get to where I want to start looking for your creator. We’ll camp in an hour or two while we’re still in the woods, then set off early in the morning.

When he saw that Glade was prepared to agree with his authority, he continued. From here on, the dangers increase. Remember to do as I say, and leave all the talking to me. Glade looked at him strangely, wondering why there should be danger. Riss did not feel like explaining. For now, he simply said, "Your speech is acceptable. Not much of what you’d call an accent, if you don’t say too much. But it’s what you might say that can get us both killed, if you know what I mean. So, except to avoid looking like the idiot you are, don’t say anything!"

Again, he thought he was being hard on him, but he did not care. It might just intimidate him into complying.

I have never seen a city such as this! stammered Glade. So many people!

Over a hundred thousand, just inside the hollow, said Riss, unable to keep the boast from his voice. Seeing the city again brought a pang to his heart, nearly breaking it. How he missed the streets, the lifestyle, the people! He loved the simple life in the valley, of course, with few neighbours and Spartan living. Working for a few silvers from time to time so that he could afford the trip to the village to buy some luxuries, or just getting by for weeks on end, living off wild fruit and game. But that joy notwithstanding, he would never rid himself of the longing for city life.

Well, he thought bitterly, the difficulty of choice has been taken away from me, so there’s no point getting soppy over it. We’re going to check out some places in the outlying areas, residential suburbs.

Glade nodded, though he did not understand. Surely the palace was the sort of place a Creator would reside? Still, he knew better than to question him. Too much was at stake to lose this strange ally.

There will be danger? he asked. Will I need to fight?

Not unless we get too close to the city’s centre, Riss replied. Anyway, fighting will only draw attention. We need to move without advertising ourselves. Just don’t say anything, like I said. He saw the bewildered look still fixed to Glade’s eyes, stuck there since sighting the city. In fact, he recalled, since arriving in Rithual. He added, And try not to look like an idiot.

Kala stood at the large east-facing window, wearing her favourite casual dress and bare feet. She nursed a large, cold cup of her favourite drink: juiced mango from one of the coastal towns watered down and mixed with a bland spirit locally distilled, chilled in the centrally chilled ice larder. Each apartment in the building had an ice larder, fed with cycled frigid air from ice stores in the basement, and effective even in her fifth-floor home. The ice, of course, had to be imported every few days, but with the proximity of the perpetually frozen mountain caps this was hardly a chore, even though Dralith’s own snows had long since melted.

Kala looked above the rest of the buildings, hers being the tallest on this side of the city, and toward the face of the dam. She had promised herself to hire a boat and go sailing, soon, she hoped, just as soon as her current work was finished. There was little doubt in her mind that it would be a success, another creation published and distributed throughout the land.

Her previous three had been successful, the first two gaining her a good solid public reputation, and the third finding personal favour with the king. Only one creator in a generation could ever receive such an honour, and she was still nearly dizzy with excitement and pride that her work had gained such a prize, both in riches and fame throughout the kingdom. And that had been nearly a year ago. And even in the shadow of the king’s tragic death, past not four months now.

She shook her head, a little surprised that her thoughts had strayed from boats to the king’s death. Now that the king had gone, she wondered, would her last book be published? She had no idea how things worked up in the palace. Her previous creations had all been assessed by the royal examiners, and had been passed off to the publishers with their approval and praises. All of the official creators’ works were judged in the same manner. Just one, however, would find particular favour with the king – or queen – and become part of the royal collection in the palace library. It was a silly tradition, Kala felt, but a longstanding one set in concrete.

The royal choice would not be read by any outside the palace, but the nationwide honour that would be bestowed upon the creator always made it worthwhile, guaranteeing the increased sales of the creator’s other works.

She shrugged. It was a shame that even with the king dead her last creation would never be shared with the people, but Kala would have to accept it and do her best with her future works. She wondered if the new king would read it...? Maybe she could borrow a few ideas for her new one, if not...?

Kala took another sip, measuring the effect of the alcohol carefully. Ahead of her, and higher up, she could see clouds gathering round the highest peaks. By evening, there would be lightning, she thought, another good harvest to supplement the generators. The city could afford to be well lit this season, no doubt, just as heating had not been a problem during the last winter.

Yes, in all she could see, in all she had done, there was every sign of bounty, contentment, and Kala had the feeling that she could map out her days and nothing would possibly stand in her way to live them out as she pleased.

That was when the bells chimed, high answered by low, in that crass way that city dwellers seemed to like, even though she barely tolerated it. They shook her from her thoughts, and she automatically walked briskly to the door before the caller would feel it necessary to push the accursed button a second time. Sliding the bolts, then turning the brass key, Kala turned the knob and swung the door inwards.

The man that faced her looked like a vagrant. No, first impressions aside, he just looked like someone who had walked far from his farm home, which was close enough to reality. Riss’s hat shaded his rough face without hiding the roughness, his hair tied back with errant strands made him look a little wild. His clothes were well worn and somewhat wrinkled. But the eyes, the eyes were clear and nearly shone in the half light, with intelligence and something strangely familiar without actually triggering recognition.

They also looked hunted, and probed Kala as if seeking out signs of betrayal.

You are Evinkaliathurinai Renidormiondis? he muttered in a low voice.

Yes... Kala replied. Didn’t everyone know who lived here? He surely must have come from afar.

My name is Erekris Gallathorindor, Riss explained. I knew your father, Javellithalevin. Levin and I used to get together sometimes and trade gossip. Even snuck an occasional look at each other’s notes, he added with a glint in his eye, but don’t tell anyone that!

Kala gasped. You’re a creator? She had not heard of him before.

I used to be, Riss replied. I’m, er, retired and living in Kendelith. That last lie just in case Kala was not trustworthy.

Kala suddenly saw Riss in a new light. Real-blood creators were rare, and bound each member in a manner nearly as strong as family itself. Please, Kala gushed, come inside! Let me get you a drink

She stood away from the door and let Riss enter, taking his hat and cloak as he passed. Gallathorindor, she repeated softly. A contemporary of my father’s?. Suddenly the name came to her. Of course! she said. I was a child, then, but you were the honoured creator to King Darruk!

It was not a sign of ignorance that Kala hardly knew of Riss, or any of the older creators for that matter. Unlike their imitations, real-blood creators did not study other creators or their creations: a disciplined tradition that aimed to have their inspirations spring forth from within, not from without. At least, Riss considered, Kala had apparently not heard of his supposed death. One less thing to explain away.

He nodded, while Kala mixed his drink. Old Ben, many of us called him, he said with a reflective smile. When she did not immediately acknowledge him, he explained. He called himself Darruk the Benevolent. We called him ‘Ben’, but of course never to his face.

Kala had not heard that one from her father, and she laughed lightly. She was curious as to the nature of his visit, but she simply handed him a full glass.

Riss gratefully accepted the drink, and they touched glasses after exchanging their common names and giving the toast of the creators. Riss savoured his drink. The juice was fresher than what he was able to get, and he was reluctant to get on with his business.

As they sat facing each other, he regarded Kala closely. He had heard of her success with the late King Ashek, and was surprised by her youth. Twenty-five? Not thirty, anyway. Her dark hair was medium length, such as the city fashions dictated, but fell simply about her without the typical decorative plaits or curls or other marks of competitive grooming. Her eyes were dark and alluring, if Riss permitted himself to be allured, and showed energy and intelligence. It must have been the eyes, Riss thought, that had inspired her parents to name her Evinkaliathurinai, Flower of the Fire’s Heart.

As they spoke, Kala did not fail to notice the way Riss was only half-listening. He seemed distracted by something, throwing occasional glances – meant to be surreptitious – at the front door, as if waiting for something or someone. He also seemed to be measuring Kala, taking more notice of how Kala spoke than what she was actually saying. As if he were trying to judge her. Although fear never came into it, her curiosity was being kindled.

I must congratulate you on your royal selection, she suddenly heard him say as he raised his glass again. Now that I am retired, I intend to catch up on the works of my brother and sister creators. That’s one reason I’ve come to Dralith. A far better library than Kendelith. The smaller cities have a far higher proportion of books by imitators.

Kala smiled at the recognition, but could tell that he was leading somewhere. His manner seemed too intense. This was not idle conversation, she thought, but something that Riss must have rehearsed.

I know I should not be speaking with you about other works, he continued, but I’m looking for an interesting book I’ve heard about, about a place called Adruval...

Kala’s reaction was immediate. Unfortunately, she had been sipping at her drink at that exact moment, and the result was a gasp that turned into a fit of coughing that lasted several minutes.

Red faced, tears streaming down her cheeks, she apologized and said that she must have misheard him.

Adruval, Riss repeated, pronouncing each syllable so that there could be no mistake. The name of a land.

Kala’s eyes were like saucers. This could not be, she thought.

Living under the protection of, and here Riss articulated very carefully again, Emendil. As he pronounced the name, he saw Kala unconsciously mouthing it.

Kala saw Riss nod slightly to himself, apparently satisfied of some sort of confirmation. She shook her head. It cannot be, she insisted. That’s the book that was favoured by the king! How do you know about it? It hasn’t been published! How had he heard of the land in her book, even the name of Emendil? It was supposed to be locked away in the king’s library. No one outside the palace, maybe no one apart from King Ashek himself, was allowed to read even a word of the favoured story.

Riss was sitting back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, like someone who had just accomplished an unwanted and unsavoury task. Or, more to the point, unburdened it onto someone else. After a moment, however, he looked at Kala again, with genuine concern in his eyes.

I know it sounds crazy, he said, as if admitting it made it sound less so. Then he sighed, a long, resigned sigh, a decision having been reluctantly made. Damn it, I wanted nothing more than to find you and leave him here for you to sort out. But how can I, when you’re just as confused as he is?

This was supposed to sound less crazy? What do you mean? she ventured. "Who is he?" She glanced at the door, as she had seen Riss do.

He placed his hand gently on her arm. The gesture was to reassure, to comfort, but not from her current confusion. That was unavoidable. Rather, it was an attempt to prepare her for what was to come. He then proceeded to tell Kala about the appearance of Glade, the battle with ‘Blondie’ and the request to find the