Fantasy Short Story: "The Tales of Shirtaka, the Wandering Minstrel"

Forward

Let me introduce myself. My name is Shirtaka, a minstrel of some renown. I have travelled the length and bredth of Jera and my only desire is to spread the enlightenment that I have gained through my travels. It would not hurt for you to line my pockets with a few copper either, no? A bard floats about like a feather in the wind, but have I not need of sustenence as well as others? So, throw me some coppers and I will tell the tales that have been told to kings and sorcerers, to dragons and demonkin alike. Sit deep in your chair, close your eyes, and open your mind. Let us begin.

Chapter 1

Aciar hurried through the busy streets of Grunburg, deftly avoiding the masses of others trying to do the same. Returning from the baker with a bundle under his arms, he glanced repeatedly at the sky above, which darkened by the minute. The storm approached from the northwest, always a bad sign. Within minutes the streets would echo with the crashing of a violent thunder storm.

Without warning, pain seared his right side as something small and hard struck him at high velocity. The first impulse that came to him was to swear. Aciar had not worn the robes of the Freedom Society long, but long enough to learn to be master of his tongue. He whirled around toward the sounds of loud laughter, seeking its source.

"Take that, pieous one!" howled a boistrous youth.

"Oh no," he muttered to himself, "punks."

A trio of gaily-dressed young men stepped out of the shadows. They wore heavy makeup, looking every bit the part of a clown. They enjoyed both the shock value of it as well as the ability to disguise their identity. Their clothes were of silk and the softest dyed leather, tailored to fit them just right and enchanted to repel dirt.

The tallest one held a slingshot of sorts, probably something of his own invention. The thing sparked with energy, blue force lines jumping about its silver gilded surface. A spring and some gears protruded from the main body of the thing.

The punks were troublemakers from the Grunburg University of High Sorcery, part of a growing movement among the educated rich. They represented the rejection of all things traditional, orthodox, and wholesome,those who studied the black arts of science.

"Peace be to you," Aciar said, bowing, then hurred on.

"Who do they think they are," he thought with disgust. "For years we fight to keep back the forces of chaos from the void, and they court their company outright. It is not enough for them to use the forces of nature and God, but they must employ the use of gears, springs, and all such devices unholy."

Aciar ignored the jeering behind him. He moved in and out of the crowd to avoid a second shot from the hideous weapon. He could feel the trickle of warm blood begin to flow down his side. Feeling the wound as he hurried, he felt something hard beneath the skin. The Order House was just ahead, so he wasted no time stopping. The first crash of thunder rocked the city and a sprinkle of rain began to fall as he started up the marble stairs of the House. Flanking the stairs stood two marble statues, angels of justice.

The purple robed Aciar topped the stairs, ducking into the shelter of a grand porch. The architecture of the Order House was after the manner of the ancients, with pillars, arches, and domes of the finest rock that could be urged from the ground. The towering walls were a single piece of rock, with no telltale signs of joining. This was no cheap block-built house made by the toil of Ogre labor, of blocks fused together by some no-account construction mage. No, this was the real thing, grown from the earth by the sorcery of antiquity. Aciar felt proud to live in such a place, as much an owner as any of the others.

The young man placed his hand on a polished onxy plaque. At his touch, the slab warmed considerably. He closed his eyes and thought of the God of his fathers, a kindly old man, the source of all joy. He hummed a bit of a hynm, "Father of us all", and dropped to one knee. As he finished the bit of song, he heard the sound of opening hinges. Massive steel doors swung lazily open, allowing him to pass.

Aciar hurried inside to get out of the wind that now blew waste paper through the streets outside and chilled those not prepared for the weather. Within the stately building, the air of class was no less than without. The floor was grown of a green marbled rock and the walls were of white marble with red veins running through it. Aciar did not think of the cost that the Order must have paid for these dwellings as he had when he first arrived. It seemed necessary to him that those in the service of God and their fellow men should be surrounded by a setting that could remind them of what His kingdom must be like. The order was often critisized by those that did not understand why they spent so much on adornments and fine living. These funds could have gone to the poor, they argued. Well, the poor were still alive, weren't they? Was this not evidence enough that God was taking fine care of them. Were they not praying for their welfare morning, noon, and night? Aciar tried to be patient in the face of such ignorance, but it was often all that he could do to hold back his words.

He stepped to a brass table, where he poured a glass of fine whiskey, which he let flow onto his wound. He winced in pain as it burned in the puncture. Across the room was a receptionist's window. A face peeked up from the desk behind the counter, a beautiful face.

"Aciar, you're hurt!"

The lovely face was attatched to a woman that, even to a man of the faith, was distracting at the very least. She was wearing a red cotton dress... what there was of it. She seemed to be more woman than the dress was meant to contain. Aciar found himself humming a hynm under his breath and tried to not notice the lady. He had never seen the Grand Master's wisdom in tempting hemself with what he could not have. He had said that it helped to make him strong.

"I'll be fine, milady," he said. From a pouch on his belt, he pulled out a set of pointed pliers, reached into the wound, and extracted a small brass ball.

"Are you all right, Acey?" she asked with some concern. That was what she always called him, much to his annoyance. He thought about how much character that this must be building in him. It didn't seem to help somehow.

"Yes, milady."

He poured a bit more alcohol onto the wound, trying not to let her see how much discomfort that it was causing him. He picked up his bundle, handing it to the woman.

"Kindly give this to Perdigal, and thank you for you concern, milady."

Aciar caught one more look at the shapely woman and hustled off, forcing himself to think of things more holy. He crossed the carpeted room and headed up the stairs at the far end of it.

Topping the curving stairway, he hustled down a hallway where a few of the younger recruits sat, recieving wisdom on the nature of the universe from a red cloaked man. The garment had holy symbols all over it, most prominent being a series of crosses. This was the most common holy symbol used to represent the God of the ancients, though queries into what it meant had never supplied any answers that made sense to the young cleric. The Freedom Society was decidedly a peculiar sect. There were men of the faith such as himself, but there were also warriors, politicians, and spies. His mentor, Silverwind of Daikrah, had assured him that as he worked his way into the more exclusive ranks of the society, he would be trusted with the grand plan. In the meantime, he would continue to study and prepare, and of course, work.

Work seemed to be what he did most. His muscles were strengthened each day by taking his turn at the winepress. He worked the crank endlessly, crushing the juicy Jamal-grown grapes. The harvesting season was almost at a close, and he hoped that he could get in more study once the task of making wine was done for the year. He drank little of the wine himself. Those as new to the order as he were not allowed. Drinking could interfere with his studies. He could see the wisdom in this. The elders of the sect had more time to themselves in the mornings for sleeping off the effects of the alcohol.

Aciar fished in his cloak pocket and emerged with a small black key. He fit it into the door to his room and stepped inside. The room was rather simply adorned with only a few tapestries from Dietroch. He did not adorn the dwelling with much more than the essentials. A large tub steamed with scented water. Fresh towels had been laid out by some of the housekeeping staff. The down bed was neatly made. Incense burned on a bookshelf, a wisp of smoke lazily drifting across the room. Aciar went to a iron box in the center of the room, and turned a small wheel several times. The air around the box grew noticable warmer.

In his dressing room, Aciar removed his bloodied cloak and selected another from the assortment that filled his closet and layed it out on the bed. He looked out the window and checked the position of the sun, where it still peeked out of the clouds some distance away. Yes, he would have time for a bath before evening prayers. He slipped into the hot water after adding mineral salts to the bath. The water numbed the wound considerably. With a sigh, Aciar lowered himself fully into the water.

"Please don't let the elders call for me," he wished to himself. His feet bobbed up and a look of true content graced Aciar's face.

Chapter 2

Jusette Ssronta considered herself one not to be messed with. She is a Khatra, half human, half drow. This lineage accounts for her dark skin, wiry frame, and her face's almost catlike qualities. Her eyes seem too large for her face and her ears come just almost to a point. She dresses in exotic clothing and too much jewelry for good taste. She has shaved the left half of her head, the other half is jet-black. Her teeth have a canine look to them. In short, Jusette has some trouble fitting into the victorianesque culture of steamage Asterland. You don't think this might be more than accidental, do you? (I smile broadly and chuckle just a bit)

Jusette rolled into town a week before the official start of autumn. She rode her Venturia Rebel cruiser. For those of you not familiar with this machine, it is one of the finest works of transportation to come off the volumage factories floors of Geyon. If style had a name, it would be Venturia. I suppose that cruisers are not common to your lands. Let me explain.

A cruiser is a machine not completely unlike a velocipede. It is made of a frame with two wheels attatched, one to the front and one to the rear. The rear wheel is magically driven. This machine, when on flat roads, can outrun a horse. Its durability is second to none. The seat is mounted on flexible springs to assure a more comfortable ride. There are compartments for storing things in and a rack behind the seat for a backpack or carpetbag.

Riders of cruisers often wear thick goggles to protect their eyes and often a cotton dust mask to keep from breathing in the sand and dirt that get kicked up when travelling on unpaved roads. The council seems set on cobbling every byway from here to Alexander soon, so masks are less practical than they are a fashion statement.

A broad man dressed all in black leathers strode up to her, a little too much sway in his stride.

Oh boy, that bubber didn't know what would come next. She strode right up to him, flipping up the lenses of her hinged dark glasses, her face not more than a few finger widths from his. And I can tell you what, she has the spookiest eyes that I have ever seen. Yellow they are, flecked with metallic gold and thin black stripes through the yellow. Spawn of the underworld she is.

"We do have laws concerning the operation of a vehicular contraption within the city walls, I assume you know," stated the officer tartly. Jusette cocked her head a bit, and moved her right hand in a sort of rolling motion as of water flowing. A small wind came out of nowhere. "And another thing," stated the guard, "You can't run about the city with no money. That would be vagrancy, you know." He fished into his trouser pockets and removed a small wad of blue currency, handing the whole thing to her. "And you cannot roam the streets like a vagabond either! I suggest the 'Motored over Cat' pub. They have clean rooms for a good price." The guard looked smug and pointed in the direction of the tavern, as if to say,"I showed her a thing or two!" Jusette gave a mock curtsey in her baggy pink leather riding pants and got back on her ride. A humming sound emitted from her Venturia, picking up to a shrill whine. She flipped down the black lenses of her glasses, saluted the guard with a little smile, then put her right hand on a glowing white ball atop a lever arrangement, pulled back firmly, and she sped away in the direction that the guard dutifully pointed. She gave a little giggle as she kicked up dust and gravel behind her.

Well friends, this is Jusette. Trouble finds her wherever she takes herself. Steer clear of her, if you come to meet her. I prefer to watch from a distance. It is often quite a show! A former Freedom Society adept has abilities that common folk such as ourselves can but dream of.

Chapter 3

So, you cannot wait until the rest of the tale unfolds, can you? I have but one more character to introduce. This all will fit together. You must be patient! A few more coins would help considerably as well, you will find.

To one not familiar with the ways of post-awakening Asterland, a volumage needs much explanation. These spellslingers make up your working magician. They put in their time, pay their way. All other wizards want to do is seek fortune or political power. They don't do the toil, you know?

Trondheim and Geyon employ the lion's share of "wage mages." From their factory floors come most things magical these days ranging from furnaces that require no fueling to magimotive carts. The volumage spends his days putting the "go" in these wonders. You can tell one by the bags under his eyes and the way he tends to fall asleep during the best of stories. That can be their only fault if they have one. Their employers work them too hard and give little pay for this. Here we have the only victim of the modernization of today's world. My hat goes off to them.

For Lumax Chymas, life changed little from day to day. At six in the morning sharp, his wake-up chimes announced the coming of the new day, some four hours after he had gotten to sleep the night before. The tubes of metal rang mercilessly as small steel hammers clanged away. As always, Lumax's pillow almost completely failed to keep out the sound.

He sat up in bed, wiping the sleep from his eyes. The alarm stopped immediately. The only thing that could silence the bells was for one to be sitting or standing. It wasn't the first time that Lumax had considered covering the thing so that it could not see if he were sitting or lying down. The infernal alarm came courtesy of Jessen Swedick Fabrication, his employer.

The morning ritual of feeding the quail that liked to nest outside his back porch went as normal, Lumax hurling rocks and beating a board on his porch to scare off the gulls that liked to rob the bread as he fed it to the smaller birds below. Yelling and cursing was the only really good way to wake up. Others had suggested the stimulant tea Rashge as a substitute. Nothing doing; Lumax knew what worked for him.

I give the previous examples not because of their significance to our story, but to show that Lumax led a truly dull life. He had never really taken enough interest in women to cause him to consider marriage; not really enough for him to consider random debauchery with the local bargoing females that proved an easy score for someone willing to put in any effort. Instead Lumax had a pet cat. It offered little of the family life that a woman could provide, but on the other hand, all that Merlin required for happiness consisted of a smelly herring a day and intense scratching behind the ears once in a while. Oh that women could be so easy.

After a quick breakfast, Lumax set the anti-theft wards in his house and set out for work. A heavy iron steamcar chugged and spouted its way down the road, waking the neighborhood. Lumax waved to Grunnar, an irritable dwarven mechanic from the factory. Dwarves love machinery of most any type, and Grunnar was no exception. He lived just down the street in a ground-level apartment. He spent most of his spare time tinkering in his basement with devices whose only purpose seemed to be to interrupt Lumax's tea time and precious sleep.

Walking across his well-cut lawn and sidewalk, Lumax got into his motocart. The old Sendell Motocart Crown was anything BUT a jewel to look at. At one time, it had represented the finest in horseless vehicles. It had a range of 20 miles per Terska's Disk, which rates much better than many carts its size. The going exchange rate runs around 2 gold pieces/disk among magic users, a non-mage paying about 5 pieces per. A good cruiser bike could get as much as 100 miles per disk. Lumax really didn't mind the cost. He was paid relatively well for what he did, taking in a solid 50 gold per day at the factory.

The car's shape best fit the description of sleek but large. It could fit up to 6 people comfortably with lots of room for luggage in a rack on the back. The vehicle could outpower most carts and had a smooth ride due in large part to its oversized inflated tires. He had put the anti-puncture enchantment on them himself, to make sure the job was done right. The control stick was of fine ivory from the south sea islands and the knob at the top the finest amber. Firmly pulling the stick back, the luxury cart lurched forwards into the street, dodging horses and cursing children. The day had began.

After a ten minute drive from the small villiage of Crespa to the north of Grunburg, Lumax passed through the city gates, holding up an identification card with his likeness and position on it. The guard waved him through. Another guard was chewing out a commoner that wanted to bring his horse into the city. It seemed that despite all of the progress that had come about over the years, there was always a few that could not get with the times. From this mendicant with his dung-dropping horse to those that still cut wood to burn rather than buying a "lava box," Lumax could not grasp what they were clinging to the old ways for. He failed to realize that these folks felt exactly the same confusion about why everyone wanted to go and change everything.

Chapter 4

"Heaven above, I'm late again!"

Aciar scrambled out of his bedclothes and quickly donned a thick woolen red cloak, the one with the catskin lining. The morning chill was lost on the deacon. He dashed for the door, not even bothering to give the lava box a crank or two. He did notice a faint banging noise from the inside of the box.

"Darn it all!" he exclaimed,"I just don't have time to exorcise the thing now." With that, he flew out the door.

He hustled past a group of initiate warriors on their way to eat, what they did most it seemed. Their echos resounded down the long stone hallways, more of their incessant bragging of their victories in the fighter's training ring. Aciar put them behind him and made his way down the spiral staircase as fast as his beaver skin slippers could carry him. At the bottom of the stairs he entered a large hallway with a cathedral ceiling and magically illuminated chandeliers. He nearly topped one of a row of jade carvings of one of the Freedom Society's leaders in his haste. Several of the high priests sat in one of the alcoves to the right of him, without a doubt discussing things holy. They shot a look of displeasure at the underling as he ran past, obviously disturbing their conversation.

Aciar reached the end of the room and hung a quick left in the hallway beyond. He could hear the hissing of steam from the kitchen as he entered the dining hall. The room was filled with quite an assortment of fascinating individuals. The Freedom Society drew in all types. What they all seemed to have in common was the focus necessary for the order. To be a member was to be misunderstood by those that simply did not understand the things of a higher order, the way things used to be before the open heresy of science.

The elders told stories of how things used to be, when all but the lawless feared the almighty and one could clearly identify the enemy. Orcs and trolls were the things to be feared. Men now lived in comfort and ease, and seemed to have no need of a higher being to give them daily bread, or so they think. Now the greenskins could walk openly in Grunburg in the name of racial understanding and tolerance. Trondheim, the worst of all, invited and welcomed the greenskins to come and work in the factories there. Aciar shook his head and picked up a silver plate and dinnerware. He found a seat next to another initiate deacon and waited to be served.

He offered his hand to the blonde-haired youth next to him.

"Aciar's the name. I haven't seen you before."

The young man wolfed down the food as if he had never seen such victuals in all his life, which perhaps he hadn't. On his forehead was still the tatooed mark of the farmer, a plow. When the elders got around to it, they would remove the sign after it was clear that the boy would stay and be loyal to the order. Until then it would be a reminder that they were expendable and could be let go at any time. For those of humble backgrounds, the Society was the closest thing to heaven. They would never get a chance in the more traditional orders, and to work in the service of God was the only way for many to get ahead. Only a decade ago, a young startup could choose twenty well-paying careers that required neither lineage nor money to get into. Sadly, those disappeared like ether in the sun. Favors owed from family to family and between companies began to create ties that, though never set on paper, existed nonetheless.