Plateau - Chapter I

 I.

In abandoned ruins of a once proud city, echoed stomping of boots hitting pavement could be heard in the empty streets . Gently the sound snapped off abandoned apartment buildings, passing through government offices and clanging against the metal of rusted cars. Two young men ran along the devastation, surrounded by tragedy of a time before them. They crossed a jungle of cracking cement and steel, dark windows scattered across the landscape now absent of the families that had long ago kept warm with light. The pair knew little of small normalities we keep as a civilization; human lives became much simpler after the Wipeout. They hopped along a rebar obstacle course protruding from a high-rise apartment building, pathways given to them by time and practice. Any off step, wary of tripping, was an untimely doom calling from the ground below. Concrete blocks of ancient perseverance stacked together in heaps of imbalance; crumbling below every step was an corroded chunk. Mother nature crept over the whole city to reclaim the land that was once free from urbanism. Overgrown playgrounds, businesses blown into ashes, the once thriving town center of a quiet city kneeled in humble silence to the natural way of growth.

In a time of strife and environmental collapse, these two gymnasts were born into a wicked world. The unknown had been accosted by mankind, who prodded it with flames. We were at each other's throats, threatening extinction, fighting over who was more powerful or who could influence their spheres. In 2050, that was the truth of perspective. Strip the planet of everything it offers, and its wealth will be returned in ruin. The planet could not recover from a nuclear holocaust, especially after years of climate disaster. The whole world went dark and those who survived did their best to recover from the strife, as humans do.

The humble leader was Platos Zeidal, a 25-year-old of quick wit. His thick brown hair inherently stood up in surprise like a lightning bolt had struck him from above. He did not consider himself any more than ordinary and average in every way, a personal reflection that did no justice to his character. What he may have lacked in confidence was gained in his utmost logical attitude, an utmost pragmatist. Platos spent much of his time with the other jogger; Ivor Steel, a blacksmith’s son of 23. His pomped curly forest of hair bobbed atop his head with every step. They wasted the dullness of boredom away practicing agility among the city ruins for as long as they could remember.

It was once a forbidden practice to travel outside settlements, but years of catching lawbreaking recidivists led to the clan’s leniency with outside travel provided a detachment went with your company.

Platos and Ivor, dodging steel beams and fallen walls, traversed the ruins of what was once the local civilization via an internal map learned in their habit of discovery. 

The two friends tumbled through debris, leaping across wide gaps from the remains of one toppled building to the next. They raced up a flight of hollow stairs to the top of the apartment complex, a massive monument to the living conditions that were once filled. A missing section of steps stood before them on top, halting their tracks. Platos took a calculated step backward before making a steady leap and landing on the platform above. He turned with his hands on his hips, a smirk of satisfaction spread across his face.

“You do your legs little justice, good sir!” Platos mocked, “Can you still make this bound without trouble?”

Ivor took a heavy breath, working harder from behind the pack after tripping over gravel that tumbled from Platos’s heels. 

“If only you were as agile as your tongue!” Ivor chimed. 

With a grunt of exertion, he dove across the space which separated them, catching the edge with a toe and sliding across the platform. A flick of his right heel caught Platos by surprise, sending him tumbling across the floor at Ivor’s feet.

They shared a soft chuckle as Ivor helped him up, forearms clasped in support. As they turned onto the familiar perch above the valley that contained their home, Ivor admired again the shelves of knick-knacks crowding in the hallway to the roof's open door. Glass soda bottles, various coins of different shades and dates, pool balls, alarm clocks. All things that were once useful, but now memories that sat dusted along the forgotten spaces. They collected treasures for trade or collection on their travels outside the walls of the city.

A red glow of hazy sun washed over the peaceful rooftop from the west, melting away the calamity of the ground below. Above the treetops and monuments of a past civilization, it was calm. Flourishing families of birds, lush foliage and a clear sky surrounded the hideout of solitude. It was there they could be far away from troublesome matters; there they could ponder the great mysteries. 

They approached the edge and peered into the horizon, a lone stack of smoke gently whispered into the sky, their eyes trailing down barely catching the jagged brick chimney it poured from. There stood a longhouse built many generations ago, just after the collapse. It was there that families of their community gathered, festivities were celebrated, wars were strategized, weddings toasted, and funerals memorialized. A safe home that called them, yet always pushed them away to their own space above it.

Relics of antiquity stood quietly on the roof for the young men in need of a deserved break. Quaint lawn chairs stained from years of wear sat patiently for their purposes to be fulfilled. A lone beach umbrella spattered in abrasion and holes wavered over them, shading their elevated place of peace. It was a scene of apocalyptic tranquility. Platos popped his hand inside a chest that sat between the chairs and tossed a resealed bottle to Ivor. They had collected these bottles and their respective caps for much of their lives, refilling them with “spice water” from the alcohol still quietly bubbling nearby. As they drank, they unknowingly reenacted the lives their ancestors once lived, now forgotten to time.

“This sight never gets old my dear friend,” Ivor said through a grin and a quick clink of bottles, “To lives once lived and living life now!”

The glasses toasting echoed through the open air as they plopped into the chairs and drank their spice-water. The finest spirit brewed in all Mainland, and as the brewers themselves, it was for a great price. With the still checked, and the duties of the day complete, the humble brew-masters sat and watched, making their worries wash away with their soberness. 

Platos pondered to himself, a man of few words and many thoughts, what else could life be? What is beyond the lives they know? There were times when people were paid with paper to do work for someone who owned them, and that paper ruled everything they held value for. He could not imagine a life inside this prison he sat on top of, slaving for a paper to stay inside a room and pay for convenience. Who would choose that over freedom in the wild?

Perhaps, he thought, that is exactly why there was a collapse, people so unhappy in every aspect of their contained lives that the unrest boiled over the pot of peacefulness. He let out a gentle sigh and swallowed the thoughts with the last gulp of liquor left in his bottle. 

Ivor snapped the cap back onto his engraved glass bottle and set it along the row used for their sellable liquor. He made a quick inspection of the still and peered longingly into the dark horizon where the sun was sinking. The night was something he feared, horrors crept out from the abyss when there was no light to keep them away. Bandits and malcontents roamed the countryside when the sun left to check on the other side of the globe. He wrapped the new batch of bottles filled with murky spice-water in a soft wool cloth and packed it into his satchel. 

Platos noticed the preparation and groaned in anticipation of the journey back to their village. He packed the remaining bottles into his satchel and grabbed the necessary tools for a venture into the night in their uncertain world; torches soaked in spice water for a light, old rusted knives for each of them, and two pieces of sturdy metal (bent and twisted into half rounds with handles). Weapons were made and checked at their settlement, Valdburgh, and they had little hope of stealing them for the night, so they resorted to old weapons they found in history.

A pole hung from the ceiling above the missing section of stairs they came from, angling from the roof down into the stairwell. These were the remains of a sprinkler system that drooped sadly, its original use no longer relevant. It was, however, very useful to the men traveling with breakable merchandise that could no longer travel with careless agility. Platos wrapped his bent metal tool over the pipe and flung his weight forward, sparks flying from the pipe as he slid over the section with growing speed. A *CLANG* rang out as he reached the end of the pipe and dropped solidly onto the level ground. Ivor followed suit and they slipped the tools back into their packs, making their way down the crumbling building and onto the street. 

As the last drips of sunlight faded away, the pair sparked their torches and made their way across the empty cracked street of the city and onto a thickly covered trail outside the limits. The crackling of torches and the swift breeze blowing through the trees were all that could be heard in the dense pocket of nature. It was important to stay as silent as possible; they never knew what crept around every twist, what stalked from afar or followed their scent. Each step was careful and light. If attention were drawn, surely the torches would be seen, but sounds were what drew the horrors. They walked in silence down the well-known trail leading from the ancient ruins back to their home.

“We have nearly arrived, only a short distance now,” Platos guided, “An uneventful night is a blissful one.”

“Perhaps we should have given notice to the guards stationed at the wall?” Ivor replied with a slight uneasiness in his voice.

“We both know the steep fee Captain Greyol charges for curfewed travels. Let us get to the short path through the village wall before – “ Platos was interrupted by a single crack of wood into the dark distance ahead of them, stopping them both in their tracks to scan the black underbrush. They slowly pulled dulled knives from the makeshift sheaths on their belts, keeping them close to their bodies for a quick reaction. A long stillness followed, only the light crackle of flames filling the void. 

Just when all seemed calm, the brush all around them moved in a flurry of aggravated motion. A swarm of men burst forth with swords and shields, forming a circle around the pair in silent intimidation, a select few carrying scrap metal rifles as a sign of seniority. They dressed in rugged makeshift wool clothing, splattered with dark dyes to camouflage against the forested surroundings, hoods over their heads, and cloth covering their faces. They carried no light, eyes trained to adapt to the night. Light armor hung from their forearms and chest, tightly wrapped to make no sound. They completely blocked Platos and Ivors' path in any direction and stood ready in fortitude. The two young men sheathed their knives and stood at attention; recognizing the symbols painted onto the front of the blood-red shields. A black scorpion jutted forward, a yellow snake wrapped in its claws, the scorpion’s stinger piercing across the serpent’s body. A gruesome, but necessary, display of clan Zeidal, the clan that the two young men belonged to themselves.

A tall and familiar figure stepped out from the ranks; a red band wrapped on his right arm to signify the rank of Captain among the clan’s army. Without removing his mask, both boys knew who this was, and internally groaned in defeat. 

Platos began speaking first in a sarcastic tone.

“Ah, Captain Greyol, whom we owe the pleasure of thankfulness in running into you during this fine evening?”

Greyol removed his face covering revealing a devilish smile, a ragged scar glistening from cheek to cheek, telling the stories of his many dealings with the outside world. A tattered short beard sprinkled with grey protected his weathered face from the elements. 

“My dear Prince Platos, a lovely chance encounter tonight. I would ask your reasoning behind such a late stroll through the woods; however, I’d like to skip the formality and take my cut for curfew protection that you must have very foolishly forgotten.”

“Strange,” replied Platos, “I was under the impression curfew protection entailed willing guardsmen traveling with me and my associate, not stopping us as we were on our way home. But all is fair.” He reached into his bag and pulled out 6 bottles of spice-water, grudgingly handing them over to the captain. “I believe that should cover the costs for you and your men so bravely protecting us this fine night.”

Greyol passed the bottles to some men behind him and stood waiting with his hand out toward Platos.

“Very kind of you good sir, but alas, this is only 6 bottles and I believe ALL my men would be grateful for a cool drink to soothe the fears of the night.”

Platos passed 4 more bottles to the Captain for the rest of his men.

“I hope you all enjoy this batch, a sneak peek at our batch for sale tomorrow at the market if you would like to properly buy in the free market. Now that we have paid our fees, may we pass?”

Greyol pushed the covering back over his face and made a quick hand signal to his men. They quickly grouped around the two boys in a rectangle and began marching forward along the trail. 

“Now what kind of protection would be seen without their wards going into town?” Greyol laughed as the group shuffled along the forest floor.

In a few moments, the transport breached the top of a small hill and entered a large clearing buried deep within the wall of trees. In the middle of the clearing stood a stone fortress, resembling the medieval era castles of old across the sea, tall towers stood proudly with guardsmen atop, wooden spikes surrounding the perimeter, and a large reinforced double-doored gate ominously staring back at them. Stumps from fallen trees stuck up from the ground reminding them of the beginnings they had at a once humble quiet spot in the woods. The gates slowly opened with a long creek as the convoy marched through. As quickly as they opened, they shut behind them with a boom. As if they were of one mind, the group of guardsmen scattered to the barracks in unison after a motion from their captain.

Captain Greyol stood waiting with the boys outside a columned building inside the gate, his rifle slung across his back and hand resting on the hilt of his engraved glossy sword. A gruff looking man, in similar clothing to Greyol, with a yellow and red striped armband stepped out of the building, followed by ornately dressed men brandishing rifles. He was a broad-shouldered man radiating power, his status of Commander was widely known and demanded respect in all aspects of the flourishing town. 

“Commander Kalfo, I just finished a patrol and escort of the sweet Chief to be, Platos, and his ever-faithful dog, Mr. Rill,” Greyol stated with a swift pound of his forearm across his chest, a form of respect in the Zeidal army. 

Kalfo walked down the steps from the barracks, each step punishing the wood that held him. The clinking of equipment was his only reply to Greyol. 

Greyol shuffled uncomfortably, “I was expecting Chief Zeidal, seems his only son is still brewing potions of spice water in his wizards' pot.”

“Captain, your services are no longer needed. Attend to your men and get a good night’s rest. The training tomorrow morning will need your undivided and explicit attention.” Kalfo snapped and with a swift gesture ushered his bodyguards into the building.

The Captain gave another triumphant chest pound and briskly moved past the Commander following the men into the barracks, leaving the three of them in relative peace. Kalfo walked through the two boys signaling to follow him.

They set off down the open space of the village entrance, a wooden platform stood in its center with stockades and a hangman’s pole. Bordering the center were market stalls that stood empty, waiting for their respective owners to fill them with goods ready for trade and sale in the coming morning. Past the village entrance were rows of streets, all starting at different points by the humble homes but leading to the same center. The straight paths of cobblestone roads lead down into the inner circle center, waiting inside was the longhouse with billowing smoke and the other important economy buildings, as well as the Chief’s home. All are protected by the inner stone wall heavily guarded and lit. This was the beacon of their home, Valdburgh.

“Ivor, you may go. Tell your father I will be visiting him tomorrow. Stay out of trouble.”

Ivor gave Platos a pat on the shoulder and ran off into the rows of houses and shops toward his home, his father was the best blacksmith in town and forged some of the village’s most sought-after equipment.

Platos grudgingly followed Kalfo into the village keep and into the Chief’s war room, where his father spent much of his time managing the complicated lives they led. His father, Siegfried, sat at the dimly lit desk with a pair of spectacles, a modest man that stood at the same stature as his Commander, but with one milky left eye with a deep gash across. He looked up from his sturdy desk with a half glance toward the approaching pair.

“What a sight this is, yet not surprising.” 

He commented halfheartedly with an upward glance before going back to his work.

“My loving son and loyal Commander bothering me in the wee hours of the night as I’m finishing trade delegations with a disdainful brother to the north. Let me guess,” 

He set the spectacles to the side, leaned deeply back into his chair, and crossed his hands over his chest.

“Transporting brew in the night without proper approval and no necessary escort?” 

Platos scoffed childishly, “We do not require escorts Father, this I have proven many times. Greyol charges a steep fee for services hardly rendered. Just this night he charged me 10 bottles for merely finding us outside the gate!”

The Chief held his hand up to instill silence and spoke softly, but with much authority. 

“We have rules for a reason Platos, and you are no exception to these rules. Kalfo commands his men accordingly and has done you a favor by letting you keep your liquid riches in full. Even more uncertain than the horrors that lurk in deep caves to hunt at night are the relations between your uncle and me. I do not know what he is capable of these days. Next time you are caught outside the wall without the proper approvals, I will be instructing a personal guard to watch you consistently. Now leave, you have a busy day tomorrow at the market and training begins shortly after. Commander, make sure he gets there with no mishap.” 

With a wave of his hand and his spectacles put back on, Siegfried went back to his work and shooed them away from his business. 

Platos grimaced at his father’s words, turning sharply past Kalfo and roughly exiting the study.

Kalfo followed the chieftain’s son out to the inner courtyard that was bordered by the important buildings of administration. Their home stood across from a longhouse, only a stone's throw. As Platos stormed into the house, muttering to himself about lost merchandise and a brash father, Kalfo put a hand on his shoulder that stopped him before he entered completely. 

“Your Father is the most honorable leader our clan has had the privilege to know. I have much hope for your future young Platos but heed any words of wisdom he speaks. It may do you good one day.”

With that, he put his hands behind his back and turned to relish sleep in his own home. Platos let out a long sigh when he closed the front door in defeat and walked up the creaky stairs to his room. With an exhausted plop onto a meek straw bed, he let his half-empty pack slide off his shoulder onto the floor. 

Before he knew it, the call of sweet slumber beckoned him in; and he closed his eyes to explore the recesses of the inner void.