Autumn's Final Dynasty

Garrett ran not because he was late, but because he wasn't good enough. He had come to Tianming Town to be the best. It was an unreasonable goal. But stopping at reasonable goals meant never knowing what could have been achieved by trying harder. It wasn't hardship which drove the young man to excel. Caring parents had raised him in a village on the side of a river surrounded by quiet hills. He hadn't met a crazy old master in the forest or touched a glowing meteorite in a cave. There hadn't been any plagues or floods or raids by spider-worshiping elves who lived deep underground.

Bandits hadn't killed everyone he loved.

No one in Garrett's village, or any village within five hundred miles of his backyard, had seen a bandit in longer than he had been alive. Twenty-some-odd years ago there was turmoil, but that was before Garrett's time. The Emperor had established a prosperous era. Garrett could have contributed to that prosperity by staying home, crushing grapes, and making wine.

He wanted to do more than contribute, however.

He wanted to protect.

The husband of an aunt had a cousin who was married to an officer serving in the Royal Guard. It was a tenuous connection. But Garrett was determined. Determination got him through the national exams and into the prestigious organization as one of its youngest recruits ever.

Soon he would receive his official ranking.

Holding that rank always in mind, Garrett ran from Old Keep Central Platform North River Barracks Five to Watchtower Thirty Eight every morning. The sky shifted toward dawn, but Garrett wouldn't see daylight until he reached his post. Jade Palace Mound cast a big shadow. Five miles long, a few wide, and rising over two thousand feet above the Feng River plain, the Mound was actually made of granite.

Garrett understood there had been jade in it at one time, however.

Over the course of millennia, successive occupiers carved the granite into a spectacular collection of walls, towers, palaces, and temples. Seen from across the Feng River's endless plains, those structures appeared to float on a celestial mirage.

No wonder it was the center of the universe.

Garrett started up Watchtower Thirty Eight's steps.

Regardless of how well conditioned he had become, every morning he felt thankful for the fact that Central Platform was already pretty far up the Mound. Old Keep rested on the Mound's westernmost segment. Hell King Hades' Cut separated that segment from the rest of the monolith. To anyone who had never looked into the Cut, ascribing it to the King of Hell was too much. For anyone who had ever looked down from Watchtower Thirty Eight, however, the name fit just fine.

It was a terrifying drop.

Garrett reached his post on the tower's top platform. The view was spectacular. Flowing from the west, the Feng River slammed into the granite wedge under Old Keep and split. Most water went south through Tianming Town. Great Yao's capital had a population of at least a million people, but Garrett couldn't see it from his side of the Mound. The river's northern channel diverted into wilderness. Emperors going back millennia protected that wilderness as their private hunting grounds.

Also on the Mound's north side, separated from the wilderness by an imposing stone wall, was a park set aside for tombs. Tunnels through the Mound allowed Tianming Town's residents to make use of the necropolis for burying their own dead. According to tradition, imperial social structures extended into the afterlife. Emperors wanted to ensure their subjects could be buried near the rulers they would serve in death. At the same time, the necropolis was far enough away from the city that any creeps trying to use it for unsanctioned cult purposes could be spotted by the watchtowers and hunted down by ground troops.

Long, wiry arms wrapped Garrett up from behind. He nearly jumped out of his uniform.

"My favorite recruit's square head is earnest and appealing," said Corporal Resk, "but his rectangular body forces me to think about the dirty places."

Garrett sighed. Resk should have been a captain years ago. Skills kept him alive. Inappropriate behaviors kept him a corporal.

"No part of me is ever dirty," said Garrett.

"I can test that," said Resk.

"You're going to get flogged again," replied Garrett.

"My best moment of release was during a flogging," said Resk. "When was yours?"

Garrett did not struggle. With Resk's type, reactions only made things worse. Because there was no real danger, indifference was the best course of action.

"If you haven't shot your best release yet," said Resk, "now is the perfect time. The wind is just right. Your rain would drift out over the river as a fine mist."

"My rain is staying where it is," said Garrett. "You're unusually overheated this morning."

Resk swayed from side to side for several moments.

"You're still doing it wrong," he groaned. "Don't look at everything. Look where you need."

"We need to look at everything," said Garrett.

"No," said Resk, "we don't."

His mouth was irritatingly close to Garrett's. Garrett turned away.

"We are Watchtower Thirty Eight," said Resk. "We look where we have the only lines of sight."

"If every tower was that lazy," said Garrett, "then no one would look anywhere two towers shared lines of sight."

"Other people handle that," sighed Resk. "Let everyone do their jobs."

Garrett turned his head back without thinking. He was going to concede that the shared lines of sight were covered by specialized teams. It was still important to look, because… a slimy thing licked his upper lip. Sputtering angrily, Garrett broke free. Rask was tall, wiry, and strong. Garrett had a compact frame but was also strong. He knew how to break free.

At that moment, Watchtower Thirty Eight's unwelcome visitor showed up. He wore an edgy black "spook" uniform – complete with a pretentious wide-brim hat.

The three men regarded one another in a silent standoff.

Resk stepped forward, bowed, and gestured for the spook to proceed across the platform. Garrett realized his shirt had been untucked and several buttons unfastened. The tops of his most private hairs had been made public. How had that dirty old bastard ever been accepted into the Royal Guard at all? Garrett turned, tucked his shirt back in, and refastened all his buttons in a huff.

His training called for analyzing difficult situations.

Reflecting on the morning's events, it was true that he had a great body. Great bodies attracted people with weak willpower. Maybe Resk's inappropriate behavior was meant to test how Garrett responded to awkward advances. If he could be flustered by idiotic behavior, then any idiot could distract him at a critical moment. The correct response was one which maximized the chances of mission success.

Indifferent to Garrett's internal considerations, the spook walked to his spot without a word. An order had come down from on high that no one was to interfere with him. That was fine, thought Garrett. There was plenty of space at the top of Watchtower Thirty Eight. Wooden and cloth screens hid the occupants from outside eyes, but inside eyes could look out fine. The spook only looked into Old Keep Ward. His glasses had unusual lenses.

Ordinarily, Garrett looked across the northern wilderness with regular lenses.

But was it all really just a waste of time?