Shaun Duke

(Note:  This is not official version and may be removed in the near future.  This do not reflect what is read in the podcast version, nor any other version you may encounter.  I have preserved the rough form for posterity — or something like that.  This novel has since been rewritten.) The lead archer called himself Iliad. He was a tall man, brown hair, brown eyes, and a wide, white, toothy smile that stretched from cheek to cheek. His bow was strung over his shoulder—a light cerise color and carved with gently wavy lines—and he gladly welcomed James, Pea, and Darl to the far shore of the Nor’duíl River. James learned quickly that Iliad and his men were scouts, in one sense of the word. They were more or less given orders to intentionally cause trouble, at least according to Iliad. James thought it strange that such an order would be given, but he accepted it. Who am I to question a Lord, he thought. It occurred to him that perhaps Iliad was simply told to cause distraction. The location of the Summering Rocks, as he understood it, was the only place for miles that was safe for any man to cross. One could ride north of the Drain and cross there, but that ran into the problem of figuring out how to cross the Drain itself—a rushing and utterly dangerous river that acted as a run off for the overflowing reaches of the Nor’kal River. James followed Iliad away and into an open field that stretched flat and open for miles, Pea and Darl close behind. Even bushes were scarce here, and only in the far off distance could he see anything tall enough to be a tree. Browned and dwindling grasses made up the field, a sign of a warm summer to come. He had seen pictures of the valley in California, a place where spring made the landscape look like a beautiful recreation of the green, luscious hills of Scotland. Things looked beautiful there—emerald green everywhere, flowers blooming brilliantly like little beacons of beauty rising from the earth. Then summer hit, and everything seemed to die. The heat was too strong for the grasses that once made the hills green. The fields turned golden brown and unwelcoming, though many found them beautifully. James, however, did not. Only the trees stayed green, and barely at all for they looked duller than they once had. Here, across the Nor’duíl River, it looked like much the same had happened. The wide field looked like a treeless California meeting with a treeless Africa, uniting under one visual banner. Burs, stickers, and foxtails clung to the Blaersteeds’ fur. Big clumps covered their legs, and not only the steeds, but the archers as well, as if they were little parasitic passengers hoping to catch a ride to the next town. Nor’sigal sat some ways away in the center of the field. It was a tall place, not in the same sense that Arlin City was tall, but in the way it presented itself. In the center was the keep—a structure that rose up above everything else. The square walls of the city were the lowest structures visible, as buildings within slowly climbed in altitude making the keep seem like the tip of a giant wood and stone pyramid. And then there was nothing else. No city outside of the walls, nothing. Nor’sigal looked like a diamond in the rough. James couldn’t see any farmland nearby. Where do they get their food? He wondered how a city like Nor’sigal—a relatively large city that could house a few thousand people easily—could survive without any farmland nearby. He decided to consult the etiquette book. He regretted not having used it in a while and imagined if the book were alive it would dislike him for his lack of attention. In bold, shiny gold letters, gleaming like a warning, was a message that said: “I regret to inform all of you who have so dutifully supported my work on this particular book, that this will be my last update. It has come to my attention that civilization is falling. It is perhaps a possibility that the future will hold peace once again and I may resume my most respectful of duties. Until such times I will be in hiding, for I cannot risk being taken by the ruthless madman that runs through our world. So, in my final words I greet you with a plethora of new material, the last material. Much is incomplete, horribly incomplete I might add, but it will all serve a greater purpose. I know this, and believe this. Thank you all and may you all be safe in these dark times.” Then in bold was the date and a wavy lined signature from Azimus Barthalamule. James couldn’t believe it. He stared at the paragraph, the last words of the man who had created How Not to Be Barbarian, Fifteenth Edition. He couldn’t believe that the world was changing this much. Even the smallest things were going away. He wondered how many others were going into hiding now. Was Azimus the only one? Would there be many others? Yet Azimus had to go into hiding. He knew that much. Azimus knew far too much to end up dead some place. If civilization really was crumbling, then Azimus might have the knowledge to bring it back. For a while he sat on Mirdur’eth’s back with his eyes fixed on the opening page of the etiquette book. He gently shook his head, incredulity taking him. Then, slowly he reached out and turned the page to the table of contents. Every single section was lit up. The table stretched for dozens of pages, all of which seemed to have appeared out of thin air. Each entry was bold and bright gold. New sections were added in the last few pages—What to do When Your Horse is Nicer Than Your Wife, The Secret World of Illegal