2. Home, to the dead

  Inla remained stone-faced, not betraying the impatience slowly coming to a boil inside him. He glared up at the guardsman in silence as the pressure of the speartip approached discomfort.

  On receiving no acknowledgement of his demands, the guardsman lowered his spear and approached with squared shoulders until their chests touched. His formidable size dwarfed Inla by almost a head in height. He lowered his gaze until the nose ridge of his horned full-helm butted against Inla's forehead, the cold steel leaving a brief impression on his fair skin. The only sound to punctuate the tension was the tingle of scalemail, and the tumble of the skull-laden memory scarf around the guardsman's neck.

  "You look green, stranger. Have you seen your first battle?" said the guardsman in a low rumble.

  Inla was overly prepared for this particular jibe, his unmarred looks being a frequent source of banter among the otherwise disfigured many. He knew that under Aldern's helm was a face lined with the silvery white of scar tissue strewn diagonally in three uniform strips, gifted by razor-sharp talons. The vindictive and shameless man had always reminded him of a petty cat, too spoiled by the fineries of life to ever harbour anything but spite. The man's breath stank of stale ale and salted meat, telling him everything he needed to know. "More than you, Aldern. I'm just not stupid enough to fight with my face first."

  Aldern suddenly shoved Inla by the chest in an effort to knock him off-balance, but the force was easily absorbed, and with a graceful adjustment to his footing, he barely lost any composure.

  He didn't reach for either of his swords, reading the situation for what it was.

  The drunken guardsman threw his head back and guffawed to the sky. It was a dark laughter, one born of a warrior's boredom from being stationed at the dead side of the valley, but also a long-established childish animosity bordering on disdain. He was soon joined by a chorus, as three additional men appeared from above, hidden from view by the tall ridges on either side of the path.

  "You've no sense of humour IN-LAH." Aldern made sure to annunciate his name fully in mockery.

  "I'll have to take your word for it," he responded coolly, pushing past his brother-in-arms towards home.

  Aldern didn't try to bar his way, but stalked close behind blowing kisses at the air. "Come on Inla, I'm not as pretty as Fox but giz a kiss."

  Their laughter swelled briefly at the jibe until he was far enough away that it changed to the hushed tones of boyish whispers, Aldern no doubt bringing the younger men under his command up to date with Inla's story.

  For most of his life, he’d told himself that he didn't care for the opinions of others, and while there was some truth in that, he recognised that he wasn't immune. Try as he might, he still felt frustrations and irritations like any man, especially so when the likes of Aldern felt so comfortable belittling him. Ordinarily, his reputation as a Warden earned him peace from such confrontations, but Aldern was a particularly belligerent individual and emboldened since he learned of Inla's affections for Fox circulating the rumour mill of the barracks. He wasn't sure how it happened, but he suspected that someone found his diary at his camp when he was training or on a supply run, and for two months he'd suffered as entertainment for the petty minded.

  It dented his pride, but he did his best to avoid the path of righteous anger, understanding intimately from his youth that it would only fan the flames. Instead, he tried to take the higher road, acknowledging that life between the monthly Narak could be slow for those of the martial caste if they’d no external interests or responsibilities, as many did not. This was the right way and what he'd been taught, but he also resented being forced into a position of tolerance when the intolerant did so little to police themselves.

  With Aldern behind and the valley opening up before him, Inla breathed a sigh of relief. He followed the path down along the southern-facing ridge that shielded Amona from the rest of the civilised world, down and through the vast fields of crops they cultivated on that side of the valley. A multitude of glistening waterfalls from the western slopes fell into gentle streams and rivers that carved up the black, fertile soil, before being guided from west to east by a slight, imperceptible slope; and eventually, to the lands below. Their home was a cradle, nestled between mountain peaks and jagged rock that shot vertically upwards to the sky, providing a natural, impenetrable barrier on all sides. There were only two ways in or out of Amona—the mountain pass to the south, and a small break in the range to the north that gave way to the evil beyond.

  Dirt underfoot soon became sculpted, white paving stones, with every one in 12 adorning hand-carved spiral sigils of Amona. Inla crossed the first of several wooden arched bridges, expertly crafted and beautifully decorated with intricate floral patterns, at the centre of which were more examples of the spiral. Each bridge along the path had four dedicated spaces for wick-and-wax glass lanterns, specifically designed to avoid scorching the preserved timber. Tradition dictated that the flames were lit every night to help guide the dead from the valley to their final resting place, but few remembered their significance, and fewer still cared. To Inla, as someone more educated on their history than most, and more importantly, someone that coveted the old ways, there was a comfort to the belief that his fallen loved ones could find their way, just as he did.

  Across the second bridge, he exchanged nods with a carpenter that was in the important process of sanding down some wear to reseal. Amona's location provided unique challenges to the woodworkers of the valley. With the only trees available being decorative or sacred, and the tree cover around the base of the mountain considered essential for strategic cover, all timber had to be purchased elsewhere through contracts, then transported and painstakingly hauled up the staircase by rope and pulley. This was true of all essential crafts and construction, from textiles, to smithing, and otherwise. Consequently, theirs was a practical culture of scrupulous resource management. Their ancestors had developed a deep appreciation for everything under their domain and passed down a meticulous system to ensure they had what they needed, when they needed it. Careful consumption was of the utmost importance, and it was considered a great honour to repair and maintain.

  As Inla crossed the third bridge, a young boy and girl of no more than eight winters came running at him from across the fields. He knew them by sight from the recent Seeding, but not by name. Like him, they were Saplings—orphans brought to Amona from every corner of Erdgard—and through the Seeding they’d been made siblings under the care of the all-important and much adored cultivation and catering caste. Theirs would be to grow, harvest, brew, bake, cook, and even research to improve yield or source new crops in the interest of better feeding the valley. The cooks of Amona could do much with little, and if you were in their good graces you might be lucky enough to receive extras or seconds. It was a grounded, no-nonsense caste that understood their value and suffered no fools.

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  The children stopped just short of falling over each other and careering into Inla's boots. They were both grubby from a day in the fields and more likely their fair share of play.

  The boy had untamed, short, dirty-blonde hair that brushed at his eyebrows, and a rats-tail braid that whipped around him as he ran, reminding Inla of descriptions of the Flagellants of old. He stepped forward; bold-as-brass, eyes-bright, and full of wonder. "Are YOU the one with the weird name?!" he declared, more statement that question.

  Inla smirked, entertained by his candour. "That's me, but I'm not so strange," he said, winking at the boy. "It's our language from a long, long time ago, and I think it's nice to honour our ancestors, don't y’think?"

  The boy looked down at his feet and punted a rock away. "My name is stupid. It's Songbird and I HATE it. I'm going to pick a new name, like you, only waaay better like DRAGON, or… or WOLF. I'm going to get ALL the titles!" he announced, dramatically throwing his arms around as he spoke. His attention was immediately pulled away by an especially large, orange butterfly clumsily fluttering by.

  "I think Songbird is an honourable name. It's said that the ancient seat of our ancestors had a special relationship with the beasts of Erdgard, and the songbirds were the most important of all because they can see everything; not unlike how quick you were to spot that monarch flying by, right?"

  The boy looked stunned, eyes wide in wonder as he reconsidered his place in the world.

  Inla couldn't help but laugh before his gaze fell on the girl beaming up at him. "Your brother's not short on ambition, eh? How about you?"

  She took a moment while turning the ends of her long, dark hair in contemplation. "I'M going to be a Sister!" she declared loudly, rolling onto her toes to be as tall as possible and flexing her skinny arms at him.

  Inla sucked in through his teeth in faux awe. "That's a good one. You definitely have the look. I bet you'll be the greatest Sister there ever was. In fact… one look at those muscles and the Sinti will go running back."

  The girl giggled and pulled her best battle-face, something between a strangled weasel and an angry sprite. Inla laughed heartily and started off again down the path, ruffling her hair on the way past.

  His lifestyle didn't afford many opportunities to interact with the children of Amona, but he admitted that they always made his heart feel lighter. The durability and joy of youth would never cease to amaze him. He didn't know this particular pair's orphaned circumstances prior to arriving at Amona, but it was usually dire. Among the sprawling slums of the wider world's cities, the lost and unwanted soon became targets, and even those that had the strength or wit to scrape their own way would forever be without a home in their hearts, cursed to forever seek it. To see these two and many hundreds more have an opportunity to reach their potential filled him with pride. More importantly, they’d time to be children and make memories, which was arguably the greatest gift of all offered by Amona.

  "HEY!" called the boy running after him, having solved his existential crisis. "Show us your swords pleaseee…"

  Turning around to the young Amonians, Inla reached across his body to his waist, drawing his shorter blade from its sheath in one smooth motion. He rested it flat on open-faced palms and got down on one knee for them to examine.

  The boy balled up his skinny fists in excitement. "Woaaa!" he exclaimed with eyes fit to pop out of his head. He reached out to touch the slightly curved steel with excited fingers.

  "Careful—"

  "—ow!" cried out Songbird, snatching his hand back and immediately bringing a finger beading with red to his mouth.

  Inla frowned. "That's the business end, lad."

  "What're these?" asked the girl also struggling to contain her curiosity, but more wisely worked her fingers along the hundreds of tiny notches that uniformly stacked the flat of the steel close to the hilt.

  "Kills."

  "And what about that one?" she asked, pointing to the long, two-handed blade strapped to his back.

  "Different sword, different kills. A blade has as much personality as your brother and you; and Ito hates Sinti. Its sister here is called Ishti; Ito and Ishti. My fire and my fang."

  "That's too big for me…" she complained.

  "Lucky for you the Sisterhood have their own special swords for strong ladies like you," said Inla, standing up straight again and housing Ishti.

  Parked at the edge of the field was a wide-shouldered woman with powerful looking hands used to hard labour, but equally suited to swinging a sword or wrangling skiving children. She glanced at him with a polite, but contained wariness, doing her best to hide her true feelings.

  He didn't know her by name, but her face was familiar.

  "Come along now, Amona isn't going to feed itself. Leave Inla be," said their mother curtly, a tone not to be reckoned with. She gave him another fleeting look while adjusting her blonde braid before turning back into the fields, children at her heels. They waved to him enthusiastically until the tall grain swallowed them from view.

  Inla turned away, feeling his sourness return at the mother’s accusing looks. He knew her silent judgement to be much more than mood or motherly protection and tried to remind himself that her discomfort wasn't his fault, but it did little to temper his frustrations. Looks and whispers had become all too commonplace for him for the majority of his adult life, ever since the split from his foster father many moons ago; a reality that only seemed to become more potent the more detached he became. He'd done well to reconcile the event and his circumstances with himself, but stray incidents still served as unwelcome reminders. What's more, independent and irrespective of the path he chose, he’d the distinct impression that he was just someone that people were unsure of. Outside of the few close friendships he tried to maintain, the air of uncertainty that haunted his interactions ensured he was forever held at arms length, like a beaten wolf. He could do little to remedy it, unprepared to face his own pride; so instead took loneliness as his companion and increasingly sought it out.

  The hour grew late and teased dusk as he approached the first homes that marked the beginning of Amona proper. Deciding it was too late to report to the Circle about Sheadun, Inla took a left along an unpaved trail towards the western foothills, past unused and overgrown surplus fields until he arrived at his camp just before nightfall.

  Gentle rain pattered on the gnarled trunk of the old oak where he'd made his home for the better part of a decade. He threw his travel robe over the lowest branch and sighed on inspection of the jerky he'd left out to dry, now half-eaten by some opportune critter. He set a fire, filled his old kettle from the nearby stream for tea, and took a well-earned seat on one of his deadwood stools. His eyes fell on the idle Shuffleboard in front of him, the pieces waiting for the inevitable arrival of the dead to continue their game together.

  "Hi buddy," said Ravensong from the stool opposite, as if he'd been there all along. "How's da's blade holding up?"