Chapter 2 - A Foggy Arrival

Cadryn sucked air through his teeth and rubbed a sore shoulder as the cart bounced sharply, Its wheel finding the forty seventh hole in the road that day. He looked down at his orders of reporting for the hundredth time at least: the Imperial Army sent commissions separately from an officer, a process the Empire had developed to prevent newly commissioned officers from merely going rogue in the country under false authority. Someone had to actually report to where their commission waited in order to receive their proof of office.

It had taken nearly two weeks by riverboat just to get to the northernmost city, Ilska. The boat had been nice, lots of down time to train, unlike the overland. This cart ride was three days from the river, through the range of mountains bordering the interior of the Empire. After that, the road only seemed to get worse on its way to the shoreline. “Whoever’s responsible for this road should be hung,” he grumbled, pulling his wool cloak tighter against the chilling fog that surrounded them on the shore side roadway.

“Then you ought’ hang yourself!” roared back the cart-master, “Your damned Imperial Engineers are responsible!”

The lout was right, if directing his ire at the wrong Imperial servant. In total, the trip north had taken the better part of a month, first in a proper carriage, then by boat, with a surly captain to boot, now this git . . . the first week Cadryn spat bile, the boat gave him time to cool, but it did not change the truth: This was a mistake, it had to be.

Partly from habit, and, partly for something to do, he removed the scroll containing his orders of deployment from its case. Unfurling the oiled vellum he read the blighted words for what must be the hundredth time. Yet they remained the same. “Report to the North-Eastern Extreme Frontier Tower for Guard duty . . .”

“I bloody well know where I’m taking you!” the old codger yelled back, as the open-topped cart bucked its way over yet another uneven patch of stony packed dirt. “And we’re nearly there, boy!” he added pointing into the grey wall of mist ahead.

Cadryn twisted around to face forward in the bed of the cart. They had just begun crossing a narrow bridge, a void of land and sound alike yawning on either side of the passage. The thin span disappeared ahead of them into the swirling clouds of mist as if they were leaving the world of the living. Cadryn’s chest tightened, and the hand of his sword-arm fell to the pommel of his blade.

They advanced until nothing but the bridge existed, and the sounds of donkey and cart echoed back from vapor around them in distorted proportion. He was about to ask how long the bridge was when the far cliff side, covered in trees, loomed into reality with the fog thinning out. Rising above the cliff, the shadow of the tower rose within the grey haze of the sky.

Visible only as a darker patch of fog at first, the tower seemed almost a living colossus standing sentinel at the edge of the abyss they now crossed. As the cart wound up the forest lined road, the lower structure of the tower resolved at the top of a long rise; the walls of a massive citadel, at least five stories in height. Beside this featureless expanse of stone, a smaller building solidified into a walled two-story Caravan Tollhouse straddling the road beside the tower. The thick oaken doors of the southern approach hung open to the roadway like the maw of a vast creature. A blatantly insecure arrangement, given the last of visible sentries on the outer wall of the tollhouse.

A windworn wooden sign hung below the gate: ‘Welcome to the Neeft!’

The cart rattled its way across the threshold, entering a massive and neatly tiled courtyard. A mosaic occupied the ground directly inside the gate; A mailed fist on an Indigo field, the Imperial flag. Directly ahead of the southern gate was the narrow side of a rectangular two-story guard post, the facing shutters were closed. They made their way to the right, clearing the guard post’s lower level, and moving up even with the toll house’s main building on the right side of the courtyard. No other carts waited, and down at the far end of the walled space, the northern gates stood open as well, a very lax arrangement.

“Well, here you are! Now get my pay, boy.” The cart-master demanded.

Cadryn threw him a knowing smile, “So now you’re in a hurry?”

The man cursed, made the sign of the Devourer of Wayward Travelers: a clawed fist thrust upward against the opposite forearm, like a great demon’s claw from the earth. “They didn’t pay for speed, just that you arrive intact . . . what happens to you now isn’t my problem.” He pointed to Cadryn’s rolled up orders. “My coin, however, is your problem, now.”

Before Cadryn could reply, the more belligerent of the two donkeys brayed loudly. The sound was followed by a pair of shutters slamming open on the second floor of the Tollhouse to Cadryn’s right, a beady-eyed man with a pallid complexion appeared.

“You there!” he yelled out in a shrill voice. “State your business.”

“My business is moving cargo, you crow!” yelled the cart-master, annoyed at being interrupted.

“Well, I don’t see much in your cart besides the lad and some rather sad looking crates from Ilska.”

Unable to endure the cart-master, Cadryn spoke up. “My name is Cadryn Bence, and I’ve orders here to report for Duty.” In the pit of his gut he hoped against all odds that the man would claim he was mistaken, would have word from Throne-home that there’d been a mix-up and he was to report immediately to the southern region. It didn’t even have to be a combat posting. A newly conquered kingdom: Kalos, or Jorkai, would be a much more exciting post than the quiet of the north. He would even be grateful for a coastal post along the eastern shores, with fair weather and fairer company. Instead, the man merely gazed at him for a long moment, then nodded.

“Ahh, yes, Guard Bence, you are expected.” With those words, Cadryn’s very soul sank into the depths of grief. “Come up to my office,” the man added, “We have much to discuss.”

Cadryn felt like he was in water, everything muffled, as he got off the cart. The old bastard trying to reign in his donkeys yelled something at him, some final fuck you, but he didn’t hear it. Instead, pulling the pack containing the sum total of his possessions from the cart, Cadryn took in his surroundings: the courtyard of the tollhouse was a large, roughly square space at the south gate. The building to his right, the one slouching against the massive wall of the citadel, looked to be the main structure of the tollhouse. To his left, the walls looped out to encompass an elevated Guard Post, he couldn't see anyone in the Guard post, but it was misty and unlit. Ignoring that breach of protocol for now, he trudged over to the stairs to the right leading up into the tollhouse. Clearing the Guard Post’s footprint in the courtyard, he could see that the space extended to the north, the left side filled with a covered warehouse and the stables, besides which sat the offset Northern gate, creating a kind of switch back for any traffic entering the courtyard.

“I am Imperial Assessor Sefton Atwood, but you may call me Sefton,” said the thin man in deep emerald green robes. He remained at the window, glaring into the guard post opposite, as Cadryn entered his immaculately arranged office overlooking the courtyard. Sefton had the look of a lifetime bureaucrat: soft body, softer hands. This was the kind of Imperial citizenry Cadryn learned to mistrust early, and rarely was wrong for it. “I am the Tax Collector for this Frontier Tower, and the nearby settlement of Kellen’s Veld.” he added, matter-of-factly.

“You must be the highest Imperial official in the entire region,” Cadryn said, more sarcastically than he intended, but Sefton either didn’t pick up on it, or ignored it.

“How astute,” Sefton said glancing past Cadryn as if checking for someone eavesdropping, “but I should expect nothing less from the top graduate of the Academy.”

Cadryn bit his tongue.

“Quite,” Sefton said, gesturing to the empty chair, “shall we discuss your assignment to my humble corner of the Empire?”

Taking a seat, Cadryn sighed, the weariness of the road blending poorly with his own frustration upon finding the post to be correct. Looking at Sefton he felt something strange about him, he was almost earnest. Feeling it, he took a chance and spoke his mind. “Yes, why, WHY am I here? I was sure that it was a mistake—“

“The Empire does not make mistakes,” Sefton interjected, his tone flat and matter of fact. He slid a document across the surface of his polished desk. “As you can see, your commission clearly states that you are to serve here for a term of no less than one year. At which time you may be reassigned.”

“’May be’” Cadryn said, snatching up the vellum, he realized at once that it was his actual commission. All of the theorizing on the road about the first set of orders being a mix-up were in vain . . . his first commission was as a Gods damned guard on the Frontier.

“As you can see,” Sefton said, his gaze narrowing in a display of total and complete understanding of what Cadryn just realized. “All is in order.”

“This is a mistake,” Cadryn said flatly, refusing to accept the reality before him. “I graduated top of the class, you said it yourself, why would they send me here!?”

“I don’t know,” Sefton said, retrieving the commission. It was not the sort of answer one expected out of, well, anyone in a position of authority. It both caught Cadryn off guard, and left him angrier. He found himself standing.

“Well it’s a lie, or a slight! Some lazy Assemblage pomph messed up the assignment, I won’t stand for this!”

“Then you won’t be serving in the Imperial Army,” Sefton replied, holding out one long fingered hand to gesture for the return of Cadryn’s commission.

Cadryn only realized he was sweating with anger, as his nape went cold and prickly, “You can’t be serious. . .”

Sefton folded his hands and fixed Cadryn with grey, watery eyes. “Do I look like a duplicitous man to you?”

“No,” Cadryn replied, the man was the very image of collected thought. Clean clothes, cleaner desk, rows of neatly labeled tax records sat on the shelves lining an entire wall.

“Do I seem incompetent to you?” Sefton asked.

Cadryn shifted uncomfortably in his stance. Outside, a donkey brayed and the cart-master cursed. Only now was it dawning how out of line Cadryn was, “No, you seem to have things very well run here, well, aside from the lack of anyone manning the Gates.”

A barely noticeable smirk tugged at Sefton’s lip, and was gone. “Just because you don’t see something, doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

Realization flashed through the cloud of Cadryn’s anger like a lightning bolt. “You’re saying there’s a reason I’m here?”

“Of course, as I said, the—“

“‘Empire does not make mistakes.’ I understand, Sir.”

“But you don’t, if you did, you would not have seen fit to question the logic of your assignment here. At the very least you would have guessed that there may be some reason for it, and sought to discover that reason, while an appeal of your posting here is being processed.”

It felt like the sun had come out of the clouds, Cadryn straightened, “An appeal, is that an option?”

“Naturally, the Empire is not without its mechanisms for the redress of grievance, upon seeing your records, I expected you would arrive with a strong desire to leave. So I took the liberty of preparing a challenge.”

Cadryn sat back, and took a moment to really look at Sefton Atwood, beneath the soft robes and manicured appearances, moved something much more dangerous. Behind those watery eyes lay a calculating mind. “What do you want?”

Sefton Atwood smiled broadly, showing off his well-kept teeth, and Cadryn recognized the familiar in the unknown: An animal of court politics in a place without a court. “I want, what you want, a return. For that to happen, I must maintain this region in a peaceful state of Imperial control. For this, I need everyone here to complete the tasks assigned them. If you do your part, I will do mine in facilitating your appeal.”

“And if I don’t?” Cadryn hazarded.

“Then you,” Sefton replied, his eyes unblinking, “will never leave the Neeft.”

Leaning forward, Cadryn plucked the quill out of Sefton’s inkwell, signed his name to both the commission, and the request for appeal. “So,” he said easily, replacing the quill, “Where do I begin?”