Intrigue, exile, and the cost of survival.
Table of Contents | Map: Golden Kingdoms | The Moons | Numbers & Measures
2: Duty
Darim > Färenmouth, Golden Kingdoms
Darim rode east, along the road to Färenmouth, a coastal town and a minor port for shipping between Aerohim and Haüthia. He was on ‘The King’s Business.’ He liked the weight of that. It sounded important, although he doubted whether anyone else felt that way. ‘Darim Vel, Trade Inspector for the Crown, here to inspect your books and inventories.’ No one ever stood up straighter or tipped their head when he spoke those words. Maybe improved delivery was required? He deepened his voice, a medium tenor at its lowest, and tried the line again.
Definitely not. He was glad no one accompanied him on the road. He was a Trade Inspector for the Golden Kingdoms, three kingdoms united, although many in Aerohim seemed to feel that they had been relegated to the status of an unwanted third child. He had no opinion on the subject.
It wasn’t a bad road, he thought, as roads went. Wide enough for two carts to ride abreast – or pass, heading toward differing ends. He was close now, a few strands through the light coastal drizzle.
He shook away the moisture that had accumulated on his shoulder-length black hair, pulled up the hood of his travel cloak, and craned his neck to survey the road behind him. On the western horizon, far across the Lion’s Veld, Aerlil was on the rise, the clouds parting in her path, as they always did.
Home was back there too. He longed for it every day he spent on his assigned route: the First Circuit. A lofty-sounding name for an inspection route that wound its way around most of the southern half of Aerohim but never went anywhere important – except his home. No one cared where the Circuit started, only that its inspections were made. Several birds dropped through the soft underbelly of the cloud above him: 3 gulls making for the sea.
He rode through the last of the Veld’s farmland – green shoots of grain still creeping toward their ripening. Soon, the fields would yield to the sandy scrubs and grasses that lined the coast, and then the town. Home pulled at him. The loving arms of his wife, Renn. The happy laughter of Shara and Brinde, their children. He longed to be with them.
Seven days before, Brinde – an easily upset boy of three, but just as easily delighted – had cried in his mother’s arms as Darim rode off. Thirty days more – if all went well – until he returned home. He always knew the days. Ticking them off, one by one, until his return home. He was good with numbers, but a Trade Inspector ought to be. He inspected ledgers, tallied the inventories, looked for inconsistencies. And all the while – the longing.
The duty wasn’t a burden. He enjoyed numbers, a love he’d carried since his youth. It was the love of understanding. Numbers made sense. A stand of trees pushed its way out of the coastal fog ahead: 5 elms behind the town marker.
He’d arrived.
Beyond the town marker, simple houses dotted their way outward, spaced widely on either side of the road, signaling the end of the farmland: 7 farmhouses at the edge of the fields.
These were older structures, from the early days before Färenmouth grew its shipping interests – wooden sidings stained dark and warped by many years of coastal moisture.
Further into town, he knew from prior visits, the homes transitioned to two-story structures – newer, certainly nicer, whitewashed in the more affluent areas, but all pressed closely to one another.
Past the farms, he scanned for a line of single-story homes to emerge from the dense mists. These structures ringed the town’s exterior – except for the coast. The dwellings of unskilled laborers and the less well-to-do. And soon, their forms began to resolve through the fog – darkly indistinct at first, then coalescing into more solid forms. But their shapes were wrong. The crisp edges of walls and rooftops were distorted and dark with a consistency his mind couldn’t comprehend.
He softened the reins, and Tally, his dappled pony, slowed her steady trot, edging toward a tall patch of grass at the road’s edge, as was her way. It dawned on him then. Fire.
The mare began to nibble at the coastal grass, oblivious. There had been a fire. Not one home, or a few. For as far as the fog allowed him to see, all the homes were burned. Fire had swept through these buildings, leaving a chaotic jumble of burnt homesteads in its wake.
It had been inconsistent. In some cases, only the sturdiest bones of the structures stood, charred and misshapen. In others, a side or a corner of the home had been left untouched – like an unfinished artwork – the blackened remnants crumbling in sharp contrast. No fires still burned. No coals smoldered. No tendrils of smoke curled in final remembrance. It had been several days since the devastation.
Darim tugged at the reins, and Tally abandoned the sweet grasses, turning back toward the heart of the town. She plodded slowly forward – her pace set by his sense of caution. More destruction revealed itself as they continued, and his dread grew with each forward step. It was eerily silent. The fall of the mare’s hooves on the packed dirt the only sound.
All around him: devastation. He’d reached the two-story homes – once charming and bright – now, only their blackened remnants. Here, a few people moved about, but their motions were dull and forced, as if their spirits had been charred as deeply as the structures. There was no idle chatter, no laughter shared, no vibrant life. Ahead, a man struggled as he dragged a charred body from the rubble of a burnt house – a woman, by the shape of the blackened corpse. He laid his burden down next to two others and moved to the next home: 3 bodies waiting at the side of the road.
The scene repeated itself, again and again, as he moved into the business district. To his right, the inn was a ruin of crumbled and charred timber – no bed for him tonight. The tavern next door had been consumed as well. Many bodies were gathered by the road there. Several men worked at loading the dead into a two-wheeled cart. They moved in slow silence. It was a dark labor, and the dead had no schedule to keep.
Tally snorted. She’d caught the damp stench that now engulfed them. More bodies along the roadside. The mercantile’s colorful entryway and the sign above stood untouched as a cold shrine to the thriving business that had once been – the rest burned to its foundations. A blackened corpse lay on the road before the building. The shopkeeper?
On the left, the two-story trade house crumbled in on itself. And beyond that, the town’s warehouses lay in ruins – grains and goods consumed by the flames. There would be no inspection. There was nothing left. No ledgers to reconcile. His mare had grown uneasy, and he had to urge her forward.
He was nearing the docks. On his right, a man Darim recognized stood hunched before the remains of the chandlery; its ropes and sails had been easy tinder for the greedy flames. Tally drew to a stop – she needed no urging. Darim swept his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground.
He was grateful to recall the man’s name. “Elder Herstön.” The older man turned toward Darim, pale skin rendered ashen by loss and grief – his tears lurked near the corners of his eyes. “The town…” Darim faltered. He had no words for the devastation.
The Elder hung his head. “Inspector Vel. Well me…” The man choked on the formality, cut short by grief. There was nothing ‘well met’ this day. The scale of the loss demanded a degree of solemnity that courtesy could not satisfy.
Darim slowly surveyed the devastation and finally found his voice. “What happened here?”
The Elder sighed deeply. A few small coughs – likely the smoke and soot. “Three nights gone…” He took another breath and coughed again. “A dark night. Riders – many of them – swept the town, slaughtering most and setting torch to all you see.” He coughed again, phlegm rattling in his chest. “The Constable and able-bodied men who resisted fell first. Then the rest.” The Elder choked up some of what rattled in his chest and spat it to the ground.
He gestured toward the docks with a trembling arm. “Most of the ships in the harbor made sail and escaped the flames with what crew they had aboard. The rest…” The Elder glanced at a nearby gathering of bodies. “The crews on leave, all dead.” The darkened husks of several ships – one large, a merchant vessel, and more light craft – drifted near the docks: 5 burnt ships floating in the harbor.
“Who did this?”
Elder Herstön shook his head sadly. “None know. The ones that did… All dead. Slaughtered or burnt. The few of us who survived hid or fled the flames, taking shelter where we could.” He was wracked by a spell of deep coughing and hunched over, trying to catch his breath. He spat again, raised himself back up, and continued, “It was fast. So terribly fast…” The Elder’s eyes drifted for a breath. “And brutal. The likes that I have never seen.”
Darim questioned further, seeking a cause that could make sense of the massacre – banditry, rivalry, a grudge. But there simply were no answers. The Elder concluded his recounting. “A few of Sam Toller’s flight of pidgens survived. We sent word to the capital of these atrocities on the morn after... But no word yet.”
Darim nodded, but he’d long surpassed his mind’s capacity to hold the dark details. He had heard, seen, and smelled as much as he could bear. He needed to leave the town. Find fresh air. “I must take my leave.” He took the Elder’s outstretched hand and grasped the man’s shoulder with his other – a physical expression of empathy shared for several breaths.
The Elder made an expression that might have found its way to being a smile on another day. “Those that live have set up a camp beside the river.” He glanced upward. The sun had passed its zenith, and the fog had thinned to a misty remnant of its former self. “Past midday. There’ll be a bite to eat still and supper just in the pot. I doubt much levity in the company, but you’ll find some shelter from the night’s damp.”
Darim accepted without a second thought. His whole being was weary – far beyond the morning’s efforts. “Thank you. Your kindness means much.”
The Elder nodded. “Two half-full bellies are better than one full, one empty. And together is always better than alone.” He pointed toward the northern side of the town. “They’re along the closer edge of the river, not far from the bridge. You’d have to work at it to miss them.” And with that, the Elder turned and walked slowly toward the charred shell of the Dockmaster’s office, hunched with the weight of his grief.
Darim reclaimed his saddle and rode north, past lines of the dead and the fire’s devastation: 4 bodies waiting for burial.
Near the bridge, he spotted the encampment as the Elder had promised – there were no structures left to hide it. The camp was a muddle of makeshift shelters: rescued sailcloth with a charred corner, several canvas tarps, various lengths of colored fabrics, and anything else that could offer a bit of covering. There were no walls. Privacy was a luxury they’d been forced to abandon.
Darim pulled short near the encampment’s edge and hooked a corner of Tally’s reins under a boulder. There was room for the mare to graze, and he could always find her in the grass if she slipped loose. He gave her an affectionate pat and strode toward the cookfire where others were gathered – women and children, mostly. The Elder had been right. He smelled food and, despite all he had witnessed this morning, he was hungry.
He woke some time later, fighting the grogginess that followed an afternoon nap. He’d shared a bite with the townsfolk around the cookfire – a simple but satisfying meal. As a stranger, his offer of help in cleaning up had been politely declined. Tally had been happily shortening the grasses on the outskirts of the makeshift shelters. He should have unsaddled her then, but the weight of the morning had drained his energy. He had laid his bedroll out under an elm near the camp, and the burbling song of the river had eased him to his rest.
He rubbed his crusted eyes and turned to look behind him, against his better judgment. The fog was gone, and the devastation stretched out clearly in a palette of charcoal and ash gray: heartbreaking. Darim turned away. He might never fully forget what he’d seen. It certainly didn’t need refreshing.
The smell of the cookpot tickled at his nose from the camp. Tally had nibbled her way to the grasses on the riverbank, and he led her back to the tree. It would be a passable shelter for the night. He removed the saddle, dropping it near the tree, then her bit, bridle, and reins. With her halter secured to a low branch, he moved toward the beckoning smell of supper.
The men had returned from their grim day’s work in the town, and a crowd of survivors milled around the cookfire waiting for supper. There was little conversation, mostly the sounds of children, and even those were muted. Children. Darim missed his family. Thirty days more.
A few men spoke to each other of their days – who else could understand what they’d seen? “Mrs. Ambleson burnt up with her babe still clutched in her arms.” Darim surveyed the children moving amidst the survivors. One woman held an infant against her shoulder. Another small child bumbled their way between the legs of the adults. The remaining children looked to be past their ninth year. He grimaced – only those who could flee unaided and knew they couldn’t hide from the flames.
His shoulders shook involuntarily, and he turned his ears to another conversation. “… must have been professionals. Those that weren’t burnt died efficient-like. One thrust per. Always a killing stroke. From horseback, or by tallish men – wounds to the chest or above.” This conversation offered little relief, and he willed himself deaf.
Soon, the woman given charge of the cookpot deemed its contents ready for consumption. Everyone received a share of the plain stew. As he sipped the scalding broth from his wooden bowl, Darim wondered which of the townsfolk had paused to rescue a stack of bowls as they fled. Probably a generosity from the farmers whose homes had survived.
Most of the townsfolk were light-skinned or tanned by years under the coastal sun – the rest a diverse mix. Darim looked down at his forearms: his skin warm and brown since birth. The color of one’s flesh didn’t matter – a trick of parentage, nothing more. Now, Trolls and Elles, they were different in a way that meant something. He wasn’t sure what. Movement caught his eye: 2 children playing on the riverbank.
After he finished his supper, he sat quietly for a spell – as did the rest. A few low conversations, but sparse. Darim, who had found a seat near the center of the group, could not hold back his morbid curiosity. “How many, all told?”
One of the women replied, “Fourteen able-bodied men. Three partly burned – on their way to dyin’ or healin’, only time will reveal. Nineteen womenfolk. Fourteen young, including the babe. The Elder and two others of some advanced years.” She nodded toward an aged couple. “The Stroüders. Who missed the tragedy entirely – them both being weak of ear and havin’ been sitting on the river’s edge gazing at the stars.” She paused a moment. “Although I still think they was rutting.” A few laughs, weaker than they should have been.
She continued, “All told. Fifty-three still drawing breath. And grateful of it. Fifty-three left of…” She stopped and turned expectantly to the Elder.
He completed the thought for her. “Three hundred twelve... By my last total.” He added, “Not counting the sailors on leave and any travelers.”
One of the men in the circle spoke up, “Thirty-two unclaimed so far. But I expect there’ll be a few more before we’re done.”
Darim’s mind quickly ran the figures – unasked. Close to five of every six: dead.
He asked no more questions and returned to Tally and his elm soon after.
Aerlil climbed upward through the night sky. Her pale blue light was more than enough to move about by. He led the mare down to the river’s edge where she quenched her thirst, then drank his fill as well.
Tally’s halter again secured to the tree, his gear stowed, and his bedroll returned to its spot under the elm, he stretched out and longed for home. His lids soon crept downward, and his awareness faded into darkness. Fires burned in the starless night of his slumber and the dying screamed.
Darim woke in a sour mood – wearied by his troubled dreams. He stretched and made his way to the cookfire. He’d be on his way soon. Twenty-nine days until his return home.
The morning’s porridge was already steaming in its pot, and one of the women served him a generous bowl along with a steaming cup of roastbrew, made from roasted grains mixed with crushed tea leaves and herbs – a common beverage in the grain-rich kingdom of Aerohim. Darim found a seat on the ground and set the bowl beside him. He clasped the steaming cup between his hands, enjoying the moist aroma of the steam, and took a deep drink. The night’s troubled sleep melted away.
He had turned his attention to the porridge when the Elder approached with a purposeful stride – another of the men in tow.
No pleasantries were offered, and the Elder spoke immediately to his purpose. “A pidgen arrived early this morn from Adain Thüragia.” The capital. Darim was curious but wondered at its import to him.
Rather than reading the message aloud, the Elder handed him the loosely coiled strip of paper and waited. Darim took the curled note and read the short address on its exterior:
To: Highest Crown’s Agent in Färenmouth
He clearly hadn’t made the connection, so the Elder did the work for him: “The Constable and all others – are dead.” Darim didn’t like the direction this was going. “The ‘Highest Crown’s Agent’ – the only agent – is you.”
The weight and meaning struck him then, heavy in his chest. Whatever was written on the inside of the message, whatever it asked, would become his duty as soon as he read it – his obligation. Darim’s mind raced with possibilities: weeks or months of service added to his assignment. Forty days until home. No fifty. Sixty wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility. His eyes welled, and rather than suffering with uncertainty, he opened the coiled message and read:
Message received. Town razed, many slaughtered. Further detail requested. Origin, method, & timing of attack. Numbers: dead & living? Plan & immediate needs? – Taehlia Mïnte, Crown’s Rep., A.T.
The message began with a summary of known facts. Nothing asked of him. The request for ‘Further detail’ asked for information that wasn’t available – he had little to offer there. Then, ‘Numbers: dead & living?’ He knew those already. Quick work. ‘Plan & immediate needs?’ He’d have to ask the Elder, but he imagined the answers would be simple, “Plan: Survival. Needs: Everything.”
And signed by Taehlia Mïnte. He’d seen her once – never met. She was the highest representative of the Kingdoms in Aerohim, stationed permanently in the capital as the voice and hand of the Crown. He’d bowed his head deferentially as she strode past him down the hallway without acknowledgment.
So that was his assignment. His duty. A report – and not a long one at that. He was skilled at writing reports. He might not be important, but he’d been tasked into service to someone who was. Nothing close to the scope his worry-filled mind had imagined. The details – at least the ones anyone knew – were all available. He’d do his duty, write his report, and be on the road before midday. A minor delay. Still twenty-nine days until home.
Copyright ©2026 Mike Clements, writing as M. Clements. All rights reserved.