COMING SOON

In the meantime, why not get the ebooks and reread or catch up ?

Prologue – FREE!                       Book I – Just $1.99!

VII
ALL WOUNDS SCAR

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.

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE THE E-BOOK CONTAINING THIS CHAPTER
THROUGH THE BOOKSTORE PAGE.

CLICK HERE TO VISIT THE MAIN TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE.

A wound that doesn’t scar is a lesson that isn’t learned.

– Skanda aphorism

Making the best of a bad turn, though, this will help reduce the gap that was threatening to pop up between Books I and II.

Fulcrum will return in about two weeks!

VI
THE DEAN OF CITADEL TOWN

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.

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE THE E-BOOK CONTAINING THIS CHAPTER
THROUGH THE BOOKSTORE PAGE.

CLICK HERE TO VISIT THE MAIN TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE.

The duality of the Almighty is no grand mystery: He is many fingers, and yet They are one hand. So likewise are we countless men, but is each of us Almighty, our destiny in our own many-fingered hands.

– Emarotol the Philosopher (banned letters)

TYGG grinned.

On some level, he’d known that he had missed this, but he hadn’t realized just how much until now. The heat radiating from the scaled flanks of the griffin between his legs was in stark contrast with the cold winter air. A light snow was falling, and most of the people they encountered in the street were hurrying along to whatever hearth was waiting for them. Tygg, on the other hand, had not tasted the air of the town since his promotion, and was in no rush to return to the Citadel and the reprimand undoubtedly awaiting him there.

After all, men of the cloth of his rank weren’t supposed to ride out among the worldly people outside of the proper occasions or without proper ceremony.

It was a calculated move on his part, but at the same time, he had simply needed to see his town. The reports he got from the Guard were just informative enough to frustrate him.

Alefs looked back at him from his position at the head of the patrol, swaddled in warm wool, and Tygg indicated with a nod of his head to go left at the intersection.

A lot of the work he had put in was about to come to fruition, and from the mood he had observed in town, it was high time. Riding along with his large and armed escort, Tygg had not observed any fights yet, but he didn’t doubt they had started in some of the places they’d passed as soon as his soldiers had been safely out of earshot.

For the hundredth time, Tygg ran through the details of his strategy in his mind, and found no flaws. Dean. It was a good title. The best balance of power to act and independence he had been able to find.

It had been half a tenday since he had found the document that would give him his way up. He’d had to dig almost two centuries into the past and had given his lungs a coating of dust from long unread scrolls, but finally he had found what he was looking for. Quickly, he’d scribbled down the reference on a scrap of parchment he’d brought and then re-rolled the scroll. He had an armful of them to return to their slots in the wall of the Library of Church Records.

He’d stood watching them for a moment. Anyone who took an interest would be able to tell which scrolls he had been browsing—they were clear of the dry dust that was everywhere in the library, in thicker layers the further back into history you went. And from the look of it, he was the only one aside from the caretakers who had been in that particular room in quite a while.

It had bothered him, for if the wrong people found out what he was after, they might move to block him, but he’d shrugged it off. Nothing to be done. He had even suggested some reading material to one of the members of his Church Gathering himself, although that scroll would appear innocuous enough without the proper context. Ultimately, the fact was that he had chased so many false trails, had returned enough scrolls after reading no more than a few sentences, that any curious observers would be buried in useless reading material for as long as he needed them to be.

Tygg wondered if there was someone tracing his footsteps in the library right that moment, as he rode through town at a safe distance. He also wondered how bad his paranoia was getting. The fact that a few significant eyes had noticed him hardly meant that he was the only thing on their minds.

Best to put aside all thoughts of politics for a while. That was why he had gone out, after all.

Out of nowhere, he thought of the woman Ahlin, and found himself hoping they would run into her. Small chance of that, even if the Almighty looked on him favorably. Even during regular winters, a sizable population remained in Citadel Town, and besides, Ahlin was clearly intelligent—which was what had drawn him to her in the first place—and she had explained the deal she and the other washerwomen had with inns in town for a safe and warm place to winter. She had undoubtedly picked up on the unrest and was staying clear as much as possible.

One time, Tygg had made the mistake of asking Alefs whether he had seen her around—he knew for a fact that the sergeant had spent at least one more night with Ahlin’s older Skanda friend since that night at the inn, so it had been a fair possibility. Alefs had said that he hadn’t, and had added that he would be on the look-out for her, with a grin that said far too much about what he thought was going on. But Tygg wasn’t some lovestruck pup—much as he had enjoyed the woman’s company, he was too practical a man for that. His work demanded his complete attention.

Which went for this moment as well, Tygg realized. He shook his head to clear it of distracting thoughts and focused on the streets around him.

Almost immediately, he frowned.

They were moving along a road that ran parallel to a small market square and was separated from it only by a row of permanent stone stalls, now buried underneath layers of snow. Sitting astride his griffin, Tygg was up high enough to look over the tops of the stalls, which allowed him to see the scuffle at the other end of the square.

Three guardsmen—Skanda, if Tygg guessed right—were almost surrounded by ten times their number of rough-looking men. Or maybe they weren’t surrounded, but trying to keep two separate groups apart. The result was the same, as they were being pushed from two sides.

“Sergeant!” he called, and up in front, Alefs turned his head.

Tygg shook two fingers to his left, then bumped his two fists together: Trouble on their left flank.

Alefs made a quick salute in acknowledgment and began directing the men, all of them on foot, sending the rear half back to the last opening between the stone stalls and the front half to the next one. He kept using field signs, probably continuing by sheer habit after Tygg had started with them. Tygg wasn’t even sure why he had done so, but the signs felt comfortingly familiar.

Their two-pronged entrance onto the market square immediately spread them out in a show of force. Tygg’s griffin groaned in annoyance as it bumped its flank against a stall—it barely fit through in between them. They advanced on the mob, which did not take long to notice them. The three guardsmen in the middle threw grateful looks their way as they came nearer.

Tygg leaned forward over his griffin’s neck. “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” he said calmly. “May the Almighty grant you peace.”

There was no reply.

Not in words, anyway. He got enough dirty looks and wordless grumbling to fill volumes. But as Tygg knew they would, even though they still outnumbered them two to one, the mercenaries thought twice before trying anything in front of a full patrol of armed men.

“Report, guardsman,” he said to the leader of the three.

The man was young—all three of the Skanda were—and looked around hesitantly before answering. “Captain. We were just asking these people to be more careful about… the noise they make. People live here.”

“Very good, guardsman.” He spoke extra loudly as he continued. “I’m sure the gentlemen are all eager to be on their way to wherever they’re staying. Such terribly cold weather.”

He expected the men to leave at that, grumble as they might—usually there would be at least one in a crowd who gave up quickly, leading more to follow until the bravado borne from numbers was depleted. Too late he saw that these were military men as much as his own were—rowdier, more openly aggressive, but disciplined enough to hold ranks until their commanders released them.

There were two groups here, none too friendly towards each other. And Tygg had just presented them with a common enemy.

For a moment, in the face of their glares, he hesitated. Did he diffuse the situation by taking away the enemy, by retreating? Or was a show of force more prudent?

The next moment his hand shot up, drawing his scimitar. His reflexive motion was only barely swift enough, but he managed to catch the flying stone he’d caught from the corner of his eye on the pommel of his blade, deflecting it. It would have struck his head, otherwise.

Then there was shouting, and steel ringing against steel.

“Back! Lay down your weapons! Back! Aldrin, look out!”

Tygg was only dazed for a moment before he pulled himself together. His scimitar-arm felt numb, and he shook it loose while he quickly took in the situation. His men, badly outnumbered, were nevertheless holding their own in the sudden onslaught, having formed a tight defensive line.

The only thing saving both sides from a bloodbath seemed to be that they didn’t know quite how far the situation was going to go, and none of them wanted to be the first to cross a line. Weapons were aimed at weapons or shields, and adversaries pushed each other back and forth. Nevertheless, blood was still being spilled—from shallow cuts at the moment, but that would not last. The clanging of metal on metal, and the shouted epithets and blasphemies rang loudly in his ears.

Then there was movement in the line, and he saw the Skanda guardsmen get cut off from his patrol. Their training kicked in admirably, and they formed up back to back, protecting each other—but one helmeted head went down in the mob and didn’t come back up.

All of this took only seconds. Seconds in which Tygg sat motionless in his saddle—not out of fear, but out of indecision, out of the sure knowledge that an extra weapon in the fray would not bring forth a solution.

Now, though, he no longer had a choice.

“Hyah!”

Kicking his griffin, he sent the beast charging forward. His patrolmen parted automatically to let him though, and the sharp claws and beak of the griffin gave even the bravest of the mercenaries pause. Those who didn’t give way, Tygg whacked with his scimitar. As best he could, he used the flat of the blade, but still the steel was soon coated red with blood. He was only supposed to carry the weapon ceremonially, but he had made sure its edge was as sharp as that of any he’d fought with.

Reaching the Skanda, Tygg circled the griffin around them, driving their attackers back for the moment at least. It wouldn’t last—with this many of them, they could drag him from his saddle if they put in a concerted effort. He continued to defend himself with his scimitar.

A quick glance showed only one of the Skanda standing upright, and from the looks of it, he was wounded. The second was kneeling over the one who’d been struck down. He was red with bright, wet blood, but Tygg was unable to tell which one of them it was flowing from.

That moment of inattention nearly cost him as one of the mercenaries stormed at him. Tygg struck back instinctively, and the tip of his blade caught the Arganian’s throat, slicing through it as easily as through the snow.

The man gurgled a last breath as his blood sprayed over Tygg.

But there was no time to wipe off his face as other mercenaries cried for vengeance for their fallen comrade and charged.

There were more cries of pain in the air now, and Tygg knew that the battle had turned deadly elsewhere as well. His men were good, but their opponents were professional butchers—could they hold?

And then, as sudden as that first rock, the mercenary he was facing off with thrust his weapon against Tygg’s one last time and abruptly ran off, following in the snowy footsteps of his comrades. Tygg rode another half turn around the Skanda guardsmen before stopping. Confused, he looked around.

“Captain! Like a bloody knight from stories! You all right up there? Captain?”

Tygg shook himself and looked down. It was Sergeant Alefs, approaching with a limp in his step, one hand clasped over a cut on his thigh. Thank the Almighty, it didn’t look deep. Other guardsmen flowed around them, taking control of the square, checking the fallen. Tygg did not recognize any of them, and they were Skanda.

“Yes. Yes, Alefs, I’m fine.” He swung a leg over his steed behind him, hopping out of his saddle.

“Just in time, they were,” Alefs muttered mostly to himself. “Couldn’t have held the line but another minute. Never been so glad to see reinforcements—or any Skanda, for that matter.”

Tygg ignored the man. Just babbling away his nerves. He made his way to the three original Skanda guardsmen, the ones he’d been protecting, or trying to. The newcomers were helping them.

“Someone report,” Tygg said, suddenly feeling exhausted as he saw the cloak-covered form of the fallen man. Another was getting emergency bandages wrapped tightly around an arm and a leg, and the third of the trio was sitting down, just staring ahead tiredly. That one was more bloodied than the injured man, but Tygg suspected it was all his dead comrade’s blood.

A lieutenant approached him and saluted. Tygg returned the gesture.

“Lieutenant Kerkys, Sir. In charge of city patrols for the week. Thank you for coming to the aid of my men. Could have gotten a lot nastier here.”

Tygg nodded, although he wondered now. Had the interference of a larger, hostile force spurred the mercenaries on to violence? But Tygg didn’t see how he could have done anything differently. Even if the mercenaries would have left the guardsmen alive, they couldn’t be allowed to make a mockery of the Church Guard’s authority—that would only have led to worse later on.

“Any idea why these mercenaries went this far?” he asked the lieutenant. “Normally they… Well, you know. Men like that only like to fight real opponents for gold.”

“Actually we do, Sir. Been hearing it all over town—that’s why I came here, I was rounding up all my patrols. The caravan people who hired them, they’ve figured out they’re going to be stuck here all season. No real chance of a thaw before spring. So they decided they don’t need guards and cut off payments. Think they can rehire those louts when they have a use for them again.”

Tygg pinched the bridge of his nose. “Brilliant. Just brilliant.” Alefs hobbled up to them again, and Tygg asked the question without speaking.

“Aside from this one,” Alefs said, casting a look towards the dead Skanda, “we lost Melar Arricas. May lose Tullin Qors and Omahn Spera yet, but I told them both that the Almighty won’t want no sissies guarding the Heavenly Towers, so they better hold on till we can get them to help. They’ll make it. Half of the rest have some small hurts.”

“The mercenaries?”

“Three dead, four more that couldn’t run away when the rest of ’em did.” He hesitated. “Sir, we’re making preparations to get everyone back to the Citadel, but you should go on ahead, in case.” He turned to a passing man and barked, “You! Give the Captain your cloak!”

Frowning, Tygg tried to wave him off. “That’s not necessary.”

“Captain,” Alefs insisted, “man of your rank shouldn’t be seen going around like this.” Lieutenant Kerkys was nodding firmly in agreement, and Tygg looked down at himself. Oh. That was a lot of blood on him. He started taking off the cloak, shivering in the cold. It had already come undone in the fight, but the red stains on his tunic underneath were easily covered up by the cloak the guardsman handed him. As soon as he looked presentable, Tygg swung a leg back over his griffin.

“Follow me in as quick as you can manage,” he ordered curtly from the saddle. Being too high-risk for the front lines was not to his liking. Still, he saw the wisdom in it, and he was already pushing up against as many rules as he could get away with as it was. Kicking his heels, he sped off back to the supposed safety of the Citadel, his escort, provided by two Skanda patrolmen who had arrived on their own griffins, following close behind.

At the quick pace he set, Tygg reached the gates of the Citadel before his thoughts even had time to settle. The streets had been as good as deserted, with only the occasional citizen cautiously peeking out at the galloping mounts, almost as if everyone already knew what had just happened.

There was no peace for Tygg inside the walls of the holy sanctuary, though. A messenger boy was waiting for him when he rode in through the gate.

“Captain!” the apprentice called as Tygg dismounted, not meeting the older man’s eyes. “You are called to your Gathering. Sir. Upon your return, without delay.”

Nodding acknowledgement, Tygg handed off his reins. His temper flared just as the messenger boy seemed to fear, but he had no desire to take it out on a child. No, he would need his wits about him anyway. He had expected to hear harsh words about his foray into town, and had planned to use that meeting to gauge his support, but to be summoned, and so quickly?

When he reached the room where his Church Gathering met, he pushed open the doors and went in without knocking. Heads turned in his direction, and he saw that the entire Gathering was present. He stood in front of them as they sat around a large table. There did not appear to be a chair left for him. The whole thing seemed calculated to chastise him, to rein him in, and he thought he sensed a hand in it more powerful and intelligent than those of the people present.

The sounds of the battle rang in Tygg’s ears as one of the brothers, a Skanda whom Tygg avoided calling by name because he had yet to pronounce it correctly, stood and addressed him in stern tones. He didn’t catch a word of it. He knew that he ought to be paying attention, even if he already knew the gist of the reprimand he was getting. But the sounds of battle continued. Looking around the room, he studied the Gathering’s faces. There was caution on the faces of those whose loyalty he had courted.

He realized, quite suddenly, that the time was right. They would stand with him now for fear of losing their investment should he fall from grace. That was the rationale behind his decision—but the truth was, he was about to burst. Good men were dying, and still in here they argued propriety. There were such wrongs, and he needed to fix them.

‘…and therefore this Gathering has decided to present you, Captain Tygg Vana of Argania, with an official reprimand…’

Tygg was sweating. It wasn’t nerves, it was coming in from the cold to this overcrowded room. He tore open his cloak…

…and the Gathering gasped as one. The speaker fell silent. Tygg glanced down at himself.

Oh. Of course.

Blood covered the front of his tunic, some of it still drying.

He could use this.

Taking off his cloak further, Tygg threw it onto the table.

“Members of this Gathering. Friends,” he said. He certainly wasn’t supposed to speak yet, but the stunned silence was as good an invitation as he was likely to get. “Today, two of our brothers were murdered in the streets of the town for which we are responsible. The Almighty, in His wisdom, guided me to Citadel Town today, so that I could witness these foul deeds.”

“Brother Vana, that is no excuse for your…”

“We have failed, brothers!” Tygg went on loudly, drowning out his opponent. “And this should come as no surprise. This Church Gathering, like any other, is charged with the well-being of the Almighty’s peaceful flock. We are the Almighty’s sheltering hand, and were never intended to have to consider martial solutions, such as are required now.”

“Then what do you suggest?” The question came from Harriys Gomeh. His vote Tygg had not prepared, but the old Arganian was an opportunist—if he was able to sell his plan as an easy way to escape responsibility for a tricky situation, the man would support him.

“In ancient times, the One Church would appoint a military man to lead troubled parishes, granting him special privileges to enable him to bring the flock back into line.”

“He is speaking of a Dean,” said Kerodan. He was giving Tygg a poisonous glare, finally realizing why Tygg had asked him to do the reading he had. But the right people knew that he owed Tygg for supporting one of his own motions, so he could not go back on his promise to return the favor without losing his credibility. “It is an ancient and Divine tradition, and there is precedent for a Dean of Citadel Town in times of war. A Dean would be able to act decisively, with greater authority and independence than is granted to us.”

“With our guardsmen dying, I believe this qualifies,” Quelon Tal added. Tygg had intervened for him with the Guard to cover his gambling debt. Tal’s vote was in his pocket.

Others were still hesitant to move too quickly. Tygg was still standing in front of them, and he rubbed a hand over his tunic as if trying to wipe off the blood. It drew most eyes, and more than one of the sheltered old men flinched at the reminder of the dangers of the town they were supposed to govern.

“Very well,” the Skanda speaker spoke with clear reluctance. “We shall petition the Papal Gathering to appoint such a… Dean. They—”

“Unnecessary,” Tygg said. “As the Gathering responsible for this parish, it is up to us to propose a candidate and vote to appoint him. A simple majority will do.”

“Brother Vana is again accurate on his procedures,” Kerodan agreed.

Tygg nodded to another of his supporters, and the man, eager to clear his debt, understood what was being asked of him.

“I nominate Tygg Vana, an exemplary captain of the Protective Guard of the One Church, for the responsibility of the post of Dean. Let his flock be the people of Citadel Town,” he said.

“I second the nomination.”

The Skanda who had taken such pleasure in chastising Tygg when he had walked in looked like he was being strangled as he spoke. “Very well then. We shall now have a vote.”

In the end, Tygg won the vote six to three—one more in his favor than he was expecting, gained after it was clear which way the wind was blowing. He did not vote himself, as a gesture of humility.

The reason he bowed his head as he knelt to receive his official appointment as Dean of Citadel Town, though, was not humility. He had to hide his grin somehow.

Finally, he had the power to act, to shape this small but oh so important corner of creation for the better.

And he knew—this was the beginning.

Another new chapter debuts in March–but remember, the full seven chapters of Book I are already available in e-book format!

Fulcrum © Niels van Eekelen/Telltale Productions.

Cover to Fulcrum Book I: The Rot Has Set In by Niels van Eekelen, available in all major e-book formats. See the Fulcrum Bookstore for more details.

Design by Niels van Eekelen
The Owl & the Oak symbol art by Paul Vromen
Background photo by Net_efekt used under a Creative Commons licence

Cover to Fulcrum Prologue: The Three Virtues by Niels van Eekelen, available in all major e-book formats. See the Fulcrum Bookstore for more details.

Background photo/design by Niels van Eekelen
The Owl & the Oak symbol art by Paul Vromen

V
A JOINING OF HANDS

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.

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE THE E-BOOK CONTAINING THIS CHAPTER
THROUGH THE BOOKSTORE PAGE.

CLICK HERE TO VISIT THE MAIN TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE.

And thus it will be that in the eyes of the FULCRUM

Among the chosen and worthy people there will be

A joining of hands; cleansed in fire all the world

And all its creatures will be held by the FULCRUM

Child of the ALMIGHTY and ultimate judge of man

– Book of the Fulcrum, Visions 3:8-12

AHLIN fell.

Luckily, she did not have far to go. As crowded as the streets were these days, there was always some unwitting helper standing by to catch you when someone else knocked you over. This time Ahlin was caught by a wooden wall, not the most gentle of helpers. With her left hand, she pushed herself back upright. Her right remained where it always was, now—hidden in the folds of her cloak, resting on the wooden grip of her knife.

Just ahead, Finna had stopped with a concerned look on her face, pushing herself against the wall to keep from being dragged along in the throng. The older woman called out something that Ahlin didn’t catch in the noise of the street, but she nodded in response anyway. She was all right.

With a poisonous glare in the direction her assailant had already vanished in, Ahlin started elbowing her way through the crowd. At least they were almost back at the inn, where she would happily lock herself up in their room until the lunch rush had passed. By the spawn of the Pit, she might just skip dinner and stay in altogether.

The number of armed men wandering the streets who seemingly had nothing better to do than to look for fights was making her very nervous. There were Arganians and Skanda alike, even half-breeds in numbers that surprised her—and all of the type that during the traveling seasons was usually encouraged if not required to strike up camp across the river from Citadel Town, all armored in everything from patches of boiled leather to full-on scale mail. And it wasn’t as if Ahlin was the most laid back person even when the people around her weren’t dressed for war.

They had barely gone half a block before Ahlin almost lost Finna, and she hooked their arms together to keep them from being separated. Finna gave her a grateful look—although there was a bit of wariness in there too. Probably at Ahlin’s barely contained rage. The older woman was too polite and timid to work her way through the crowd with any sort of force—a problem Ahlin did not have.

This sort of traffic required just the right balance between standing your ground and not pissing off the wrong people too badly. Otherwise—either way—you would never make it to your destination.

The inn was supposed to be an oasis of calm compared to the street, but no such luck. There was a thunderlizard out in the street right in front of the entrance—a scrawny one for its kind, but still blocking the narrow street almost entirely. A group of women wrapped in their patched cloaks were standing out in the cold, watching, looking a bit bewildered. Ahlin recognized them as her colleagues who were staying in other rooms of the inn.

It wasn’t until she got close that she realized that burly men were unloading packs from the animal, and the women were standing with what looked like all their worldly possessions, few as they were.

“Sinning saints!” Ahlin exclaimed. “What in the Pit is going on?”

Finna’s admonishment—“Ahlin, please”—sounded distracted, and Ahlin rushed ahead. The closest of the women was Neri Ziroon, a snooty Arganian whom Ahlin had never gotten along with. She had to grab her by the shoulder and shake her out of her stupor before she got a reaction.

“We’ve been kicked out,” the woman explained. “The innkeeper is renting our rooms out to soldiers. Just told us to get out.”

“But he can’t! We negotiated a rate for the entire winter season—he agreed!”

Neri could only shake her head.

Behind her, Finna said faintly, “But where will we go? And Ahlin, what about our things?”

Ahlin saw red. Her beleaguered sense of self-preservation told her to take a few deep breaths before speaking or leaping into action. “We’re going to get them,” she said then. “Come on. Drya!” The Skanda woman was standing to the side with a pack of possessions rolled up in a blanket, looking confused and shocked. Tellice, their fourth roommate, Ahlin didn’t see anywhere. “Is that all your things?”

Biting her lip nervously, Drya shook her head and said, “No, my money, my hidden stash…”

“Then come along.”

Stepping right in the way of a mercenary carrying in a heavy load, Ahlin made for the door and slammed it open with her shoulder.

It was almost as if the turd of an innkeeper was waiting for them—he was standing by his little desk in the hall, looking smug and actually counting his money. Ahlin ground her teeth. Only Finna’s presence behind her kept her from doing anything very stupid and violent and satisfying.

“Halt!” the innkeeper cried when he saw them approach, and moved to block their way. “You have no business here anymore. This establishment is for paying guests only!”

“I wouldn’t give scum like you two bernons to rub together, so you’ve at least that much right,” Ahlin snarled. “We’re going to get our possessions now.”

She wondered if it was the presence of heavily muscled, armed men walking back and forth that gave the utterly unimpressive innkeeper the courage to ignore the warning signs clearly visible on her face, or if the man was just that stupid. He crossed his arms over his chest and smirked. “Possessions? All that I found when I cleaned the rooms was some trash. I put it in the back room. Perhaps I can let you rummage through it—for a small fee, of course. So that you’re paying guests.”

“Ahlin, no!”

But Finna’s scream came too late—Ahlin had already snapped, and was slamming the innkeeper against the wall. The man squealed like a pig as she held her knife to his throat.

“You lousy excuse for a human being! We’re going in and we’re taking our things, and so is everyone else you just kicked out, or I’ll be back.”

“You won’t get away with this!” His voice was still pitched considerably higher than Ahlin’s growl. Trying to look at the mercenaries who had stopped to watch without moving his neck against the blade of her knife, he wheezed, “Help! I’m being assaulted!”

Ahlin, not taking her eyes off the innkeeper, only heard the laughter, but there seemed to be a lot of it.

“Can’t even handle a woman!”

“We usually charge for protection, you know. Pays handsomely, too.”

“Didn’t know prices were open to negotiation around here—lads, maybe we should get us a discount!”

The innkeeper grew paler with every word. Then he tried to swallow, which brought his attention firmly back to the steel against his skin. He threw up his hands. “All right, all right! If they were your things, of course you can take them back. Honest mistake, I can be reasonable.”

Ahlin withdrew the knife and took a step backwards. Rarely had she felt such desire to put the weapon to use, but she forced herself to put it away. “Reasonable isn’t kicking out people who you made an agreement with for rooms for the rest of the winter,” she bit off.

“But I barely made my bread off you lot! You bargained me down to a pittance because there was no one else to take the rooms—there’s customers now that can pay!” No doubt it was all perfectly reasonable to the man—there’d be no convincing him that it was wrong to put people out in the snow, and there was no point, so Ahlin didn’t try.

She finally tore her glare away from the man and walked to the stairs. Her boots were still trailing melting slush, but she found it hard to care. “Finna, Drya, let’s go up to the room first.”

There were some wolf-whistles as they reached the top of the stairs—the mercenaries were already settling in, some of them walking between the rooms only partially clothed. Ahlin caught an appreciative sound from behind her that definitely did not come from the men and paused to let Drya catch up, grabbing her wrist to make sure the girl came along. She received a miffed grunt for thanks.

When they arrived at the door of the room that used to be theirs, she pulled Drya in front of her. “Ask if we can come in, will you?” You caught more flies with honey, and you caught more men with Drya. More than with the scowl Ahlin was unable to wipe from her face, in any case.

“Oh, boooys,” Drya called in a singsong voice. There were two men inside who apparently shared the room. Ahlin and the others had had to share it with twice as many to be able to afford it even at the reduced rate they’d gotten. The men looked up instantly at the sound of Drya’s voice. She smiled coyly and spoke to the one who was shirtless. “We were renting this room until just last night, and we left some of our things here. Would you mind terribly if we came in and got them?”

Shirtless shrugged. “Room was emptied out when we got here.”

“Weeell… It’s hidden, you see?” Drya winked at him conspiratorially. Ahlin just hoped the guys wouldn’t figure out that probably meant money and decide to look for it themselves.

Luckily, Drya was effective as ever on men. The second mercenary, a man with a big, shaggy beard, shouldered Shirtless out of the doorway and grinned, showing off all of his few remaining teeth.

“Honey,” he said, “you can come in here whenever you like.”

“You guys are the best,” Drya went on flirtatiously, but Ahlin was already pushing herself past them and went straight for the hollow where the inn’s interior wall didn’t quite meet the one to the outside. Reaching through the narrow opening and twisting her hand to the side, she let out a breath in relief. Her money pouch was still there. It would have surprised her if the mercenaries had found it, let alone gotten to it—the opening barely fit her much thinner fingers—but holding the money in her hands was the only certainty she trusted. She hung the pouch from her belt and made sure to cover it with her cloak.

Only then did she turn back to the room. Out of politeness, none of the washerwomen had looked whenever one of the others was retrieving coins from their secret hiding place, but she’d known roughly where the others’ were. Drya was sitting on her knees by the floorboard that had always creaked, dropping a small pouch into her cleavage—which was a bit unnecessary, Ahlin thought—but Finna seemed to be having trouble reaching behind a heavy chest that hadn’t been there the last time they had been in the room, so she went over and helped tug it aside.

The coins they each had stashed here weren’t the entire sum of their season’s savings—and thank the Almighty for that, since they had to survive off it for as long as winter lasted—but they certainly couldn’t afford to lose it. The rest of their wealth was with one of the more trustworthy moneylenders in town. His fee was worth the reassurance of his vault.

By the time Finna had her coins safely tucked away, Drya was back to working her charms on the new tenants. They had been paying close attention to the young blonde when she’d been bent over on the floor, and now they were inviting her to stick around a while longer. “Honestly, we’d feel bad, taking your room if you don’t have a place to sleep. I’m sure we can make some space.”

“We can show you a good time, too, you know. We just got paid and we’re ready to celebrate.”

When Drya reached up to squeeze the biceps the shirtless man was flexing for her, Ahlin snatched her arm and started dragging her along to the door. “Thanks so much,” she said without much feeling, “but we have to get back to our friends now.”

By the look in her eyes, not to mention the lack of sense she showed on a regular basis, Drya had been at least half considering the offer. But no matter how willing she always was to go back to an inn with some muscular man or other after a night of drinking, being stuck in an inn full of rough fighter types and being dependent on them for shelter was something else entirely. The birdbrain is not my responsibility, she told herself, even as she ignored her own advice. Let her make her own damned mistakes and wise up about the scum that populates this world.

“Ahlin!” the Skanda girl objected.

“Maybe these boys can buy you a few drinks tomorrow night, yeah?”

That mollified her a little. “I’ll be in the Drunken Pilgrim!” she called back into the room.

On their way down the stairs, she complained to Ahlin, “Why did you do that? They were practically offering me free room and board!”

Ahlin scoffed. “It wouldn’t have been free, that’s for sure.”

“Let’s go get the rest of our things, shall we?” Finna intervened.

She and Ahlin picked up their belongings without any further problems. The back room was unlocked, and the innkeeper was nowhere in sight.

When they made their way outside with Drya in tow, the others were still standing around in the cold. “If any of you left your spending money inside,” Ahlin almost snarled, annoyed with their helpless passivity, “you can go get it now. The innkeeper gives you any trouble, you tell him I can come back instead. And watch your backs around those mercies!” Whoever had first shortened ‘mercenaries’ to ‘mercies’ had had a wicked sense of humor.

As they trudged through the wet snow, the three of them together, Ahlin’s spirits started to sink. The streets were still busy, and if that was true for the outdoors, it would be doubly true in any place warm that was for rent. It took them most of the afternoon, but they managed to secure a place for that night at least. Turned out that Old Man Kerotod wasn’t all bad—although the coin obviously helped, but Ahlin wouldn’t have thought he’d let anyone sleep in his shed in any case. As it was, they would pay as much for a night in a drafty hovel as they had per night in their soft bed in their warm room, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and it bought them time to find someplace better.

That night they huddled together close to preserve their warmth. Ahlin was the restive sleeper among the three of them—the bed the women had shared in the inn was roomier than this, but she had still gotten regular complaints about her kicking, so she probably actually got the best rest now.

The next morning, while Finna and Drya were finishing their waking up by splashing themselves with water just above the freezing point, Ahlin went to take a look outside. Maybe it was the fact that the others were both Skanda, ancestrally from the colder north and thus better prepared for these temperatures, but Ahlin had no interest in ‘freshening up’ when she could see her breath on the air.

It was early enough that the street outside was still quiet. Only a few people hurried through the snow, huddled in thick furs. Yesterday’s tracks and sludge were covered with a new layer of pristine white, but at least it wasn’t snowing at the moment. Standing there, Ahlin could actually feel the cold seeping in where there was a crack in the side of one of her boots. Better mend that, before it starts leaking.

“Don’t care where we’re getting breakfast,” she said out loud, “but it better be something hot.”

The day wouldn’t turn out any better than the last, though. The trouble started over breakfast. The vendors with their pushcarts were out and about, yet another sign of the unusual business in town after the start of the winter season, but Ahlin and Finna agreed without even discussing it that a warm place to sit was as important as actually filling their stomachs. Drya went off to check up on some friends, to make sure that they too had found refuge for the night. There was a tavern near the southern marketplace that shared a wall with a butcher’s, where in the mornings they sold steaming hot and rich broth of leftover meats through a hatch in the wall where the two structures had been built up against each other. It had rarely sounded like as appealing a meal as it did then.

When the two of them arrived, the tavern was already packed, almost entirely with Arganian mercenaries. Part of them appeared to be asleep, and the rest of them roaring drunk, loudly exchanging some very colorful stories about Skanda barbarians they had bested in battle. Ahlin wondered if they had wandered in as soon as the tavernkeeper unlatched his door that dawn, or if the man had feared to kick them out at closing the previous night. She suspected the latter.

They got some looks when they came in that Ahlin did not like, and she made sure that she did the ordering. Not that her hotchpotch of an accent would remind the Arganians of home, but at least she looked the part—Finna looked and sounded all Skanda, the latter remarkably so for someone who had lived in Citadel Town for as long as she had.

Something in the mood of the place set Ahlin on edge. It was more than the war stories bringing back memories, although that was almost enough to put her off her meal. Perhaps it was the eagerness in the rough voices telling the bloody anecdotes—these men weren’t simply reveling in past glories, they seemed hungry for someone, anyone, on whom they could take out their bloodlust. They thumped each other just a little too hard to be entirely playful. It made Ahlin sit crouched over her bowl, muscles tensed and ready to leap to her feet. Finna noticed, of course, and gave her some worried looks, but apparently she was used to this sort of behavior from Ahlin well enough that she didn’t bother to ask.

Ahlin finished her broth in record time, and sat waiting for her companion to finish hers when the door slammed open loudly enough to make the entire tavern look up.

It was more mercies. And these were Skanda.

Instinct had Ahlin on her feet and reaching out to drag Finna with her before the realization had time to sink in.

“You pisspots make way! And get me a round of warm mead for my men!” That was the lead Skanda.

“Izzem!” slurred one of the Arganians. “Ze bahbarianz! Killem!”

“Southern weaklings. I’m surprised you haven’t all frozen to death yet.”

“More ale! More ale!” someone shouted with the same fire.

Hand on the pommel of his sword, a barrel-chested Arganian stepped forward toward the tide of Skanda flowing in. “You better get lost, filth, before we put you in your place. This is a proper tavern for decent Arganian folk.”

The responses he got were mostly incomprehensible, but Ahlin caught one, the kind of remark about his mother that no armed man ever let go unpunished.

Her hand clamped around Finna’s arm, Ahlin stood frozen, her chest tightening and visions of blood in the streets flashing through her mind.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, numb, but it was long enough to miss a chunk of the increasingly threatening shouting. It was the ring of blades being drawn that brought her back to the present. Finna was now pulling on her arm with her free hand, trying to get her to move back against the wall.

Bellowing savage war cries, the mercenaries stormed at each other. The cramped confines and the numbers in which they were crammed inside helped—or not, depending on one’s intentions. For the moment, only the blows of fists seemed to land, as no one had enough room to swing their great big longswords or axes.

More Skanda reinforcements were still streaming inside, and Ahlin was uncomfortably aware of the fact that with the only exit blocked, she and Finna were trapped inside.

Then there was a scream that thundered over even the shouting, and Ahlin swung her head around just in time to see the spray of blood. Someone had just died.

More would follow, and soon enough, the combatants would be too far gone to distinguish unarmed women from their foes. Finna whimpered. Ahlin desperately searched for a means of escape.

A Skanda in a berserker rage ran past, screaming at the top of his lungs and knocking three smaller men out of the way. And behind them, through the path that had just been cleared, she saw it.

The butcher and his wife were standing behind the hatch to their shop, casting fearful looks into the tavern, apparently too frightened to reach through to grab the hatch and be able to pull it shut and lock it.

They only had moments. Ahlin’s hand still had an iron grip on Finna’s arm, and she used it to drag the older woman along as she started to run. Finna resisted, unwilling to give up the limited cover of their bench and the wall, but Ahlin was stronger. No time now for explanations.

With Finna stumbling along behind her, Ahlin weaved her way through the fighting mob. One time, she was nearly knocked off her feet as a bleeding man stumbled into her, the next second she had to jerk Finna forward to escape the backswing of a sword.

But then, sooner than she expected, they were there.

Finna’s mouth formed an “Oh!” as her eyes fell on the open hatch in understanding. Ahlin didn’t wait for the butcher and his wife to stand aside, simply diving through headfirst and making them jump away in a panic. She knocked something over as she landed, bruising her shoulder, but ignored it.

As she came to her feet, Finna was leaning through the hatch, her progress more hesitant than Ahlin’s leap. Ahlin wasn’t taking chances—she grabbed her by the hands and pulled. That got the other woman halfway through, shrieking. Unceremoniously, Ahlin continued to pull on her waist and then her legs until her entire body dropped to the floor of the butcher’s shop.

Then she meant to shut the hatch, but her movements stilled as she looked out into the tavern and saw the havoc being wreaked. Men crawled across the floor clutching bleeding wounds. Others, pressed so close together that they could barely move, exchanged punches—one started biting instead. The steel of weapons flickered in the light of the hearth. And there wasn’t a Church Guard in sight yet.

One battle didn’t yet make a war, but in this weather no one was leaving town, and Ahlin had a sneaking suspicion there would be a lot fewer people in Citadel Town to greet the thaw when it finally came than there were now.

Another new chapter debuts in February–but remember, the full seven chapters of Book I are already available in e-book format!

Fulcrum © Niels van Eekelen/Telltale Productions.

(click to enlarge)

From the world of Fulcrum, we wish you happy holidays and a spectacular 2013!

We’ll be living after the prophesied end of the world, so anything is possible…

Or those of the year before that, as it happens. Have and old Christmas card, and be sure to check back next week for this year’s card, with a special message from the world of Fulcrum–because having no such thing as Christmas is no excuse not to send a card to your readers in another world!

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” they said.

And:

“It never rains but it pours.”

While the village fool sat on the green, nursing the mad, precious original idea he once had, mocked by all.

There was a monster under every bed and the ghost of a murdered previous owner in every house.

Not that anyone said anything, of course. Wouldn’t want to cry wolf.

To this town a writer came. Looking around, he shook his head sadly. “This is all a bit useless, isn’t it?” he said to himself. “The joke got old pretty quick, and pretend as I might, this isn’t really going anywhere.”

Thus he decided to tear everything down and start over in the morning.

(The villagers were rather relieved, truth be told.)

Written on the iPad to try out writing in the Documents 2 app. Ultimately went with the Textilus app instead, for its use of the .RTF file format. Disclaimer: I did not, in fact, start over in the morning.