Dies the Fire (Closed)

[Tempest]

Invermere Township, Columbia Valley
June 28th, 2000 AD/Change Year 2

A bell tinkled brightly as the door swung open and a thousand smells assaulted John's nostrils. He looked about the tidy store that had once housed the local butchers, though it had now given way to the local general store for just about any knick knack you might need around the post-change household. As his gaze wandered the shelves a pretty Asian looking girl appeared from the back and offered John a big smile.

"Ah, Big John! Long time no see..." She winked at him. Long a resident of the valley with her parents she had met the eldest Clarkson during a misadventure that involved too much alcohol and several power boats, pre-change of course.

"You too Linda. Your old man about?" He shot a wink back at her. She obviously got her good looks from her mother, a caucasian woman who had taken to her considerably shorter and more plump asian husband for reasons John never could understand.

"Yea. Just a sec." With a last glance at John she vanished into the back, a muffled conversation followed by the appearance of the short plump asian man who eyed John critically.

"Oh herro ping pang." Said John with a grin.

"Fuck off Clarkson. You know I speak english as well as you." This was one of the few times in his life that Henry Woo regretted ever knowing the big man who stood in his store. The Clarksons had ever been his supporter but John had always taken great delight in teasing the smaller man, probably because he was the only non-white in the valley.

"Oh so sowwy. You so angwy cause you have rearry rearry small penis!" John replied with a sly grin, holding up a hand to ward off the obscenities he could see building in the other man. "Alright. Sorry. How are you?"

"Good..." Henry's guard was up almost at once. John rarely gave up so quickly unless he wanted something, and when John wanted something from him it meant that trouble was afoot. Though his store sold household goods, his greatest trade good was information. The Clarksons had a very elabroate spy network in the valley but Henry heard plenty of random gossip as well, some of which was very very valuable to others. "What can I do for you today?"

John slowly began to pace down the asile in front of the counter, hands clasped behind his back. "I have heard some rumours that might suggest there are folk in the valley who are none to happy with me." Henry gave him a look that clearly said well fucking duh and he laughed. "Alright, fair enough. These rumours have more to do with them possibly trying to do something about my existence."

At this Henry pondered his own words carefully. He knew, as did Big John, that the blonde man was far from the most popular person in the valley. In fact he was certainly the most feared and it was only a matter of time before someone attempted to get rid of him once and for all. "I have heard some rumblings of that type yes." Henry cast a look towards the street but no one was paying the shop much attention. "Some of the lads from the Cook Ranch were in the other day. I heard a few snippets that mentioned they had been carefully monitoring your trips through their lands on your way into town and one of them was talking about a good ambush location."

For a long moment the huge blonde man stared out the shop window then he opened his pouch and spun the asian a thick looking gold coin. They were very rare but he could use them to purchase pretty much any item he wanted off the Clarkson Ranch for its cost. Its was essentially a "get one cow free" type coin. Before he could say anything the eldest Clarkson was gone, only the tinkle of the bell betraying that he had been in the store at all.

Behind him, Henry he heard a very teenager-in-love sigh from his daughter.

"He's so handsome..." She murmured.

"Sure, and he's also going to kill someone. I can feel it." Muttered Henry but quietly enough so that she couldn't hear.

[Moniker]

“Hello, Badger,” said Patrick as Georgia entered the room with a brief knock. The way he said it, her old nickname had become more of an official rank then a pseudonym.

“Paddy,” she replied, and sat in the chair he had ready for her. She took off her helm, shaking her blonde hair out as she put the steel pot on the ground beside her. It was the same basic design as his, though without the pre-change brass embellishments.

Reed felt his heart flutter the briefest moment, a brief memory passed behind his eyes, the two of them entwined in each others arms, breathing heavily, lips so close, her touch so gentle. The memory passed. It had been a brief encounter, drunk and half ways by accident a long time ago, and they’d never once spoken about it. She looked so similar now, she’d always been athletic, and had kept her hair a practical shoulder length, just touching her brigandine. She looked like a Valkyrie from a Frank Frazetta painting. Firm, is how he’d describe her in one word, and not just physically.

“Akecheta broke his word on the La Farge agreement,” she said, all business. “When the shift change for his half of the plants guards game, they outnumbered ours two to one and killed our boys. Dumped their bodies in the water - we still can’t get to them - but not before scalping them and tacking the hair to their shields. No survivors.”

“Mother fucker! So it finally happened, I’ll… No survivors?” asked Reed, having to visibly calm the anger that welled up in him. He‘d gotten better at controlling it since the change, though it seemed to come more frequently. “Then how do we know?”

“They told me,” she replied. “When our next shift went to relieve them, there were only natives, and they got told to fuck off. I went to see what was up, they were bragging and laughing. I could’ve gone for it, but since it’s a bit of a diplomatic matter, I thought you’d want to have a think over it.”

Patrick made a considering sound, looking at a map of the plants layout, then another file with information on Aketcheta, the son of Chief Otakai and the head of the fighting men out of Morley. He was a hot-head, but he knew how to ride a horse, and had kept his men in good fighting form, mostly to compete with the Red Hands of Banff.

“It’s not a diplomatic matter anymore, Georgia,” admitted Reed after some thought. “Donovan’s been itching for some action since the raid on the WARF… but it was your men, you should be the one to sort it out. Take whatever you need to get the job done, then fortify the place and set up a garrison. Bloody inconvenient that its outside that wall we’ve got going up right before Lac des Arc, but so be it. Coordinate with Theos, too. I wouldn’t put it past Aketcheta to have an ambush waiting for you.”

“Done.” She stood, putting her helm on her head, looking even more like the wrathful Valkyrie. “I’ll report back when it’s handled.”

“Good girl,” Reed said with a smile. “Stay safe, yeah?”

“Who are you talking to?” she said with a cocky grin and a wink through the oculars of her helm. “Didn’t you know, I’m the Badger! I’m kind of a big deal.”

He chuckled as she left, and couldn’t help but watch the long strides of her strong legs, and feel that faint flutter again. In another life, they would have made a fine pair.

[Tempest]

Interlude 3
Border lands of the Church Universal and Triumphant and the Dominion of Drumheller, Southern Alberta
May 2nd, 2018 AD/Change Year 20

I am about to die! The thought flashed through the head of Major Lawerence of the Sword of the Prophet with surprising clarity. He as astride his dappled brown mare looking, like the rest of the men under his command, towards the near hilltop. A few moments ago the praire skyline had been empty but now it bristled with hundreds of lances and an eye hurting gleam of sunlight off metal that rippled as it moved.

"Orders Major?" Came a voice from his left and he looked down at the soldier who had spoken. It was not a look that bore much hope and he did not blame the man. Their raid into the Dominion had been simple enough. Take prisoners, pillage, kill the rest and go. They had expected a detachment of the Force to appear at some point and so he had not been overly alarmed when spearpoints had been sighted above a column of horsemen. But now he regretted that very much. The men beneath the needle tips wore deep blue, almost black, chainmail lined jackets, tall perfectly polished helms tipped with black horse hair plumes and rode massive black war horses.

What can I say here? He thought quickly. Half his unit was dismounted and scattered trying to corral loose horses or pack up their camp. I have nothing that will stop those heavy horse. Nothing! He was interrupted by the sound of a bugle and all eyes turned from frantic work to see the long thing line of blue coated men begin to walk forward. Shit. We're fucked. Throwing the thought aside he barked at his men to mount up. The next minute seemed to move in slow time for him.

Men of the Church Universal and Triumphant began to rush for their horses but it was if they were stuck in slow motion whilst the enemy most certainly was not. He heard the bugle blare again, the trumpeter giving throat to his instrument below flags that bore the Union Jack and a yellow banner with an armoured fist holding a sword. Men scrambled into saddles as the walk became a trot, then a canter. Sword troopers began to ride desperately for him, to make a line to receive the charge. Some had their bows drawn, others had lances, some simply drew their shetes. The bugle sounded again and the lance points twinkled down along the blue line.

"For what we are about to receive..." Muttered a voice behind him and, almost as if the enemy commander had heard him, the bugle sounded the charge. 400 horses suddenly began to gallop, the troopers knee to knee as they gave a war scream that washed over the soldiers of the CUT like a battering ram. A galloping horse could cover a very great distance in a very short time and the enemy horsemen seemed to grow like a storm over the horizon. Arrows flickered out from the CUT horsemen to slam into the barded armour of the warhorses or their riders. Here and there a few riders fell but the ranks simply flowed around them.

The bugle screamed again, unending now as it challenged the air over and over. The screams of the charging horsemen battered the ears of the CUT, the rhythmic pounding of 1600 hooves jarring into their souls as they watched death approach. Major Lawrence was in the centre of his own hasty line and he could see the eyes of the enemy commander above lips peeled back in a snarl, they were locked on him. The only way to meet a charge of horse was if your own line was moving. His was not.

I have made mistakes today. I pay for it with the lives of me men. May they forgive me.

A second later the enemy horsemen made contact with his line. There was no great clash of steel for these were not knights of the Association but rather the wet, grinding sound of lance tips being driven home. The CUT line vanished beneath the heavy horsemen as if they did not exist. Big men on even bigger horses rode their lances free of the dead and dying or drew heavy cavalry sabres that they hammered down into those CUT soldiers who had not managed to find the saddle. The whole charge had taken no more then 90 seconds but as the dust caught up the horsemen and drifted over the battlefield it settled on a slaughter house. Of the CUT there were no survivors. The Major was curled in a ball, a wicked wound in his belly, while all around him he could hear the screams of the dying. Of his command, none had survived the impact of the bigger horsemen. Several blues coated bodies lay in the dust, a few of them rising and limping to their horses. The wounded CUT died with lance thrusts to their throats as the victors rode amongst them with grim faces. Only the CUT Major, slightly ahead of his dead men, went unnoticed.

The dying Major was facing north, the same direction his attackers had come from and now that same hill began to show more lance tips. It slowly dawned on him that this was no patrol that had found him as horse after horse rode past the carnage. Despite his wound and knowledge that death was not far away he tried to count the column as it passed.

There are thousands. This is an army going to war. The realization came to him just as a trooper scouring the dead saw him moving and a lance thrust put an end to his concerns forever.

[Moniker]

Georgia had sent a runner to report on her action. She had taken Reed's advice in soliciting help from Theos' skirmishers, using them to thuroughly scout around Exshaw and the Lafarge plant. There their involvement ended, however. The betrayal and subsequent murder and scalping of her men had struck a nerve with the hard woman, and she wanted her men to be the ones to exact justice. It was a sentiment Reed could get behind, but he had been surprised at how severe his friends judgment had been. He'd have done the same himself, as would Donovan and Theos, but was surprised to see it come from her.

She'd surrounded the exits to the building the Lakota had occupied, with the Skirmishers visible on the outskirts as a secondary threat. The Badger had asked to parlay with the Natives' leader and when she was refused, informed them that her Red Hands would be coming in anyway, and taking no prisoners. Despite her threats, once the warriors had broken into the plant they accepted the surrender of the outnumbered Lakota after inflicting a few casualties. Rather then hold the Natives as prisoners, she marched them, hands bound, to the top of the plant. There, from the top floor of the highest building in the Bow Valley, they had ropes tied around their necks. Rather then throw them from the roof, she hoisted them up into the sky, then lowered them to dangle dozens of feet from the ground. The skirmishers reported that it took their most determined nearly a half hour to die, strangled by his own weight. It was a macabre thought, that they were still up there as he read the report.

Not blinded by anger as he himself might have been, Georgia had ordered a work party formed, which was now on its way with materials to build fortifications. The Lakota had violated their agreement with the Bow Valley communities under Reed's command, and thus had lost all rights to the concrete plant by his reckoning. After reading the report, he began writing a letter on an old push-ding typewriter. In it, he apologised for the loss of their men, made known his regrets for the entire situation, asked politely for an explanation and made clear in no uncertain terms that they were never to set foot on the plant again. This, Reed explained, was now property of the Bow Valley. He also said, magnanimously, that he would be willing to sell the concrete, though at a high cost to compensate the families of his lost warriors.

It would be an interesting couple of days.

[Tempest]

Invermere Township, Columbia Valley
July 4th, 2000 AD/Change Year 2

"I am sorry John." Roberts face was grave. He and his eldest son were seated outside of John's fortified home on a small stone bench. Robert held in his hand a piece of paper that poor the fine writing of someone with a good hand and a pre-change pen. "But the whole valley is up in arms about you. They want you gone."

Robert watched the huge blonde head nod and felt an immeasurable sadness for his son. John had equipped himself to deal with every problem in his life as a soldier and meet it with un-paralleled ferocity. Now because of that, Robert would be loosing his eldest son to exile. The valley council had demanded it of Robert if they were to recognize him as the leading authority in the valley and while he was certain he could force the issue by arms, he did not want more blood shed.

"You must understand John..." His words were cut short by a wave of John's calloused hand.

"Save your breath dad. I know. I will leave. Not because of the council but because it is best for our family. I have made us powerful but I am not a man to be a farmer." He smiled at his father and to Robert's surprise he could detect no sarcasm in the tone. "I have been aching to get out of this place. The intrigue was driving me nuts. I need a proper good fight to clear my head. Gives me a good reason to move Jess and the kids anyway."

Robert could barely believe what he was hearing, he had expected anger, rage, and possibly violence but instead his son was thrilled about the idea. "Where will you go?" He asked.

John thought for a long moment, the sun warm on his face as a warm breeze tickled his beard. "Waterton." He said simply. "If I remember correctly its got a fine defensive location, big ole lake, plenty of food and space."

Robert wanted to ask what would happen if there was someone already there but he knew the answer already. The big great sword would flash and people would die. Instead he nodded and looked around the fortified land his son had built. "You will need to take some bodies with you."

John grinned. "Way ahead of you dad, I've been arming my men for months now. Secretly of course." His grin turned wicked as he winked. "I wasn't sure if this whole thing with the Hutchisons would blow into open war or not."

Robert shook his head in amazement. He couldn't help but feel some fatherly pride that he had raised such a dangerous and intelligent man.

"I think I will have some 200 hundred troops, plus their families..." John seemed to think for a moment. "With your help we can be on our way by the end of the month."

"You will have everything I can offer you." Robert stood, smiling. "Oh, and happy birthday."

[Moniker]

Akecheta came from Morley the next day at the head of a large party of horsemen. Patrick had been expecting him, and met him at their barricade. They exchanged heated words, end eventually Reed loudly proclaimed that he would no longer have diplomatic relationships with him. He promised to speak with the Chief directly, or not at all.

"If you would like to continue this discussion," Reed explained with finality, "Then I would be happy to summon the woman who commanded the take-over of the cement plant."

The Native gave a "hoo-yip" and rode off angrily without response, taking his Horsemen with him. Reed, with his escort, made a trip to the Lafarge plant to check on Georgia's fortifications. They came along well, mostly barricades high enough that they could strike down on a horse. It was a bit of a strain on their labour recourses, with so much still to be done converting the towns buildings to be properly heated by winter. There were also buildings that needed to be torn down, as the water left in the pipes had frozen and burst over the last two winters. New pipes had to be laid to get water from the mountains into the town, and they were working on a second public bath. Renovations were ongoing at the Sulphur Mountain Hot Springs as well, where they hoped to re-open them as they had been, with natural warm mineral water.
The Badger was doing well, and kept Theos' Skirmishers roaming through the valley. The place was secure for the time being.

When Reed had returned to the barricade, he was surprised to find a messenger waiting for him. The man said he was from Strathmore, east of Calgary, where a large pocket of survivors made their home. He and his escort of six had come to deliver an invitation to a meeting of all the communities in southern Alberta. Reed hurried back to Banff and assembled his advisors, with the exception of Georgia.

"The Community of Strathmore. The Dominion of Drumheller. Arrowwood. The Republic of Nordegg. The Western Alberta Ranchers Federation. Representatives from the Native American Tribes of Alberta. They call us the 'Bow Valley Communities,' for lack of a better term," finished Reed, sitting at the round table.

"What?" asked Donovan incredulously. "That's crap. We're Banff!"

"Not just Banff," disagreed Bridget, who sat beside Patrick with her hand on his thigh. "We've got Minnewanka Village, the outpost we've set up for working on Canmore. Hell, with the barricade and Lafarge, that's almost an outpost on its own, not to mention that little lodge full of Germans south of Canmore."

"I call bullshit," complained the large Australian, folding his tattoo'd arms defiantly.

"It doesn't matter what they call us," Reed interjected in the quiet voice he used when he was distracted by thought. "We'll have a few enemies there, in the Natives, the WARF... Maybe Nordegg, for impersonating them during the cattle raid. Who knows what the others'll be like."

Reed regained his focus, looking around at the table. "So, we need a game plan. What are the issues, and where do we stand?"

[Tempest]

Canal Flats Township, Columbia Valley
July 31st, 2000 AD/Change Year 2

Guy Clarkson was angry though he was careful to not let it show. He, like several other thousand people in the Valley, had turned out to see John and his followers leave. Like many of the others he had expected to find his eldest brother down trodden, angry at his exile and more then a little humble. Megan had wanted to come but Guy refused her, thinking she would likely try to spit on John and the man would cut her down in his shame. But none of it was true, there was no fugitive going into exile but rather what amounted to a conquering hero.

Many people did not know it but John held a degree in Communication, specializing in Journalism, and had written several papers on propaganda and now he used that knowledge to amazing effect. Instead of a crowd of hostile viewers he had turned them into an adoring mass that cheered his small force as they prepared to leave. In retrospect, Guy couldn't blame them. John has cleverly hidden his own plans from the valley for the last two years and when it came time for him to leave he had made no secret of the power he truly wielded. His two hundred men had come to the meeting place with their families and possessions but also their armour. John had spared no time or expense ensuring his followers were well armed and armoured, and it showed. Scale armour, sturdy helms, swords, axes, lances, bow, all of it making what should have been no more then refugee's into a fighting force rivaled by none in the Valley.

John himself wore the half plate armour of his landsknecht gear, the massive two handed sword slung across his back. He rode a white horse that had been brushed to a glossy shine that pranced beneath him. Guy could not help but think it is how Caesar may have looked.

[Moniker]

Blood was pouring out of Patrick’s nose, colouring his teeth and his beard. He had a cloth for stopping the blood, but he wasn’t bothering to use it. There was a big red grin across his face. Bridget, however, was not as amused.

“You bloody idiot!” she was lecturing him. “I told you not to play! Now your nose is broken and you leave tomorrow for Strathmore. You look like a drunken brawler, and just wait for your black eyes to come in.”

“I am a brawler!” he said, sounding strange as a nurse fussed over him. “If dey tink I’m jus’ a goon den dey un’erestimate me.”

Reed would have gone on, but just then the nurse reset his nose. She had been trained as a midwife, and worked up in the Northern Territory of Australia with the aborigines. The hands she used on Patrick were not gentle. He gave a shout of pain, which was drowned out by the crowds cheering.

They were at the old Rec Grounds, standing on the coal running track that surrounded the only nice patch of grass that hadn’t been turned into a garden or potato field or green house. No, here was the sporting ground. People played soccer or Frisbee here, and across the way there was still one baseball diamond intact as well. Today, however, was a rugby day, and that was the towns favourite sport.

There were several teams in the Valley. Reed played for the BRFC with many of the Red Hands, named for his old pre-change club. The Berserkers were also based in Banff, as well as the Ghosts, which was made up mostly of Theos’ skirmishers. The Crusaders out of Canmore were present as well. Even Miniwanka village had managed to put a team in that day, calling themselves the Oarsmen. There were Ladies teams present as well, from everyone but Miniwanka. The league had started out with just a few friendly games of touch, and then one exhibition game for fun. Now was their second big games day, with four games in total. The Ghosts had played the Berserkers earlier in the day, with the Berserkers coming up 22-17, and Miniwanka would play 10’s against a collection team made of subs that didn’t get a lot of playtime. The BRFC was currently playing the Crusaders, and that’s how Reed had gotten his nose broken. Still, they were winning and that’s all that really mattered at the moment. He tried to remember that while Bridget lectured him.

She was probably right. Tomorrow, he, Marco, and an escort would travel east into the prairies. If he was honest with himself, he was nervous. Too much open ground. There would be a delegation from Morley present at this meeting. Would they try something? He wouldn’t put it past Aketcheta.

Well, he and his broken nose would see about that tomorrow morning.

[Tempest]

Columbia Valley
August 1st, 2000 AD/Change Year 2

"Empty sir." Reported a tired looking scout as he reined in his mount next to John who was studying the valley bottom with binoculars. The rising sun was slowly revealing the town of Skoocumchuk, or what remained of it. In the first year of the Change a violent wildfire had started south of Canal Flats and, thankfully, the wind had hurried it south, burning everything in its path.

"I don't make out any sign of habitation either." John said, nodding his thanks to the scout. "Get yourself back to the train and find something to eat, put your head down as well."

The man touched a hand to the brim of his hat and spurred away down the wagon train. John looked at the man next to him. Alexander McCarteny was a big man, nearly John's size, and a long time friend. He and his folks had been visiting the Clarkson's when the Change hit and Alexander had chosen to join his friend in voluntary exile. He grinned.

"Onward and upward then eh?" He had a strange accent to him, the product of living in Montreal, Quebec for six years to attend University. It was a strange hash of the both provincial twangs. Like John he carried a big two handed weapon, in his case it had once been a ten-pound sledge hammer whose head had been filed into jagged teeth.

John nodded and waved the column forward. Horses snorted and tossed their heads as whips cracked and the wagon train was in motion again. The lighter horsemen were first. The smallest men on the fastest horses ranged ahead, ever vigilant for whatever might be in their path. John had ridden this route many time before but that had always been with fighting men. It had taken them a year or more to hunt the last of the wildmen from the mountains and he knew that his father planned to settle this area again soon, it had plenty of good honest ranching territory.

As they passed through the town he could not help but feel a twinge of sadness looking at the burnt out cars and shattered homes. Strangely enough the only building still standing was the towns only tourist attraction, an old wooden church. Its white walls had been scorched by the blaze ad the paint was peeling but otherwise it stood alone and forlorn in the midst of the devastation.

"Eerie..." John muttered, Alexander nodding in agreement. Neither of the men put much stock in religion though John's own belief in the Norse gods had led to many of his followers to adopt a sort of Shamanism based loosely on his own beliefs. It gave them en excuse to hold festivals and have feasts so he wasn't going to put a stop to it. That didn't stop either of them form feeling uneasy near the building.

Slowly the Church fell behind as they passed through the ruins. Only a few wild men had lived here, none in the church, and John had personally killed their Chief not far from the spot only a year before. He gave it a last look before gazing back down the valley. He still found it strange that the highways in this area looked as they would have two years before, minus the rusting cars in the ditch. The vegetation didn't grow swiftly enough here to do any real damage to the concrete and the tree's had been cut so far back from that highway that only the long grass really encroached on the verge now. He has to resist the urge to order the column into the right lane for fear of a semi-truck.

Almost as if hearing his thoughts Alexander spoke. "Its so fucking weird man. I keep waiting for a car or truck to come barreling over the rise at us. It never fails to unnerve me when I don't see one for more then an hour."

"I hear ya buddy." Replied John. "I enjoy the speed though. When your hurtling about in a car you tend to not notice what your driving through."

No bugs though," said Alexander as he slapped a horse fly against the neck of his mount. "I do miss air conditioning... And flying along at 140 km an hour was amazing."

"Shut up." John retorted without malice. "I don't want to remember that, its over and done."

Alexander ignored him, continuing with a groan of pleasure, "And ginger ale, maybe a chocolate bar and a bag of doritos. I miss those the most on these trips. Venison jerky is great and all but that sweet sugary taste..." He ducked as John aimed a punch at the side of his head. "Okay! Okay!" He laughed as his friend glared at him.

"Your not wrong." John suddenly grinned. "I miss nibs personally. I'll never have anything like that again..."

The two men laughed as the column continued onwards. Above them the sun slowly climbed into the sky and the haze of summer heat began to show above the earth. Just another summer day.

[Moniker]

They had an unexpected passenger. Kat, Reed’s former lover, had come to him as the party had been preparing to leave. She had packed a backpack and a bag with belongings and supplies and had asked to come along. She intended to leave Banff. Since they were bringing a cart along – largely because of Reed’s problem with horses, but officially for supplies – she was allowed to join them.

Patrick and Marco sat in the front of the cart, with Marco holding the horses’ reins, while Kat sat in the back quietly. Twenty riders accompanied them, most red hands but a few of Yiorgos’ skirmishers as well, who served as scouts. They’d caught sight of other riders on the first day, but hadn’t seen anyone since. Reed suspected it might have been Natives out of Morley, taking a rougher route, as opposed to the highway.

As the cart rumbled along the dry pavement, it was hard not to be reminded of the change. Every once in a while, they’d have to push a car off the highway into the ditch, to join its rusting fellows. There were visible human remains, alone, or in small piles. People pulled from crashes, or killed after. Some likely starved, or suffered more grisly ends. They passed the haunted walls of the Casino, where the wind howled forlornly through the broken windows, even from such a distance. Nobody voiced a desire to explore it, thoughts of the charnel house at the school in Canmore making them ride a little faster. They saw lone men armed with bows eyeing them through binoculars as they passed the lone houses in the foothills.

Halfway through the morning on the second day, Reed ordered a halt. He dismounted the cart, crossed over to the westbound road – it was strange to think that the road could be traveled in any direction – and then hopped the fence on the other side of the ditch. From there, he climbed a small rocky hill, standing at the top with his hands on his hips. When Marco joined him, he had a small contented smile hiding beneath his beard; just enough to crinkle the tattoos on his face.

“What’s up?” asked his friend.

“It’s this hill,” replied Reed. “Driven past it a hundred times, always liked how it looked. The only rocky hill around. Always wanted to climb it. So here I fuckin’ am. Ha!”

“Well. Fair enough, mate.” Marco laughed with him.

After a few minutes, they descended, with Reed looking vibrant. He even got a smile out of Kat, which hadn’t happened in over a year. Everybody was enjoying the trip out of the mountains. They mounted the cart once more, and resumed their trek. It would take the rest of the day, and the next, to make it to Strathmore. Tomorrow, they would pass through the remains of Calgary.

[Tempest]

Fort Steele sat lonely, empty and forlorn on the side of the Columbia River. It had been build by the Northwest Mounted Police back in 1888. It had grown into a very successful tourist town and, in the first year of the change, John had come south to find the former staff doing well for themselves. Then winter had hit and the trouble with the Hutchisons had flared up, he had not ben back since.

"I remember having dinner here once. Thanks Giving when I was 12. We drove down from the Ranch, it was amazing." John was speaking to Jessica who had elected to ride with him today. The boys were in a dead sleep two wagons back. She smiled at him.

"A good memory to have." She looked happier then ever today. She had not been happy back in the Valley, knowing that he was chaffing at the bit to do something, anything, but be a farmer. Secretly she had no desire to be the wife of a farmer and had in some ways urged him that leaving was the best thing for them.

"Something isn't right..." John said as he raised his binoculars. He scanned the walls. They were old wooden palisade, more then enough to keep the wild beasts at bay but anything more then that and they would barely slow an attacker down. As he panned left along the wall he felt his stomach lurch. The front gates were ajar and no one could be seen. "Shit..." He muttered. Jessica didn't say a word, she just wheeled her horse away and rode back down the train, motioning Alexander to join John.

"Yea John?" Alexander drew his own binoculars as John pointed. He didn't say anything for a long moment. "Supposed to be people here right?'

"That's right. Detail six men, we're going to take a look."

Alexander nodded and quickly selected six men at random from the escort. A seventh rode up, a thin wiry man on a smaller horse who gave them both a crooked grin.

"Got some fun eh John?'

"I hope not Lee..." John replied. "You watch the homestead while we check it out eh?"

"Sure thing." Jordy nodded and touched his fingers to his cap then spurred back to the wagon train.

"Come along then lads." Said John as he kicked his horse forward. The eight men rode slowly towards the walls, hands open to show they meant no harm. The nearer they came the clearer it became that no one was present.

Alexander finally dropped his hands with a sigh. "I feel silly." After a moment he stood in his stirrups and called out, "Ahoy! Fort Steele! Anyone there?"

Nothing but the sound of wind in the tree tops could be heard. John dismounted, the others following. They left their mounts with one of the men and then, drawing their weapons, they slowly pushed open the gate and walked into a graveyard.

Bodies lay scattered across the turf, or rather, skeletons that had been torn apart by scavengers. Several of the men covered their noses at once. It was a grisly sight and even John, who had fought in several wars, could not remember seeing so many skeletons in one place.

"Must be hundreds..." Whispered Alexander as he looked over the field. "How many people did you say were here when you came down?"

"Not more then fifty or sixty." Replied John as he moved forward, head swiveling from side to side as he scanned the area. "The bodies get thicker over there." He pointed towards the old NWMP barracks. Small arrow slits had been hacked in the outer wall and he watched them carefully as they passed, worried someone might still be inside. No arrows flew however and the group passed in safety. They turned the corner and found a whole slew of bodies around the entrance to the building. Several skeletons by the door caught his attention however, they were far to small to be adults.

"They killed all the kids too..." Came Alexanders voice from inside the barracks. He had stepped over the skeletons to get a look inside and now he came back, his face white as a ghost. "All of em, even the tiny ones."

John repressed a shudder. "I have no idea what happened here... Can you make out any clothing or items that might identify the folk who did this?"

"Over here sir." Called one of the men and John hurried over towards what had once been the garrison kitchens. His first glance in the door told him exactly what he needs to know.

"Fucking cannibals." He spat. The big pot that sat on top of the wood burning stove still bore human bones while several others looked as if they may have been neatly stacked before rotting to nothing.

"What do you think scared em off to leave it like this?" Alexander had appeared to look over John's shoulder as he asked the obvious question.

"I don't know, but we sure as fuck are not spending our night here."

[Moniker]

Reed ordered them into full kit at the Humpty’s and Petro-Canada. The place was empty and abandoned, but there were quite a few bones and hasty graves in the area, discouraging them from checking inside. It would have been looted long ago. Once they were in their kit, Reed was keenly aware of their lack of trained cavalry. His escort was drawn evenly from the Red Hands and the Skirmishers, all mounted on strong or fast horses respectfully. They were some of the few who trained for combat on them, but in the Bow Valley they had nobody with a lot of knowledge about that sort of thing. They made do with books, and trial-and-error. Still, they were mounted infantry, not proper cavalry soldiers. Out here in the prairies, it made him uncomfortable.

The wagon rattled on, being pulled by Marco. The Hands had their lances up, held in tubular sheaths and crossbows across their saddle horns. The Skirmishers had short bows and spears. He’d never seen them fire their bows from horseback, but then he’d never seen much of their woodland training. Theos assured him they were able. Reed was in full kit as well, but instead of being on horseback, he stood in the back of the cart. They’d brought a small bolt thrower powered by leaf springs, capable of throwing large steel tipped bolts several hundred feet. It was their only advantage if they were attacked on the prairies, it would either keep their enemy at bay or force them in close.

They entered the city. The buildings yawned quietly through broken windows and the only sound was the hot summer wind and birds. They saw the occasional rodent scurrying away from them, taking solace in the cracks of old shops and stores. On the right loomed the cities sentinels: the grey forms of the ski jumps at Canada Olympic Park. They would stand for years yet, before weather finally took their toll and one by one they tumbled to the ground. Reed had never given them much thought, but now they seemed like silent watchers, keeping a constant vigil on the corpse of the city that they’d witnessed die.

The troop pressed on. There were signs of violence everywhere. Here on the edge of the city, along 16th avenue that turned into the Trans-Canada, the masses of people fleeing the city had converged. Desperation and panic had fueled whatever had gone on here, leaving the strongest or most brutal with the scraps, before they too had killed each other. The cover of bones got thinner as they proceeded, but the vandalism didn’t. There were signs of flooding as well, and he expected that some parts of the city would return to nature quicker then others.

The stopped briefly to examine the North Hill mall, as Reed wanted to look into a knife store he knew had once been there. The store was ravaged and empty, and it looked like the food court had been used as a den for Ghouls, cannibals who had managed to survive longer then the rest by breaking the great human taboo. There were no signs of recent habitation, but they didn’t want to stay there just the same. Instead, they moved up the highway, and under the looming apartment buildings of the SAIT res, made camp.

Nobody talked more then necessary. They all seemed to realize that the city was populated by ghosts, and that it would be unwise to wake them. And so they ate, in near silence, with sentries out. Their horses were seen to and watered. Reed strayed a bit, but never out of earshot. He came to an area that had been under construction when the change hit. There had always been construction in Calgary, and there were still a few cranes populating the skyline. Here, there were still sheets of poly attached to the roof, and as the winds passed through the building, they billowed and curled. As he stood there, watching the gentle movement of the plastic, he thought that it was like being inside a wave frozen in time. Reed frowned. It struck him that he’d likely never see the ocean again. They got seagulls in Banff, for some reason, and that would probably be the closest he’d ever get.

There were footsteps behind him, interrupting his thought. They were light and steady, and unthreatening. “Pat,” Kat said. “It’s time to go.” She touched his mailed arm briefly, and then returned to camp. He watched the plastic waves for a moment more, and then went back to the others to help with the wagon.

They moved on. The rest of the city was more of the same, with only the ghosts and the birds for company. They next rested on the large Deerfoot overpass, overlooking the mangled wrecks of a city-spanning car crash. They left most of the city behind when they passed Chestermere, and returned to the prairies on the last leg of their journey to Strathmore. They were greeted in the evening by a party of heavy riders.

A dozen men on large horses, each armoured in lamellar jackets that split to cover their legs. They carried lances, and their nasal helms each had a long spike on top, and maille aventails that covered their necks. Half of them had tanned skin the colour of stained walnut, while most of the rest were as pail as him. The notable exception was the man who carried their banner, who was Japanese and had long moustaches to look like a mongol. Their banner was a black bulls head surrounded by a wreath on a white field, with seven roses. As they reined up a short distance away, Reed’s men aimed their crossbows and he leveled the bolt thrower. He shouted to them before their commander had a chance to greet them.

“Patrick Reed, from the Bow Valley!” he bellowed over the distance. “For the meeting in Strathmore.”

“Captain Abd-Al-Hamid Hussain, of Strathmore!” returned the man without accent. “You are in our territory. Welcome. Please come.”

[Tempest]

John moved the wagon train off the road just on the other side of the highway from the deserted fort. In old west fashion they circled the wagons, horses on the inside while the families settled down in their respective wagons.

"Set a heavy picquet Alex. A quarter of the men on their feet at all times. I suspect that whatever happened here is far from over." The two of them were seated astride their horses looking towards the south. The town of Cranbrook was somewhere over the hill and they could see smoke rising in small spirals towards the darkening sky.

"Yea man. I don't want the bastards who did that to get us." Alex nodded his head towards the empty fort where it sat, lonely, forgotten and haunted by horror. He turned his horses head and rode back towards the wagons, nodding a greeting at Jessica as she spurred past him to join her husband.

"Hey sweetheart," Said John as she rode up, leaning over to give her a kiss. "How are you and the boys?"

"The boys are fine, they think this is a grand adventure," replied the redhead as she took his hand. "Me? Well, I'me just happy to be out of the Columbia Valley. I love your parents and all but I don't think you would have survived much longer there."

He chuckled. "No, your probably right." He almost continued on to say he would miss them but he was keenly aware of Jessica's own situation. Her parents had been in Okotoks when the Change hit and almost certainly did not survive. In fact, he doubted many people at al would have survived in and around that urban jungle. He was immensely glad to not have been anywhere near it when the world came to screeching halt.

"How much further do you think we have to go?" She asked, squeezing his hand.

"Well if my memory serves it wont be more then a week at best. It depends what we run into, the state of the mountain passes, if the highways are clear, etc." John closed his eyes as he retraced the route in his mind. He couldn't remember special dates or conversations he'd had a year ago to save his life but when it came to directions, he rarely needed to read a map twice.

"I'm ready for bed." Jessica said suddenly and he grinned at her. "Come on you great oaf." She continued as she turned her horse towards the wagons.

Together they rode back to the wagon line, a grinning sentry opening a gap for them to ride through. They dismounted, unsaddled and brushed down the horses then climbed into the wagon with the boys. Both were snoring gently, oblivious of their parents arrival. Quietly they lay down and pulled the blankets tight around them. John wrapped his arms around Jessica and they were asleep in an instant.

* * * * *

"John. Dude. John." The insistent whisper brought John from his sleep and he rolled over to see Alex waving at him from the end of the wagon. "Its your watch buddy."

John gave him the thumbs up and slipped from under the blankets. He pulled on his boots and dropped from the wagon, reclaiming his big sword from its rack on the side of the wagon. It might be summer but it was still deceptively chilly in the mountains at four in the morning. He made his way to the fire that glowed in the midst of the wagons, threading his way between horses, and sat, rubbing his hands against the heat. A kettle was bubbling slightly and he took it off, made some tea and drank it down. Alex joined him a moment later as other members of the third watch began to appear around the fire, rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

"Nothing out there so far except for a whack of wolves." Alex reported with a grunt as he sat next John. "And they ain't afraid of us. They've come close a few times so keep your eyes peeled. There were a couple fires out southwards for an hour or two but we haven't seen a thing since." He gestured towards the white expanse of roadway where it became bridge and crossed the river. "I've had a man keeping his eye on the bridge in case someone tried to cross but nothing yet."

John nodded. "Thanks big fella. Get some sleep. I'll pass your message onto my watch and relieve yours in the next five minutes."

As Alex slipped into his own wagon John relayed what had been told to him too the oncoming watch. They all nodded, and then scattered to relieve the sentries who waited for them in the dark. One by one they came in, reported to John, and then hurried off to bed. Once they were all sorted and everyone had their place John took the time to strap on his heavy armour. He stepped through the wagons and nodded to the sentry who had swiveled to watch him.

"Going to the bridge. If am not back in half an hour, send help." John whispered and was rewarded with a thumbs up.

As he stepped into the darkness John was keenly aware of just how weird it still was to not see artificial light everywhere. No houses twinkled in the dark and no glow hovered over Cranbrook. It made the world somehow seem so much larger. He moved through the grass with a silence that would have impressed a hunting cat. His years in the special forces had taught him many skills but none had been more appropriate for the Change then his ability to move virtually undetected.

It took him five minutes to cross the ground between the wagons and the bridge. The whole while he cast glances at the silent mass of Fort Steele, half expecting to see ghosts. He may not have been an overly religious man but he was superstitious about that sort of thing. He reached the eastern edge of the bridge without incident and stopped to look at it, the moon sliding from behind the clouds making it more then bright enough. For a moment he studied the open space, looking for any moving shadows or creatures but saw nothing. Droppings on the bridge told him it had been used by horses, cattle, elk, a few bears and numerous wolves.

At length he turned his back and slid through the darkness again. He hailed the sentry and, when he was sure the man would not shoot, walked up to him and sat next to him in the grass. Neither of them said a word. To the west the very first hint of dawn began to spread across the horizon. It would be another long, hot day of travel.

[Moniker]

Captain Hussein led the procession into the fortified town of Strathmore, his bannerman and two soldiers at the front, the rest behind. He was not a talkative man, and whenever he did speak to Reed, his eyes went to the tattoos that splayed across his nose and cheeks, and the twin ravens inked on the sides of his shaven head. It had seemed polite to remove his helm, but perhaps that was a mistake. Still, Reed was trying to get information out of him on the town.

“That explains your armour anyways,” Reed was saying in a friendly voice. “Eastern style. It is effective out here?”

“Yes,” replied the Captain. “We looked to model ourselves on the armies of the great warriors, such as Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn, who fought the Lionheart. It is effective.”

“A fine example of valor and intelligence,” complimented Reed, to no reaction. “Tell me how this place got through the change; all we’ve heard is rumors. Many of you came from Calgary originally?”

Obviously exasperated, Captain Hussein responded curtly. “Yes. Many of us worked in the city. We knew it was going to die, and so we came east.”

The guarded wagon passed through what served as a gatehouse. It was really just a hole in their small wall, with two unimpressive towers. Their gate, he was amused to see, was made from a school bus that had been armoured and reinforced. The idea must have come from Mad Max, and some of his men chuckled as well. The town they entered was quiet, as was expected at this late hour of the day. The sun was moments from setting and so far from the mountains there wouldn’t be a long period of glowing before darkness.

So it was, that when the sun finally set, there were torches and lanterns already lit. Fuel was not something they wanted for here, apparently. Then, as one, from many directions, a long sonorous harmony rang out, each male voice saying the same words. “Allahu akbar!” they cried, slowly. ‘God is Great.’ It made Reed furrow his brow, but he kept silence. Captain Hussein shouted to his men in Arabic, and they pulled off the road.

“We must observe our evening prayers,” the dour man explained. “Keep on this road, turn left on Wheatland, and go to the Westmont Elementary School. McIntyre is the man you want.” Somewhat insulted, but more surprised that they would be allowed to continue unguarded, Reed ordered their caravan forward.

“Did that seem strange?” Kat voiced his question first.

“Bloody strange,” piped up Marco at the reins.

“There’s certainly a lot of Muslims,” Patrick said, scanning about them. “Probably Lebs or whoever who worked in Cow-town. They rallied, and came here. I recognize their banner from back when Clarkson and I did the swords-and-armour stuff. It belongs to Montengarde, the old SCA barony based out of Calgary. Could explain the quality of their gear, and their penchant for lamellar. Fuckin’ lamellar, poncy bastards…”

Reed had to explain what the SCA was to Kat, and Montengarde, and that he’d been a re-enactor. She took it in stride, saying that it made sense and had obviously helped him post-change. It was strange talking to her so freely. They’d hardly spoken in a year. When he’d told her his old ‘persona’ name, she’d laughed and shone that beautiful smile of hers. He’d lusted after it pre-Change, had caught it post-Change, and nearly destroyed it after he’d brought back Bridget from Canmore. He felt a twinge of guilt, but the thought of Bridget and his son made it pass quickly.

“How many people you reckon live here, Marco?” the big man asked his friend.

“It’s hard to say. I think this place is busier then it seems, because of the hour and the evening prayers. The wall is not high, but its long, and it would have taken a lot of people to put that together after only a few years, though it might not be finished. There are gardens everywhere, and I expect they’ve probably got a hold of a heap of cattle, like the WARF… Maybe three or four times as many as us in the Valley, that’s my guess.”

Patrick slid his hand down his beard, all the way to the large antler beads that swung from the bottoms of his braids. He held them there for a moment, going through the slow process of running some numbers through his head. His train of thought was interrupted before he could decide on how many men they could likely field by a high-pitched excited voice.

“Hello biys!” shouted a diminutive man with gargantuan ears. “You must be the bunch from the mountains, yes? Carlyle McIntyre, at your service!”

As introductions were made, Reed was trying to figure out exactly what it was that seemed strange about the man. McIntyre was talking with Marco about lodging and food when it struck him. The man was dressed like a businessman. He had pressed pants, a clean white shirt, and a black tie. He’d not seen a tie since the change. It made him chuckle. Their needs were seen to, as well as their animals, and they were shown their accommodations. They had a house to themselves, bare for the most part, but well kept and with enough beds. While they were still unloading their kit and supplies, a runner came to see Carlyle, informing him that the council was being assembled. Apparently the company from Banff was the second last to arrive, and the group from Nordegg had just passed through the gates.

- - - - - -

Reed had had just enough time to remove his maille shirt and armour, and was shown to the Elementary School. The meeting was held in the library. Carlyle chattered away in his Newfoundland brogue, heedless of anything that Patrick had to say. Marco hadn’t come with him, as this was only a meet-and-greet. The meetings proper would start tomorrow morning.

At Carlyle’s urging, Patrick pushed through the double doors into what had once been the library. His boots tread softly on the carpet as he entered, and he paused to look around. There were folding tables arrayed in a large circle, with white table cloths draped over them and chairs arrayed around. He immediately recognized the dark eyes of Aketcheta, who was seated to the left beside an old Native man whose wrinkled hands were clasped on the table. Reed moved to the other side of the circle, sitting briskly down a few feet from anyone. He didn’t know these people, and none made an effort to greet him. It was only a short time before the last man arrived, accompanied by the sound of squeaking wheels.

The representative from Nordegg was wheeled in, a portly graying man in a wheelchair. Space was made for him, and his aid sat down beside him. He coughed wetly, and then placed his hands on the table. “Sorry I’m late, but it’s a damned pain in the posterior when you can’t hop on a bus.”

“It’s quite all right,” said a quiet voice to Patrick’s right. “Please, let us convene.”

[Tempest]

Fort Steele, Columbia Valley
August 2nd, Change Year 2

The night passed without interruption. Wolves had prowled the circle of wagons but never come close enough to be a bother. The dogs they had with them were the only ones who didn’t manage to grab a few hours of sleep, they spent the entire night with their hackles raised and snarling into the darkness.

As dawn began to split the horizon and the sun touched the peaks above them the wagon train packed up and formed up on the highway again. John gathered the his men around him for a quick word before they went on their way.

“Right lads,” he was speaking from the saddle, standing in his stirrups so everyone could see him. “We are going to be riding west towards Cranbrook, then cutting south on the 93 towards Fernie. I don’t know how Cranbrook is holding up and to be honest, I don’t want to know. Questions?”

A thin man with a bow nearly as big as he was raised a hand. “Sir. If we are attacked?”

“Just keep the wagons moving. We don’t want to get snarled up in something bigger then we are.”

The man nodded and was quiet. John looked around but no one else had anything to add.

“Right, to your wagons.” As the horses were spurred away John took his place at the head of the column with Alexander. “Onward and upward eh?”

The other man grinned and winked. “Oh yea, I love climbing. Its my favourite thing to do right after getting hit in the balls with a wallet.”

The two men laughed and John nodded. “That was hilarious!”

Both were still chuckling when John waved the wagon train forward. They would cross the bridge first and John could not help but wonder who was going to build bridges over this massive rivers when the concrete ones at last collapsed into nothing. It felt weird to even consider such things that he had taken for granted before the Change. Mind you, before the change he would have made this trip on a motorbike and been there by now.

The column crossed the bridge and began their westward turn towards Cranbrook. All of them rode with an arrow on the string of their short recurve bows. All they knew is that people were there, what kind and who was a different story.

For the first couple of kilometres they could see nothing but the small ridge that stood between then and Cranbook. They were several hundred yards from it when John spotted movement in the brush on the ridgetop and swiftly took up his binoculars.
The face that stared back at him was grotesque. Matted hair, filthy skin and a scarred nose and cheeks told him all he needed to know about the people further west. He drop the binoculars and leaned over towards Alexander.

“Savage on the ridge. Warn the lads, we’ll try to avoid them.”

Alexander didn’t reply except for a quick nod as he turned his horse and rode down the wagons to tell the others. They tightened up the column, so that the horses pulling the wagons were almost nose to the tai of the wagon in front of them. John didn’t expect trouble, 100 mounted, armoured men was hardly an easy target.

He kept an eye on the figure as they rode past but it did nothing to try and bother them. He doubted it had seen anything like them in over two years probably. Military in these forces had been rare pre-change, let alone now.

They came to the highway junction and turned south, it was a long days ride but they were nearing the hardest part of their journey.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Port Albion, Vancouver Island
August 2nd, Change Year 2

Laurent Morin patted the neck of his horse as they rode slowly through what had once been Port Albion proper. Most of the buildings had been pulled down for their material, or moved altogether to the new townsite at the extreme southern end of the narrow peninsula. Here the land narrowed to about 450 yards . A ditch had been dug from side to side to allow the sea to flow into it, 20 feet deep and 20 feet wide it was a formidable obstacle, made even more so by the twenty foot wall on the other side. A heavy drawbridge lay across the moat; heavy chains ran from its nearer end and up into the gatehouse. The tips of a spiked portcullis showed just beneath the edge of the gateway and the two solid steel gates in the centre had once been the plates on a ship in the harbour.

“Morning Cap’n,” said a smiling, saluting sentry as Morin approached the gate. “Top of the morning to ye.”

Mornin returned the salute and grinned as he passed through the gatehouse. “And the rest of the day to you.”

The gatehouse was a massive beast of a structure. The gatehouse was flanked on either side by U shaped towers that allowed defenders an unrestricted field of fire on anyone trying to cross the drawbridge or fill in the moat. Round towers were spaced every 50 yards down the wall to the sea, the furthest towers actually sitting in the water below the low tide mark.

Upon exiting the gatehouse you had two choices, you could go left towards the merchant docks or right into the town itself. Everything building here was made of stone with a solid roof that supported slate rock. The influence of Knight’s trip to the United Kingdom could be seen everywhere.

Morin took the right hand road. He could smell the woodsmoke and the first faces were appearing as people rose for the morning. To the left the harbour that separated the merchant docks from the rest of the town was full. All of the tallships were in and the fishing fleet had yet to put to sea.

“Morning Captain,” Called a voice and he twisted in his saddle to see a young woman waving at him from a second story window. She had raven black hair that fell frame a slightly oval face with black eyes. She was one of the original natives of the town who had joined them when Knight and Morin conquered the place a year and a half ago.

“Morning Migina. How are you?’ He turned back, riding beneath her window and grinning up.

“Wonderful that I get to see you!” She giggled and flushed slightly.

He winked. “Are you busy today?”

There was a pause as she seemed to think about it. “I guess not. Why?”

“I am having supper with the Commander. Would you care to be my guest?”

Her eyes seemed to double in size as she nodded vigorously. “I would love too! What time!?”

“Five bells in the dogs.” Port Albion used the old Royal Navy method of telling time by sounding bells on every watch. The use of the bells to mark the time stems from the period when seamen could not afford a personal time piece and even if they could, they had no idea on how to tell time with such an instrument. The bells mark the hours of the watch in half-hour increments. The seamen would know if it were morning, noon, or night. Each watch is four hours long.

“I’ll be ready!” She said with a dazzling smile, vanishing inside with a shriek of delight. He could hear her calling her mother to tell her the news.

People were beginning to fill the streets and they all offered him a brief bow or a salute. He was a man who demanded respect as second in command of the town and its accompanying Navy.

He passage through the town constantly reminded him of his own trip to Europe. The buildings looked so similar to those he had seen in British towns on the coast, and the accents of the various people never failed to amaze him.

All the while he could see the Castle rising beyond the town. It was a hulking building built in two parts, half on the mainland and the second on an island that was attached to the first part by a solid stone bridge. The first half housed the naval barracks and allowed access to the military dock while the second housed Knight and his family. It was a functional fortress. The main keep was were Knight lived but the rest of the fortress was essentially a giant artillery battery.

There was no way into the harbour with passing by it and siege weapons lay in wait for any who dared to try without permission. A second, smaller fortress, sat on the main shore across the harbour mouth to add its own formidable siege weapons to the defenses.

At the Castle gate sentries again saluted Morin as he rode through another gatehouse. Inside he dismounted and allowed a groom to lead his horse away. Another gate and he was on the long stone bridge, only wide enough for two men shoulder to shoulder, that led to the inner keep. His boots echoed on the stone as he moved, the waves crashing below him to make the bridge shiver.

A final set of gates before him bore Knight’s coat of arms in red over black and they split apart to allow him entry, a sentry announcing his arrival.

[Moniker]

“It’s quite all right,” said a quiet voice to Patrick’s right. “Please, let us convene.”

Reed looked at the man to gain his measure. He was well groomed, with a dark unobtrusive moustache. His expression was amiable enough, and the few lines on his dark skinned face. He had a very faint middle-eastern accent to his voice that reminded him of the Lebanese men he’d worked with right before the change. The man dressed well, with a silk doublet in reserved colours that sported a paisley pattern. On his breast was a patch bearing the wreathed bull and roses of Montengarde.

“I am Qasim Abdulrashid, mayor of Strathmore,” introduced the man. “They also call me the Baron of Montengarde, which encompasses all our territory. I ask each of you to introduce yourselves, and then we shall briefly outline the topics we wish to discuss tomorrow. Please, would you begin?”

Qasim motioned to his right to their wheelchair bound late arrival, a jowly man in his fifties with sparse hair more white then grey. He cleared his throat of phlegm, then wiped his hands on his jean jacket before speaking.

“I’m Jake Carver. I was Mayor of Nordegg before, and still am I suppose. We’re in charge of a fair bit of Clearwater County these days,” explained the older man. By his frank way of speaking he sounded like a man who’d been in Alberta all his life.

The next man stood to introduce himself. He was a very thin man, and he had been fidgeting since he arrived. Blonde stubble covered his chin and he wore a white bandana. He had no sleeves to speak of, and wore a simple green doublet with white trim belted at his waist. Over his left breast was a crest Reed was unfamiliar with. It was white, divided with a red X and had the letter ‘K’ in each corner. He had crude tattoos on his arms and knuckles that Reed couldn’t make out, as well as the double lightning bolts of the Nazi SS on his cheek.

“Names Ian Knox, I’m the Grand Dragon of Arrowwood,” he said boldly, eliciting some shifting and grumbling from the Natives. He sat down as quickly as he had stood, scratching his neck.

“Well I’m Matt Leiche,” said the next man quickly, also standing. “I’m the boss of Fallingdown Farm, and elected spokesman of the West Alberta Ranchers Federation.” He never let his eyes leave Reed, who met his gaze for a time before looking to the next man.

There was a string of five representatives of Native tribes, including Akecheta and Otaktai of the Stoney Indians from Morley. The Tsu T’ina were represented, as well as the Cree, the Blackfoot and the Dakota from the east. They each took their turns, giving their names in their own tongue and then the English versions of the same. Then from Patrick’s left stood a young man wearing the Red Serge of the RCMP. A Mounty.

“Lieutenant Albert Dufort of the Emergency Mounted Police Force,” said the impeccably groomed man, bowing curtly. “I’ve been sent to represent the Dominion of Drumheller, which stretches as far east as the town of Cereal and as far north as Big Valley.”

It was Reed’s turn to introduce himself at last. He stood, stretching his broad shoulders. He looked the most outlandish then the rest of him, with the delicate knotwork tattoos on his face, the sides of his head and his arms. His big braided beard was also unique, as most of the others had only stubble or moustaches. He coughed to clear the tickle from his throat before passing his gaze across his contemporaries.

“Patrick Reed,” he stated. “Chieftain of the Bow Valley, which includes the communities of Banff, Canmore, Minnewanka and Engadine Lodge. Pleasure.”

“Thank you all,” said Mayor Abdulrashid, the Baron of Montengarde. “Now that we are all acquainted, let me begin.”

They went around the circle again, each naming topics they wanted to discuss. Official borders, trade routes, shared up-do-date map information and joint efforts regarding bandits and guarding caravans. Mayor Carver of Nordegg wanted a skill-trade system set up, so they could help teach each other necessary skills. The most interesting proposal came from Lieutenant Dufort, regarding a uniting of all the Albertan communities, which brought grumblings from the Natives, who wanted anonymity and sovereignty more than anything else. The young man also proposed an agreement to upkeep the rail lines around the province, which would be the quickest way to travel about.

When it came to be Reed’s turn, most of his points had been said by others except two. And so he suggested two things, the first was to agree upon foraging rights for the dead city of Calgary, but the second was considerably more dire. He asked for a ban of, and punishments for using, chemical or biological weapons in any sort of warfare, including against bandits and outlaws.

“This would include using gases, as we in the valley are capable of if we should choose,” he explained, making Aketcheta go a pale. “But would also include the old tactic of launching diseased cattle or corpses over a towns wall, and any number of other things.”

When nobody else had anything to add to their list, their host explained the agenda for the next day. They would be provided with breakfast, and then the council would begin in earnest at ten in the morning, allowing time for a bit of a rest. Following councils, as necessary, would begin earlier. They would have lunch, and then there would be an informal social and dinner in the evening. The man stood, and politely dismissed them before leaving himself.

[Tempest]

Alexander

Alexander turned in his saddle to gaze back along the column as it slowly wound its way from the mountains. They had left Sparwood three days past, the town nothing but a smoking ruin after the attempt the locals had made on John’s life.

The big man’s rage had been something to behold as he ordered his troops to slaughter anyone who resisted when he returned from his meeting with the town leaders, a vicious cut on his shoulder where one had stabbed him. The fight had been brief, the Sparwood survivors doing more screaming and dying then anything.

In the town they had found the survivors from Fernie, locked away for later consumption by their long time neighbors. John had offered them freedom in exchange for service to him and many had agreed. More had drifted in as smoke rose from the town and those hiding in the mountains realized that something of importance was going on. The new recruits to John’s campaign numbered nearly three hundred, many of them lean and fit from their time surviving in the wilderness and their skills would be welcomed by the Waterton bound column.

“G’day Mr. McCarteny.” An Aussie from Fernie gave him a friendly grin as he trudged by. Alexander nodded in reply, returning the grin with one of his own. The mountains had produced a strange collection of Aussies, Brits, Kiwi’s and Germans, all whom had been on working holidays when the Change hit.

Turning the head of his horse he rode slowly along the column towards the distant vanguard where scouts ranged ahead, probing the outskirts of Crowsnest Pass. He absentmindedly touched the hammer hanging at his back, the wood handle warm to the touch despite the cloud cover that blocked out the sun.

“Oy!” The shout startled him out of his reverie to see a scout waving him over, a pair of binoculars in hand. For the moment he was in charge of the vanguard, John was busy talking with the former leaders of the Fernie groups, trying to assimilate them into his own people.

“Yes?” He said as he rode up to the scout, taking out his own binoculars and aiming them at the town before them. The “town” was actually a series of smaller towns that spread along the valley floor eventually ending at the mouth of the mountains. He scanned the valley carefully, noting a small crowd of people that seemed to be waiting for them, gathered up at the edge of the town of Coleman. Above their heads flew a white flag.
“Find John, he’ll want to be here for this.” Alexander ordered the scout as he continued to watch the crowd. This was an interesting development indeed.

[Moniker]

Katrina

When Parick had returned, Katrina had dinner ready and made, patched together with their fresher rations. She'd spoken with Carlyle the Newfoundlander and learned they could restock and shops and a market the next day. Reed's escort had all ready eaten, as had Marco, but she'd waited a bit longer and took her meal with her former lover. She was all smiles, and they chatted about what they'd seen of the town.

"It's so nice to see other people surviving," she commented at one point, and he'd agreed excitedly, then began telling her about the other deligates.

"I'm mostly concerned about the stubborness of those bloody Natives," the big man was explaining to her. "However, that fellow from Arrowwood sends out bad vibes. I didn't reckognise the symbol he wore, but he called himself the Grand bloody Cyclops. Aryan guard, or straight up KKK. Some sort of skinhead at the least. He'll be trouble."

They chatted about the various issues, Marco joning them with tea. Having spent the first couple months of the Change as, basically, the Human Resources Manager, Katrina's opinion was still quite useful. Reed didn't want to sign up with some 'Albertan Dominion' as the Mounty had proposed, but he aquiesced to the idea that a unified currency would be a very useful tool in trade both at home and abroad in the prairies. He also got rather animated, discussing the possibilities of a skills trade, as suggested by the Mayor of Nordegg. Eventually Katrina asked Patrick to elaborate about his ban on chemical and biological weapons.

"I used to work Maintenance at the Inns of Banff before I met you," he explained. "I looked after the pools. All pools use a sanitizer - chlorine mostly - and a strong acid to balance it out and keep the water slightly acidic, because it's easier on the skin. However, if you combine chlorine with hydrochloric acid on its own, which is the most comon acid uses, it creates a very deadly vapour... Mustard gas, in essence. The only reason its not harmful in a pool is because it's so diluted in water. Five parts per million sort of diluted. Because of all the hotels with pools, we have quite a supply in town."

Kat felt her lips tighten at the thought of it. The fighting and battles of the World Wars had never interested her in school, but she'd always felt for the human cost, and she remembered the horrible things her textbook described, and the choking yellow gas gave her the shivers. Since the change, when death had been real and around the corner, it was a sobering thought indeed. They lapsed into a long moment of quiet. Eventually, she was the one who broke it.

"I think we ought to get some rest," said Kat as she cleared their teacups. "You two have to be up for the Council, and I want to get us all supplies for the rest of us who don't get a free brekky and suss out the town. Good night boys, and don't be up too late!"

She smiled at them, and she saw Patrick smile back under his big braided beard. She knew he loved her smile - which had cost five thousand dollars a few months before the change - and she knew how to use that to her advantage. The memory of how often he'd tell her how beautiful she was when she smiled at him had turned sour, however, and she turned away. KAt went outside to wash the dishes in a basin. As she did, she resolved that she would continue to be the perfect companion. She would keep flirting with the soldiers, she'd laugh at MArco's tame jokes, run this little houshold while the council was on, and above all, keep flashing Patrick with her winning smile.

[Tempest]

John

"Join me or die."

His words brought instant silence to the crowded gymnasium. Various groups that represented the half dozen or so towns in the area had come to the meeting, a motley collection of survivors, some who had clearly done better than others.

"Join me or die."

He repeated the words again in the hushed silence and they echoed from walls that still bore “Regional Basketball Champions” banners. He was standing alone in the middle of the gym floor, now scuffed and greyed, alone save for his armour and two handed sword. The representatives stared at him from their hastily laid out tables and chairs. When one of them finally spoke his voice shook slightly, forcing him to clear his throat and begin again.

“Those are two pretty precise options sir.” The speaker was a white haired man who had once been the RCMP Sergeant in charge of the Crowsnest Pass detachment.

“And they are your only two.” John said with a thin smile. “I intend to forge from the ruins of this world a nation, a nation built on blood and steel if need be. The old world, the ways that you still seem to cling to so dearly is gone.”

He could see that his words, though brief, were making an impact as some of the delegates sagged in their seats. They were tired, they were scared, and all they wanted was to be left in peace.

“Join me and I promise you law, order, and the gods willing, peace.” He almost felt silly as he spoke the words but something inside of him had stirred and he could see that for many of those listening to him, they too knew that things would never be the same again. “Join me and we will build a nation to stand as an example of what man can do. We have been hit ladies and gentlemen, by whatever took our toys from us, but now we have the opportunity to make something new, something great!”

He could see some nods from the younger men in the crowd. One of them, a strong looking man who had practically worshipped John since his arrival stepped forward.

“He is right! Why wouldn’t we join him!?”

A hubbub of voices washed over them as the room seemed to explode with sound. The doors crashed open and a dozen of John’s men rushed in, fearing that he had been attacked. Seeing no immediate danger but sensing something was afoot they formed a loose unit by the door, looking impressive in matching armour and tunics.

“A vote!” A voice cried out and suddenly a chant swept the gymnasium. “A vote! A vote!”

John said nothing as the delegates voted, each man or woman receiving one vote by a simple show of hands. The older members voted against but the overwhelming majority of young members raised their hands in favour of joining him. He felt a smile cross his face as the numbers were counted. He opened his mouth to speak but the young man who had spoken before suddenly stepped forward, a sly smile on his face as he raised a fist into the air.

“All hail King John!”

Several other voices repeated the call and suddenly the entire gymnasium was echoing with the chant.

“King John!”

He could hear his men behind him joining the acclamation, their spear butts hammering into the floor in time with the chant. His smile grew and he knew that his world would never be the same.

[Moniker]

Patrick

The first day of negotiations had ended around four in the afternoon, and Reed was frustrated and angry. Things had gone sour right from the get-go. It had seemed obvious that before other issues were settled, it was best to settle the borders. The four representatives from the Tsu T’ina, Cree, Blackfoot and Dakota were contrary to border that was set down, and Chief Otaktai of the Stoney tribe on his boarders had a strong stance on where the Bow Valley should end. Everything he said against Reed’s people was supported invariably by Boss Leiche, of Fallingdown Farm in the WARF. Patrick had tried as hard as he could to remain sitting, but his ears and bald head had burned red and his hands grew sore from clenching.

“We came to an accord over the Lafarge plant once!” he roared, bumping his table loudly as he rose. “Then your men came in and scalped my warriors! If any of you want to step inside Exshaw again, you’ll need to break through our barricades with weapons in your hands! The Bow Valley ends at the Bulwark, and not a foot back!”

Marco had grabbed his arm there and, after a moment of glaring into the silent gathering, Reed had sat and the issue was left as settled as it would ever be. He’d expected yelling, but hadn’t wanted to be the first, especially not before the first break.

Nobody tested the bearded mans patience to such an extent again, but it was by no means a round of easy talks. People jockeyed for position during trades talks, trying to push eachothers into revealing more about themselves then they wanted. Mayor Carver of Nordegg and Clearwater County was the most adept at this, and when matters between Nordegg and Banff were concluded, Reed felt cheated despite the boons he’d arranged in the skill-trade agreement they’d made.

Arrowwood, championed by the Grand Dragon, Ian Knox, had tried to get in on their deal but they’d immediately closed ranks, saying they preferred to keep things between one another for ease. The whole assembly seemed reluctant to deal with Knox, and by lunch he easily seemed as riled up as Patrick. The only time the assembly seemed to make real diplomatic progress was when all assembled agreed on preserving the railway in their area, though some had argued against the trade restrictions if they failed to maintain their agreements. This too had nearly made Patrick rage and shout, but the more level-headed Qasim of Sundre and Montengarde had stood up, and calmly explained the benefits of the proposal point by point.

That was the last issue of the day. Qasim Abdulrashid had thanked them, and said that they would resume again the next day. Documents would be drawn up, and for that he welcomed each of the representatives or their aids to remain behind to check things over. They could read and sign them the next morning. The Mayor of Sundre also informed them of a social that was being held in honour of the Council of Alberta, as he called it. They, their aides, and any wife or other companion were invited to attend.

Reed stood quickly, clapping Marco on the shoulder before leaving him to oversee the drawing up of the documents. Once he’d gotten a distance away from the former Elementary School, he let loose a long string of curses.

“Fuck shit piss motherfucker!” he punctuated his words by slamming his fist against a fence post. “I’m not cut out for this bureaucratic crap…”