Chapter 1 of Light Fantasy World

Chapter 1

There isn't an army in this God-forsaken world that can climb Mount Pryx, let alone survive a winter night up here.

That early fall morning, as soldiers marched through the open Southern gate and into Brutzville, Petra could not help but remember her uncle's words. The leather rack she was supposed to collect from and clean sat on the other side of the street, but she did not dare cross. The gates were not demolished, but opened, and now rows and rows of soldiers marched in twos down the street as if they were invited, as if they had walked this street many times. Petra's heart raced; she tried to run but her legs were bolted to the ground. The surrounding townsfolk looked just as shocked as her, unable to muster words. The only sound was the uniform marching of the soldiers, draped in muddied, plum-covered robes that covered the light armor they wore. None of the men wielded weapons, but each carried a sword at their hip. She watched attentively as the two men in the front unfurled a flag and raised it high in the air.

It was the insignia of the Lycland Empire, whipping and twisting in the wind. The small crowd breathed a sigh of hesitant relief. This was not an invasion. But the faces surrounding her at that moment--the same faces that had surrounded her since she was little--remained grim. Petra leaned out of the crowd to take in the whole unit; there were over one hundred men in the company, all with robes that brandished the same Lycland Insignia: a chalice overflowing with fruit. The first set of men now passed Petra; their eyes fixed at some invisible point just across town. Her gaze wandered to the back of the parade to see something even more bewildering than the hundred men: a horse.

She assumed the beast was a horse; she had seen them in paintings. Founder's Hall--where she had been graduated in the spring--was full of paintings with decorated men on horses. But horses were plains creatures, unable to make the harrowing journey up Mount Pryx. Yet there were two here. She was so taken by the first that she nearly missed the other. Each horse pulled a carriage twice its size that, inexplicably, must have come the whole way up the mountain. Transfixed, Petra stared unblinkingly at the men who rode the beasts. The closer one wore no robe, but a luxurious leather coat. It hung low to his knees, and the attached wolf pelt on the hood obfuscated nearly his entire head; he grinned and whispered something to the other man. The man to his left was decorated in almost two dozen medals on his uniform. He sat perfectly straight, even as the horse's haunches shifted with each trot. The figure of nobility personified; he horrified Petra as he drew closer. He was effortlessly stiff from the neck down, but his head swiveled slowly, taking in the crowd. He seemed to meet the eyes of every person in the crowd, confident that they were looking at him. The other horse was being led--slowed, really--by a young, uncloaked man, but his required no extra direction. It moved with unnatural deliberation, as if weighed down by its master's presence. He had a resolute aura that commanded attention, but an inhuman gaze that repelled all the same; when it landed on Petra, she was nearly moved to apologize, to justify her existence to the superior being. The crowd whispered now, but no voice rose above a hush. Unknown words took form in her throat when she was pulled back by an anonymous hand. Unconsciously, Petra had stepped out into the street, nearly right beside the horses, fully separate from the crowd.

"Are you out of your mind?" the woman hissed at Petra. She released the steel grip from Petra's arm and clicked her tongue. Her other arm pressed a little boy upon her hip, her hand white with exertion.

"Uh, sorry." Petra looked back at the regiment marching past her. The front men had turned the corner, and soon even the carriages were out of sight. Some people followed them, others hurried away, presumably home, but mostly the crowd persisted and buzzed with excitement and confusion.

Petra collected the leather from the racks and hurried to Uncle Carsen's shop. The colder weather had made the leather easier to tenderize since it did not dry out so easily. There were over twenty pounds of leather to haul back, but Petra rushed to relay the news to Uncle Carsen.

"I heard. Bea already stopped in," he said glibly when Petra bolted through the door, glowing with excitement, "how's the leather?" Petra dimmed and threw the leather onto the counter.

"It's great. Somehow, they got horses up here. I think one of them was a general or something." Petra sauntered into the ice room and took some jerky. "What do you think they're here for?" she asked between bites. Uncle Carsen's daily routine was confined mostly to three rooms: his bedroom, the ice room, and his cutting room. The short time he spent outside those rooms, he spent going from one to another or relieving himself. The store, "Gannon's Hide and Meat," was the fourth oldest structure in Brutzville. Carsen Gannon, his son Freddy, and Petra Cobb lived on the second story of the building.

The premier butcher and tanner in Brutzville resembled a human made inside out. For as long as anyone could remember, Carsen has had thin hair of charcoal that crept up his head in agony; running off his scalp out of fear that it might interrupt his work. Carsen worked from sunrise to his body's physical limit, his back visibly contorted from years of hunched work on his cutting bench. At his age--somewhere between seventy and two-hundred--skin hangs loosely from the muscle he refined over decades of labor. Carsen Gannon was perhaps an exception in all areas but his face. While his hands were knobby and back was distorted, his body was well defined. His limbs were vascular, spindly, but strong. But in his face, age reared its ugly head; Carsen's cheeks were hollow and his brow perpetually forlorn. He was pale as a bone with a short, narrow nose. His eyes were carved with mourning, the right one yellowed by some illness he suffered as a child.

"With all the commotion, you sure cleaned the rack quickly," Uncle Carsen ignored the question and looked at Petra with a wicked grin. Petra choked on her jerky, willing an apology through the stringy venison. Her uncle laughed, "don't worry about it. I think this'll be our last batch for the year. Bea's still not done with our last one; she may not finish all this until next winter." Carsen let out a hoarse chuckle. Petra was proud; she had hunted more game that summer than even Miss Bea and Uncle Carsen could handle. She beamed as she ran up the stairs for more food. Is Freddy's lazy ass even up yet, she wondered with contempt.

"What were they here for, indeed," Uncle Carsen muttered. Petra returned to the bench with wild berries to share, happy to continue discussing the soldiers. "Listen to me, Petra. Those men may not be here for conflict, but they could well enough bring it. If you're right about a high-ranking officer coming all the way here, it's trouble. Even if no conflict erupts, even if they leave tomorrow, it's trouble."

Petra thought for a moment.

"Do you think they like venison or rabbit meat?"

"Ha! You're asking good questions." He resumed his cutting. Petra sometimes wondered if Bea could just sew a knife to each finger and save him the effort of putting them down. "Can you run some errands for me? You'll be done by lunch."

"Can you put 15 scrit at the end of those errands?"

"I've already put a bed and meals at the end of every errand you run."

"Please?"

Carsen relented. Petra snatched the week's order note from Uncle Carsen's desk while he loaded the first three orders in the ice room. The desk was more hers than Uncle Carsen's. Every day after school, Petra would read right there beside Uncle Carsen, so much that her school bag started smelling like raw meat. They kept each other honest; she would work until he stopped working, and he would stop working early so she could have a break. Within a few minutes, Petra was out the door once again, back onto the unusually humming streets of Brutzville.

The orders came and went easily. She carried an icebox with an order-worth of meat to the house, handed the meat off to someone--or left the icebox to be returned later--and went back to Gannon's Hide and Meat to collect the next order. Since Uncle Carsen mostly did business with the Crenshaw Sector, she never traveled more than twenty minutes to any given customer. Despite the occurrences of the morning, most people in Crenshaw went about their day as usual. In early fall, the mountain was still tame enough to stay outside most of the day. Petra wore her long fur coat, and a scarf Miss Bea had knit for her, a comparatively light outfit for the chilled weather. Soon, snow and frost would be the only things on Brutzville's mind.

Brutzville itself was only just under seventy years old. Faban Brutz led his first company atop Mount Pryx in 1499 D.C. and found a relatively flat area just over a mile from the summit. The company found one barely traversable route from the site back down the mountain, and thus Brutzville was born. Brutz had dangled the prize of exquisite ore deposits in front of the emperor, despite having almost no evidence of such a thing. He and his crew simply yearned for the mountain. It was often joked by Brutzvillites that Faban found "a gold mine of iron, coal, and pryxalite." As soon as three years later, when Faban led another mining centric company up the mountain, the emperor went from ordering the adventurer's head to pouring every available Imperial Unit Script in the empire to "Project Brutzville." Since then, Brutzville became home to entrepreneurs, eager workers, foreign outcasts, and "people with no damn sense," as Uncle Carsen put it; the novelty of the city-to-be made constant and widespread construction a fact of life.

The final order was technically Bea's, but Petra had started doing errands for her under special circumstances. The coat had a note reading "for Dean Hayes... he'll tip you" on it for her, so she obliged this time. The Hayes family lived in the other sector of Brutzville, the "top half": Oshoff. Petra's feet ached and it was already well past lunchtime, but she gritted her teeth and made the forty-minute-long trek to the Hayes' residence. She expected that they would not be home given the circumstances, so she trudged down the block to the newspaper headquarters.

"Gannon's!" Petra bellowed from the lobby of Brutzville Press into the main room. This was the only day in Brutzville Press history where the lobby had a function; the glass wall of the printing room showed Petra the tornado of paper that circled around Dean Hayes. The man left home two decades ago as a newlywed with a plan: become the sole proprietor of news in Brutzville. It turned out that, in its political infancy, Brutzville was in no dire need of a news proprietor, and his brilliant idea soon became a side hustle. His wife, Renee Hayes, was a key consultant for the Governor's office and brought home most of the income; in fact, her insistence that Brutzvillian government documents be printed by the Brutzville Press was the only claim to legitimacy Dean's business had. Now that a politically significant moment had arrived, Dean Hayes felt it was his chosen time. Amused, Petra tried to tease out more details from the scene. Her wry smile faded and changed into an expression of shock and awe: Governor Caine was in Dean Hayes' office, enduring the brunt of the storm. Petra repeated her yell and got Dean's attention for a moment. With a gesture, Dean sent Ben Hayes to emerge from the eye of the storm.

"Petra, hey. Sorry for making you wait. What's up?" Ben was the Brutzville Press' first and only employee. Petra had been offered the same opportunity at graduation, since she was one of the few graduates who could capably read Dean Hayes' rambling letter for open interviews. Uncle Carsen had told her that her work for "Gannon's Hide and Meat" was prerequisite for meals and quarters, so she declined the outside offer.

"You look busy," Petra joked. "I had a coat for your dad. Well, it's actually for your little sister. Never mind that, was that Governor fucking Caine in your office?"

"Ex-Governor fucking Caine, that is," Ben set the coat on the lobby desk. He looked stressed, his crooked grin revealed the new weight on his previously unencumbered shoulders. His posture reminded Petra of Uncle Carsen. "He's having us publish a story about his resignation. Right now, my dad is tearing him a new one for stepping down at a time like this, and for taking basically no political stands in almost a decade. The last bit seems personal."

Petra was so appalled she laughed. She needed answers: "what happens now? I mean, the resignation's got to be related to those soldiers, right?"

"He won't admit that; that's actually the main problem my dad had with publishing a story. He doesn't want to give the people an incomplete work."

"And I can't go in there? Because I was told I was getting tipped, and he still hasn't noticed me."

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you," shrugged Ben.

"Damn," Petra forgot about the Unit Scripts quickly; she had been compensated in a story. Renee Hayes slithered out of the office and exhaled heavily.

"Ben, your father needs you to clean the press. Petra, dear, how are you? It's been a while," Renee was a warm person with a tame persona that almost evened out her husband's kineticism. She and Dean had light blonde hair and fair skin, their faces were long and sharp. Renee was a tall woman, only an inch or so smaller than her husband. They both carried light frames, like overgrown saplings. "Thanks for delivering this, little Val was gonna love it. Tell Bea I said hello."

Still no tip? Oh well, Petra suppressed her greed and hugged Mrs. Hayes. After pleasantries, Mrs. Hayes composed herself and reentered the office tempest. As if on cue, Dean Hayes shouted just as the door opened, "Brutzville deserves better than you, but you're all we've got!"

Dean's face was beet-red, his wispy hair laid wet on his scalp. Ben joked with Petra when she was young that Mr. Hayes' brow wriggled on his forehead when he was overwhelmed, as if the velocity of his thoughts rattled his skull. He looked up frantically at his wife, and he must have seen Petra from the corner of his eye. In his state, he barely recognized one of his son's oldest friends. Dean rushed to the door.

"Can I help you?" Dean shouted. Then he recognized her.

"Oh, Petra! Sorry, you're bigger than when I last saw you."

That was barely a month ago, creep. "Hi, Mr. Hayes. Just dropping off a coat from Ms. Bea."

"Great, thanks. Ben, I need you to take notes at tomorrow's town hall. It'll be a big lift. I'll go over details when Petra's gone." Dean was about to reenter the fray with ex-Governor Caine when his brow nearly jumped off his forehead. "Petra, you can read and write well, right?"

Ben and Petra exchanged exasperated looks. Renee snickered, muttering under her breath about her husband's eccentricity.

"Yes, I read and write very well," Petra growled, not masking her annoyance.

Dean Hayes was not in a state of mind fit to interpret subtext. He replied immediately: "awesome. How would you like to take notes in a town hall tomorrow at the twentieth hour? We'd give you fifty--no, eighty scrit."

The annoyance subsided. Petra agreed and shook Dean's sweat-soaked hand. Behind them, Ditto Caine coughed. Ex-Governor Caine was short in stature and slightly pudgy. Beneath his thick glasses were caved, beady eyes fit for a bird. His upper brow had equal hair volume to his entire head. The thick brown hair of his mustache concealed his mouth unless he spoke. The man was well dressed every time he made a public appearance, and while his clothing was as dapper as usual, he looked unkept due to the circumstances.

"I will be heading off now, Dean. Please publicize the town hall to the best of your company's ability. It will be a closed affair; even if I don't agree with your choices of reporters, they will be allowed in. Long live 'independent press' and all." Caine squinted down his nose at Petra and Ben, despite being significantly shorter than Ben and eye-level with Petra. He strutted out the door and into the public eye once again, his demeanor giving away none of the anxiety he showed moments before to Mr. Hayes. Petra wondered how much of Caine's anxiety they had seen, and how much more lay underneath.