Westhaven by Rowan Erlking (best sci fi novels of all time TXT) 📕

“We heard you.” A young man walked from the crowd, holding a large woven basket in one arm with turnips inside. “Our patriarch is ill. He cannot come out.”

“Ill?” The general walked to that man, peering him over. The young man’s clothes were traditional woven things of flax. He wore an open vest of blue and loose pants with shirt of a light toast, only his shoes were clogs rather than sturdy leather.

“Would you prefer that he be dead?” the general asked.

Turning his head at a minor angle, but not backing down, the youth said, “Whether I prefer it or not does not change that he most likely will die soon. We are preparing for his passing as we speak.”

The general looked over the young (and what he would consider insolent) man, lifted his chin at a slightly higher tilt and said, “Then who is in charge in his absence?”

Nodding though keeping his eyes level with the general’s the young man replied, “I am. The patriarch is my father.”

That earned the young man a smirk from the general who, despite hating insolence, found cheekiness amusing. General Winstrong turned. He said while walking towards the meeting hall, “My men and I will need housing for the night. We may be here for a few days to determine what regulations have been overlooked, especially the neglect of this passageway to the north.”

“We have no desire to have a route set through our village,” the young man replied with the rising of his chest.

The general’s boy ducked down with a cringe. He waited for the general to deliver a fatal blow. The soldiers around him also waited, some eagerly wishing to see the general put this human in his place. However, the general maintained a smooth confident smile as he said, “You don’t have much of a choice in the matter. The Sky Lord has charged me to establish the roads, and this pass is perfect.”

“I must object,” the young man said.

General Winstrong chuckled, taking another step closer to the man. “Your objection may be your last word ever.”

Someone grabbed the back of the young man’s shirt and yanked him away from the general. It was strong, older man with a beard, and a friend with him—both of whom looked like farmers though their eyes were still glaring as they held their headstrong friend from making a foolish move. The general smiled.

“Yes, it is wise to remember your place, human.” The general then turned to his troop and ordered the captain and his lieutenants to commandeer some of the houses. Already the soldiers had surrounded the village, flinging open doors and ordering people out at gunpoint. It was the same routine the boy had seen whenever they entered a new village. Only this village walked with dragging feet of resentment as they were ordered to cooperate, rather than running in fear as many have done.

As the soldiers jogged through the village, securing posts to guard against insurgents, the general leaned toward his driver who had been standing next to the auto the same as his boy slave, whispering into his driver’s ear. He then gestured for the boy to get his bag.

Obeying, his boy walked to the back of the automobile to the trunk, keeping his eyes on the ground. As he lifted the trunk open, he heard the murmur of the humans being ushered into the clearing, their words hissing as venomous as they sounded. He tried not to listen, but that was also difficult.

“…kill him. How dare that demon enter here! If the patriarch were well he’d….” That man had passed by, the rest of his words gone with him.

A woman hissed to her neighbor. “…keep us here. Do you think that they will…?” But she too walked on. Most of their whispers were unintelligible.

Another passed, hissing. “…don’t know, but that ward ought to—”

The written spell ward the villager had mentioned at that moment suddenly splintered with the crack of a rifle. Everyone jumped.

Five more shots followed it

The red door’s written words split apart. Watching it, the boy sighed. Of what he did know about magic, written spells were as powerful as they were fragile. The written word had to be unmarred for such a spell to work. The general was right. Magic was nothing against technology. Before, the Sky Children would not have been able to cross the threshold let alone touch those doors with that demon ward in place. However, it was only proofed against demons—not against bullets, fire, or bombs. And with the written spell destroyed, the demons could now enter the hall. Already the lieutenant and corporals shoved the doors open.

“It is ready for you,” the lieutenant said, waving to the general.

Grinning, the general gestured to his boy without looking back. “Come on. You will set up my quarters.”

“Yes, sir.” With a heave, the boy pulled the general’s suitcase out from the auto’s trunk. Already the general was on the threshold of the village meeting hall, grinning at his usual progress. He marched inside the meetinghouse. His boy followed.

Night had set in. The villagers who had been displaced by soldiers moved in to their neighbors’ homes, perhaps scheming for a way to get rid of the Sky Children. Of course the general’s boy knew that any action taken against the soldiers would only end in fire, blood, ash, and tears. The boy sat on the front porch of the main house, staring at his feet waiting for the cycle to happen all over again.

Dust stirred up in front of him. He lifted his eyes only some, where he saw a pair of feet standing right in front of him. For a moment, he caught a breath in his chest thinking it was the gunman from years ago that had shot up the general’s auto. But when he lifted his eyes higher, he saw that it was a boy about his age if not perhaps just a few years older. This boy’s glare on him was not altogether condemning, but it was hardly friendly.

“Why are working for him?” the village boy asked as accusatory as his stare.

Lowering his head, the general’s boy ducked down, knowing he was not to speak to the villagers.

“I asked you a question.” The local boy nearly shouted.

“Hey. Look at his feet, stupid.” Someone else had come up. This man’s feet were bare, though his pants showed that he was not poor. “They’re in chains. It’s not like he has a choice.”

Snorting, the village boy said, “If it were me, I’d have escaped. This kid’s nothing but a coward.”

The general’s boy closed his eyes. The words stung. Of course he was a coward, he told himself. He ducked and hid and did everything that he was told. He didn’t dare disobey the general, though in the depths of his heart he hated the general. That demon had taken away everything he had loved.

“You can’t talk,” the villager said and shoved the village boy out of the way. He crouched down and touched the general’s boy’s leg irons. “You don’t know what he’s been through.”

Immediately the general’s boy popped his eyes open. He looked face to face not with any villager but with the young man that had stood up to the general. The man smiled then pulled a stopper out of a clay flask, pouring the contents onto a clean cloth. It smelled familiar, though the boy could not identify the smell. The young man rubbed it on the boy’s sore ankles, making sure to get under the leg irons.

“You shouldn’t,” the general’s boy whispered to him, shifting his eyes to the left and then to the right. “The general will—”

“I don’t care what that general thinks,” the young man said, still rubbing on the balm. The very touch of it felt wonderful. The balm tingled as the man massaged it into his skin, muttering words underneath his breath. In fact, the boy felt unexpectedly calm. His breathing slowed and his eyes went heavy.

“Now tell me,” the young man said in a voice so hushed that no one but he could hear. “Where does the general mainly make camp?”

As his head went light and floaty, the boy’s words slipped out in the same slight whisper. “Barnid Town.”

“Uptown or in the military post?”

He didn’t know why he answered, knowing the general would beat him for it, but the boy said, “In town. But he has guards.”

“Blast.” The man cursed under his breath. He then nodded to himself and asked in that same soothing voice that made the boy want to tell him everything. “Does the general have a weakness, where he is most vulnerable?”

His head lolled to the side. His eyes grew heavy. The boy whispered, leaning now in the man’s arms as he fell over from exhaustion. “Women. He likes beautiful women. Young ones.”

The young village man frowned. “Yes. This we know. But is there anything he is afraid of?”

Closing his eyes, the boy exhaled, nearly asleep. “Me.”

Standing up, the young man stared at the practically unconscious child he laid on the stoop to the village meetinghouse. “You? What for?”

“I can read,” the boy murmured.

“What’s your name?” the man asked.

“I don’t remember,” the boy said again. It took effort to remember even that, and he was just too tired.

Blinking, the man looked over his shoulder to make sure no one was watching him, though the soldier nearby was actually fast asleep, knocked out by an herbal cream smeared on his face with the spoken word of a spell. Crouching down again, the man whispered to the boy. “Where are you from?”

“Summi village on Bekir Lake,” the boy murmured in his sleep.

“Bekir Lake?” The boy next to the young man whispered. “That’s far northeast.”

“Nothing but fishing villages are on Bekir Lake,” the man whispered to his companion. He then asked the boy, “Are you a fisherman?”

Breathing deeply, the boy found it now too exhausting to speak. “No…. Smith.”

“He’s a—”

“What are you doing there?” a soldier shouted.

The young man and the boy with him jumped up and ran, darting around the corner. The soldier shot at them, but hardly even got close. Jogging over, the soldier glanced at the general’s boy who had flopped over like a rag doll. Then he continued to go after the two men until he stopped at the corner where he saw the collapsed soldier. Immediately he raised his voice in a loud cry. “Man down! There’s a witch in the village!”

All the soldiers in that area jumped up from their posts. Two ran over to help the first man lift their comrade off the earth. The soldier’s head lolled back and let out a loud snore.

“Man down?” the corporal said with a snort at the private that had called out to them. “The idiot fell asleep on the job.”

“That is not what happened!” the private snapped back. “I saw a man with a boy messing with the general’s footman. Look over there. He’s out cold too.”

That soldier did look, lifting his head to stare at the human slave who had fallen onto his back. The boy’s hands were limp, though his face looked as if he were at peace, dreaming of things much more pleasant than the world around him.

Hefting their fellow soldier aside, practically dragging him to the walkway, they then went over to inspect the general’s boy. One sniffed the air then looked down to the source of the odor. Dirt stuck to the oil that had been rubbed there, shiny in the moonlight.

“Smell that?” the private said.

The corporal nodded with a curse on his lips.

“That’s witchcraft,” the private said.

“I wonder what they wanted with him?” the corporal asked.

Shrugging, the private rose again and went to the shot-up doors to inform the general.

*

General Winstrong was not happy about the news of a witch on the prowl, and in the morning he grilled his boy about what had happened. However, the boy’s head still wobbled and his eyes were glazed as he stared forward, struggling to focus.