Fulcrum, Book 1: The Rot Has Set In: Fulcrum, #2

By Niels van Eekelen

The Citadel of the Almighty is, for all intents and purposes, the center of the world. Not only does it lie in the borderlands between the realms of the Skanda and the Arganian people, an oasis in an unhospitable river basin, it is also the holiest of holies, the sacred home of the United Church. Once already, war started here. If the world is to change again, here is where that change will begin.

As winter sets in, Citadel Town prepares itself for another season of cold and isolation. But things heat up when early snows trap pilgrims and mercenaries alike in town, and it doesn't take long for unrest to break out. Captain Tygg Vana of the Church Guard struggles against archaic rules for the power to keep order in his streets--while on those streets washerwoman Ahlin's struggle against freezing cold and violence soon becomes one of life and death.

Book 1 in a series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Niels van Eekelen
• Release date: Sep 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301469369

Niels van Eekelen

Niels van Eekelen is a translator, a job in which he has had the chance to mangle the words of such talented authors as George R.R. Martin, Joss Whedon, Neil Gaiman, Ronald D. Moore, Terry Goodkind and Michael J. Sullivan. Still not satisfied, his goal has always been to tell his own stories as novels and comics. Niels currently lives in Utrecht, the Netherlands with his loyal and vast collection of books and comics. Presuming the stacks haven't fallen over and crushed him yet.

Book preview

Book I:

THE ROT HAS SET IN

By Niels van Eekelen

Fulcrum, Book I: The Rot Has Set In

Niels van Eekelen

Copyright Niels van Eekelen 2012

Published by Telltale Productions at Smashwords

www.TelltaleProductions.nl

Fulcrum and all related characters and concepts are copyright (c) Niels van Eekelen, 2012. All rights reserved.

All text, maps and cover design by Niels van Eekelen

The Owl & the Oak symbol art by Paul Vromen ( www.paulvromen.com )

Cover photo by Net_efekt ( www.flickr.com/photos/wheatfields ) used under a Creative Commons licence

Proofread by Tanya Moons

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I

THE SEASON OF ABSTINENCE

In the time of snow, when flora and fauna sleep

In the time of darkness, when night overtakes day

Let human wants and desires also sleep

And let the spirit in silence contemplate and rise.

– Words of the Third Apostle 12:1-4

AHLIN laughed.

She and her friends all chuckled as they headed out to find a tavern to celebrate the end of the season, carefree and joyous for at least that one night. The onset of the winter season was always a double-edged blade for them. Throughout spring, summer and fall, they worked hard, scrubbing their hands raw as they washed clean the clothes of merchants and pilgrims who somehow believed that if only their outward appearance was cleansed, their souls might follow.

Now, as the weather turned cold and even the most devout of pilgrims would put off their next journey until spring, very little remained for the washerwomen of the Citadel of the Almighty to do—the local population mostly washed their own clothes, if they bothered to wash them at all.

If the seasons had been good and Ahlin and the others had earned enough, winter became a time of leisure, of sleeping in late in good beds and of seeking out entertainment on the town in the evenings. If the seasons had been sparse, and there had been too few wealthy patrons to save up money, winter became a time of deprivation, of trying to hold on just long enough for life to start up again in spring.

It remained to be seen how this winter would go—if snowstorms kept away the caravans long enough, many of Ahlin’s present companions would stop laughing, possibly forever.

But for tonight, all that mattered was that the long, hard seasons of work were over. For tonight, they were all friends, and the ale would flow freely.

So Ahlin laughed, and did her best to feel the laughter as the others surely did.

Her mind was not on the coming three moons, though—it was on the past, on a time many years before. She had been having the dreams again.

Only rarely did Ahlin ever remember her dreams—but when she did, they were always true dreams, dreams of the past. And they were vivid. Long after waking, Ahlin would still be able to smell the dust along the Pilgrim’s Trail, the camels carrying her litter, and above all, the putrid stench of the boils on her skin as they burst.

The Mopean Plague—named uncharitably after the Sainted Mopeh, who, like most of the victims of the plague, had been burned on a pyre—had ravaged the westernmost provinces of the Arganian Empire when Ahlin was thirteen summers old. Ahlin and her family had been safe enough in their private compound, and when the plague seemed to have burned itself out a mere six moons later, the priests were already praising the mercy of the Almighty when Ahlin’s fevers first started.

As the priests had taught it to Ahlin and her siblings, sinners were cast into the Pit of Thirteen Depths to atone for their misdeeds. What she could have done to deserve such a fate, Ahlin never knew—but there was no doubt in her mind that the plague had been the First Depth of her personal Pit. Fevers boiled her mind and boils burst forth out of her flesh, and she neither died nor got better, no matter how hard she prayed for each in turn.

She had turned fourteen by the time her family settled on a course of action. A pilgrimage to the Citadel of the Almighty, it was decided, was the only way to save her. The decision was made without Ahlin’s input, as she spent her time either delirious with pain or in exhausted sleep. Truthfully, she would have chosen a quick death over the rigors of the hard journey north, but for a true-born daughter of the Arganian Empire, surrender was simply not an option.

Ahlin! Finna called out, and she looked up in surprise. Lost in thought, Ahlin had fallen behind the others. She smiled reassuringly at Finna’s questioning look, then hurried on to catch up. The girls were standing by the door of a tavern, underneath an impressive, freshly repainted sign of an owl in flight.

You ever been in here, Ahlin? Drya asked.

Ahlin shook her head. Don’t think so. It looked like it might be a soldiers’ watering hole, which the gruff singing from inside seemed to confirm, and that she could do without—but sun-blonde Drya was young and Skanda and enjoyed few things as much as flirting with well-muscled men. Ahlin might be in a mood that night, but she wouldn’t ruin it for the rest. She gestured at the door, and Drya was the first to dart inside.

The last two to go in, Finna nudged Ahlin and pointed at the writing beneath the sign.

"The Hunting Owl, Ahlin read. She was one of the few washerwomen who knew her letters. Sounds properly predatory, doesn’t it?"

Finna raised an eyebrow. For the soldiers or for Drya? she asked. Ahlin chuckled. So she wasn’t the only one to have seen the glint in the girl’s eyes.

Finna went ahead of her through the door, and Ahlin shook her head to clear out the remnants of her dreams and followed.

It was ironic, really, that when she remembered any of her dreams these days, they were always of the time of her illness—because back then, delirious with fever, she had dreamed vividly. She still remembered crying out as she started awake, often from visions of the Pit. Still there was a blessing in those most horrid of dreams, because the terror they inspired was often the only thing that managed to burn away her delirium and clear her mind for short periods of time.

Although they featured most prominently, Ahlin’s dreams had not all been of the Thirteen Depths of the Pit. There had been one other recurring nightmare, and it was that one that had made her wary of sleep.

She had awoken sobbing, unsure of where she was—although neither was unusual at that point. The jerky movement of the mattress she lay on told her that she was traveling, but nothing more. A wet cloth on her forehead had brought her some relief.

Mam Arrum? Her voice was so hoarse that she could barely speak.

No, the voice of her older sister sounded gently. Nurse is at home, taking care of the little ones, remember? But I’m with you, Ahlin.

Risalla... Ahlin sighed. Is there... Is there war? Are we safe?

Risalla’s face was only a blur in front of Ahlin’s eyes, but the disbelief was easy enough to read in her voice. "War? Ahlin... there hasn’t been