My son's world building

My son is working on a novel. He is "world building": creating a world with it cultures, history, political structure, etc. to assist writing the book(s). Yesterday he discovered that he can create Wikipedia Tables online so he created one for the novel's history:

The story below is a vignette within the world he has constructed. (It is also my favorite piece of writing.) It may act as background for one of his characters or may work within the overall narrative for history or geography. He sends me short passages, updates on the map, the cities, the governance, the history, as he develops those. It's a different sort of approach to writing a novel or perhaps a series of novels about this world he is constantly creating. He has some set characters he has created and has explored the relationship dynamics.

One thing he is doing weekly is playing D & D, a role playing game, with friends. As he plays characters and interacts with the other players, it helps him further understand character development, interactions, limitations, and group strategy.

The science fiction writer Robert Silverberg wrote "The World Inside" beginning as a series of shorter works originally published in science fiction magazines. He later complied the stories into a book, easily accomplished by his choice to include the same characters in the same building within the shorter works.

Because so much is flowing through Peter's mind, I have steered him towards developing the world in sections, in different creative ways outside pen to paper. To write consistently, in order, from an outline, as some writer's do is beyond his span of attention. He likes to explore the ideas that go into the culture: drawing maps, looking at economics, developing a historical timeline, character development through role playing, even painting miniatures of creatures which would appear.

His D&D gaming has also provided him another potential outlet for this literary world, a gaming module. Modules (adventures) provide D&D players with a setting and knowledge about the world they are acting within. Think Shakespeare for geeks: Denmark, a prince, his family, a conspiracy, his weapons, his weaknesses. But in D & D the players work within the parameters to act out a story and its ending is not created until game play. A D&D module could provide another outlet for income as a book might. These are sold within gaming circles online.

It's a massive undertaking.

THE FLOWING PLAIN by Peter Ash

        The “tower” was just a telescoping crow’s nest tacked on top of a steel box, barely twenty feet tall with the nest fully extended. The whole affair was as simple as the army could have made it, and without their personal additions, it would have been maddeningly barren on the inside. As it was, however, the three of them had managed to create a relatively cozy watch for themselves by trading out their monthly coffee rations to a few of the herders that dotted the grass. In exchange, surprisingly sophisticated throw rugs covered the hard wooden floor, local staples supplemented decidedly stale army rations, and they wore layered scarves and headwraps better suited to the strong winds that swayed the nest.

Back home, some might have said they’d “gone local,” but the reality of a posting in this far end of the country made that phrase meaningless very quickly. It took a special kind of person to stand the endless plains without anything to distract them. The locals knew how to live out here, and live well, and even uptight Raines, who wore his hair in the meticulous braids fashionable at the capital, accepted their amenities with some relish. They had passed three spring inspections without trouble, so it wasn’t like the army cared one way or another.

It had been a long, cool, gentle day. The wind had been kind, so the nest gently creaked down as Corporal Weirs turned the crank. Boelsi, still up top, lazily scanned the horizon one last time and closed her spyglass with a click. Raines was just pouring tea as Weirs finished up, and the three of them quietly sat down to wait. The windows were open, and a calm breeze passed through, playing with the wind chimes and rustling the pages of an open book. The buzzing drone of a chanting shepherd slowly pushed its way in from far out in the grass, calling in his flock and the end of day. Boelsi leaned back in her chair, staring as the steam rose from the cups. As Raines got up again to lock the door, she worked her toes into the rug and yawned.

Weirs rested his eyes on the yellowing calendar beside the table as the other man continued his round of the tower. Raines carefully checked every window, periodically breaking the silence with the snap of a latch. Weirs and Boelsi sighed in unison, and shared a look. The corporal nodded and said to the air,

“Summer’s ending.”

Raines came back in and checked the calendar, hand outstretched as he searched for the date. He sank a little and turned back to the table, not quite seeing them. He stood silent for a moment more, then walked forward to place his hand against the door. Staring into the reflections in the metal, he sighed as well.

“Will anyone be coming by?”

“Shouldn’t think so,” Boelsi said. “Once was enough for them. We might get some flowers sent through, maybe some letters. Nothing official.”

Weirs began his tea with a vacant stare. Raines came to sit down. Boelsi unwound her scarves. When she had finished, she draped them over the empty chair. The sun’s last rays filtered through the shutters.

The morning came damp and chill, but with a perfect blue sky that promised a beautiful day. The dew-laden grass scattered seeds onto Weirs’ legs as he stepped out. Raines was still inside, making special tea for today. The strong aroma pushed out the door and hung thick in the air, wrapping itself around him for a moment. He pulled himself free and strode off with a degree of purpose, the kind that rarely manifested in the plains.

He followed the slightly worn path from the tower, which meandered like a carelessly dropped string. Boelsi stood atop a hill sat beside the path, her long rifle planted in hand like a standard. Her goggles, the only part of her face visible beneath a swath of scarves, glinted with the just-risen sun as she turned her head to him. She gave him a wide, slow wave, calling him over, then returned to watching the vast slopes of the plain beneath her. When he finally came up to her some minutes later, she pointed to a spot some ways off, where a few specks of color crossed the yellowing grass.

“There’s a village coming our way. It looks like some of the groups we already know, but in bigger numbers.” She pointed at another spot, and then another. “And two more, at least. Something’s up.”

Weirs stretched with a yawn, then folded his arms thoughtfully.  “They won’t be angry, at least. Not today. Where are they setting up?”

“Probably just a few miles off, at that one spot where it’s really flat. If they’re here because it’s today…” She trailed off.

“Right on top of us, then. But not at first, that’s impolite.” He broke into a large, genuine smile, surprising them both. He started back down the hill. “I’ll tell Raines to prepare something more for lunch,” he called back. “I think today’s going to be alright.” By the time he reached the path, he was almost running.

Boelsi continued to watch him until he hit the tower, her expression still hidden. Finally, she turned back to the lower plains. She pushed her goggles up and brought out her spyglass to look again at one of the villages, counting various kinds of cattle, looking for clan markings, and, of course, searching for horses. She dropped the glass and blinked, then looked again. The village’s few soldiers were riding openly, with undisguised horses. Their spears pointed straight up into the sky, flying lengthy banners denoting various families and alliances. From this distance, she couldn’t tell what they said, but the various colors and patterns were definitely familiar.

She looked at the other two villages, and back to the first, where she stopped dead. The others repeated the pattern, but in the first and largest, the three lead horses didn’t have traditional local banners. They were square capital-style flags, in the national colors. Though the designs were blurred by distance, Boelsi was certain.

The powerful morning wind picked up as Weirs barreled through the door. Raines was pouring soup at the table, and nearly toppled the great serving bowl in surprise. Weirs winced., and managed a quick “Sorry!” before he hurried to the crank in the next room and started the nest up. Raines put down his ladle.

“This early? We haven’t eaten yet.”

“We’ve got company coming. I want to be ready.”

“What? Today?” There was a rush of movement and a clatter. Weirs, intent on the crank, looked over to see Raines by the shelves, holding his rifle, desperately scrabbling for the bullets he’d dropped onto the rug.

“Whoa, whoa.” The corporal put his hands out. “Not that kind. Damn.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spook you.”

Raines sagged with relief. He put down the gun and slid the box of cartridges back into its place on the shelf. With shaky legs, he pulled himself back into the front room to continue breakfast. Weirs finished putting the nest up, feeling guilty, and, at a second thought, pushed the top off a crate by the mechanism and pulled out a dense square of red cloth. He made his way up the ladder and allowed the light of morning to pour into the tower as he opened the hatch. The wind was louder up here, and all around the grass stretched. His cheeks flushed red as the cold slammed into him. Without any protection, his eyes watered, his hair flew back. The wind was unusually rough for such a promising day, and the supports creaked and swayed. As he tried to squint into the wind, he held the cloth tight in both hands against the railing.

Out to one side, he could see Boelsi, who had turned to survey the path back towards the heartland. With the wind, he couldn’t really see the villages, but he could see the flat, some ways east. It was a traditional gathering place for the locals because it was unusual to find such a large, smooth expanse in the plains without any rough ground or bad grazing. Today, the few herders who were around the tower this season were unusually close together, on the hills surrounding the space. That should’ve been enough to start a fight, but instead the herders were quietly going about their business, not even bothering to keep their flocks separate.

Weirs brought a hand down to one of the little instruments below the railing, pulling out one little-used winch with a click. It made a pleasant whir as he spun it over and over. Above him, a long pole slid upwards, finally setting into place with another click. Already, the wind was testing the steel, bending it, but it would hold. On the second try, he caught hold of the flailing cord that ran along the pole and began running it through holes in the red cloth. It was slow going, and by the time he was done and raising the flag, the tinny kitchen bell rang. He dropped down the ladder.

By the time Boelsi made it inside, propelled by the wind, Raines and Weirs had settled in to eat. The front room was pleasantly warm, and with open shutters it was bright enough to eat without any lights. Raines had put out a spread of thick, warm food, painstakingly made on their little stove. Aside from oily potato soup, there was the tea, a potent cardamom flavored with honey and the last of a strange sour butter they had paid an entire bag of coffee for. Their typical hotcakes, shaped from army grain and more standard butter rations, also sat on the table between the others, already cold. Raines had thoughtfully left a set on top of the stove, however, and Boelsi took them gratefully. She put down her plate and tore off her scarves, eager to eat something. After a pause, she set her scarves down on a crate on the floor, avoiding the empty chair.

A small green dish sat beside each of their woven placemats, with a tiny gelatin square in the middle of each, dusted with sugar. The fourth placemat, reserved for guests, held another, the topped with a small white flower, clearly flattened from long preservation in a book. None of them said anything. As breakfast neared its end, Raines fidgeted with a cloth, having finished well before the others. When they at last conceded their plates, he scooped them up and rushed the few steps between the table and the sink. When he had finished, the three of them sat down again.

The green dishes were now before them, the little pieces of gelatin sat defiantly in the center. Raines sighed.

“I figured… since it’s today.” He dropped his eyes.

“It’s a good gesture,” Weirs said. He looked at the flower. “How long did you save it?”

“Since spring. It seemed… right, somehow? I don’t know.” Raines didn’t look up.

“No,” Boelsi picked up her square. “Don’t feel bad. We’re here; we get to remember. Things like this are important.” She popped the sweet into her mouth and stood up, heading for the ladder. Weirs smiled, and reached out to pat Raines’ shoulder.

“You did good. He would’ve liked this.” He stood up, tossing his square up and catching it with his teeth. With more solemnity, he reached over and took the special plate, then headed for the door. Through his chewing, he said, “I’m going to leave this on the hill. Come with?”

They headed outside.

Four years ago, they had inherited the tower from the last guard. With spring inspection having just passed for the last crew, the four of them had a year to settle in and learn before an official came through. The set-up was pretty standard, two troopers, an “officer,” and a cook. Aside from the monthly supply drop-off, nothing especially important ever happened. Their only job was to bounce messages between the long line of outposts behind them, which stretched back to the capital, and the fort in front of them, which was the formal command center for the region.

To a bunch of nobodies on their first assignment, it was tough work, since the locals had never really bothered to acknowledge the capital, and tended to pay their taxes late or not at all. That, and the border wasn’t really that far away, only a few dozen miles off. If you believed the rumors that filtered back home, the neighboring land had grown rich from raiding, and was filled with hundreds of blood-crazy horse riders. Out here, horses meant power. In a land with no mechanization and few guns, a person on horseback could do a lot of damage, and they had strict orders to keep a close watch on any village that had even a few horses. 

The fort was called Hadi-Swigh, and only had thirty people, all trained for handling local disputes and tax collection with the village elders, so the threat of either local bandits or an invasion of barbarians preyed on the minds of all four of them in the tower. After all, they were the only line of communication between the fort and the rest of the army, putting them in charge of making sure reinforcements were coming. It took months for them to stop feeling jumpy enough to relax and trust the few locals willing to speak with them.

In those days, trade was far less fair when trying for local food and the scarves they soon realized they desperately needed. Since none of them liked the foul bags of coffee the army provided, they didn’t dislike the quick depletion of their stock, but it did mean that trying to get anything really worth getting took lots of saving up. The locals didn’t even offer rugs or wind chimes at first, so the floor remained hard and cold in winter, and the only sound on a boring summer day was the wind in the grass and the buzzing of insects.

The winter that year was bitter, far worse than what you would have found back in the capital, and they shivered in their thin army coats. The few scarves they had traded for that summer were fairly ragged and dull, but did cut some of the bitter wind, especially for Boelsi and Essen, who traded days at the top of the nest. Eventually, the nest froze in place one night, and with the winds at peak strength, they didn’t bother trying to extend it, knowing it was likely to snap or bend permanently. The herders were all gone, so there was no one to trade with, and the supply wagons were always late. They looked with envy at Hadi-Swigh, where the garrison at least had proper buildings to sleep in, and could afford to light large fires every night. A steel box was never the best place to spend a winter, and they barely managed to keep their fingers.

Spring was a true relief, as the grass turned green, the winds died down, and the herders returned, but it also brought in the imminent threat of an inspection, and Corporal Weirs drilled them hard. For three weeks straight, they fought to shake off the lethargy winter had forced them into, waking up at the crack of dawn, flying the flag even on days when the wind nearly ripped it off the pole, and washing the tower of its accumulated grime. When inspection finally came at the start of summer in the form of a stuffy, immaculately dressed officer and her retinue, they expected no end of hell. She was exactly the sort of demanding captain they had trained under, disapproving eyes, stern jaw, and all. To their surprise, she barely stayed for an hour before moving on to the fort, giving them full marks with barely a dismissive glance.

With that worry out of the way, they were set to continue the rest of the year without any considerable incident. The threat of invasion failed to materialize, the herders slowly drifted about the plains, and they never even saw a village, save once, from far off through Essen’s spyglass.

That had been a fairly normal summer day, all things considered. Essen was up in the nest for the day, leaving Boelsi and Raines to prepare meals and care for the miniscule garden left behind by the tower’s previous guard. Weirs stayed at his tiny desk, the wind infrequently messing with his attempts to review the fort’s latest messages. Everything was the same as always, but then, just before lunch, an old herder had come up to the tower and knocked gently on the door. Raines, warned ahead of time by Essen, opened it. He paused for a moment to review the script Weirs had laid out for him when interacting with the locals, then spoke.

“Hello, kind walker. You grace this domain. How may our legs be at your aid?”

The old man nodded graciously, clearly pleased at finding proper manners from capital stock. He bowed stiffly, displaying an impressively large backpack, stood up again, and placed one hand in the air, the other out to one side. So posed, he carefully lowered himself into a curtsy, wobbling from the weight of the immense pack. As he rose once more, Raines realized the man was attempting to mimic the elaborate greetings of the capital nobility. The old man continued the formalities of the script exactly.

“Your generosity is your boon, and may it unite us in the coming of the last winds. I seek hospitality and trade, steel-dwellers. May I enter?”

Thrown off by the curtsy, Raines simply made space in the doorway and said, “Of course. Please come in.” The man almost stepped forward, then froze, and meaningfully bowed his head, clasping his hands in front of him. Raines, thoroughly confused, waited awkwardly for several moments, and was just about to reach out to the man when Weirs clasped him on the shoulder, making him jump.

“You may enter with freed step. I am the master of this space, and you come with my protection.” Weirs smiled warmly, and took the old man’s hand as he sagged with relief and came inside. “You can rest your bag in this place,” Weirs pointed to the corner by the door. “It shall be yours for your time here.” As the man settled in, Weirs turned to Raines. “Take a little more care next time. We don’t need this fellow thinking we’re trying to trick him. Remember what I told you about permission and guarantees.” Red-faced, Raines closed the door and hurried back to help Boelsi at the stove.

Over the next few minutes, Weirs and the old man, who called himself Anselm, haggled over the price for a selection of copperware and several pouches of herbs. Raines set the table with precision, Boelsi tore open a fresh loaf of bread, and Essen, still up top, continued to peer out across the grass.

“Oh, Raines, grab two glasses for our guest. He should have the courtesy of trying some of our tea as well.” Weirs didn’t look away from Anselm, who was staring at him firmly. “And Boelsi, check the time as well.” She leaned around the dividing wall, looked at their dusty clock, then flipped back around and pulled the soup pot off the stove.

“The glass says it’s just time, sir. Should I bring Essen down?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

As the crank turned and the nest settled down, Anselm opened his hands and smiled.

“Alright, master, you’ve got me. Two bags and one case, fair, and as fair as can be made. I hope that tea’s worth the drop you’re asking.”

“I assure you, walker, it is. Essen, anything new while you were up there?”

Essen, his boots slamming heavily on the floor as he dropped down the ladder, turned to the others settling down at the table with a grin. In his characteristically cheerful voice, he chattered enthusiastically.

“Well, there was this big flock of birds coming overhead, migrating I think. A few more messages out of the fort, too, nothing special. A couple herders, this guy of course, and I saw a village through my glass.”

Boelsi looked over. “Really? A village? How far off?”

“Oh, about 30, 40, maybe. Real big one, too. I saw maybe a couple dozen tents, cows, dogs, other stuff.”

Anselm straightened up. “That is the Ohthere clan, of which I am the far-walker. We are a great and generous people, and so gave you this courtesy.” He gestured to himself with solemnity.

Weirs leaned back and assumed a very neutral expression. “I have heard that Ohthere has twenty horses. Some would say that is very unusual.” Anselm raised his glass to his mouth, with not-quite-a-smile peeking out on either side of the narrow rim.

“Some say what they will say.”

They set to eating with little else to say, since business was done and nothing especially important had happened that day. However, once the meal was done and the old man was leaving, Essen stopped Anselm just outside the door. Quietly, so the others clearing up inside wouldn’t hear, he leaned down by the local’s ear.

“Hey, old-timer, I wanted to ask if you had something special?”

Anselm turned to look up at Essen’s earnest face.

“What could you require, tower-seer? You already observe far more than most others in this land. Surely you have what you need between the view and your caravans from the midlands.”

Essen nodded slowly, but then frowned. He placed a hand on each of Anselm’s shoulders and looked him dead in the eyes. Then, in the most serious tone he could manage, he said:

“Yeah, but there’s no flowers around here. Anywhere. Back home, there’s flowers everywhere. This place is nice, yeah. But I need something else to look at. Is there anything you can do for me?”

Anselm was so taken aback he almost laughed. With a bemused smile, he shrugged the vast pack off his shoulders and pulled it open. Rummaging around for a moment, he found what he wanted, and paused.

“Alright, then. I’m not sure I understand your need, but I have some seeds that might help you. But I would like a fair trade. I already have your master’s coffee, so instead, information. Indulge my curiosity in your people and your strange ways.”

Essen hesitated. This wasn’t exactly his sort of specialty. He looked back at the closed door, thought better of it, and nodded quickly. Anselm grinned.

“Excellent! Just one question. Why do city people use the same words to describe completely different things?”

“What?” Essen was utterly confused, as he’d feared.

“Well…” Anselm rubbed his chin. “That is… In my village, let us say, when we want to say ‘clock,’ we say ‘clock.’ When we say ‘cup’ or ‘spyglass,’ we call them by that name. You just call all of them ‘glass.’ Why? It’s so… alien.”

Essen smiled. It was one of those broad, simple smiles that happen when someone is really too straightforward to be filled with anything but one emotion at a time. He shook his head, as if the old man were a small child.

“That’s easy! They’re all made of glass. Back in the city, we don’t always call things what they are, we call them what they look. Out here, we talk like that since it makes us feel like we’re at home.” He paused, then beamed like he’d had a brilliant idea. “It’s like those flowers, right? Same thing. I want to feel like I’m home.”

Anselm nodded, looking thoughtful. He grinned. “Well! I thank you, tower-seer. That was… insightful.” He handed Essen a fat cloth bag brimming with meadow seeds. “Plant these by the end of next month. By spring, something should have grown.”

He shouldered his bag once more and began to plod off. As he headed down the path, he called back, shouting above the wind.

“I don’t know what you see in flowers, but I got that bag from closer to the midlands. If it can be so, I truly hope it’s what you desire. May your legs bid you to the last winds, and your charity carry you on the path.”

And so, summer passed, autumn came and went, and winter returned for its brutal assault upon the tower. Boelsi took the greater share of the shifts on top of the tower after Anselm’s visit, since Essen was devoting an unusual amount of attention to making sure his newly planted seeds stayed safe. No longer so worried about impending doom or rigorous inspection, Weirs let it slide, and Raines and Boelsi pitched in their small experience with the garden to help. After all, it would be a nice change of scenery.

Because of this, spring of their third year of deployment came with a tension born not of fear, but excitement. Each week, they eagerly opened the shutters with the rising sun, hoping to see some new wash of color over the plains. Instead, they were met with the same rushing green as in years past. Vibrant, yes and certainly better than winter, but not quite the panoply they had been hoping for. When inspection came, under the nose of the same officer as before, they had checked over and over, confirming that, yes, the flowers had grown, sending up green shoots unlike most of the other vegetation. But they refused to bloom.

One dawn, as spring had nearly ended, Essen sat in the nest, unenthusiastically staring out at the horizon. The others were inside, shutters closed because it was unusually windy even for a day in the plains. Dropping his spyglass with a sigh, he leaned heavily over the rail, and suddenly got a good look at the grass around the tower. He immediately shot bolt upright, slammed open the hatch, and shouted down.

“Outside, now! They’re blooming!”

The door slammed open.

It really was a taste of home. They weren’t exactly up-to-date on what kinds of flowers they were, but each of them recognized at least one from their time in the capital. There were dozens of them, scattered across the grass in a half-mile circle around the tower, in varying shades of red, yellow, pink, and blue. They came in all shapes and sizes, though most were quite small meadow flowers. The most striking of them was Essen’s favorite, a delicate white flower with overlapping petals that grew in solitude from the others. As it turned out, he knew it from his childhood; flowers just like it had sat in clay pots in his mother’s garden.

So, everything had gone perfectly. The flowers grew, the grass flowed, the locals did… whatever they did, and the four of them continued their watch. Then, the wind changed.

As spring died, and summer came on, the air turned. It wasn’t something physical, not something you could smell or hear, but something was different. Early on, they started getting unusual messages out of Hadi-Swigh. Across the border, strange horse riders were gathering. They rode up right to the edge one by one, gathering in little knots. Once they were there, they just… stopped, staring inwards. They wore unfamiliar clothing, layered in foreign styles, dyed in deep purples and blacks, unlike anything the locals wore. Some of them even had rifles.

Orders from both Hadi-Swigh and the capital became increasingly strict and demanding. By the time mid-summer came around, they were forbidden from bringing the nest down for the night. They slept in short bursts, whenever they could, and either Boelsi or Essen sat in the nest, eyes darting between the base and the outpost behind them. Both of them were growing more and more exhausted as the days went on, but Essen had it the worst. With the flowers gone for the season, his perpetual cheer had dampened dramatically. He took the night shifts at his own insistence, and took note of the slightest movement.

The locals were acting strangely as well. Several large villages came through the lands surrounding the tower rapidly, traveling with their horses openly on guard. They should have been skirmishing with each other, sending envoys, seeking trade, like in normal times. Instead, they passed without a word, riding hard, faces pale, heading to the midlands, far from the border. Orders came in from the capital to let them through with no trouble; the four of them didn’t need telling.

For days at a time, none of them left the tower. Weirs and Raines began to keep their rifles in hand, even at night. Boelsi had to force Essen to sleep, and she took a week’s watches with almost no rest. Messages from Hadi-Swigh became increasingly disturbing. Vast swarms of horses and their riders gathered across the border, just at the edge of their vision. And every day, they rode up, one by one, staring.

Summer reached its end. The winds grew, as they did every year, strengthening each day until the nest swayed constantly, creaking and groaning, threatening to snap. More than ever, the endless background sounds of the wind and the tower grated on their psyches. Worn down by constant waiting, constant fear, constant messages, and the constant, ever-present, ever-growing, unending wind, they became increasingly twitchy. Every day, the tension in the air grew.

On a black night, the wind died. Just… stopped. The grass was still. The insects were silent. Across the plains, nothing moved. The stars were hidden by a dense blanket of clouds that sat, unmoving. The only things Essen could see, looking out in every direction, were the lights of Hadi-Swigh and the line of towers heading into the country. Inside the tower, the others were gathered around the table, staring at the bare wood, rifles in hand. Raines held his tightly against his chest. He rocked back and forth, ever so gently. Weirs’ eyes were closed. He almost looked asleep. Boelsi was polishing her goggles over and over, over and over, over and over.

Essen narrowed his eyes, staring at the distant light of Hadi-Swigh. He pulled out his glass and put it to one eye. He lowered it. Raised it. Lowered it. When he looked again, he still saw the figure, far off, coming towards the tower. It was a man riding a horse, tearing across the plain. Essen could just barely make him out. He was clinging to the top of the horse, head down, riding blind. Then Essen realized why he could see him in the darkness. Hadi-Swigh was on fire.

In a rush, stumbling over himself, he reached the alarm bell and rang it frantically. As the others below slammed the shutters and called up to him, he grabbed his spyglass and stared. The man was still coming, but a vast array of dark figures was silhouetted against the colossal fire consuming every building on the base. The mass of shapes suddenly poured out after the rider. Faintly, as if through a thick layer of cotton, Essen heard gunshots. The horse stumbled. The horde rushed forward, and the lone figure was swallowed.

Suddenly, a hand clasped him on the shoulder. He jerked back, only to find Boelsi up in the nest with him.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

He pointed. The fire was large enough to be seen with the naked eye. Boelsi stared in horror, then leaned over the side of the tower to throw up. With a weak voice, she turned back to him.

“I… I’ll tell the corporal. You… send a message back. We need help.”

Just as she’d clambered down the ladder, the door to the tower shuddered under a furious pounding. Everyone froze, staring at each other. The pounding continued. Weirs and Raines rushed into the next room and took cover against the wall, aiming at the door.

“Boelsi, douse the lights,” Weirs whispered. As she ran from lamp to lamp, he started to call out, but was interrupted by a voice from the other side of the door.

“Please, let us in! They’re crazy! We’ll be killed if we stay out here!”

Weirs tightened the grip on his rifle. “Okay, then,” he called out, “who are you?”

There was another loud thud against the door. “Please! We’re from clan Weinar. We’re safe, I swear!”

Boelsi, standing by the door, put her hand on the latch and looked at Weirs. Slowly, eyes wide, he nodded. She drew it back and slammed open the door, then darted into the corner to take aim at the open frame. From the outside, a small crowd of locals rushed forward, then froze in terror.

“Please, don’t shoot!” A tall, gangly man threw his hands up, forcing his way to the front of the group. They were just herders. Weirs lowered his rifle and stood up. He waved at Boelsi.

“Inside, now,” she snapped. Fearfully, the locals pushed inside, filling every available space. As they crammed together, Boelsi closed and locked the door behind them, just as the sound of hoofbeats came from the darkness. Instantly the locals crouched down on the floor and covered their heads. The tall man, still standing, put a finger to his lips, staring at Weirs and Raines. Slowly, watching every step, he tiptoed over to them. When he was right beside the corporal, he put his mouth up against his ear.

“We have to be very quiet,” he whispered. “If we’re very, very lucky, they don’t know we’re here. If not, at least I should say thank you, master.”

Weirs looked at the man. “Are you serious? That’s what’s you start with? What’s going on? Why are yo—” The man slammed a hand over Weirs’ mouth.

“Shh!” They glared at each other. The man sighed. Putting his mouth back against Weirs’ ear, he whispered, “Trust me. These people are from the land beyond. There is no wind in that place. They’ve already burned your kinsfolk’s home. If we work together, we can live.”

Weirs looked over at Boelsi. “The base?” he mouthed. She shook her head. Suddenly, the sound of horses surrounded the tower. Muffled voices made their way through the closed shutters, speaking in a language none of them understood. The locals tensed, hugging each other. Some of them were crying, as silently as possible. Most of them just stared blankly. Two of them, in the back room, pulled rifles off the rack and began to try to load them. Stifling a curse, Weirs rushed over to stop them. Raines grabbed his arm.

“Sir,” he whispered, “we need them. Let’s just show them how to do it. We’ve got to get out of this alive somehow.”

Before he could answer, Weirs was interrupted by Essen’s voice, floating down from the nest.

“Sir? I got a message out, but I think they saw the light. What should I do?”

Weir flinched at the sound, cursing himself. He sighed, and darted over to the ladder. “Just stay up there for now.,” He hissed. “They could start shooting any minute, so we’ll need you up there.”

There was another bang at the door. A man with a deep, harsh voice barked something in that same unknown language. When there was no reply, he began to shout. For what seemed like an eternity, he spoke, going on and on in what sounded like some kind of rehearsed speech. Every so often, he paused, and hundreds of voices would cry out some response. Weirs turned to the tall man.

“What’s he saying? Are we alright?”

The man shook his head. “I have no idea. But this isn’t good. Our only chance was if they left us alone.”

Before Weirs could reply, everyone inside the tower was deafened by the roar of a hundred rifles firing at once. The locals shrieked. The sides of the tower dented inwards in a dozen places. The shutters on two windows bent and twisted, revealing roiling red clouds, reflecting fire from the plains below. They could hear the shouts of the horde outside, the stamp of horses as they began to circle the tower. More bullets slammed into the tower.

“Heads down! Boelsi, you take that window! Raines, take that one! You two, over there!”

For Essen up top, the situation was very different. The others could hear and feel what was going on, sure, but he could really see. And what he saw was an unending tide of horses and their riders, blurred together by motion and the darkness into a rippling current. They bore no flags or standards, just blazing torches instead. All in all, it made for an interesting picture of hell on earth.

Down below, he could hear the sound of the others inside firing back. He made his own share, trying to keep them off the tower. He never was that good of a shot, but they were so tightly packed together it didn’t really matter. And they didn’t feel real somehow. In the darkness, he couldn’t tell them apart. Nothing they said made any sense. It was like shooting things, not people. Essen realized he should be scared. He just felt hollow and empty, surrounded by the still air and the stamping horses and the shouting and the banging and the fire and the smell and the wind and— The wind whipped around him, causing his hair to flail as he stood up with shock. There was a sudden sharp pain.

He fell down, slamming onto the steel floor. Someone had pulled him down. No, pushed him. Or… Funny. The clouds were gone and the stars were so bright.

Dawn came to an exhausted tower. They had been up all night, expecting the riders to return. Of the twenty-odd people who had joined them during the night, four were dead. A few more were hurt, but nothing too serious. Somehow, they had held out for six hours, before the raiders had turned away and headed towards the midlands. Weirs and the other two had collapsed at first light, unable to stay awake any longer. Many of the locals had followed suit. Eventually, around noon, Boelsi woke up. She realized that she could hear the wind, playing gently with the twisted metal.

Gently, she shook Weirs and Raines awake. As they got their bearings again, the tall, gangly man came over to them.

“I think we should be safe now. They rarely go for the same place twice.” He looked up. “Master, we should check on the tower-seer. My people still have their legs, but he has not come down on his.”

Boelsi went up the ladder, but had to use her back to force the hatch open because it wouldn’t budge. When she poked her head into the nest, she realized that Essen had been laying on top of it. She climbed all the way out and turned him over. His broad face was dirt-streaked. His jacket was torn. It was also stained with blood. Without a sound, she stood up, placing her hands on the rail. All around the tower, the grass was crushed and stained. There were no bodies, but… She leaned down, and grabbed Essen’s spyglass. She looked back into the country, past the long line of outposts, each one as bedraggled as their own. Far, far in the distance, two armies clashed.

When all was said and done, the “war” wasn’t really a war. It’s hard to call something a war when there’s no one to negotiate a treaty with, or even a country to send prisoners home to. Instead, the national army had come in and, with the help of local militias, sent the raiders packing. They went back where they came from, the locals went back home, and the brass got to feel like they’d done some good. It was a quick, neat story, barely lasting a few weeks. Good for the papers back home. Lots of heroes, plenty of pictures, not much blood. Not too much, anyway.

Hadi-Swigh was permanently closed. They put a monument there, held a few speeches. The three of them had been invited, along with the locals and the tall man, whose name was Heri. They even got medals. Essen was sent back home and buried like a hero. In the flowing plains, the winds blew freely again, winter came and went, and spring returned.

The flowers bloomed again. They cried, because that was what you did, and they kept the garden, because that was what you did. They cleaned and talked and looked at the sunset, they cooked meals, they spoke with the locals, traded more things. Because that was what you did.

The locals were… friendlier, especially clan Weinar, though they weren’t around often; it had really been a fluke that Heri and the others had been there at all. In early spring they got brand new scarves and rugs, many of them gifts or trade from locals who just wanted to thank someone. Early summer, Anselm had come by again, bringing with him things that would never have been traded to outsiders normally. So life was.

Weirs lead the way. The sun was well into the sky now, and the grass shone golden in the light. As they crested the hill, the wind picked up, bringing with it an autumn chill. He placed the little dish down on the hill, and sat beside it. Raines did the same. In the nest, Boelsi popped open her spyglass. Looking out, she could see that the villages had almost arrived. The flower twitched, once, twice, caught in the wind, and was carried off, following the path back home.