War in Griol

Chapter 1

767, Griol calendar. City of Griol, Griol.

"You're a few short, I'm afraid." The shopkeeper's hands shook as he counted out the coins. The weathered counter groaned under my weight as I leaned heavily onto it.

"Then count it again. It's all there, I assure you." I was in one of my moods. A frame of mind that pitted the weight of my patience against the lack of common sense within the man behind this counter, and the former was straining.

He didn't dare lift his eyes from his hands, "Yes, o-of course sir. Very sorry." Giving up on handling the money with any sort of elegance, he spread it out and counted the individual coins. "So sorry, my count must have been off." I gave an affirmative grunt and swept the cloth sack from the counter, quickly moving towards the door.

In the city here, the sun set over Lake Uvan. In my travels I'd seen many lakes, yet Uvan remained the most spectacular. It seemed far too large and I had trouble believing it wasn't the ocean. My Da taught me that long ago our people would sail to cities on the other side. I'd never seen the cities he spoke of, but whatever the reason we stopped, the great graveyard of galleons that now dotted the surface of the water warned against the foolishness that would be attempting the thing again. A mist rolled along and around them like a thick blanket, and the ships themselves groaned their misery.

As I strode along the mostly abandoned boardwalk taking in the evening sun, the few remaining shops began the process of closing up their doors and locking away valuable merchandise. It was believed that after the sun went down, the city belonged to the spirits of the lake. To be out after the sun had set was considered bad luck, and it seemed as though even after all the years I'd been away, common folks still took this belief seriously.

The people I passed on the street averted their gaze to avoid meeting mine. Some even went to the trouble of altering their path to avoid me entirely. This aversion to my presence was surely a sign that folks could recognise the military colours I wore as a soldier in Griol's army. People, I found, were usually suspicious of soldiers; not that I blamed them. More often than not, soldiers being back in the Capital city meant the completion of some campaign or skirmish in Zatu to the east, and another round of taxation for the common folk to endure while the next war effort was planned. If that wasn't enough, superstition was rampant; the prevailing belief being that our eastern neighbours carried deadly sicknesses that could cause your body to grow scales, or that they could curse you to the same effect.

I turned a familiar corner. Images of brave young men sharing drinks, mocking the accents of our enemies and carousing our last nights on familiar soil danced through my mind. The structure was there, and the same familiar door; though nothing about this scene was familiar at all. The tavern was gone, or at least, the business that operated as a tavern. In its place stood the gutted remains of the building where the best memories of my youth were formed, masquerading as a supply shop for farming and agriculture. My heart fell into my stomach as the full reality of how long I'd been away from home sank in.

I grabbed for the arm of an elderly man as he passed me on the street, causing him to flinch. "There was a tavern here, what happened to it?"

I was attempting to be restrained in my tone, but much of what I was feeling must have been evident to the man as he cautiously responded, "Flagon Wheel? That place closed over ten years ago."

"Gods, has it been that long?" I wondered aloud, already knowing the answer. The elderly man cleared his throat, attempting to still his disquieted nerves.

"If you're only just returned, you might not have heard, but old Lazi died. His grandchildren sold the tavern and now the place to get a drink is across town at Sanya's Broken Chair."