Sherridan Morz's page

There are footprints in the ash, which is dark and broken and clotted from the rain. Thunder rolls quietly out of the distance. Somewhere perhaps a bright afternoon sun bakes the land in its summer heat, but not here at Yanmass. Instead it hides behind heavy clouds from the night before, which fill the air with the sharp smell of rain that fails to hide the stench of burnt-out logs and a ruined manor.

Men wander the ruins, searching for something. Off to one side, a woman and two young girls enter a carriage to be taken off to somewhere safe and warm. The family Chanderacen. The woman spares a glance at two men nearby and seems about to speak, before stopping herself and disappearing inside. The carriage leaves with a creak and a splash.

Sherridan, 25, holds the culprit by the neck, a smallish man with dark skin and pleading brown eyes. Mwangi, maybe. Perhaps Varisian. Certainly arsonist, jealous of the wealth of Mantlerich and of Taldor.

"Please," he says through his thick barbarous accent, fear apparent in his voice. "I tried to help! I did not start this!"

"Save your words," Sherridan answers, sparing no civility for the man but stopping short of an insult. Rope ready, he binds the man's hands, wet hempen fibers cutting into the skin. Sherridan loosens the rope when the man winces.

Some weeks later Sherridan watches him hang for his crime, arson resulting in the death of two people and the destruction of property. Widow Chanderacen cries as she watches it. Later, so does Sherridan. One of the Chanderacen girls reveals that the man had carried her out of the home and awakened the family. The fire had probably been started by lightning. Sherridan never remembers the man's name.

Sherridan is a boy, 8 years old and growing like a weed. It is warm and bright, and in one hand he holds a cold treat. How do they make cold on a hot day? It must be magic! The magic of the candy is better than the candy itself.

His other hand is held by his father, a skilled weaver who would barely live to see Sherridan's 12th birthday. People say the boy has his father's eyes, kind and blue. Exactly strange enough to be exotic without being a problem.

The two watch a guard patrol through the streets of Yanmass. The guard, a giant in chainmail armor emblazoned with the crest of Yanmass and Taldor, lets Sherridan hold his falcata and laughs when the boy says he will be a guard too some day.

"Why do you want a job like this?" the guard asks him.

"People need laws so they'll be good!" Sherridan answers.

The guard ruffles his hair. Later, Sherridan watches him drive off an elderly beggar with kicks when the old man fails to respond to shouts. His father gives a coin to the next beggar they see.

The road to Cassomir is grey with old snow, and Sherridan for a moment thinks of ash. He is a man now, 30 or 31. Life as a guard is long stretches of boredom followed by short, sharp periods of bureaucracy as a new house sweeps into control. Twice, he and his fellow guards have gone without pay for months.

He is wounded, his arm and chest bound, his falcata lost somewhere behind him. He'd carved his name into the hilt. He regrets the loss.

He's lucky to still be alive. Seven others in his detachment bound for Cassomir are gone, somewhere in the Verduran forest. The ettercaps must have been starving to be so bold.

How he survived even he doesn't know. He remembers shouting to stand to formation. He remembers one of the beasts dying. He remembers Erving Johanssen, a rare non-Taldor in the guard, throwing himself at another of the monsters as it lunged at Sherridan. He tries not to think about what happened to Erving. He tries not to think that Erving died in his place.

In a week he'll reach Cassomir, starving and half-mad from dehydration and his wounds. He is given excellent care. After he recovers he is fined for loss of equipment, and told to return to Yanmass for a fresh copy of the transfer orders lost in the battle.

"W-what do you plan to do? What will you get out there you d-don't get here?" It is the voice of Iacobos Desidrean. Quick witted. Flighty. Graceful. Beautiful in a strange way. Stutterer, but less when alone with Sherridan. Sherridan trusts him. In the guard these days, that is rare.

Sherridan says nothing. The question had not occurred to him before. Escape was the only thing on his mind.

"And they'll p-probably hunt you. Just r-r-resign and leave." The stutter shows how nervous the word makes him.

Sherridan shakes his head no. They both know the rigors of trying to leave the service. Severance penalties. Equipment inspection. "Performance review" with penalties. Someone grew fat off of those, no doubt. Since they could easily exceed all the wealth an outgoing guard had, resignation was a short road to poverty. Even talking about it could result in punishment.

Then he speaks. "Slaves. We're like slaves, Iacobos! I joined to keep the peace, to help people be good. But all we seem to do is kill good people and beat people down on their luck."

A long moment passes. Their eyes meet. "I think... people need to be free." His hand goes to his falcata. "I've learned about fighting here. Now I want to be free. Maybe I can help others be free too."

Night had settled in and late autumn chill makes wreaths of fog rise from the ocean. Sherridan, 27, watches from the railing of the Generous Wind, intrigued. He finds that he feels at home at sea. His detachment has been guarding against pirates for two months. None have menaced the merchant ship. He has been diligent about practicing shipboard combat drills even so.

Captain Agniz joins him. The two have become friends of a sort. The older Agniz is an old hand at sea, running ships all his life. In many ways Agniz reminds Sherridan of his father. He wonders if Agniz feels similarly. Several minutes of companionable silence pass.

Boisterous laughter can be heard below decks. Rigging creaks above. There is peace. "There is something special about this, isn't there?" He asks.

Agniz smiles his gap-toothed smile as he nods. "It's the life of a free man, Corporal." Agniz is unfailingly polite, even formal. Despite appearances he comes from a good family. Sherridan has declined to ask which one; Agniz has declined to offer.

"A free man," Sherridan echoes. He doesn't speak his mind further. Silence follows again for several minutes.

"We'll reach port tomorrow or the day after, I believe." Agniz observes. Sherridan is perpetually impressed by the seemingly magical abilities possessed by the ship's captain. The ability to predict storms, the wind, the tides.

Sherridan glances around the deck. Nobody is close enough to overhear the conversation. "Would you accept another s... ah, hand on your ship?" he asks.

Captain Agniz smiles again. "I could use another man who knows how to take orders," he says. "If you know any," he adds.

The ship reaches Cassomir the next day. As Sherridan's detachment departs the ship, Captain Agniz pulls him aside for a moment and shakes his hand firmly. "If you need a place, Corporal." The rest is left unsaid.

Sherridan very nearly accepts. At the last moment Iacobos's voice floats up from the base of the gangplank. "Sher- er, C-Corporal, S-S-Sergeant w-wants us!"

Sherridan shakes Agniz's hand again. "Some day, Captain."

He goes back to sea from time to time, and always finds incredible pleasure in it. He learns how ships operate, and how sailors do their jobs. He learns how to fight aboard the tossing decks of a ship. Every time he leaves, it is with terrible regret.