IronAge Short Story Prompt: The Cultivator

The Archive of Bliss, ep.3 - Steel Man

Cleosville was much more accommodating than the last town Gero Von had stayed in. Sure, the residents drank too much, but they were a friendly sort, and all seemed to be of two or three close-knit families. They’d aggressively cleared the encroaching forest around the tight formation of homes and buildings, making for open sightlines and full sun. A far cry from the damp, drug-addled confines of Juice Town.

Gero reclined in a chair outside the three-room inn, labeled Vistor’s Porch by the proudly misspelled sign that hung above the entrance. The innkeeper, an old man named Mist, had gifted Gero with a cigar stuffed with simple, good old tobacco, and Gero was enjoying the smoke. Mist rocked in another chair nearby.

“Where to next, sir Von?” Mist’s voice was gravelly, not yet slurred for the day.

“Well, I’ve yet to confirm the region’s map in all directions, Mister Mist,” Gero said. “I could take the road east, to the plains, or east and south to skirt the bogs below us. But those mountains north… I’d say they’re calling my name.”

Mist shook his head. “Don’t want to go there, sir. Nothing good there, so far’s we ever found.”

“Really?” asked Gero with a puff. “You make it sound even more enticing.”

Mist smirked. “Adventure enough in being on the frontier. No sense going after trouble a’purpose.”

“Ah, but that’s just my job,” Gero said.

He examined the fat red cherry at the end of his nearly-smoked cigar. Sighed. He almost didn’t want to leave, but he hadn’t sent any interesting data back to the Luzcorp Interplanetary Survey Group in three weeks. His bosses would be impatient for something new.

“And I’d best get to it,” Gero finished. He stood.

“Well it’s been nice having you about, sir Von,” said Mist, still rocking absently. “We don’t get many, and never any so well-mannered.”

“The appreciation is mutual, Mister Mist,” said Gero, reaching to shake the old man’s hand. “I plan to swing back by whenever I’m in the area again.”

“Welcome anytime,” Mist said with a gap-toothed smile.

Gero tipped his hat, took an unconscious survey of the weapons and tools beneath his duster, and left Vistor’s Porch.

His dragonfly had been parked in an empty old barn. After running the requisite checks, Gero mounted up and eased out, waving to the children of the village as he left.

He cruised for a few dozen kilometers east, periodically turning his head to watch the fires of Cleosville, then the forest around it, recede. Gero dropped low to the ground when he reached the edge of the plains and slowed his engines to a crawl.

The mountains north did look foreboding. The farthest, highest peaks were tall enough to catch and swirl passing clouds, and a gloom hung over every high, hidden vale. But there were ridges just wide enough for the dragonfly to follow. If Gero was lucky, he’d be able to circumnavigate at least a portion of the range, scan it, and then decide whether to map the whole range or retreat.

Gero tapped his foot against the airbrake pedal, thinking. He’d have to map the unnamed mountains some time. Why not now? He sent out a quick message to Mission Control, just in case.

Embarking for the mountain range north of Cleosville. Town very hospitable, low but present rate of inebriation. No name for the range among the villagers, but warnings to keep away. Naturally I can’t be persuaded otherwise. But if I go dark, now you’ll know why.

Gero ramped up the throttle and sliced his sure way toward the green-skirted mountains ahead.

***

There was a low, sparsely wooded vale between rolling hills that led to a long stretch of ridge Gero could use to gain some elevation. He was cruising between the far-flung trees when something thick cut through the air with a whoosh. Gero suddenly found himself entangled in a lattice of ropes and pulled to the ground. He hit with a painful thud and lost his wind, but managed to see the dragonfly fishtail and spin, barely missing a thick old tree before the emergency airbrake kicked on and it slowed.

Gero’s hand was already on his multiblade and he flicked the switch to deploy its shortest mode with a SNIKT! He heard boots on hard ground as he sliced through the rough, fibrous ropes that bound him and was just free of the net when a long-bladed halberd cleaved the air where he’d been. Gero fell back, stumbling once. Hard-trained reflexes retracted the short blade and deployed his longsword, clinking as interlinking sections of metal slipped into place.

“Intruder!” a man’s voice bellowed. “Your swiftness and cunning blade will not save you!”

His attacker was a large man in strange, cobbled together armor that covered him from head to toe. The man had affixed bits of greenery to the armor as if to make a sort of ghillie suit. It put Gero in mind of the Ordo Paladi with their ornate golden arms, but this man’s getup was far more roughshod.

“Just passing through!” Gero cried as their blades met.

He’d have to keep his distance, or that polearm would impale him in an instant.

“None may pass,” the man growled. His voice reverberated, metallic, from his slit-eyed helm.

Gero deflected a thrust of the halberd, shifting his feet, giving up ground. Again. Parried a strike from above, lost another few steps. The man was driving him back toward the trees.

“Fine,” Gero muttered, spun and ran for the nearest tree line. Why not use the forest stand’s confines to his own advantage?

“Coward!” the forest knight called.

His feet pounded, giving chase, and Gero expected to feel the blade in his back any moment. But he proved the faster and dodged into the trees before spinning to face his opponent again. The trees were close enough that the knight had to shorten his grip on his polearm, and he approached with due caution.

Blades met again, men testing each other’s mettle. Gero’s heart stopped as the halberd blade hooked his longsword and pulled him off balance. But a quick reversal brought the sword back in line and Gero parried the next swipe. He couldn’t just give ground all day. He knew from his training that the knight’s longer reach was destined to prevail.

Gero carried no magic with him, a rare curse among the people of the galaxy, but he did have a few tricks up his sleeve.

Though risky, he switched to a one-handed grip and shuffled back with every advance of the knight, who continued to call him names. With his free hand Gero drew his two-shot from its shoulder holster and fired the thin p-beam at the knight’s helm.

“Gah!” the man screamed as the beam’s force wrenched his head back. The armor was better than Gero had expected, showing only a scorch mark. But the knight reflexively drew a hand to his eyeslits, loosening his grip on the halberd. Gero swept his longsword in and knocked the polearm out of line, momentum pulling it from the man’s hand.

But the knight recovered in an instant, steel-shod hand grasping the sword and wrenching it out of Gero’s mortal grip. An iron fist crashed in from the other side. Gero flowed like water to dodge. Not fast enough. The fist collided with his ribs and he lost his wind, and his gun. Then he was on the ground and the knight was on top of him, prepared to pummel his face into pulp.

“The valley is sacred!” the knight bellowed, raised fist shaking. Gero struggled ineffectually. He was going to die. “The mountain and its passes are sacred and mine to defend! Interlopers deserve no less than to have their heads mounted upon my wall!”

But before the fist fell and ended Gero’s life in bloody blackness, another voice sounded.

“Peace, sir knight,” came a man’s voice. “Let us not shed blood this day.”

The knight twisted to look and Gero scrambled out from under him, searching for his blade or pistol.

“You comport yourself well in battle,” said the man’s voice. It was deep and velvety, full of age and wisdom. “Knight Ulama, please, stand down.”

“I trained Paladi five years,” said Gero, finding his pistol, keeping it in hand.

“Forgive me, Master Yaro,” said the Knight, and when Gero looked he was kneeling.

He kept the pistol half raised as he searched and found the longsword.

The newcomer was indeed an older man, but his hair remained black as midnight, and the crags in his face were distinguished. Gero couldn’t place what planet he might be from, but judging by his loose, simple clothes and their blue trim on white, he was some kind of religious adherent.

“You trained Paladi, really?” said Master Yaro, looking impressed. He crossed his hands behind his back. “Impressive. Yet you did not remain with the order?”

“My dreams lay elsewhere,” said Gero.

“You may lower the weapon, good sir,” said Yaro. “I mean you no harm, and Knight Ulama will stand down as directed.”

Reluctantly Gero complied. He saw light in the older man’s eyes.

“I’m Gero Von,” he offered, “with Luzcorp Interplanetary Survey Group.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Yaro, and gave his name formally in turn.

“Forgive my violence, sir Von,” said the knight, standing but inclining his head. “I do only my duty.”

“Sure,” said Gero, not certain he was ready to forgive much.

“Knight Ulama is a great zealot,” Yaro explained. “Though his overt passion precluded his permanent study with our order —”

“Yeah, some passion,” Gero interjected.

“— he took it upon himself to guard the lower reaches of our home, and we haven’t been able to dissuade him since,” Yaro finished.

“Didn’t mean to bother anyone,” said Gero. “Happy to go on my way.”

His stomach hurt, and he was more than eager to oblige the knight with his absence.

“If you were wicked, I wouldn’t have called him off,” Yaro admitted. “But I sense something in you…” He let the statement hang. “You may be injured. At the least I owe you some hospitality. Please, Mister Von, gather yourself and I will take you up to my abode. We have good food and a place to keep safe for the night.”

Gero studied the man. Try as he might, he could find no falsehood in him. He really might have some cracked ribs after that nasty fall and subsequent awkward wrestling match. It seemed the right call.

“Okay,” said Gero, holstering his gun. He retracted his sword’s blade and clipped it to his belt beneath his duster.

He would have followed Master Yaro out of the stand without another glance at his former foe, but the Knight came and stole Gero’s hand, shaking it.

“You were a worthy foe, good sir,” he said, inclining his helm. “Were we equally armed I would be honored to have lost the match against you.”

Gero heard Yaro chuckling from several steps ahead.

“Yeah, sure,” Gero said, returned the shake and reclaimed his hand. “Thanks.”