The Harvest Wars - Part 1 - Awakening

CHAPTER TWO - Erik

At the Shores of the Boiling Sea, Covenport

Age of Prime

Summer, Year 1888

It was a silent night, and the full moon spilled its ghostly light over Covenport, the oldest harbor town that dwelled at the shores of the Boiling Sea. Its inhabitants, tens of thousands in number, usually scurried day and night in its narrow streets and sinister alleys like a bustling swarm of ants over a cadaver. This night, they did not. This night, the city—which knew no sleep as people said—was lying low, quiet as a frightened dog. Its streets were deserted; its taverns, empty. Doors were locked and windows were barred.

Curfew.

Not even a year ago, this would have been unthinkable, unbearable, and intolerable. Yet there it was, enforced not by law, but by fear. Only the stupid, the brave, or those with a death wish dared to walk the streets at night after the twenty-three days had passed. Now, in the darkness, it was the scream of such a man that echoed through the ravine-like alleys. It was a scream filled with the terror of someone who had thought himself fearless but was learning otherwise. Of a man who knew his voice would be heard but nobody would answer its pleas.

A shadow followed this man, pursuing him with the ease and calm of a hunter who knows his prey is doomed. The hunter showed himself only at certain locations—the entrance of an alley here, the roof of a balcony there—to drive his quarry in the right direction.

It was a cruel game, the kind cats played with mice, and its effect was not lost on the denizens of Covenport, who were huddled in their homes. They were praying to their gods for safety, and that the end would come quickly for the poor soul being chased through the streets. But the gods had no pity for prey. After what seemed like an eternity, the hunter became tired of the pursuit, and like an owl catching a rat, he struck from the darkness, pinning down his victim, yet not killing him.

No, not killing him.

The killing came later. Hours later. Hours filled with screams so terrifying, so full of abyssal pain, that upon hearing them, even the hardiest souls shed tears, or drowned their horror in alcohol, or dulled their senses with any other substance that was strong enough.

The screams ended, as so many had in the past, one hour before dawn. When they ceased, it was so sudden, so abrupt, that the silence cut into the hearts of the listeners like an ice-covered dagger.

Welcome to Covenport. 

***

Three nights later...

Covenport was bustling with activity. It was a night much like the one three days before, but this time the moon was not illuminating a frightened city. This time the light fell on men and women filling the streets, drinking and celebrating with the vigor of soldiers who had won a great battle—or had a deadly battle still ahead of them.

In the crowded harbor district, where the pulse of life had always been strongest in this city, an old one-armed man in the gray robes of a monk wandered down the street, a gnarled rune-covered staff in his right hand serving as support. He seemed to roam aimlessly, appearing both fascinated and taken aback by the debaucheries that took place all around him, until at last his gaze fell upon the unreadable sign of a tavern almost lost in a dark alley.

It was a small, run-down establishment, with windows black from grime and walls that reeked of urine. Nevertheless the monk stepped toward the old building with purpose. As he opened the heavy door, which moaned on its rusty hinges, he could see that the inn was filled not with the exuberant citizens, sailors, and harlots that mobbed the streets, but with brooding, shady figures.