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The Forgotten (working title)



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Sat Dec 24, 2011 7:09 pm
RedBird says...



Hi! This is my first post in this forum, and this is the first really serious novel that I've started. I'm actually writing it together with someone else, who doesn't have YWS account. We decided that I would post it to see how a non-biased audience likes it (we've shown it to friends and family). These are the first nineteen pages. Thanks for reading!

P.S. I have been writing the chapters with Quinn, and he has been writing those with Morris.


The Forgotten

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
-William Butler Yeats

The Fall of Man

There was a time when this world had structure, when society had rules, and they were obeyed, because humanity respected itself. But not now. That ended two hundred years ago, in the middle of the twenty-first century. A mere decade before, things had been looking up for the planet, and for society. For the first time in centuries, all war had ceased, and a new source of renewable energy, helium fusion, had been discovered and perfected. Then, the economic recession that had been ongoing for the past thirty years reached its lowest point and society collapsed. The Righteous Chaos began as the peoples of the world rose up against their governments and attempted to take back the power that they perceived had been taken from them and which had destroyed their lives. Rebels gathered in every nation, on every continent. Armies battled mobs, and lost, but not before ravaging the land. War spread across the world, leveling cities and destroying everything in its path. Governments and individuals alike hoarded the precious fusion pods, which had been used to power the world. During these years of all-out war, the last of the Earth's fossil fuel reserves were burnt in astonishing amounts, and the climate changed drastically. The population, which had been pushing 9 billion before the Righteous Chaos, was decimated, dropping to below 1 billion. When the fighting stopped, the world was burnt, desolate, and completely terrifying.
The majority of the world became wasteland, barren and uninhabited. Out of the ruins, the remnants of humanity gathered around the bones of former power, the cities of the past. Slowly, city-states grew up among the destruction. They based themselves around stashes of hoarded fusion pods, that near-inexhaustible source of energy, and became prosperous, drawing in the remains of the human populations. For a while, it seemed that society was reforming, governments could grow again, and the fighting might end. But the new form of society was brutal, based around those who had energy, and those people who were not so lucky. To gain access to that precious resource, the majority of the population had to work in servitude of those with power. This division was enforced with brutal efficiency, following an ancient manifesto: those who have wealth and power are destined to rule. Then, the cities began to run out of energy. The fusion pods were burning out, unable to stand up to the over-work that the citizens of the new city-states demanded of them. The materials and knowledge of how to manufacture the pods had been lost during the Righteous Chaos. Knowing that there were more stashes to be had, the cities established areas of frontier in which to “mine” the lost fusion pods. Frontier towns sprang up in the areas surrounding each city-state, areas of lawlessness rivaling those of any past history. Based in these small municipalities, pod harvesters would set out into the brutal wastelands, now known as the Pierderi, to seek the hidden energy, and fortune. For if one was clever, ruthless, and ambitious, locating a pod stash would be the end of one's troubles forever.
The year is now 120 a.R.C. Of the city-states of Europa, Braguїe is the most prosperous, located near the border of the Eastern Pierderi. More than twenty frontier towns are under its jurisdiction. In the city, the aristocracy rules with an iron fist, rigidly maintaining the difference between rich and poor, nobleman and servant, the Hauteur and the Common. For many, the only hope of finding wealth and security is to venture into the harsh Pierderi and try their luck with pod harvesting. Life in the frontier towns is vicious and brutal. Slavers lurk in the outskirts of the settlements, snatching all those who don't know how to protect themselves. It is not a life for the insecure or naїve, but the lure of wealth is overpowering.
Welcome to our world.
I
Morris:
Condemnation

My legs feel like lead. I’ve been walking for days now, my provisions are running low, and I have maybe a day of water left, and virtually no food. A person can go without food for days, but out here in the Pierderi no water means death within a few hours at most.
The sun is high in the sky, maybe four hands from sunset. I notice I’ve stopped sweating, so I allow myself a small sip from my canteen, knowing full well I’m not going to make it another day. Still, I trod on. What did I do to deserve this? I think to myself Lust holds no grounds for punishment… I stop in my tracks as I see a shadow in the distance. I hit the ground. I know for a fact slavers and god knows what else travel the Pierderi in search of their prey of choice, unsuspecting travelers. I will not be one of them.
I lay prone for a while, the sun beating down upon my back relentlessly, too scared to move, and thinking that whatever I’m hiding from may have already seen me. After about ten minutes I finally muster up the nerve to inch forward, staying low to the ground, too impatient to wait for it to leave. If it is something dangerous, so be it…I would rather die by the hand of a slaver than let this insufferable sun get the better of me.
As I get closer, the object begins to take shape. It’s an overturned wagon. Thank God, I really doubt I could take a band of slavers on my own… I walk around the wagon, checking for traps or anything hiding inside. I can’t see anything so I decide to venture inside.
Underneath the wagon the heat is stifling, but still at least twenty degrees cooler than outside. I decide to rest here for a few hands, as I am almost out of water, and what is a few hours of rest going to hurt? Sitting here in the meager shade provided by the wagon is oddly… comfortable. I think of home. Of Braguïe. I begin to realize I am dozing, just as I fall asleep…
***
“Morris Leroy Ross, you are hereby charged with the crime of Affiliation with one who is under your class, as well as allegedly being intimate with said Affiliate, as deemed by the Council of the City of Braguïe. The Council has found you guilty on both counts and sees fit to punish you for said wrongdoings,” says the Magistrate.
“You know I hate these formalities, Ross, but it is only proper that I give you the courtesy of ceremony,” he says, grimacing at the sheets of parchment spread across his desk. “Well, you have two options at this point, which I would say is quite fortunate, all things considered. You have heard of Jonathan Bertz, I presume?” He says, looking down at me with his squinty piglet eyes.
Of course I’ve heard of Bertz, you buffoon. Who in the Pierderi hasn’t? Bertz is a nearly untouchable “beacon of Hope” in this dried-up land that we call the Pierderi. Originally a sheriff sent by the Council to bring law to frontier settlements, he is respected by many, and loved my many more, giving him more power than the Council’s reign of terror has ever given them. His principles of equality between all classes, as well as rumors of these frontier towns, where any man can make his fortune, buzz around the city likes flies from a carcass. According to many, Bertz has built his own town, called Utop, which he has based around his concepts of equality for all, without classes.
Jonathan Bertz is a damned fool, playing a fool’s game. He had a position of power, and instantly made that power forfeit by trying to make everyone “equals,” based on his views. His idea of Integration makes him one of them, a Common. “Yes sir, I have heard of him,” is all I can reply without letting loose some snide remark that is sure to cause me to lose any favor I hold with the Magistrate.
“Well, Bertz has been giving the Council problems, and more than just minor trifles. We want him dealt with. Now. But as I said, you have two options. Leave the city and take care of Bertz for the Council. Or be put out of the walls and see how you fare in the Pierderi for the rest of your days.” He pauses for a moment, seemingly thoughtful, “Or we can always execute you, I suppose, if you want to go out with what the few scraps of dignity you have left, after your… lack of self-discipline, shall we say.”
“Yes, Magistrate,” I hear myself say, almost not believing the words as they come out. I glance around the courtroom, taking in the ruined grandeur of the architecture. My anxiety sharpens everything to an almost unreal clarity, making me notice all the smaller things in the room; the furrows between the brows of the soldiers standing guard by the door, the shafts of sunlight filtering in through the tiny panes of glass that ring the room, and the inscription above the entrance to the room:

Separation creates Equality
27 a.R.C.


As I look, I think This may be the last time I ever step foot in this room. The thought sends a cold shiver down my spine. I was once a member of the Council. A junior member, to be sure, but a member, all the same. This thought sets of a mental chain reaction of questions to which I have no answers to, what the hell am I doing? How can I survive outside the city? And what’s more, how am I supposed to kill a man? The questions flow through my mind like water.
Unable to think of anything better to do than stall for time, I ask the Magistrate, “May I have some time to think of my options and what I would like to do, Magistrate?” I hope that in the midst of the night I can think of a solution or compromise to this situation.
“No,” says the Magistrate, “You will decide now, or I will decide for you, Ross. Once, you may have commanded my respect, but after this, you are no better than a Common in my eyes. I don’t care if she meant nothing to you. You are no Common, therefore you should never lower yourself in the way you did!”
I peer around the room, hoping to catch the eye of another, implore them to help me. By the third person I realize it’s a futile effort, none of them will help me, of course; they are all cowards and fools and would rather not risk their cushioned lives for my neck, even though I have helped them with their own problems countless times. Cravens, the lot of them…
“I have made my choice, sir,” I say, finally, “I will travel to Utop, take care of Bertz, and do whatever else the Council needs done there.” I have no other choice. It’s kill or be killed at this point, and I know I cannot survive the Pierderi if I am forced out of the gates forever. On top of that, I will not live like a Common for the rest of my days. I will sooner die.
“Wise decision,” says the Magistrate “You will leave at daybreak. We will arrange for supplies and a guide to be sent to your place of residence.” There is a small of bit of shuffling as he and the few Council members that bothered attending make their way out of the chamber. I sit there for a moment in a daze, trying to process all that has happened today. Eventually the Chamber grows cold and I rise to leave.
***
As I walk out of the Chamber I hear two of the guards talking.
“Did he really sleep with a brothel Common?”
“That’s what I’ve heard, but I also heard she wasn’t even from a brothel. Word has it that she was a chamber-maid of all things.”
“A whore I could understand, but a maid? That’s laughable!”
I feel rage boil within me, hotter than the sun that rules this dead land. I stalk away after a few moments, once I know the guards are gone and head home, at the same time trying to abate my anger.
***
As I walk through the central district of High-Town, I look about, noticing there are far too many Commons for this area. What is going on? Day of Righteous Chaos isn’t for weeks, so why is this all of this filth here in High-Town, the center of Hauteur society? They’re not even in serving garb! Just looking at them, with their brow-beaten air and dirty clothing makes me shudder. They need to learn their place. As I side-step a man wearing not much more than a few scraps and rags, I shove another out of my way and shout, at no one in particular, “I don’t have time for you filthy lay-abouts! Out of my way before I call the Council Guard!” I kick the elderly man whom I have just shoved to the ground in the ribs. He groans, and I turn away, ignoring the veiled glares of the Commons all around me. They will do nothing, or they will risk bringing down the wrath of the Council. As I turn the corner, I catch sight of my abode, the sprawling grounds abuzz with life as my servants rush across the yard to do whatever mindless task they have been assigned. Walking faster now, I manage a grim smile, despite what has happened to me today. I will travel across the wastes, dispose of the man who has stirred up such insubordination in the Common populace, and bring back my honor. As I walk toward the gates to head inside, I catch a glimpse of the Common crowd behind me. Some of them are muttering and pointing. Ignoring the sudden insecurity that grips my heart, I open the magnificent front door, and step into my house.
II
Quinn

I have been walking all day, without rest. The sun beats down, unforgiving and constant. Wearily, I glance down, finding the shallow rut in the dry earth that I'm following, made by a cart pulled by my quarry. A gust of wind blows dust in my face and I cough. Eyes watering, I look up, and a glitter catches my eye: light reflecting off water. I smile. A water-hole. My mind goes to the half-empty water-gourd in my backpack, and I start walking down towards the water, even before I realize that the cart-tracks go the same direction.
*****
I set down my pack and wipe my gritty hand across my brow, looking at the banks of the small lake. It is clean and is circled by greenery, making it stand out against the dull browns and reds of the surrounding hills of wasteland. I pull out my water-gourd and allow myself a liberal gulp, before filling it again with the clear water of the spring that feeds the lake. As I do this, I glance down at my reflection in the rippling water. A thin face looks back at me, the blue eyes appearing almost black, the short hair plastered to the forehead. During the day, especially now, at the height of summer, the Pierderi is hot. Normally, I would be holed up in a frontier settlement, or in one of my hideouts, under the hills. But I need some new medical supplies, so I've been tracking a group of nomads for the past week. It was only supposed to take a few days, but they move fast, and even I, who have lived in these wastes for nearly thirteen years, have a hard time catching up with them. I'm close to them now, though. Not even an hour ago, I found the remnants of fire—the ashes were still hot. And I've just found some tracks in the mud around this oasis. No, I'm not far. With any luck, they'll be over the next ridge. Once I find them, I'll try to haggle with them for the med supplies, maybe trade news of nearby slaver activity, although they probably already know anything worth knowing, in regards to that. If they don't want to trade, well, I have my ways. Life's harsh out here, and I'm badly in need of those supplies.
After tightly stoppering my water-gourd so that it won't drip, I throw my pack back on my shoulders, grunting as it hits a sore spot. Glancing back at the muddy tracks, I determine that the group of nomads probably went around to the other side of the water-hole before heading back out into the Pierderi. I follow their path, circling the lake before ascending the steep hill on the other side. My feet kick up red dust as I trudge upward. In these regions, there is hardly any plant life, just the occasional thorn bush or tuft of browned grass. As I reach the top, a hot wind blows in my face, mussing the edges of my hair and nearly taking my hat with it. The wind carries the dry scent of the Pierderi, the smell of rocks and dust. And something else, very faint, something not altogether foreign to these wastes, but nonetheless unwelcome. The metallic stench of death. Despite myself, I let out a groan. Here, in the middle of the day, that can mean only one thing. Slavers. I look around, and see a line of smoke, spiraling up from behind a small hill a several miles to my left. Just to be sure, I hurry down the other side of the hill, crouching low, just in case they're still there, and have lookouts. Cautiously, I head towards the source of the smoke. Between the troughs of the hills, there isn't much wind, and I can hear nothing else, either. Sound usually carries well across the Pierderi, so that probably means that the slavers have done their dirty work.
It takes me another two hours to reach the smoke, because I'm moving more slowly than I usually do, pausing often, listening for the tell-tale approach of attackers. When I finally reach the hill from behind which the smoke is rising, I gradually work my way up, stopping every few feet and listening. Eventually, I clamber to the summit and look down on a scene of destruction. Several bodies lay scattered around the base of the hill, lying in pools of blood. Most of the nomads' belongings are piled in a burning heap, the source of the smoke. I feel as though hot lead is filling my stomach, and I feel intense anger building inside me, the feeling I always get when I see the work of slavers. They like taking nomads, because, in most settlements, slave-taking is banned, and carries heavy punishment. But they don't usually kill. If someone resists too much, murder might happen, but that's rare. The goods are more valuable alive. The smell of dried blood is strong, even from up here. Even though these people can't have been dead for more than a few hours, the dry, hot climate has begun its malodorous work. There's another odor too, that of singed hair and meat. Bracing myself, I quickly make my way down to the base of the hill, breathing through my mouth. As I draw nearer, I can hear the buzzing of flies and the crackling of the fire, and tears form in my eyes, not just from the smell. When I reach the bottom, I once again take stock of the horror before me. There are seven bodies, both men and women. The youngest looks to be around seventeen or eighteen, the oldest, somewhere in his seventies. They all have similar wounds, great gaping holes clean through the body, or large gashes across their torsos. I kneel next to one of the women, examining her injuries. There are three, one through her arm, her torso, and her leg. Each wound is almost exactly like the others: round and about the same size as my fist. A ring of burnt flesh encircles each hole. That must be where the singed smell is coming from. Leaning in, holding my shirt up over my face against the foul odor, I look more closely at the injury on the woman's arm. The hole goes all the way through, past skin, muscles, and bone. Whatever did this, it did not tear as a bullet would. It seems to have just obliterated all material in its path. There are no bone shards, or anything else that would indicate what happened. Just a hole in an innocent person's arm.
As I'm getting up, I hear a rasping sound coming from my right. My head whips around, searching for the source of the sound. I see nothing except for the dead bodies and the smoking pile of burnt cloth and wood. Then, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. It is the arm of the youngest, moving feebly against the onset of death. I nimbly step over to him, again kneeling beside him. His eyes are half open, but I can tell that he sees me. His hand is weakly clawing at the ground. His injuries are exactly like those of the woman, but he has one on each leg, and another in his shoulder. Tears form in my eyes, but I angrily force them back. The boy opens his mouth, and a gurgling comes out, along with some garbled words.
“What?” I ask. My voice is harsh with disuse. I take off my leather jerkin, and, gently, I lift the boy's head, and place the bundle of cloth underneath him. He tries to clear his throat, wheezing painfully. I wince, and smooth back his hair, trying to soothe him. He attempts to speak again, and this time manages to gasp out a sentence.
“Ar-r-re 'ou a-a slaver?” he says. I smile sadly, and shake my head.
“No, I'm not. I want to help,” I say quietly, “What happened here?”
His whole body quivers, and I'm afraid that I'm about to lose him, but he speaks again.
“Th-the-ey came ou-ou-out of no-nowhere,” he says, gasping for breath, “Too-ook us b-b-by surprise. Ha-had...gun-ns wi-wi-with en-energy ins-side.”
He has become agitated, scraping at the hard earth with dry, bleeding hands. I grab one, and hold it tight, barely keeping back the sob that is trying to break out of my throat. At the same time, I'm trying to figure out what “guns with energy inside” means.
“I'm going to help you,” I say, tearing a strip of cloth off of my shirt and wrapping it around his shoulder, but even as I do it, I know that it's too late. He's fading fast, and doesn't seem to have heard me.
“Wan-n-na sa-ay go-oo-ood by-ye to Lu-c-cy,” he whispers. I almost break, but I have to keep strong for this poor boy.
“Who's Lucy?” I ask soothingly, wrapping another strip of cloth around his leg, knowing it's useless.
“Sh-she's so-o beau-ti-tiful,” he says, and I can barely hear his voice now. The next second, his eyes role back, and his whole body falls limp. And then, the cry that I've been holding back bursts out, and tears stream down my face. I close his eyes, and then I pound at the hard-packed dirt with my fists. This boy was too young to die. I didn't even ask his name, but I know that he loved a girl named Lucy, and that she loved him, and that they could have had a life together. But slavers came instead, taking his life, and now there is nothing, only seven corpses and no justice. Angrily, I wipe the tears from my eyes. When the boy died, I knew that I could not rest until I got to the bottom of this, not until I found the slavers who committed this atrocity, and not until I had made them pay for what they did. And then there are the mysterious “energy guns” that the boy spoke of. If what I have seen today is any evidence, these weapons are far more dangerous than anything I, or anybody else, has ever seen. If something like that becomes mass produced, there will be slaughter like this everywhere, in larger numbers. I can't let that happen.
I get up, dusting off my pants, and pulling my jerkin gently out from under the boy's head. I will make a cairn for the dead, the way all are buried in the Pierderi, and then I will find the nearest settlement and begin tracking down the slavers who killed these people.


IV
Quinn

Red hills, stretching out into the orange sky. That is all I can see, for miles and miles. Honestly, however, I haven’t been noticing. My thoughts have been entirely focused on the dead nomads and what brought about their destruction. Even after living in the Pierderi for all these years, I had never witnessed anything so terrible and the memory of it still makes me shudder. Slavers never kill if they can help it, but, judging by the amount of supplies the nomads had, this group killed about half of them. Seven people dead, just like that. The only conclusion that I can come to is that the nomads either fought back against their attackers, or the attack was designed to kill, for what reason, I have no way of knowing. Either way, the situation is still puzzling. If the nomads tried to fight, and the attackers were indeed slavers, then murder would not have gotten the latter anything. The slavers would have tried to injure, not kill. And if they attacked with the specific purpose of killing…Well, that just makes even less sense. People are violent out here, even in the frontier settlements, but murder is rare. The Pierderi is a savage and dangerous place, and people need to stick together, even if they don’t like each other.
However, given the nature of the wounds, which look like nothing I have ever seen, an organized assault with murder in mind makes more sense. Whatever made those wounds is new to me, and I’ve seen almost all the weapons there are to see out here. That almost certainly means that these things are new. And, being new, whoever made them wants to test them.
I shake my head. This is all getting very far-fetched. Probably it was just a slaver attack gone terribly wrong. But still, there’s a nagging worry in the back of my mind, telling me that I’m missing something.
*****
As I make it to the crest of a large hill, I look up into the bright, cloudless sky. Judging by the sun, it looks like three or four hours have passed since I left the site of the attack. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I look out across the wastes. The hills are starting to flatten out, turning into a vast salt plain. In the distance, I can see several small trails of smoke. I sigh with relief. It is Rostyn, the settlement that I’ve been heading towards. It is the largest that I know of, and acts as a sort of port of entry to the Pierderi for all those who travel from Braguïe, seeking their fortunes. Fusion-miners. Just thinking about them makes me snort. Many come out here, looking for fusion pod stores, stashes from a past age. Few return to claim the wealth that their discoveries could give them. They are rich High-folk from the city-states, and Commons, all of them seeking the precious commodity that powers our world. Well, their world. I'm apart from that, now. Occasionally I'll find some pods, lying about among the hills. I trade them in the settlements, and I can get a lot for even one pod, but other than that, they are useless to me, and always have been. All I need is a pack on my back, enough water to survive, and my blades to ward of slavers and wild dogs alike.
Looking out at Rostyn from the top of this hill, I am flooded with memories of years gone by. Of evenings spent discussing heavy topics over even heavier liquor. Of moonlit walks over the dry plain. Of Wallace Teslah. Furiously, I shake my head. That was then, and now...now I have things to do, and I can't let myself be distracted by the delusions of the past. I'd promised myself that I would never think about that time again. It is too painful and completely foolish. I was young and naïve, and I know better now.
It is growing dark now, and it will take at least another five hours to reach Rostyn, so I decide to camp at the base of this last hill for the night. Traveling among the hills in the dark is one thing, but crossing the plains is dangerous. Wild dogs roam everywhere out there, and there's no shelter for miles, except in the settlements. Here, at least, I have some protection, both from the wind and from prying eyes. Even in this desolation, you never know who, or what, is watching.
I reach the bottom of the ridge, and set my pack down with a groan. There are some boulders strewn around here, and I sit on one, rubbing my aching back. Already, it is getting colder as darkness crawls across the horizon. Shivering, I pull my overcoat out of the pack, along with my box of kindling. I stand up, stretch, put on the coat, and start looking around for something I can use to build a fire. After a few minutes, I find a withered bush that looks half dead. The trunk of the bush is decently-sized, however, and I can use it. I pull out my blade, which is about a foot long, bigger than your average knife, and start hacking at the base of the bush. After a few good chops, it topples, snapping in half with a dry splintering sound. Yes, this will do fine. I pull the felled bush back to my chosen campsite and proceed to cut and snap it into manageable pieces. When I have enough for a mid-sized fire, I pull out some of my kindling, pile on some wood, and light it. The flame takes right away, and I’m grateful. It’s really getting cold now.
With the fire sending flickering shadows up the slope of the hill, I set about creating a shelter. It's a necessity when you're traveling alone out here. Mostly it consists of shifting boulders into strategic piles so as to conceal my body when I'm sleeping. When this task is done, I pull out my sack of barley, my small tin pot, and my water-gourd. I boil the water and cook the barley, mashing it into a gruel. It's not the most appetizing, but it's full of necessary nutrients, and it's also the only thing I have. I didn’t think that I would be out here for as long as I have been when I went after the nomads. I’ll need to restock on food when I reach Rostyn tomorrow, along with getting more medical supplies. When I’ve gotten everything I need, I can focus on figuring out who killed the nomads, and how they did it. If these weapons are as strange and dangerous as they seem to be, and if anyone else has seen them, then it won’t be hard to find people talking about them. No, it shouldn’t be hard to find people willing to talk, but extracting the truth from the stories that will have undoubtedly sprung up will be something else entirely. That’s something I’ll have to worry about in the morning, however. Night has completely fallen, and I need to get some rest, so I can be up at first light.
Having finished my barley gruel, I quickly wash the pot and spoon with a little water and stow them in my pack again. I pull out my bedroll and unroll it. Lying in the center of it is a small bag. This pouch contains the only fusion pod that I possess. It powers my Remote Action Translator, or RAT for short. Since I travel alone, but I need to sleep, as well, I can’t stay up on watch when I rest for the night. The RAT does it for me. It is a small metal box with a set of earbuds and a jack that can take power directly from a fusion pod. It uses short-range sensors to detect large incoming objects, anything from people to wild dogs to dust storms. If anything comes within a hundred feet of where I am, the RAT “translates” this information into beeping, which I then hear through the earbuds.
I plug the RAT in, and insert an earbud into my ear. The RAT chirps to indicate that it’s on, then becomes silent, a small green light flashing in the left-hand corner. I settle down in the small ring of boulders that I’ve made, curling up on my bedroll. I leave my blades on the ground next to me, along with my ancient firelock. That will be of little use, but I’m good with the blades. Not that I’m expecting an attack tonight. It’s possible that wild dogs might catch my scent, but the fire is still burning faintly, and that will ward them off for a while, hopefully. Barely has the thought crossed my mind, when I hear a baleful howl, far in the distance. I hardly hear it, as my eyes droop lower and lower. Today has been exhausting, and I need my strength for tomorrow. The howling continues, getting further away, as I drift off into a dreamless sleep.
*****
Beep
Beep
Beep beep
Beep beep beep
Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

I start awake, stifling a cry, the RAT still whining in my ear. That sound could mean only one thing. Something is coming, and it’s very close already. I breathe in and out slowly, calming my racing heart. I turn off the RAT, and listen intently. Weak, grayish light is filtering in above the boulders, so it’s dawn. What or who the hell is wandering around the plains at this hour? Then, I hear the unmistakable sounds of dry, hard-packed earth under boots, along with low voices. It sounds like two men. They’re almost on top of me. I reach out and grab my blades, one in each hand. My boulder is only three feet at its highest, so all it will take is one look into the pile for them to find me. I tried to hide the drag-marks I made moving the boulders last night, but I didn’t do a very good job. I hold my breath, waiting. The footsteps stop, probably only about five feet from where I lie. One of the men speaks, and I can hear every word clearly.
“Someone was here,” the man says, roughly, “This fire’s only been out for a few hours.”
“Yeah,” the other says in a higher, nasally voice, “So why didn’t we see ‘em in the first place last night?”
I narrow my eyes. Why are these two monitoring travelers going through here?
“Well…” the man with the lower voice clears his throat uncomfortably, “I didn’t tell ya, Hald, but I may have kind of…nodded off a while on watch last night.”
The other man, Hald, lets out a hiss of annoyance, “Were you at the grog again, Jaff? Because if you were--,”
“No! No, it wasn’t nuthin’ like that, Hald. I just was tired, is all.”
“And why was that, you great lump?” Hald snaps. Jaff clears his throat guiltily.
“I was readin’ again, ya know, practicin’ me letters, an’ all. I didn’t get no rest, I guess,” he says. Hald snorts derisively.
“Oh, you were reading, were you? And why would you need to be able to do that? If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, Jaff: We’re here to find people and tell Ghasting who’s comin’ in to town. Not to read, understand?”
I breathe in sharply. Ghasting. I only know one person who has that name, and I’ve been trying to stay away from his grasp ever since I was a teenager. Leon Ghasting, the most feared Worklord in the Pierderi. Luckily, the two don’t hear me. They’re still talking.
“I knows that, Hald, but I just get so bored when I’m not watchin’,” Jaff says, pleadingly.
“That’s when yer supposed to be sleeping, you dolt! Let’s just hope that Ghasting doesn’t find out about this!”
“He won't, Hald, ye'll see!” Jaff says, the relief evident in his voice.
“Yeah, he'd better not,” Hald mutters.
The two begin walking away, back the way they came, still arguing in lower voices. When they've gotten far enough away, I let out a sigh of relief and poke my head up from behind my boulder-pile. I look around and locate the pair of men, who are halfway up the hill, heading for an outcropping which must be their lookout post. If they're working for Ghasting they must be slavers, or as good as, which also explains why they're watching this pass. Ghasting must be in or near Rostyn, and he wants to know if there are any easy pickings coming in.
Quietly, I roll up my bedroll and stuff it back in my pack, along with the fusion pod and RAT, and my cooking pot. I slide my blades back into their sheaths and the firelock into my belt. I've barely taken a step when I hear a shot ring out. Instantly, I drop to the ground behind the boulders. The bullet strikes one of them, sending sharp pieces of rock flying everywhere. I pull out my firelock, and look back over the boulers. Hald and Jaff are running back down the hill. They must have seen me before they disappeared into their little lookout hole.. I curse myself for being so stupid and not waiting until they were out of sight. Both have their own firelocks out, and are pointing them at where I lay. I quickly load my own weapon as they get closer and closer, yelling at me to come out with my hands up. I smile grimly. Not likely. They are only about thirty feet away when I jump out, aiming my firelock as I do so. The two look surprised, and I take advantage of this, turning my aim to the bigger of the two and firing. He flinches, but the bullet, just as I meant it to, hits his firelock, It splinters and flies from his hand. The two stop short, staring warily at me. The smaller one, who I assume is Hald, still has a loaded firelock, and he gestures at me to drop mine. I roll me eyes, and move like I'm about to toss it on the ground, but instead, I throw it at him. It hits him square on the nose with a satisfying thunk. He reels backwards and drops his weapon. Quick as a flash, I pull out my blades and leap at them. I hold one knife to each of their throats. The bigger one, Jaff, whimpers. Hald glares at me, but I see the fear in his eyes. One young woman taking on two fully grown men and winning without even touching them. Embarrassing, to say the least. I've seen this reaction many times. I grin.
Hald is shorter than me, and has dusty brown hair, and impressive side-whiskers. Jaff is tall and broad, built like a boulder. His cheeks are stubbly, but his eyes are wide and have an innocent quality.
“So, what are you two fine gents doing out here, attacking helpless passers-by?” I ask, nonchalantly.
Hald spits on my boots, “That's none of your concern.”
“Oh, but I think it is!” I say, smiling and pressing the knife a little harder into his Adam's apple, “Seeing as you just attempted to attack me.”
Hald hisses, but doesn't say anything. Jaff, on the other hand, glancing fearfully at the blade at his throat, speaks up.
“We're up here to tell Worklord Ghasting who's comin' into town,” he mutters, “So he can see if he can make a profit.”
I snort, and Hald shoots a withering look at Jaff.
“I'd figured as much out for myself, thanks,” I say, calmly, “But I want to know why Ghasting is here. Shouldn't he be out in the Outer Settlements? Easier to make people disappear out there, I would think.”
Hald grunts, and I'm surprised to see an half-smile appear on his whiskered face, “We've moved on to bigger and better things,” he whispers harshly, leering up at me. I stare down at him, impassive, then look over at Jaff.
“I'm sorry,” I say, simply, and then hit both of them with the butts of my blades. They crumple at my feet. I can't have them alerting Ghasting of my presence, but I don't want to kill them. Well, I'd be okay with getting rid of Hald; he's nasty and obviously abusive. But Jaff, he has some dignity and innocence left in him, and doesn't deserve to die. They'll be out for a while, and will give me enough time to get into Rostyn surreptitiously. Quickly, I pick up my pack from where I dropped it and hurry away, in the direction of Rostyn. This whole thing is getting more and more sinister. Why is Ghasting in Rostyn? Moreover, why are the people allowing him to be there? Rostyn is the biggest settlement in the Pierderi, and slavers aren't usually allowed in. What's changed since I was last there? I shiver and hurry onwards, into the rising dawn, towards a town that might hold more than it's fair share of danger.
And remember...A portkey can be any sort of harmless object...A football...or a dolphin.
~Snape, AVPM

"You are the egg, you are the chrysalis, you are the progeny. You are the rot that falls from stars."
~Will Henry, on Typhoeus magnificum
  





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8 Reviews



Gender: Male
Points: 1001
Reviews: 8
Wed Jan 11, 2012 4:16 pm
Jitterbug says...



Redbird, your novel is fantastic! And I’m not just talking about the plot, either. Your writing is nearly flawless. Your prose is clear and crisp, and instead of being overly descriptive, you paint vivid pictures by using strong words. I devoured your story and enjoyed every bit of it. I felt for your characters and was utterly drawn into the situations they faced. I can’t wait to read more about them. I also loved how you twisted things around and made Quinn a woman. I was definitely not prepared for that.
One thing I want to tell you, though. I recently read a novel titled Forbidden: The Books of Mortals, that not only had similar themes and plot concepts, but had a city called Greater Europa. Just thought I should put that out. But, trust me, your story is unique and definitely stands alone.
Honestly, though, I only found three things that bothered me. Here are my minor nitpicks:

The majority of the world became wasteland…I think it sounds better if you say “a wasteland.”
“The questions flow through my mind like water.” I guess what bothers me is that this expression sounds incomplete. The questions flow through his mind like what kind of water? How did this water flow? Maybe try something like “The questions ran through my mind like a raging river, ceaseless and relentless.” Anything that’s more descriptive.
My only other nitpick is that in the fourth chapter, some of the earlier paragraphs are pretty repetitive with the adverb “however.” Since this is breaking no rules of grammar or writing, “however,” consider this my own personal pet peeve.
To sum things up, I am very disappointed that the only way I get to read “The Forgotten” is on a forum for young writers, and not as a published manuscript. You sucked me in, darn it! I want the rest of the story!
  





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15 Reviews



Gender: None specified
Points: 874
Reviews: 15
Thu Jan 12, 2012 8:04 pm
Gingerhead says...



Darn, Roman!

You and you're buddy are brilliant!
I'ma fraid I have no advice for you as there is nothing wrong with your novel. However, I agree with Jitterbug - Forbidden: the Books of Mortals had similar plots.

But don't waste sleep over it! It was so Uber Awesome.
I felt like I was sitting in a dark corner eating a peice of wood; it was cut, hard, dusty, dry, and Uber Unique! Well done dudes.
Down once more into the dungeons of my black despair. Down we plunge into the prisons of my mind.....- Phantom of the opera
  








Poetry is the art of creating imaginary gardens with real toads.
— Marianne Moore