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  A SEARCH FOR BLISS

  A Prequel to The Anistemi

  By Charles Franklin

  Copyright © 2017 by Charles Franklin

  All rights reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  A Search for Bliss is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business, events, or locales is purely coincidental. All other characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  A Search for Bliss (The Anistemi, #0)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A century after the Great War, in a city believed to be Earth’s last, Arik Martin gritted his teeth and helped lower his dead friend into the ground. It was an honor no man wanted. Yet the Sickness paid little heed to the desires of the living.

  The cemetery sweltered beneath the morning sun, near the north guard tower and the feeble fence that surrounded them. A tired city observed from afar, large enough to house a few thousand amid decaying buildings.

  When Thomas Hutchens’ linen-wrapped body rested in its grave, Arik stood, fists clenched, with the widow amongst the many mourners. Anger surged through him, anger at whatever god was responsible for this.

  Molly Hutchens wore a faded gray dress. Strands of thin, strawberry-blonde hair stuck to her tear-wetted cheeks. Looking as if she might collapse at any moment, she dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. Her little daughter, Bethany, held tight to her skirt and stared blankly down at her father.

  Children should not see such things. But how could they avoid it? Death was too common, too soon. It came in the form of the Sickness, or at the hands of savages known as the Saetos who lurked in the rugged hills that encircled the city. This was not the same world as the one in the ancient books.

  “Sir Thomas served as First Knight and Leader’s Guard,” the young priest droned in a nasal voice. His brown robe rustled with the spring breeze as he thumbed through a tattered book. “This is the highest honor bestowed on a knight, and Sir Thomas wore the seal of the Standing Bear with great honor. As it does, the Sickness took him at his strongest, unwilling to grant us more time with him.”

  The priest peered down his long nose and traced a finger down the page. He rambled on about how Thomas had lived a good life and now his spirit rejoiced in some fairytale land. He closed the book and scooped a handful of dirt from the pile by the grave, then scattered it across the fallen knight. “As from dust he was formed, so to dust he shall return.”

  There was no rejoicing, wherever Thomas was. Arik planted his feet far apart and flared his nostrils. Death had taken Thomas from his family and his friends. Now they were all left to brave the cruelties of life without Thomas. He, for one, couldn’t take it.

  Soon, mourners filed past the grave and dropped dirt, wildflowers, and folded pieces of parchment onto Thomas’ body. Felicia Youngblood, the tall, young governess with golden curls—and Arik’s friend since childhood—released a crinkled note into the grave and hugged Thomas’ widow.

  “I’m here for you,” Felicia said. “Don’t hesitate to send for me.”

  Molly whispered “thank you” and pulled Bethany to her side. She walked to the edge of the grave with her and bowed her head over Thomas, tears falling.

  Felicia laid a hand on the swooping falcon that adorned Arik’s chest plate. “I’m sorry for your loss, Sir Arik. I know Thomas mentored you since you were a young guard, and he was like a brother to you. How are you holding up?”

  “How do you think?” Arik spat. Then he drew in a breath. Why did he address Felicia like that? He knew why: rage swirled inside him, mixing with his sorrow. Why didn’t this sickness come in the form of a man so he could punish it for taking Thomas?

  His friend was gone. The man who had taught him everything he knew about battle—from how to hold a sword to strategies designed to break an enemy’s will—had not suffered a warrior’s death. No, he had withered away in a matter of days. He’d been taken away before he could ask him for a final lesson: how to lead men.

  Felicia’s eyes, blue as the morning sky, clouded with worry. “I know you’re hurting, Arik. Talk to me more, old friend.”

  Old friend. She said it as if they’d known each other for decades, yet Arik was only eighteen, a bit older than Felicia. In a place where most died before their thirties, eighteen was over half a lifetime.

  He shook his head without a smile, feelings churning inside him. There was no way he could describe them. “No time to talk. I have a city to look after.” He stomped toward his horse, tied at the base of the guard tower, and Felicia followed.

  His sword leaned against the fence, as it was disrespectful to come armed to a funeral, and he snatched it and sheathed it on his back.

  Felicia untied his tall, paint stallion and handed him the reins. “It’s okay to mourn, you know.”

  Arik swung into the saddle and took his helmet from the horn, then lowered it onto his head. “Not today.” He gritted his teeth and dug his heels into the sides of his unsuspecting mount, who moved to a trot.

  It was hard to turn away from Felicia. Her beauty shone over the sadness around her. In any other place or time, Arik might have sought more than friendship with her. There was no point in love, however. Not when death stalked.

  He left Felicia standing there and rode south into the city and onto Baker Street, where his horse’s hooves plodded on an age-old boulevard of stone covered by decades of dirt. A young farmer passed in front of him—his hat and homespun shirt stained with sweat—yanking the lead rope of his unwilling mule. A woman lugged a basket of tomatoes up the steps of her home while others milled around and seemed oblivious to the great loss the city had suffered.

  They went about their business as if all was fine, even though Thomas was no longer in the world. It seemed unreal, like a nightmare where Arik screamed for help but no one heard.

  Arik let his gaze drift down to the leather bracers that covered his wrists to the middle of his forearms. A gift from Thomas. Along the seam of the right one, he located the small inscription from his mentor that gave him a little comfort: Be true. Be just. Be you. He could hear Thomas’s voice speaking the words in his mind, that gruff, gentle voice.

  He wanted to voice his fury to the citizens who passed by. To scream into the air of indifference that surrounded him. But as a soldier he was expected to be disciplined and strong. To stand tall in the face of everything. Never show weakness. What a tall order.

  The long street led to the center of the city, where an old gray courthouse stood in the middle of a cobblestone yard shaded by a grove of tall oaks. He was surprised to see a platoon of twenty men assembled on horseback in front of the building, helmets and chest plates gleaming in the sun, with Lieutenant Ethan Mann in front of the formation.

  The sight caught him off guard. Such a large party suggested more than a routine perimeter check. But why? Had something happened?

  “Captain Martin.” Lieutenant Mann rode forward. Dark, wavy hair fell onto his shoulders, and his helmet shadowed his brown eyes and square jaw. Dents and scratches covered his battered chest plate—he had seen as many run-ins with the Saetos as Arik had. “We’ve just got word, a girl has gone missing. The one they call Bliss.”

  Arik stopped his horse and strained to bring his focus from Thomas to the matter at hand. He remembered the girl, vaguely. Petite build. Somewhat timid. Silky black hair. “How long has she been gone?”

  “Last seen two days ago,” Lieutenant Mann answered.

  He smashed a fist down on the pommel of his saddle. No. Not another kidnapping. T
wo days was an eternity at the hands of those barbarians. They were like mad dogs, hardly worthy of being called humans. They must find her. There could still be hope. But, if the girl was alive, she would never be the same.

  He tightened the bracer on his left arm. The routine patrol had just become a desperate search party. He wasn’t ready. But he had to be.

  “Ready for a long search,” he barked. “We’ll head north and scout as far as our horses’ legs can take us.” Of all encounters with the Saetos through the years, most had been in the northern hills, where the trees grew denser and the terrain deadlier.

  The large front doors of the Courthouse swung open and the City Leader, Rowan Clark, emerged, flanked by two guards. Rowan wore a white cotton shirt and tan wool pants. His coal-black hair slicked back from his pale, narrow face.

  “I pray to the goddess that you’ll find young Bliss.” Rowan walked around the assembled men and joined Arik and Lieutenant Mann. “Fifteen is such a young age to be subjected to such horror.”

  “If we do, the Saetos will pay with their lives,” Arik growled. “She is the third girl taken since winter. And we failed in finding the other two. We can’t fail again.”

  Rowan nodded and stroked the shoulder of Arik’s mount. “When you return, I will name you as First Knight and my Leader’s Guard...”

  “No!” Arik’s heart screamed. “I’m not ready!”

  “... and you will don the Standing Bear on your chest. As Captain of the Guard, you are next in line. I see no reason to consider another, Sir Arik. You’ve served impeccably.”

  Arik tightened his grip on the reins. “I can’t take Thomas’ place,” he said, his voice quivering. “How can I lead these men? I’m just a kid!”

  Rowan’s eyebrows shot up. “I see, Sir Arik. Well, I hope I can convince you otherwise. Perhaps you need some time to grieve.”

  “What good does time do, sir?” Arik swallowed a lump of anger. “The girl has very little.”

  “You’re right.” Rowan backed away.

  Arik motioned to his men and spurred his horse across the courtyard. Hooves clattered behind him as he raced down Baker Street. Citizens shuffled to the side and waved as they made way.

  “Save the girl, Sir Arik!” a woman cheered from the front steps of her home. “Bring her back!”

  There was so much hope in her voice. Arik knew the brutal truth, though. This most likely wasn’t a rescue mission. It was a race into a savage land where death waited. He ignored the woman and gave his horse a kick. For him, better a warrior’s death than fading away in a sickbed.

  He led his men out of the city along the road toward the North Gate and past the cemetery, where the skinny young gravedigger filled in Thomas’ resting place.

  Farewell, my friend.

  Beyond the gate, prickly-pears, mesquite, and scrubby cedar trees speckled the plains that lay between the city and the hills. Arik scanned the ground for tracks as he rode. It had rained two days before, he remembered with a mumbled curse. Any signs of the Saetos raid would be washed away.

  The wind blasted his face as they sped across the flat land. After a few minutes of the rhythm of the gallop and the touch of the breeze, his heart lifted. There were few times when he felt truly alive and free. This was one of those moments, where responsibility did not shackle him ... at least for a short time.

  An eerie sensation tickled Arik’s bones as he slowed his stallion to a walk and entered the thick brush of the hills with his men behind. He knew that each time he ventured into the wild it might be his last, as it had been for many during his time in armor. Yet each had sworn an oath, as had he: to protect.

  “To the ridge,” he ordered. “We’ll follow it and scan each side for signs of a camp, then move to the next ridge.” There were a thousand ridges, though. Far too many for a platoon of men to ride in a lifetime, let alone in the precious hours a young girl might have left.

  Arik rode between thickets and up a steep incline. When he came to the crest, the world spread out before him to the north, east, south, and west. An evergreen-scented breeze whispered across the high land and caressed his cheeks.

  The hills rolled on to what seemed like infinity. Did anyone, other than the Saetos, exist out there? If so, did he want to meet them?

  As he scanned the lower terrain on his left and right, Lieutenant Mann rode up next to him on a bay gelding. “Leader’s Guard and First Knight,” Lieutenant Mann said. “It’s well deserved, Sir Arik.”

  “No. Not me. It should be you. And you should’ve worn this before me, too.” Arik rapped his knuckles on the swooping bird emblazoned on his chest plate. “There is no one as deadly or lightning quick with a sword as you are, my friend.” Arik did not embellish. He purposely avoided sparring with him so as not to be embarrassed.

  Lieutenant Mann lifted the water pouch from his saddle and took a swig. “Rowan Clark chose you for a reason. The men will follow you. So will I.”

  Rowan governed well, but did he know what it took to lead men into battle? He had chosen Thomas. Perhaps he did.

  “Thank you,” Arik said. Lieutenant Mann’s words were encouraging, but did little to still the storm raging inside him. He couldn’t take over for Thomas as the senior ranking knight in the city, responsible for the safety of the City Leader and the citizens’ security. The people needed a true leader who could see them through these desperate times.

  As they crossed the high ground, the yellow sun crawled across the sky from east to west with no signs of the Saetos or the girl. Late afternoon brought them down a ridge and into tall oak and willow trees shading the shallow river that snaked through the hills and around the city.

  “Let’s fill our pouches.” Arik slid from his mount and tied the reins to a low-hanging tree branch. He trudged through the sand and knelt to fill his water pouch. An icy tingle prickled up his spine and he sensed a presence. Someone ... or something ... watched.

  He stood and searched the tree shadows on the far side of the river.

  “What is it, Captain Martin?” Lieutenant Mann slogged through the sand from behind and drew his steel. “Did you see something?”

  The darkness between trees began to play tricks on Arik. For a moment he thought he saw movement. He took a half-step forward and squinted. It was nothing. Just a shadow amongst shadows.

  “No, I didn’t,” Arik said in a trembling voice. Some Leader’s Guard he should make—afraid of the dark. “Finish up, men. No time to waste.”

  A gurgled yelp came from behind and Arik whirled around. One of his men dropped to his knees higher on the riverbank. A bloodied spear tip protruded from his throat. He fell on his face into the sand.

  “Up there!” Lieutenant Mann pointed up the bank.

  A filthy man clad in an animal skin vest and pants scampered away. A Saetos.

  The hair stood ridged on Arik’s neck. “After him!” He kept the Saetos man in view as he raced to his horse and swung into the saddle.

  The man jumped onto a waiting skinny nag and sped away.

  “C’mon, Chief!” Arik said to his horse. He kicked the stallion into a run and rushed after the fleeing Saetos man with his men following.

  “Watch for an ambush!” Lieutenant Mann shouted from behind.

  Let them set a trap. Fury seethed inside Arik, and he longed to unleash it on them. He dug his heels into his steed and raced faster. Yes. Let them attack.

  He chased the man over a spur and down into a draw. As Arik rode closer, three other mounted Saetos joined the knight-killer and dashed into a thicket below. His sixth sense told him not to, yet Arik ignored and followed. These barbarians would answer for killing his man. And for taking a poor, innocent girl.

  Thorny mesquite branches tore at his bare, muscled arms and dinged his helmet as his horse struggled forward. The thick brush obscured the running cowards. No matter. He would find them.

  “Arik! Wait!” Lieutenant Mann’s voice came more distant.

  His warning was too late. Arik rode int
o an opening where what must have been twenty Saetos waited on horseback in a half-circle before him. He pulled his steed to a halt and drew his sword.

  “Where’s the girl?” Arik barked.

  From the middle of the pack, a Saetos man rode forward. A fanged headband wrapped around his messy black hair and a fanged necklace hung down his chest. Like the others, dirt covered him, and animal hide clothed his thin frame.

  “Which one?” he asked.

  Lieutenant Mann and the other men crashed out of the thicket and reined to a stop.

  The apparent leader’s response was enough to push Arik’s boiling anger to the brink. “All of you are dead, save one. And he’ll show us to the girl.”

  “Oh, she’s most likely dead by now, pretty man.” The leader offered a snaggled smirk. “Used up.”

  “Attack!” Arik spurred his horse and charged the fanged man. Another Saetos cut in front of him, and they met swords.

  The clank and screech of clashing steel surrounded Arik.

  He knocked away his foe’s strike and spun his steed. The Saetos man slashed, and Arik deflected.

  The man swiped and thrusted. He sliced and jabbed. Arik matched each blow.

  After another stab, the man overextended and leaned too far forward. Arik caught him with a thrust beneath his sternum that lifted the man from his saddle. He stared down, wide-eyed, as blood leaked from the corner of his mouth.

  Arik withdrew his blade and let the man fall from his horse.

  Another man charged, and Arik met him with a sword-chop to his forehead with a crunch and a splatter of blood. The steel squeaked against the man’s skull as Arik pulled his blade from it and turned back toward the fight.

  “Save the leader! He’s mine!” Arik’s command went lost into the crashing of swords.

  Nearby, Lieutenant Mann bewildered his opponent with a flurry so fast that the man’s sword dropped from his hand. He grabbed for his reins, pulling his horse into a rear, and the nag toppled backward on top of him.

  “Lieutenant Mann! Behind you!” Arik screamed. A Saetos charged with his blade raised.