The Vitalis Chronicles: White Shores (2 page)

His men stood around him, eight in total, holding the reins of their horses and staring uneasily at the city below. The peninsula was over two miles wide at its base and tapered down to nothing at its tip. It was mostly level, its entire surface covered by flat-roofed, sand-colored buildings and bordered every few hundred yards by long piers extending into the sea. Briggs had been there once or twice before. It stank like fish guts.

Briggs stuck a cigarette between his chapped lips and cupped his hands, working slowly to set the stuff alight. Smoke curled out above his gloved fingers before he closed the lighter with a snap and stared back over the city. He sighed silently as he pulled on his cigarette and thought of his girls. They were just old enough to be starting school. He wondered if he would ever see them finish their studies. The thought made his shoulders slouch subconsciously.

“Stern,” Briggs said to the big sergeant standing next to him. “My glasses.”

Nick Stern was as good a man as Briggs had known. Rough around the edges but reliable. He didn't think he would have been so successful as a soldier if it hadn't been for the loyalty and friendship of the sergeant over the years.

“Don't reckon I know why you calls 'em that,” Stern handed the lieutenant his digital field glasses. “Hardly any glass in the damn things.”

Briggs ignored the comment and peered through the binoculars. They flickered to life and took readings of distance and motion on the ground below. The only thing that appeared to be moving among the buildings was a low mist. It sent chills running up the lieutenant's back, causing his posture to straighten again.

“Have you been able to raise the colonel?” He lowered the glasses with a straight face, glancing towards a private with a communications pack the size of a large brick.

“No sir, all I'm getting is fuzz.”

Well,
he thought to himself.
This is gonna be worse than I thought.
“Mount up then, we've got some investigating to do.”

“Sir,” another private spoke up. “We've been riding hard for two days, and most of that over rough terrain. God knows this route wasn't made to be traveled so fast.”

“And?” Briggs leaned out from the saddle. “You have a problem doing your job all of a sudden Thompson? Too long since you've washed your luscious hair?”

The men laughed.

“No sir. It's just that the girls here need rest somethin' fierce.”

“You wouldn't be the one needing the rest would you, Tommy my boy? We all know how you need your beauty sleep; keep your face nice and pretty.”

The other soldiers jeered their comrade some more. Briggs hoped it would serve to break the tension, even if only for a few minutes. He swung into the saddle. It had been a long ride, but he didn't think he could rest until his questions were answered.

As for his men, they weren't the typical cavalry unit. From the rank and file of the infantry they had been trained as scouts in the brief skirmish between the City States known as the States' War.

'Expendable,' was the tag most commonly attached to their files; their horses often considered more valuable than they were. But this squad proved themselves reliable. So much so that their leader, Briggs, had been promoted to the level of a bonafide commissioned officer and they were kept on as a reconnaissance squad even as vehicles were becoming faster and more reliable.

Stern started barking at the scouts to get a move on, veins rising from his thick neck and disappearing under his short-cropped hair. Briggs reared his horse and headed for the steep, narrow path that would take them to the foot of the cliff. He wasn't so sure that he would find any semblance of life in the fishing community below, let alone rest for his men. The inability to use their wireless had put him even more on edge.

That She-Devil was at work, he was sure of it. No point in scaring his men over suspicions and superstition; better to carry on like nothing was wrong. These damned cliffs weren't helping either. He wished they had never been made in the first place. He hated heights, and the winding path to sea level was all crags and heart-stopping drops.

The eight horsemen worked their way slowly down the face of the cliff. Their dark uniforms were disheveled and, though they were unaware of it, they stank from the days riding through the high plains and sun-bleached foothills. From below they must have looked like a roving band of outlaws and deserters.

An hour passed. The sun was directly overhead before Briggs' horse found the broad path at the base of the cliff. It had been a road once, a well maintained highway even. At least it had been usable by the early trucks that ran deliveries between the major cities. That was until it was rendered useless by the creation of the cliffs. No road had reached the city since, which necessitated the use of horses to reach it quickly by land.

Curse those worthless Magi and their forsaken cliffs,
Briggs thought, letting his horse graze while he waited for his men to catch up. He was just glad to be back on level ground.

They wandered over to a stream that bubbled from under the foot of the cliffs, fed by some hidden spring. The horses were grateful for the moment's respite and a cool drink in the blazing sun. There wasn't a cloud in the sky. Across the stream and its worm-ridden wooden bridge lay their destination. The men could see the mist for themselves now, there wasn't any hiding it.

Wiping dirt and sweat from their brows they remained silent; no one moved to urge his horse back on the path. Stern walked his own mare over to the lieutenant, letting her drink as he stared at the walls of the city, now only fifty yards away.

“Sir,” he said. “This ain't no communication error. Their lines ain't cut and their wireless towers still have power.”

“I saw.” Briggs' gaze didn't flinch from their destination as he pulled out a knife and sliced an apple from his pack. “I never thought it was a communications error.”

“Then what's going on sir?” His voice but a raspy whisper as he leaned closer, the creaking leather of his saddle almost drowning his words.

“Hell if I know, Nick. A whole city doesn't just go silent overnight.” He paused, handing Stern a slice of apple without breaking his stare. “Even if they had lost power, their ships would have continued sailing, there would have been news.”

“Damned scale suckers had better not be playing a joke on us.”

“They aren't,” Briggs finally looked at his big sergeant. “But we have to be sure.”

The gates to the city wall were open; ajar may have been a better word for it, Lieutenant Briggs thought. They looked almost like they'd been punched in by some Titan from the old tales. He tried to reassure himself that they had simply been left unmaintained over the years. No one used these gates any more.

The cursed white mist curled out from under the broken wood and around the stones. It must be more humid than he thought, or at least so he tried to reassure himself.

Briggs turned his horse around to face his mounted scouts, each one worth every penny the army paid them and more. The lines on their faces had deepened, and none moved to join their lieutenant.

“Alright,” he said, speaking as though he were afraid to wake someone nearby. “I want you to break into pairs. We've all read the maps; you should be able to figure out your routes. Everyone is to meet in the center square in forty minutes.”

The men checked their watches, eager for a distraction as their horses fidgeted uneasily beneath them.

“Don't lose sight of your partners, and radio in if you find anything.”

“Sir, our wireless still don't work.” Thompson pulled out a hand-held unit, his thumb firmly pressing the 'talk' button, releasing a broken stream of static and warped noises.

“Damn.” Briggs tried his own before shoving it in his saddle bag. “Well, don't get lost. Mark anything of interest on your maps and we'll figure out what to do when we reach the square. Any questions?”

They all sat quietly in their saddles. Each looking to the others before the awkward silence forced their attention back on their lieutenant. He too waited for any excuse to delay, but finding none, turned and walked his horse towards the gates.

“Forty minutes boys, don't be late.”

“Alright maggots,” said Stern notably missing much of his usual enthusiasm. “You heard the lieutenant! Stop yer mullin' about and get in formation!”

Briggs heard his men fall in behind him as he approached the city. It was a comfort to know there were men he knew and trusted behind him. The gate's shadow reached out to him as he pressed forward. The pace of his heart quickened.

“Thompson, you're with me,” Briggs said.

“Great,” came the reply from the private.

“What was that worm?” The sergeant quipped, but Briggs had stopped listening.

He eased through the gate; there was just enough room for one mounted horseman to get through at a time. The unused dirt path turned into cobblestone streets as they passed the gatehouse. Briggs looked up as he passed under the
MARD
repulsors. They were large lantern-looking things that would hang from entryways such as this and along the walls. It appeared they had been ripped out of their sockets and discarded somewhere. Aside from the doors it was the only sign of violence he could make out.

Briggs motioned for Thompson to follow him as they turned to the right and headed down the northern-most road. Briggs knew it should lead them around the perimeter of the city. It felt like the worst road of all to take.

Stern made his way straight into the city with one of the privates, an old market place greeting them as they continued from the walls. It didn't appear to have been used for commerce in quite some time, probably because this gate was no longer a source of traffic for the city.

The other scouts broke off into pairs and made their way among the buildings by various routes. None of them picked up much speed in the narrow streets. The two and three story buildings were once light and welcoming. Now, they seemed to lean in over the visitors, their windows dark and lifeless.

The mist was rolling around Stern's feet now, his horse's chest leaving a wake as they moved forward. It seemed to thicken even more as he passed between the residences of the fishermen. Increasingly reclusive for the past few decades, the scale suckers, as he liked to refer to them, hadn't had much regular contact with the rest of the world outside of trade. Stern didn't care. They stank, and so did their city.

How a town this far north could remain this hot most of the year was beyond him. The collar of his uniform used his sweat as an epoxy as it clung to his throat. It grated against the stubble of his unshaved neck. At least his horse seemed to have calmed, her nerves restored by movement.

They took a slow corner and were greeted by a row of shops. Horseshoes on cobblestones and stretching leather the only sounds to break the silence. Butterflies rose in Stern's stomach, and his neck grew tenser as they continued. He didn't dare speak to the private following him; the lump in his throat wouldn't have permitted it anyways.

Briggs came to the first pier along his route. It was smaller, reserved for private fishermen and families. There weren't any warehouses yet, only a few small shops stood to service any boats in need. He turned to Thompson who was following a few seconds behind and motioned to move out onto the lower docks. The gentle lapping of water on hulls was barely audible; everything felt muted.

His daughters had always loved the water. Boats held a romantic appeal for them. He never completely understood it, having grown up inland. He had never really cared much to take them to the ocean. Somehow now he wished he had. He shook the thought free, clearing his vision for the task at hand.

This looked like a marina, Briggs thought to himself, but the defined difference evaded him as he dismounted. A number of boats were left tied to the dock; others floated free or were lodged where the tide had left them.

As they descended the gangway between the pier and the floating docks below they failed to see any signs of life. Some nets were left out as if dropped while being cleaned. Most of the boats had inboard motors, but the masts among them stood naked against the sky.

The lieutenant tapped a few windows, but resisted stepping on board any of the boats. He felt a knot growing in his stomach as he continued down the dock. Every step became more difficult, the silence assaulting his ears. He only made it half way before turning back, wordlessly bidding Thompson to follow him.

Stern crossed a large, ornate stone bridge; the hidden stream below trickling gently, as if to remind him of security long lost. He couldn't tell if the small sparkles of light below came from the water or something else. The duo stopped as they entered another large square in front of a tall, armored statue. The base was difficult to read through the mist, but he was certain whoever it was held the title “Cleaver.”

Anyone with a sword that big must be compensating for something, the sergeant thought to himself with a silent chuckle.

The cause for curiosity, however, was the scorched plain where the statue's head should have rested. It appeared as though it had been burned off, which Stern assured himself wasn't possible. He swallowed heavily at the thought and moved his horse past the statue and through the open square. The private fell in line dutifully behind him.

As the walls closed in around them again, Stern started noticing faint marks on them, as though someone had scraped giant matches along the buildings in order to light them. He slowed his mount to a halt, shifting the reins into his right hand. Taking off the thick leather glove on his left hand he reached out, placing his fingers on the rough stucco and running them along the mark. The light gray dust gave way under his fingers and drifted to the ground leaving smooth marks as he dragged them along the surface of the wall.

Then he heard the scream. He whipped his horse around and faced the white faced private behind him.

“Did you hear that?” He looked around, trying to determine where it had come from. “C'mon Private! Move!”