Empire Zero (Act I: Tinder and Tear)

By Bert Barling

Magic is a near-forgotten memory, its appearance primarily relegated to embellished barroom tales and children's bedtime stories. The world's dragon population has been obliterated, long ago driven into extinction by the heroes of yesteryear. Yet, even without dragons, the world still remains one of danger, hardship, and oppression.

Dwarves have taken the highest seat in the social hierarchy, exploiting ogres and gremlins in their prosperous industrial cities as a cheap source of menial labor--a necessity that ensures their world-spanning empire's continued stability. Most elves now live in exile, banished from civilized lands for their abuse of the arcane arts. Even the orcs are scarcely seen, their race doomed to a slow decline after the eradication of their dragon masters. For the wealthy bureaucrats that now rule the Dwarven Empire, the world is nearly the idyllic paradise envisioned ages ago.

Recently, however, human settlements have begun to appear inside dwarven territory. Many speculate a dwarven invasion of these settlements would have already begun if not for the threat of rare human women, nicknamed "flamedancers," who inherently command the primal force of fire. It is rumored, though, that the dwarven factory-city of Rosary has developed a solution to this obstacle, and soon nothing--not even the flamedancers--will be able save humankind from destruction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bert Barling
• Release date: Sep 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301394715

Bert Barling

Bert Barling is a ham radio enthusiast, student of science, retired pumpkin farmer, and occasional writer. At one point in time, he was certified to give CPR and general first aid, but has since let the certification expire. It is unlikely that he will renew it. He also isn't actually a ham radio enthusiast, but still thinks they are "pretty darn neat."

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EMPIRE ZERO

Act I: Tinder and Tear

By

Bert Barling

Published by Bert Barling on Smashwords

Copyright © 2012 Bert Barling

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Brother, 0

Chapter 2: Brother, 1

Chapter 3: Brother, 2

Chapter 4: Brother, 3

Chapter 5: A Magistrate’s Speech

Chapter 6: Monster, 1

Chapter 7: Monster, 2

Chapter 8: Brother, 4

Chapter 9: Brother, 5

Chapter 10: Monster, 3

Chapter 11: Brother, 6

Chapter 12: Brother, 7

Chapter 13: A Servant’s Duty

Chapter 14: Monster, 4

Chapter 15: Brother, 8

Chapter 16: Brother, 9

Chapter 17: Brother, 10

Chapter 18: Thief, 1

Chapter 19: Thief, 2

Chapter 20: Brother, 11

Chapter 21: A Simple Test: A Commander’s Burden

Chapter 22: A Simple Test: A City’s Siege

Chapter 23: Thief, 3

Chapter 24: Monster, 5

Chapter 25: Monster, 6

Chapter 26: Thief, 4

Chapter 27: Thief, 5

Chapter 28: Brother, 12

Chapter 29: A Game of Hide & Seek

Chapter 30: Brother, 13

Epilogue

Brother, 0

Castor had heard tales of the wastelands in his youth, stories from his father about the impossible harshness of the distant, decayed landscape—the inescapable heat of its days, the frigid cold of its nights. An expansive lifeless nation; barren, desiccate, lost.

Now, being here, he found the realities of the wasteland far surpassed any storyteller’s embellishments.

A boy of eighteen, Castor lay alone on the hard wasteland floor. Limitless stretches of dull sand, gently illuminated by the clouded moon overhead, spread out in all directions around him. His body painted a spec on the vast empty canvas of finely crushed stone.

A fevered half-sleep blistered within Castor’s mind; waking dreams and memories smashed against his thoughts with violent persistence. His dying sister, the search—leaving the only home he had ever known to help her, to find her cure. The horse’s broken ankle. Dwindling food supplies.

A piece of flint, worn and scratched, dug into Castor’s palm as he tightened his hand around it. Fatigue and cold immobilized the rest of his muscles. No fire kicked between the meager wood scraps piled next to him.

Castor stared into the miles of empty grey nothing.

This is where I die, he thought.

Brother, 1

Castor’s eyes opened. The empty sky had vanished. Dusty wooden ceiling beams hung overhead. He was in a room he had never seen before.

Oh, an unfamiliar voice said. So he is alive after all.

Castor raised his head, spotting the elderly woman at his bedside. His mouth opened to ask a question but only a tired grunt escaped his throat.

That’s ok, little one, the woman said. Breakfast will be ready in about an hour or so. Looks like it’ll do you well, too—child your age needs more than just skin covering his bones. Go on and rest a bit longer.

The elderly woman turned around and began to recite a familiar saying about youth and nutrition as she exited the small bedroom, but Castor was back asleep before she could finish.

------

Castor woke again, later, finding himself still in the foreign room. His burlap supply bag sat propped against a wooden rocking chair in the room’s corner. Beside the chair laid his wool blanket, carefully folded and apparently cleaned. A small collection of carved wooden ducks rested atop the dresser next to the door.

The bedroom felt worn and tired; a layer of dust covered every surface. The soft tinkling of wind chimes filled the room from the open bedside window. Sun-bleached curtains moved with the rhythm of the chimes, twisting and shuddering as the breeze rolled over them.

The small wooden cot shifted as Castor sat up. He walked to the rocking chair then stuffed his blanket into his burlap bag. After securing its clasps, he slung the bag over his shoulder. Castor stretched the stiffness from his back then took a cautious step out of the room.

The old woman was busy in the kitchen, the sweet smell of freshly cooked food filling her home. A floorboard creaked loudly, revealing Castor’s presence.

Good, you’re awake, the woman said from the kitchen, her eyes never leaving the stove in front of her. Soup’s almost ready; it’ll be just what you need. Go on and take a seat.

Castor turned the corner, walking through the archway to enter the kitchen. I don’t mean to be rude, he said, but who are you?

Grandma Nemain, she said warmly, her lips parting into a wide grin. And I will be your hostess and companion today, my young friend. She adjusted the aged apron that wrapped around her plump waist and wiped her hands on a cloth splotched with many years worth of stains.

Nemain turned from the stove and pulled out a wooden chair from the small round table near the kitchen’s west wall. She motioned for Castor to sit. Go ahead, she said.

There was an odd eagerness in the woman’s voice. Castor hesitated, examining Nemain and her home before taking a slow step into the kitchen and sitting at the table. He laid his bag on the floor by his feet.

So, you gotta name there, handsome?

Oh, sorry—Castor.

The old woman moved the large iron pot from the stove to the table. It fell in front of Castor with a heavy thud. Well then, Castor, she said, pulling two wooden spoons and bowls from a nearby cabinet, welcome to my home. Let’s eat.

Seated across from the elderly woman, Castor took a spoon and bowl then sampled the soup. The meal was masterfully cooked despite the plain, uninspired ingredients that surely filled it; a concoction only possible with years of cooking experience.

This is great, Castor said between spoonfuls.

Thank you, child, Nemain replied as she sipped at her own soup.

For a moment, Castor felt slightly insulted by the woman’s words. No one had referred to him as ‘child’ in many years. Yet, he supposed, that was the right of the elderly; to her, any person his age would seem adolescent. He shook away the thought then helped himself to another bowlful of soup. I haven’t eaten in days, he said. Thanks for bringing me back here. You saved my life.

Nemain grinned politely. She raised her spoon to her mouth. Tell me, then, Castor—what exactly were you doing out in the wasteland all alone like that? Me and Orthrus thought you were a goner, for sure, when we picked you up.

Orthrus?

Orthrus is my little puppy, Nemain replied. He’s the one that caught your scent and found you out there. I’ll introduce you two when the time is better; he’s the one you should be thanking, really. He likes it when you rub his tummy. She smiled at Castor again. But you didn’t answer my question: what were you doing out there by yourself, nothing but a blanket and a backpack? It’s awful dangerous to be alone and exposed in the wasteland.

My sister, he said as he lifted another spoonful of soup, my sister is sick. We don’t have the right medicine in Elmston—that’s where I’m from. I’m trying to find a town that does. I have a map, but, Castor swallowed, I got lost.

Oh, poor thing, Nemain replied, what does your sister have?

I, well, I’m not sure. I’ve got a list of medicines that my father said will fix her, though.

The old woman chuckled. Well, Castor, I have some good news for you, she said. You almost made it by yourself. There’s nothing that’ll help you right here, but there is a town that’s usually well-stocked with medicine less than a day’s walk away. Saybrook, it’s called. Tiny farm-town, like most of the towns out in this part of the wasteland, but they do got a doctor, last I heard. Never seen him myself—towns like that one are a bit too unpredictable for me. I try to only go there when I need to. The woman’s voice seemed to trail off. Nemain cleared her throat then brought her attention back to Castor. Imagine you’d do just fine, though. Just a little ways east of here, it is. Road in front of my house leads right there.

That’s great, Castor said, momentarily resting his spoon beside the wooden bowl. I’ll be out of your hair after we finish eating, then.

Oh, Nemain replied. No, no. You can’t leave yet. You need to stay awhile—a couple days, at least—and get your strength back.

I wish I could, but I really need to get going as soon as possible. Castor smiled warmly. Thanks again, though. For everything.

Nemain did not return the smile. Her face was flat, emotionless. She watched Castor in silence, slowly bringing another spoonful of soup to her lips.

Moments passed. So, what town are we in right now? Castor asked, seeking to ease the unexpected tension. He strained his eyes to look out the dirty window over the kitchen sink but only saw the softly rolling hills of the wasteland.

Was once called Adder’s Tongue, Nemain said, before everyone left.

Left? Why?

The old woman shrugged her shoulders.

You live here by yourself?

Nemain nodded.

Castor finished the last of his soup. Well, I guess I should get going then. Don’t want to be a bother; sure you’ve got things to attend to.

Nemain sighed. The kind grin reappeared on her face. Since I can’t convince you to stay, I would ask a favor of you, Nemain said, before you take off. I know you’re pressed for time and all, but do you think you could help an old lady like me take care of a little problem in my basement? She pointed to an open door on the other side of the room. My water-well has got a bit of a leak near the pump; shouldn’t take too long to change out the pipefitting. She placed her spoon into her empty bowl and leaned back into her chair slowly.

Oh, Castor said, pushing aside his own bowl, of course. I’d be glad to help.

That’s sweet of you, dear, Nemain replied. She rose from the table then began collecting their dishes.

Castor stopped her. Let me get those for you, he said. Least I can do.

Nemain sat back down into her chair.

The large iron pot was heavier than it appeared. Castor staggered as he lifted it, losing his balance. His body twisted, trying to correct the mismanagement of the pot’s weight, but his muscles were too weak to respond in time. Both the iron pot and Castor fell heavily into the wall behind the table, shaking the room and knocking the contents of a small shelf to the cottage’s wooden floor. Glass and ceramic shattered, sending tiny sparkling splinters in every direction.

Oh, hells, Castor said, I’m so sorry. He set the iron pot down on the floor and began to sweep the shards into a pile, dragging his palms as makeshift brooms over the wooden floor.

Nemain began to speak in reply, but her words ended abruptly. Castor heard her inhale deeply. Where did you say you were from again, Castor? she whispered. She sniffed at the air, drawing in several large gulps through her nostrils. Her breath quickened; her lips twisted.

The elderly woman’s eyes fixated on the pile of glass and ceramic splinters. Castor, surprised, followed her gaze.

Tiny streams of blood flowed down Castor’s fingertips. A thin film of bright red smeared across the broken fragmented glass.

Castor glanced back to Nemain’s face. She still sat in her chair, her eyes now locked onto the insignificant amount of blood covering his hands and the floor. Every muscle in her body flexed sharply underneath her wrinkled skin; every tendon tensed to the point of snapping.

A harsh growl echoed from deep inside Nemain’s stomach. The veins in her face darkened, clearly visible underneath her pale white skin, spider-webbing across her cheeks and down her neck, pulsating with each heartbeat.

With predatory quickness, Nemain leapt from her chair, toppling Castor in a movement too rapid for any type of defensive reaction. The elderly woman stretched out Castor’s arm and latched onto his left hand, clamping down hard with her teeth. She bit into the flesh between his thumb and forefinger, swallowing deeply, leeching the blood away from his body.

The pain broke his paralysis. Castor threw his shoulder into the elderly woman, an awkward maneuver that smashed her skull against a nearby chair. Nemain’s jaw slacked with the blow, giving Castor the opportunity to release his hand. Quickly moving to his feet, Castor crossed the room to put the kitchen table between them.

Nemain’s head lolled loosely between her shoulders. The old woman remained on the floor, slumped against the table’s leg. Pain-filled mews sputtered from between her ragged, bloodied lips.

Taking a step backward, Castor made his way to the door. Nemain opened her eyes and sprung off the floor at him.

He caught her mid-leap, outstretching his arms and managing to hold her away from his body. Nemain’s mouth snapped at him, trying to gnaw at the arms that restrained her like a captured animal.

Mine! the old woman retched.

Nemain’s wrinkled hands wrapped around Castor’s elbows, the nails sinking into his skin. Struggling to keep her away from him, Castor swayed forward.

Nemain shook herself violently, doing whatever she could to free herself from Castor’s grip. The two of them danced across the kitchen, crashing against furniture as they both attempted to overpower the other.

Castor’s shoulder fell hard into the cellar door’s frame, the jolt tossing Nemain’s body away. Nemain stumbled backwards toward the staircase’s entranceway. In panic, Castor brashly pushed her through the door-space. The elderly woman’s body tumbled down the flight of stairs, hammering against every wooden step as she fell to the cellar.

Fear burst through Castor’s veins. He leaned through the door’s threshold, peering into the poorly lit basement below. Gagging slightly, Castor retreated from the doorway; the faint stench of rotting meat filled his lungs.

Broken and bleeding, Nemain rolled off the bottom stair onto the cellar’s rough cemented floor.

Not taking any chances, Castor slammed the wooden door at the top of the staircase. He tipped over the pantry cabinet beside it, bracing the door with the cabinet’s weight.

The sounds of heavy panting leaked through the cracks in the door. The slow, steady fall of labored footsteps climbed the stairs.

The footfalls stopped. Fingernails scratched weakly against the other side of the wooden door.

Castor raced across the kitchen, picking up a kitchen rag from the floor and wrapping it tightly around his bleeding hand. He grabbed his burlap bag then ran out of the cottage.

As the front door slammed closed behind him, a mangy muscular dog beside the house began to growl. Castor jumped back, eyes wide.

The filthy dog barked, snapping against the chain looped around its neck as it ran towards him. The beast arched its back and exposed its teeth. Though it frothed with anger, the chain’s length was sufficient to deny the dog its attack.

Only a few feet away from the snarling dog, Castor took a breath. Half-chewed bones, loosely piled on top of one another, lay propped against Nemain’s home. Tiny bits of meat and tendons clung weakly to the bones’ surfaces. A half-buried human jawbone lay semi-exposed in the dirt behind the dog, its bleach-white surface standing out against the soil’s earthen grey.

Oh, little one he heard Nemain cry out from deep within the house, Please let me out. I knew when we found you that there was something special about you, but I just couldn’t put my finger on what exactly it was. A loud thud rattled from behind the braced cellar door. You must have travelled so far, yes? It’s been so long; my old mind can barely remember. But I know that smell, yes I do—did you really think you could hide what you are from Grandma Nemain? The old woman laughed, a sickening gurgle that frosted Castor’s skin.

Castor took one last look at the small house. Three pairs of wooden columns held the porch aloft, faded from many years of standing in the wasteland sun. A cracked swing hung loosely from beneath the porch’s awning. A ‘Home Sweet Home’ welcome mat rested at the front door’s foot.

Why don’t you just let me out? Nemain rasped, her voice noticeably harsher than before. We both know how this will end.

The wind chimes still played the soft tune of a cool morning breeze. The dog growled and barked.

Castor turned around. Nemain’s house sat firmly amongst a clump of other buildings. Small derelict barns and unoccupied houses surrounded her home, each having fallen into disrepair long ago. What could have once been the beginnings of a budding trail town now stood as a dead and hollowed-out carcass.

The ghost town’s visage dismissed, Castor adjusted the straps of his bag then repositioned it on his back. In front of the cottage was a barely visible trail. He squinted his eyes at the horizon, barely able to make out the speck of a town in the distance.

Castor followed the trail east.

Brother, 2

It was the children of Saybrook who first noticed the shambling figure in the distance, a shadowed form slowly striding towards their small town in the morning’s early light. The sight of arriving strangers, seeking to stake a claim in a new place far away from the politics and bureaucracies that ruled the western coastline, had once been commonplace. But times change, and these days most people were more inclined to leave Saybrook than settle anew.

Only a few generations ago, the uncanny presence of fertile soil in the area had provided a near constant influx of new faces and revenue to the burgeoning farm town. Few good things last forever, though, as every passing year saw the soil turn more and more unproductive. The town’s lifeblood coagulated and, with its failing, the major force that had once sustained Saybrook waned.

What few people remained made the best they could with the meager crops they managed to grow along the outskirts of the now near-ramshackle city. Saybrook’s inhabitants lived lives in pursuit of adequacy, relinquishing the dreams of prosperity that their elders once sought. Yet still the grand woodwork buildings of Saybrook stood firmly, a constant reminder of lost potential, their paint faded and their wood scratched, splintered, and lusterless.

Amidst these desolate monuments played the children. They ran through the dusty streets, their voices filled with a glee absent from their older siblings and parents. When the first child noticed the approaching shadow in the distance, she paid little attention—quickly assuming it to be another wandering trader, venturing to their town to sell his wares.

The shadow grew and the figure made its way closer. The rising sun brightened, revealing the traveler to be moving by foot instead of atop a horse. This caused a few children to pause momentarily during their game, as travelling the wastes on foot was a death sentence that only occurred following disaster.

When the shadow was close enough to be revealed as a young man, the children ended their game. They stood clumped in a loose group, silently watching his approach. A few children felt pity for the young man, a figure whose walk echoed the march of crushing fatigue. Some felt fear; shivers tightened their skin when they looked directly at him, so they instead chose to gaze upon the dirt passing beneath his feet. Others stared directly at the young man, eyes filled with shock and curiosity.

You hurt, mister?! a boy with freckles yelled to the man in the distance.

The young man’s artless stride continued without pause. Against his left hand he firmly held a rag soaked with blood, both fresh and dried.

The boy with freckles tried once again, this time filling his lungs with a deep gulp of air to drive power into his lungs. YOU OKAY? he boomed.

The young man paused. He raised both arms above his stomach, clutching the rag against his wound. His mouth opened wide and his chest spasmed, but the children could decipher no meaning from the sickly sound that resulted. The bloodied figure seemed to recognize this, his head bobbing down and his eyes meeting the ground.

Not one child moved. Three held their breath. A girl with pigtails clutched tightly at her older sister’s hand as tears began to form.

The young man looked up again. He began to walk directly towards the children. Again, the figure’s mouth opened