The fourth part of this story can be found here.

Night had fallen over Coppertown—rather, over the place where Coppertown had been. Ashes and scorched stones were all that was left, apart from a few buildings that rose like tombstones from the devastation. The moon painted the scene black and silver. It was like a picture, quiet and still, except for the odd flicker of movement as an animal scurried through the remains of the town.

The building that had once been the mayor’s residence was the safest structure left. The survivors had settled in the upper rooms, beyond the reach of the creatures turned vicious by the Blight. There were about forty survivors: mostly young miners and their wives. No children had lived.

The survivors were in the process of exploring the cellars that remained intact after the fire. Once they had gathered enough supplies, they would arm themselves and make the dangerous trek to the nearest town. Then they could book passage with a caravan and travel to the Emperor’s City, there to begin a new life as refugees.

Such was their hope.

Several of the young miners had built a fire in their room, using timbers from the attic as fuel. After removing the ladders to the lower floors, they huddled around the fire and tried to make conversation.

“Cursed be Jerem,” muttered Aloysius, watching the flames. “Ten thousand curses on him and his band of murderers. No mercy, not even for the children. Rope for a few; steel for some; pitch and fire for the rest. Gone. All gone.”

“Will you stop it?” burst out his brother. “It’s over. Jerem’s gone, curse his fat face. Our town is gone, and so are most of our friends. Almost everything is gone, yes, but we’re still here. We’re still alive, Aloysius, don’t you see? We can’t complain. We’re the lucky ones. We survived.”

Aloysius scowled. “Tell me, dear brother,” he said. “How does that make us the lucky ones?”

“Ignore him, Quinton,” said one of the men. “Your brother was a gloomy blighter before Jerem swept through, and now he’s even worse. If we take no notice of him, perhaps he’ll shut his mouth and let us talk about cheerfuller things.”

The conversation turned to other subjects, and Aloysius’s thoughts turned to his parents. They were not among the survivors. In a single day of bloodshed and ruin, most of the family had perished. Aloysius and Quinton were the only members left. They alone survived to carry on their family’s name. For their family’s sake they had to keep living.

It was their only reason to keep living.

Morning dawned: as fresh, bright and beautiful a morning as the world had ever seen. Birdsong was heard for the first time since the fire. Sunlight flooded the ruins of Coppertown.

Aloysius could not help but feel a glimmer of hope. Yes, the world was falling apart. Jerem the Plague and his band cut a swathe of destruction across the Empire. Disasters tore apart the land, and the Blight corrupted whatever creatures were spared.

Yet the sun rose every morning.

Perhaps, mused Aloysius, the end of the world was not such a gloomy thing after all.

“Today’s the last day,” said Paddy, the oldest of the miners. “We can’t afford to stay longer. No stone unturned today, lads. If there’s any food left in this town, we find it. Tonight we pack; tomorrow we leave. Aloysius, you’re on guard duty. The rest of you lot, come along.”

Since the guard towers had been reduced to a few charred timbers, the best vantage point in Coppertown was the roof of the mayor’s residence. After gathering a few essentials—some food, a bottle of water, a parasol and his trumpet—Aloysius crawled out of an upper window and climbed up to the roof.

It was the work of a moment to set up camp for the day. Aloysius opened the parasol and propped it up against a chimney for shade. He placed the other items carefully upon the rooftop and then sat down to keep watch.

Aloysius was the only miner who could play the trumpet. The others had tried, but all they could manage were muffled wheezes. Only Aloysius could produce a long, clear blast from the instrument. If anything approached the ruins of Coppertown, he would blow the trumpet, signaling the miners to make a dash for the safety of the mayor’s residence.

A week before, Aloysius would have been tempted to pass the time by making music. He felt no such temptation now.

Hours passed. Aloysius drank from the bottle and ate a little. The sun blazed. The air shimmered. Except for the murmur of conversation from the miners below, all was silent.

He sounded the trumpet. With shouts of alarm, the miners swarmed across the ashen remains of Coppertown and barricaded themselves in the mayor’s residence.

“What is it?” asked Quinton, joining his brother on the rooftop. “What do you see?”

Aloysius pointed.

Five figures leading horses had entered Coppertown.

“Jerem’s men?” asked Quinton.

“Can’t say,” replied Aloysius. “Sun’s too bright. They could be Imperials. I’ll take a closer look.”

“Aloysius, if you think for one instant I’ll let you—”

“Curse it, Quinton, just be quiet. I’m not the fragile little boy you think I am. Get inside and tell the others to be silent and alert. I’ll meet these people. If all’s well, I’ll give a blast on the trumpet. If you don’t hear anything, assume the worst.”

“Aloysius, I won’t—” began Quinton, but his brother cut him off again.

“I love you, dear brother, but shut up.”

Aloysius clambered down through the window, clutching his trumpet. His decision was made. Life was a painful option; suicide was no option at all. Meeting the strangers seemed like an admirable solution. If he survived the encounter, he would keep living. If he did not survive, his troubles were over.

He left the mayor’s residence and padded silently through the ashes. As he neared the strangers, their voices became clearer.

“Well, gents and lady, here’s the thriving mining outpost called Coppertown. Looks like my information was correct. The place is gutted. We’d best start by looking for survivors: anyone who can tell us where Jerem’s gone.”

“Thank you, Master Puck. Your services are proving to be useful.”

“You’re too kind, Paladin Fey.”

“Your obsequiousness is duly noted. All right, we had better split into two—Loxley! Where do you think you’re going?”

“What, Nicky here gets a formal title and I don’t?”

“Answer the question, Loxley.”

Aloysius heard the ringing sound of a blade unsheathed.

“Whoa, put away the sword! I didn’t mean to offend, lady. I was just slipping away to see if Jerem overlooked anything, don’t you know.”

“Elucidate, Loxley.”

“Do what now?”

“Explain,” said another voice. It was a gentle voice, and Aloysius guessed the man to whom it belonged was smiling.

“Oh, that’s what she means. Thanks for translating, Innocent. Ah! Will you put away the sword, lady? I’ll explain, I’ll explain. I thought there might be some valuables Jerem missed when he plundered this place, see?”

“You disgust me, Loxley. If you try to slip away again, you’ll lose one of your fingers.”

“But I need them all for thieving, lady. Would you endanger our mission by handicapping me?”

“Then you’ll lose some other, less useful portion of your anatomy. I can think of one in particular with which you could certainly afford to part ways.”

The gentle voice spoke again. “With due respect, Paladin Fey, threats are not needed. Mist, don’t forget you owe me quite a debt. You can start repaying it by obeying our leader.”

“All right, Innocent. You got it. I’m listening to you, lady, but only because Innocent here told me to. Don’t think for a second I actually respect you or anything.”

Aloysius had crept near the strangers and hid behind a crumbling section of wall. He had some idea of listening to their conversation until he was sure of who they were and what they wanted.

His designs were ruined. A man stepped around the wall, took hold of his arm and dragged him into the midst of the strangers.

“Well done, Master Fuori,” said the lady, before addressing Aloysius: “Calm down, we’re not here to hurt you.”

Aloysius had begun to shake. As he tried to gather the nerve to speak, he glanced at the strangers and tried to match each one to the voices he had heard.

“We’re from the Emperor’s City,” continued the lady. “I’m Paladin Fey; you may have heard of me. These are my companions, Paladin Spike and Masters Fuori, Puck and Loxley.”

“About time I get the title,” grumbled Loxley.

Paladin Fey was a slender woman in a military uniform. Although he would never have dared admit it, Aloysius thought she was quite pretty. Paladin Spike was middle-aged and had a pleasant smile; Master Fuori was young and athletic; Master Puck was gangly and had ginger hair; Master Loxley was hairy and slightly rotund.

Each of the strangers was armed: the Paladins with swords, Master Fuori with a bow and arrows, Master Puck with a cutlass and Master Loxley with a long knife.

“We’re searching for Jerem the Plague, also called the Red Demon,” continued Paladin Fey. “The Emperor himself has tasked us with bringing him to justice. We received intelligence that he had been seen near Coppertown. Judging by the condition of the town, I surmise this information was accurate.”

“Yes, he was here.”

“What can you tell us?”

Aloysius took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you, but for a price.”

Paladin Fey mechanically raised the point of her sword to his throat. “Tell us or I kill you where you stand.”

With a single, swift motion that made them all start, Paladin Spike drew his sword and knocked the blade away from Aloysius’s throat, forcing the points of both swords into the ground.

Aloysius took a long, shaky breath.

“I apologize, Paladin Fey,” said Paladin Spike quietly. He pulled her sword out of the ground and handed it to her hilt-first. “I know this is the Empire’s way of doing things, but I won’t have more violence than can be helped. Do you understand?”

Paladin Fey’s expression changed rapidly from surprise to anger. “You have no right—” she began.

“I don’t mind dying,” interrupted Aloysius. “The only way I’ll talk is if you pay me. There are other survivors—you’ll never find them, so don’t get any ideas—and we need money for supplies. Your money for my information. It’s a fair trade.”

“Done,” said Paladin Spike.

Paladin Fey scowled, but counted out ten gold coins and handed them to Aloysius.

“Jerem was a fat man,” said Aloysius. “Fat but very muscular, if you know what I mean. He had red hair and a red beard, both long. There were about thirty men with him, all vicious, filthy ruffians. They stormed in, executed everyone they could find, looted the town and burned it to the ground.”

“Which way did they go?” asked Paladin Fey.

“Toward the Jade Forest.” Aloysius pointed. “That way. Listen, I know something that might help you. Not many people know it, but there’s a clearing in the northeast part of the forest; you might see it if you climb a tall tree. If Jerem knows this area, that’s probably where he’s camped.”

The visitors turned and began leading their horses away from the wreck of Coppertown. Paladin Spike lingered a moment to clap Aloysius on the shoulder. “Thanks, and good luck,” he said. “Justice will be done, if it can be.”

Aloysius was not a sentimental man, but he could not repress tears. “No, thank you,” he said, and began walking back through the ashes to the mayor’s residence.

Only halfway there did he remember to blow his trumpet.

The story continues with the sixth part, The Tale of the Enemy.

The third part of this story can be found here.

The Emperor’s City was one of the world’s great wonders. As all rivers flowed into the sea, so all the beauty, wealth and power of the Orofino Empire found its way to the capital, making it the most lovely, prosperous and powerful city in the world.

Visitors to the Emperor’s City marveled at its walls and towers, parks and gardens, halls and palaces, avenues and byways, banners and statues. Of these statues, the greatest was the monument to the Emperor, His Excellency Cecil the Immortal. His image towered over the city: a silent promise of protection, prosperity and order.

The city was packed with refugees. Some had escaped the destruction of their homes by Jerem the Plague. Most had fled the creatures turned vicious by the Blight. The capital was the only place left in the Empire where the Blight had not reached. The Emperor had issued a strict edict: no animals were allowed into the city until they had been quarantined, inspected and approved.

The refugees were disdained by the city’s residents, who saw them as a burden on its economy and a blot on its society. With nowhere else to go, the refugees set up tents and shacks within the city walls. The strong and able worked whatever jobs they could find. The sick and weak begged. The dishonest and desperate turned to smuggling, prostitution and theft.

A few refugees claimed to have glimpsed Jerem the Plague, though their descriptions of him varied considerably. He was huge or small, ugly or handsome, pale or dark-skinned, bearded or clean-shaven, depending upon who told the story. The only detail on which all witnesses could agree was the color of his hair—a fierce, fiery red.

The Emperor had done his utmost to provide for the refugees. It was, as he told his advisers, like trying to divide a loaf of bread among a hundred guests. There was simply not enough to go around. Even so, most refugees held the Emperor’s name in honor and regarded his monument with pride. The statue of His Excellency Cecil the Immortal was the very image of majesty, strength and compassion. It stood like a colossal guardian, shielding the city and its people.

His Excellency Cecil the Immortal, Emperor of Orofino, was a pale, nervous, overweight man with shadows under his eyes. On the rare occasions he ventured outside, he confined himself to his garden. “Our Emperor is wise,” said his advisors. “He concerns himself wholly with his duties and expends no time or effort upon trifles like travel, leisure or social affairs.”

The truth was that His Excellency was afraid.

The Emperor ruled his Empire with the calm detachment of an expert card player. From the security of the Imperial Citadel he analyzed problems, considered solutions and took risks. Some risks paid off. Some did not. When he made mistakes, he never paused to contemplate their cost. His Excellency could not afford to be paralyzed by emotional attachments.

Thus the Emperor never ventured beyond the gates of his residence. He feared becoming too attached to any of his subjects. He feared confronting the cost of his mistakes.

Most of all, he feared Jerem the Plague.

The attendant entered the study to find His Excellency seated in an armchair before the fire. The Emperor’s study was his inmost sanctum, the most private place in the privacy of the Imperial Citadel. It had no windows, but a fireplace and a desk and shelves of books. Although His Excellency had reluctantly allowed flues to be installed for ventilation, even those tiny openings troubled him. There were times when he wanted to be completely cut off from the rest of the world, alone with his books and his memories.

“My sincerest apologies for disturbing you, Your Excellency,” said the attendant. “High Arbiters Sergio and Felix have arrived with your guests. We have seated them and served refreshments, per your instructions. They await your presence in the garden.”

His Excellency felt a stirring of hope for the first time in weeks. Although it was beneath his dignity, he grinned and pumped both fists in the air. Then, having regained his composure, he heaved himself out of his chair and followed the attendant out of the study.

The Emperor’s garden was a treasure kept in a locked chest: few apart from His Excellency were permitted to see it, and those who did never forgot its beauty. The garden was circular. Pavements ran like spokes in a wheel toward its center, where an exquisite fountain rose out of a pool. The water sparkled in the sun. Flowers nodded in the breeze. A few bees hummed to and fro.

The Emperor’s guests were lined up along one side of a long table on a shaded terrace overlooking the garden. His Excellency had provided formal attire for his guests: a satin dress for the lady and tunics for the gentlemen.

Upon reflection, His Excellency decided gentleman was too generous a term for two of his guests. One, a stout, hairy man in his thirties, was devouring pastries with considerable enthusiasm. The other, a lanky man with ginger hair, was lounging back in his chair with a glass of wine. They were the sort of people one expected to find in the shadier corners of disreputable pubs, and their formal tunics did not suit them.

The other two men at the table seemed much more refined. One was a young man who sat with perfect posture and ate with measured dignity. The other, a middle-aged man with gray hair, sipped a cup of coffee and gazed meditatively at the fountain in the garden.

The lady sat aloof from the men, eating grapes and giving a strong impression of rigid professionalism.

As His Excellency seated himself across the table from his guests, the High Arbiters took seats on either side of him.

“It is my honor to welcome you, friends of the Empire,” said High Arbiter Sergio. “I need not add that it is your honor to sit in the presence of His Excellency Cecil the Immortal. Few are so fortunate.”

“We are honored to serve His Excellency,” said the lady.

“Honored,” echoed the stout man through a mouthful of pastry.

“High Arbiter Felix and I have already explained the circumstances,” continued Sergio. “The Emperor tasked us with recruiting specialists for the mission at hand. Two he chose personally. The other three we selected after much careful consideration. I do not believe you are all acquainted with one another, and only two of you have previously had the honor of meeting His Excellency. This is an excellent opportunity for introductions.”

Motioning toward the stout man, Sergio added, “We begin with Theobald Loxley, known more widely as Mist the Plunderer.”

Theobald Loxley put down a pastry and leered amiably across the table at the Emperor.

“Forgive Master Loxley’s irreverence, Your Excellency,” said Felix quickly. “He cares little for authority. Indeed, he is perhaps the most notorious thief ever to disgrace the Empire. We concede, however, that his unique talents may be useful.”

“We obtained a pardon for him,” said Sergio. “Should he try to abandon the mission, his pardon will be revoked instantly and his sentence—execution by impalement, if I remember aright—carried out immediately.”

Loxley’s leer lost some of its jollity.

“The man beside Master Loxley is Nicholas Puck,” said Sergio.

The ginger-haired man put down his glass and inclined his head. “Just Nick, Your Excellency,” he said. “A peddler of information.”

“Silence,” snapped Felix. “Do not presume upon His Excellency’s patience.”

“Despite Master Puck’s inelegance, no one in the Orofino Empire—barring Your Excellency himself, of course—is better informed,” explained Sergio. “Master Puck is part of a vast network of informants spanning every city, town, village and outpost under Your Excellency’s command. When there is news, he is the first to know it.

“Next is Hector Fuori, a scout of remarkable experience and skill. He is young, but his superiors in the Imperial Army assure me there is no abler tracker to be found.

“This brings us to the two specialists whom you requested specifically, Your Excellency: Vivian Fey, the most distinguished Paladin in your service, and Malcolm Spike, whose exploits are legend.”

His Excellency Cecil the Immortal crossed his arms, grinned and spoke.

“It’s nice to see you, Spike.”

“I prefer the name Innocent, Your Excellency.”

Felix began to protest, but fell silent as the Emperor went on.

“You got it, Innocent. Shoot, I’ve missed you. It’s a relief to have you back.”

Innocent took a deep breath. “Forgive me, Your Excellency, but did you know High Arbiter Sergio threatened to massacre the residents of my town if I didn’t cooperate?”

“Why you—” thundered Felix, but the Emperor cut him short.

“Sergio was following my orders,” said His Excellency Cecil the Immortal. “I don’t think you get it, Innocent. We need you. There’s no way we’ll stop Jerem without you. He’s destroying this world. You know about the Infinity Manuscript, right? I didn’t have any choice. I didn’t want to execute anyone, but I would’ve if you hadn’t come quietly. You help us, you save this world. You don’t, the Infinity Manuscript burns and this world with it. What’s a town compared to that?”

Innocent was silent for a long time. “I don’t have any choice either,” he said at last. “I’ll help you. Then, perhaps, the Empire and the gods and the rest of the world will leave an old man alone.”

“Excellent,” exclaimed Sergio. “Now that the introductions are out of the way, there are but few things left for us to discuss. Your mission is to find and capture Jerem the Plague before he can destroy the final pages of the Infinity Manuscript.

“Jerem, like His Excellency, is immortal. You cannot kill him. When we chose you for this mission, our plan was for Master Puck to gather news of Jerem’s whereabouts, Master Fuori to track him down and Master Loxley to apprehend him.”

“What about these Paladins?” inquired Loxley.

“Paladins Fey and Spike will accompany you in order to overcome any difficulties that may arise. The Empire is no longer as safe a place as it used to be. The Blight has made travel a dangerous business. We send along the Paladins as a safeguard against untoward circumstances.”

“Paladin Fey has been appointed to lead the group as His Excellency’s personal representative,” said Felix. “She will deliver the final verdict in all decisions. All other members must follow her orders; to do otherwise will be considered treason. Paladin Fey will also be responsible for handling the group’s money and maintaining communications with His Excellency.”

“This concludes our meeting,” said Sergio. “The attendants will show you to your rooms. You will depart tomorrow after making whatever preparations you need. If you have any concerns, report them to Paladin Fey and she will relay them to His Excellency. The gods be with you. Goodbye, friends of the Empire.”

As the guests were led out of the garden, His Excellency heard Loxley’s voice raised in strident commentary: “Did you hear how the Emperor talked? He didn’t sound at all dignified. Not a bit! How’d he get to be immortal if he’s so ruddy informal all the time?”

The Emperor smiled. Then, with a return of his usual anxiety, he hurried back indoors. It was high time he returned to his study.

The story continues with the fifth part, The Tale of the Survivor.

The second part of this story can be found here.

Much to his own surprise, High Arbiter Sergio liked the Hourglass Tavern.

True, the floor was covered in sand and the liquor was abominable, yet the establishment had its appeal. The back room, which Sergio had reserved for the meeting, was dim, cool and relatively clear of sand. After the banquet halls and elegant saloons to which he was accustomed, this decrepit tavern felt relaxed and comfortable.

Wood was an expensive commodity in Green Isle. The tables in the Hourglass were wrought of iron, topped with glass and laden with liquor jugs. Sergio noted with amusement that the tavern tables represented the whole of Green Isle’s industry. Apart from the export of iron and fire-nectar, the manufacture of glass was the only thing holding the town back from ruin.

It was a wonder that Green Isle continued to survive. It was a dull, dry, dreary town: a god-forsaken place, assuming the gods had ever shown enough interest in Green Isle to pay it any attention at all. Sergio had been surprised when the Emperor ordered him to visit Green Isle, and nothing short of staggered when the purpose for his visit was explained.

The Runaway Paladin had settled in Green Isle. Why a legendary warrior would choose such a miserable place to live, Sergio could not begin to imagine. The town had the rustic charm of decrepitude, but it was not a place in which anyone in his right mind would choose to settle permanently.

The door opened. A middle-aged man entered, lifting a tattered hat in greeting and glancing around the room.

“Welcome,” said High Arbiter Sergio, rising from the table and bowing. “We are alone, I assure you. Have I the honor of addressing Malcolm Spike?”

“Please call me Innocent,” said the man, taking the chair across the table from Sergio. “I’ve never liked Malcolm.”

“As you wish, Innocent. I would not deign to refuse an Imperial Paladin so small a favor.”

“Retired Paladin.”

Sergio smiled pleasantly. “You call yourself retired, but the Empire considers you a fugitive. May I remind you that Paladins cannot renounce their position without leave of the Emperor? You simply fled, leaving Orofino to mourn the disappearance of its greatest hero.”

“You flatter me, Favored Son of the Empire.”

“Please, Innocent, there is no need for formal titles. You may call me Sergio.”

“How very kind of you. Sergio, be honest. The Orofino Empire doesn’t miss me a whit. The desertion of Malcolm Spike was news for a week, then a new Paladin was appointed and that was an end of it.”

“The Empire has never forgotten Paladin Spike,” declared Sergio. “Tales of your valor are told from the taverns of the Emerald Coast to the palaces of the Emperor’s City. People everywhere speak wistfully of the Runaway Paladin, wondering why he deserted Orofino when her need was so great.”

A frown darkened Innocent’s face. This surprised Sergio. His extravagant compliments had been calculated to put Innocent at his ease, but they seemed to have done quite the opposite. Perhaps a different approach was required.

“I beg your pardon, Innocent. Have I said something amiss?”

“Not to be rude, but you’ve slipped from polite flattery to sycophantic nonsense. As you were so thoughtful to remind me, the Empire considers me a fugitive. I came tonight expecting to be threatened, apprehended or possibly beheaded, not to be praised.”

Sergio smiled, this time not so pleasantly. “If you would like to be threatened, apprehended or beheaded, I am happy to make necessary arrangements. I was simply under the impression that you would prefer praise to the other outcomes you mentioned.”

Innocent struck the table with the palm of his hand. The glass cracked.

For just an instant, Sergio was afraid.

Innocent withdrew his hand slowly from the table. His momentary resemblance to a fierce Paladin had faded. He was just a tired old man again. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I’ve spent four and a half years pretending the Empire doesn’t exist. It was a nasty shock to be confronted so suddenly with a High Arbiter. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”

Sergio had regained his composure. “No, it is for me to apologize. It was never my intention to upset you.”

“Enough,” exclaimed Innocent. “We’ve had enough empty formalities. This may be difficult for you, but try to tell me the truth. Sergio, High Arbiter of Orofino, Favored Son of the Empire, et cetera, why in the name of all the gods have you come to Green Isle?”

Sergio had not achieved his position without a good deal of shrewdness. He knew it was useless to flatter Innocent further. Appealing to his sense of patriotism would anger him; giving vague hints would exasperate him; offering wealth or fame would irritate him. Perhaps the worst course was to threaten Innocent, for that would only make him laugh.

No, this was one of the rare cases in which the best course was to tell the truth.

“Very well, Innocent. You shall have the truth—all of it. First, shall we have a drink?” Sergio lifted a leather case onto the table and withdrew a bottle. “The liquor at this tavern is fit neither for man nor beast, so I took the liberty of bringing some wine. Ah, here are the wineglasses. The wine is a Delicia Red, three years old. Will you join me?”

“No thanks,” said Innocent. “I don’t drink liquor, except for the odd spoonful in a cup of coffee. The apothecaries say alcohol does unspeakable things to the liver.”

“It is not poisoned,” said Sergio. He filled both cups and took a long drink from one. “You are far too valuable to the Empire to be poisoned.”

Innocent laughed. His good humor seemed to be returning. “Well, I guess that sort of compliment is better than the ingratiating bunk you were spewing a few minutes ago. Even so, I prefer coffee to wine. Give me a minute to call the tavern-keeper, and then I’ll have the truth out of you.”

The tavern-keeper came and went. Innocent sipped his coffee, and Sergio began telling the truth.

“Five years ago, the Empire conquered this petty kingdom and put its royal family to death. A few of the locals rebelled and tried to drive us out. They were quickly neutralized. With the insurgents gone, the Emperor established Consuls throughout the land and declared it a province of the Orofino Empire.”

“History I have tried to forget,” said Innocent.

“Of course you have, Paladin Spike.”

“Innocent.”

“Are you? I seem to remember the locals bearing quite a lot of animosity toward you. After all, you led a division of the army that conquered their precious little kingdom.”

“You promised the truth, Sergio, not old history.”

“Very well. I will pass quickly over your desertion. Exactly six months after the execution of the royal family, you disappeared—something no one in the Imperial Army had ever done. Few had even tried. The penalty of failure was too steep. Deserters are put to death.”

“Yet here we are drinking at the same table. What a strange world the gods have made.”

“You are a special case, Innocent. I admit that under usual circumstances you would be tried and executed for the crime of desertion. However, the Orofino Empire is willing to grant you full pardon—”

“I assume this generous offer is conditional.”

“Not at all. You have already been pardoned.”

Innocent started.

“Yes, the Emperor signed your pardon himself. I have it here. He gives you your freedom as a gesture of goodwill, hoping you will be willing to render him a small service in return.”

“What service?”

Sergio leaned over the table. “Innocent, I am about to impart perhaps the most dangerous secret in existence. Whether or not you accept our request, you must never repeat anything I say here tonight. Do you agree?”

Innocent agreed.

“Excellent,” said Sergio. “You have doubtless heard rumors that the Orofino Empire is on the brink of collapse. The Blight is turning flora and fauna into monstrous hazards. There have been an unprecedented number of natural disasters: earthquakes, floods, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions and still stranger catastrophes. Many citizens have become refugees. Many refugees have become criminals. The Empire cannot deal with so many crises, and one crisis looms above all others.”

“Jerem the Plague.”

“The other crises are symptoms. Jerem is the disease. Let me explain. The gods made the world long ago, as the priests tell us.”

“I’m a little skeptical on that point, but don’t let my theological views hinder you.”

“The gods created the world by writing in a book. Like builders constructing a house brick by brick, the gods constructed our world word by word. The skies, the mountains, the oceans, the celestial lights—”

“The rhododendrons, the platypuses, those funny flowers shaped like shoes—”

“Yes, these too were written in the book of the gods. All existence depends upon that book. It is called the Infinity Manuscript: the book that holds the world.”

“A fine theory. If any of this is true, what happened to the book?”

“The gods entrusted the Infinity Manuscript to a wise man, who separated its many pages and hid them throughout the world to prevent their destruction. The book itself did not need to remain intact. Only the pages needed to be saved.”

“Where are the pages now?”

“That,” said Sergio grimly, “is what Jerem wants to know.”

Innocent was silent for a long time. “He’s burning the pages, isn’t he?” he said at last. “The Blight is spreading, natural disasters are tearing apart the world—it’s because the Infinity Manuscript is being destroyed bit by bit. If he burns all the pages, everything falls apart.”

“Thus the Orofino Empire extends forgiveness and friendship to its greatest Paladin,” said Sergio. “We are responsible for the fate of the world. Jerem must be stopped, and only a hero can stop him. You see, Jerem, like our beloved Emperor, is immortal.”

“The Emperor isn’t immortal,” protested Innocent. “That’s propaganda. ‘The Emperor lives forever’ is just a patriotic slogan.”

“Doubt the Emperor’s immortality if you will, but take it as fact that Jerem cannot be killed. He can only be captured, which is why the Empire is sending an elite team of specialists instead of an army. We plead with you, Innocent. Lead the search for Jerem.”

Innocent shook his head. “It’s absurd,” he said. “There’s no pattern or reason in anything you’ve told me. The Emperor and Jerem are immortal, you say. How exactly did they manage to attain immortality? Jerem wants to destroy the Infinity Manuscript, you say. For what purpose? Your story is full of holes.”

“It is what it is,” said Sergio, allowing just a little anger to seep into his tone. “I concede its peculiarity, but I stand by its legitimacy. Will you help us save the world?”

Innocent seemed to be thinking. “You’ve cleared my criminal record. You could’ve intimidated me with the threat of execution, but you gave up your leverage when you pardoned me.”

Sergio laughed. “Did I give up my leverage? Think about it, Innocent. Think about the Empire you once served. What do you think will happen if you leave Green Isle, hide in some other small town and resume your game of pretending to be just an innocent citizen?”

Innocent bowed his head. He looked more tired than ever. “There’s an army waiting to raze Green Isle, isn’t there?”

“You may have been pardoned, but this whole town is guilty of harboring a fugitive. The Emperor is willing to spare this god-forsaken place and its filthy residents on the condition you cooperate. If you do refuse to cooperate, Jerem will destroy the Infinity Manuscript, thereby ending the world. This town perishes either way. There is only one way for you to save it.”

Innocent finished his coffee and put down the cup.

“Well, I guess I’m in.”

The story continues with the fourth part, The Tale of the Emperor.

The first part of this story can be found here.

The Hourglass Tavern had little in common with its namesake, except in one respect: it was full of sand.

When a visitor to the Hourglass complained about the sandy floor, the tavern-keeper only shook his head and replied, “We tried keeping the Hourglass clean when we first opened it up, sir, but it was like plowing the sea. Every grain of sand we swept out blew right back in, don’t you know. Plowing the sea, sir.”

The Hourglass was one of two taverns in Green Isle. As a gesture of goodwill toward the citizens of the town, the Imperial Consul had sponsored the opening of a tavern called the Sea of Gold. Due to its high prices, the Sea of Gold catered exclusively to the upper class of Green Isle: a tiny clique of merchants, municipal officials and Imperial visitors.

The Cobbler, a toothless old man who lived on the outskirts of town, was one of many to complain about the Consul’s tavern.

“He must suppose we’re all rich folk here in Green Isle,” he told his friends, the Tailor and the Weaver, as they drank together in the Hourglass. “If the Consul’s trying to flatter the good citizens of our town, he’s making a fair mess of it. It’s only making poor folk feel poorer. You know why it’s called the Sea of Gold? A thirsty man needs a sea of gold to buy a drink there, that’s why.”

“Right you are,” said the Weaver, peering mournfully into his tankard. “I’m out of fire-nectar. Hand me the jug, Tailor.”

Grain being scarce in Green Isle, only two kinds of alcohol were readily available. The rich drank wine from the vineyards on the edge of the oasis. The poor—most of the inhabitants of Green Isle—drank fire-nectar, a rough liquor distilled from the sap of the cacti that grew in the desert. The Sea of Gold specialized in fine wines and boasted the best varieties of fire-nectar as a kind of local delicacy. The Hourglass served only fire-nectar.

The Cobbler, the Tailor and the Weaver, known in Green Isle as the Three Old Men, were patrons of the Hourglass. Little was known of them, though much was guessed. The Three Old Men did not have families or homes anywhere in the Empire. They had simply drifted to Green Isle, like battered driftwood to the beaches of a barren island, and become local curiosities.

Wherever they had come from, they had left their names behind them. They were addressed by their trades. Each of the Three Old Men performed his trade competently and made a comfortable living. When the day’s work was done, they left their workshops and took their usual place in a corner of the Hourglass.

The tavern-keeper liked the Three Old Men and the air of mystique they brought to his establishment. It was an unwritten rule of the Hourglass that the table in the back corner, the Table of the Three Old Men, was not to be occupied by any other customer during any hour of the evening.

The Tailor took a sip from his tankard. “I hear tell there’s a High Arbiter in town,” he remarked.

“I’d have thought it a false rumor, but I actually saw the bloke up at the Imperial Palace,” said the Cobbler. “Wonder what he’s here for. Green Isle’s not of any use to the Empire, except for filling her sandbags and hourglasses.”

The Tailor set down his tankard and addressed his companions solemnly. “It’s the Blight, it is,” he said. “Has to be. There were rumors of blighted wolves and vultures and cacti down southwest a ways.”

“Cacti?” inquired the Cobbler, grinning toothlessly. “The Blight’s turning cacti fierce, is it? I haven’t seen any wild cacti running amok here in Green Isle. Have you, Tailor?”

“There was a dispatch from the Imperial Laboratories yesterday,” said the Tailor. “The Blight’s affecting certain flora—that means plants, Cobbler, in case you didn’t know. Plants that get blighted fill with poison and grow thorns. Cacti, being a spiny sort of plant to start with, get a dashed lot spinier. Whatever poor bloke is pricked by a blighted plant dies in agony.”

The Weaver took a draft from his tankard. “I pray the Blight leaves our fire-cacti alone,” he said. “The gods alone know what the Blight would do to fire-nectar.”

“It’s alarming,” continued the Tailor, ignoring the Weaver. “It used to be the Blight just turned animals fierce.”

“Fierce ain’t nearly strong enough a word,” exclaimed the Cobbler. “I think brutal more apt. Animals that get blighted turn, well, unnatural. Their teeth and claws and spines grow. They kill anything that breathes. Not to put to fine a point on it,” he concluded cheerfully, “beasts that get struck by the Blight turn into monsters.”

“Wonder what started it,” said the Tailor. “It’s been near three years that we’ve suffered the Blight. It started two years after the Imperial Conquest, I think.”

The Cobbler stopped grinning. “Aye, just two years after the fall of the Old Kingdom. I miss those days, lads, back when a king ruled over us and Imperial Consuls didn’t infest every town. The Empire’s a hard mistress.”

“Please let’s not talk about hard mistresses,” said the Weaver. “I’ve had enough of them to last me whatever life I’ve left.”

“You’re a dirty, dissolute scoundrel, Weaver,” said the Cobbler, grinning again. “I don’t know why the Tailor and I even let you drink with us. It’s bad for our reputation to be seen with such a notorious philanderer.”

The Weaver, who was accustomed to such insults, merely took another draft of fire-nectar.

“So the Old Kingdom fell to the Empire five years ago, and two years later the Blight started turning animals bad, and now it’s spreading to the plants,” said the Tailor. “I hear rumors of floods and earthquakes and gods alone know what other disasters rending the Empire. It’s a nasty state of things, to be sure.”

“You forgot something,” said the Weaver. “Jerem the Plague.”

The Cobber and the Tailor nodded. “Aye, he’s the worst of all,” said the Cobbler.

There was a screech of rusty hinges as the door to the Hourglass opened, admitting Innocent Freo and a sprinkling of sand.

“Innocent!” cried the Tailor, waving a hand. “Over here! Come and have a drink with us.”

The Three Old Men were divided in their opinions about Innocent. The Tailor liked him, believing him to be a fair-minded constable and a virtuous human being. The Cobbler thought of Innocent as merely a decent man. The Weaver, who was slightly afraid of Innocent, disliked him.

“It’s kind of you,” said Innocent, drawing up a chair.

The tavern-keeper, who shared the Tailor’s good opinion of Innocent, was at his side in a moment. “How may I serve you, Constable?” he asked, bowing.

“A large cup of coffee: three spoonfuls of milk, two of sugar and one of liquor. I could do with something strong this evening.”

“You seem on edge, my friend,” said the Tailor as the tavern-keeper scuttled away. “Is there anything the Three Old Men can do for you?”

“Just keep me company while I drink my coffee. I have to meet someone soon, but I’d rather not face him until I’ve had something to brace my nerves. Now, friends, please don’t let me interrupt your conversation.”

The Weaver glared at Innocent and said, “We were just talking about Jerem the Plague.”

“The Red Demon,” said the Tailor pensively. “The Paragon of Hell. No one has seen Jerem and lived to tell the tale, yet we have hundreds of descriptions of him. His body is said to burn with a red flame.”

“He has a beard of fire,” said the Weaver.

“I heard it was just his eyes,” said the Cobbler.

“No, it’s his beard,” insisted the Weaver.

“It’s probably his beard and eyes both,” said Innocent soothingly. “Please go on, Tailor.”

“They call Jerem the Plague because he wreaks devastation wherever he goes. Towns burned. Villages destroyed. Mountains of corpses. A real plague couldn’t do more harm than he.”

“They say Jerem is immortal,” said the Weaver.

“Nonsense,” exclaimed the Tailor. “Only the gods are immortal. No, Jerem is just a sorcerer with some kind of hell-magic.” The Tailor lowered his voice. “I have a theory,” he said, only to be interrupted by the arrival of the tavern-keeper with Innocent’s coffee. “I have a theory,” he repeated, glowering as the tavern-keeper retreated. “Jerem’s first crime was committed a little more than three years ago. The Blight appeared almost exactly three years ago. Do you understand? I think Jerem is the devil behind the Blight. He’s the bloke turning animals into monsters and plants into menaces.”

Innocent nodded gravely. “Perhaps,” he said, and sipped his coffee.

The Three Old Men continued chatting, only dimly aware that Innocent did not seem to be listening. At last Innocent finished his drink and stood.

“Thank you for your company,” he said. “I have a question for you before I go. I have a young friend looking for an apprenticeship: eleven years old, extremely good with his hands, takes great pride in his work. Do any of you have need of an apprentice?”

The Cobbler and the Weaver shook their heads, but the Tailor looked thoughtful. “Perhaps,” he said. “My old hands are getting a little shaky. I could use some help, provided he doesn’t need much pay.”

The necessary arrangements were made and Innocent prepared to go. “Must be waiting for me in the back room,” he murmured.

“Who’s waiting?” demanded the Cobbler.

Innocent smiled, though he looked a little shaken. “Just someone with whom I have business,” he said. “Good evening, friends.”

Innocent departed.

“Probably a woman,” muttered the Weaver.

The story continues with the third part, The Tale of the High Arbiter.

A foreword to this project can be found here.

There was an art to thieving, and Gil was an artist.

It was held that thieves led easy, carefree lives: no deadlines, no obligations, no commitments. The truth was that thievery was a dangerous business. Tricks that looked easy, like picking pockets or snatching purses, were devilishly difficult. Even if a thief managed to steal something, he still faced the problem of getting away unnoticed.

Getting away unnoticed was where most thieves failed. Those caught by the police were turned over to the Empire, and the Empire was not kind to thieves.

Gil had eluded capture for all of his eleven years. He had mastered the art of thievery to a degree remarkable for one so young. On the rare occasions his robberies were noticed, they were noted for their ingenious simplicity—but then Gil’s philosophy was that the mark of an artist is to make complicated actions seem simple.

Like most artists in the world, Gil struggled to make a living. It was a pity, he mused, that so few people appreciated art.

Gil had spent most of his life prowling the streets of Green Isle, a town in a remote corner of the Orofino Empire. It was named for the oasis in which it was built, an island of grass and palm trees in a vast golden ocean of sand.

Stranded in Green Isle, Gil realized there were only a few careers open to him. If he were extremely fortunate, he could become a merchant or a municipal official; if he were moderately fortunate, he could become an artisan; if he were unfortunate, as most of Green Isle’s inhabitants were, he could work in the mines. None of these options appealed to him. He opted for thievery.

Despite his trade, Gil’s conscience was usually as clear as the blue desert sky. When it troubled him, he reminded himself that he did not have the advantage of living parents. Surely the gods would not be too severe toward an orphan. If any of them were one-half as merciful as the priests claimed, he would be all right.

Gil could not cross the desert by himself, but he hoped someday to earn enough money to book passage with a merchant caravan. Every coin he did not need to survive he carefully hid away. Someday he would escape Green Isle, that prison without walls or bars, and make his fortune nearer the heart of the Empire.

In the meantime Gil had to eat, and so continued to practice the delicate art of thievery.

A painter cannot paint until she had chosen a canvas, a brush and a palette of colors. In the same way, a discerning thief cannot thieve until he has chosen a location, a victim and a strategy for obtaining the desired object.

It was market day. The streets teemed with maids and housewives on their way to the shops, their pockets and purses loaded with silver. It was a scene to entice any thief, but Gil was cautious. Experience had taught him to be aware of the furtive watchfulness of shop owners and the vigilance of guards patrolling the streets.

First, Gil had to find a location for the theft. He chose a secluded avenue that led to the marketplace: not many guards, but enough of a crowd to cover his escape; there were also a few promising alleyways in case he had to flee. Huge sheets of fabric had been hung across the avenue from the buildings on either side to shade pedestrians from the sun.

Second, Gil had to pick a victim. He decided upon a corpulent woman with a purse dangling from her arm. Even if she noticed the theft, she was in no form to chase the thief.

Third, Gil had to determine what strategy would best enable him to separate the victim from her money. After some contemplation, he concluded that a diversion would distract the woman long enough for him to snatch her purse.

The location, victim and strategy were decided. It was time for action.

Gil strolled toward his victim, fingering a large pebble in his pocket. A little boy tottered alongside the woman. When Gil was just a few steps away, he flicked the pebble at the child and hit him squarely in the forehead.

The boy began to cry. The woman stooped to comfort him—Gil seized the purse—and off he went at a run.

He had planned to duck into an alley across the street, climb to the rooftop of the adjoining house and slip into the crowd on the street beyond. His plans were ruined. Out of nowhere, it seemed, loomed a tall man with a tattered hat.

“There was no need to hurt that poor child,” said the man, frowning. “Apologize to the boy and return the lady’s purse, Gil.”

Gil ran.

The man with the tattered hat pursued. For a man of his age—he could not have been younger than forty—he was awfully quick.

Gil emerged from the shady avenue and faltered for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the blinding sunlight. A crate had been left in front of a nearby shop. Gil clambered onto the crate, made a flying leap toward the shop and caught the bars of an upstairs window. Pulling himself up with an effort, he found a foothold on the windowsill and climbed onto the red-tiled roof of the shop.

The man with the tattered hat had stopped in front of the shop below and stood looking up at Gil. “I’m impressed,” he said. “That was quite a leap, Gil.”

Gil paused long enough to make a face at his pursuer and shout, “Catch me if you can, old man!” Without waiting to see the man’s reaction, he clambered over the roof tiles and dropped into the market plaza behind the shop.

The man, he expected, would run to the plaza’s nearest entrance and begin looking for Gil in the marketplace. Gil did not intend to remain in the plaza. He would hide near the entrance, wait for the man to enter and then slip away while his pursuer searched for him among the market stalls.

What he did not expect was for the man to enter the marketplace in the same manner he had done. Gil had begun to edge toward the entrance to the plaza when a scraping noise from behind him made him look back. The man had dropped into the marketplace from the roof of the shop, ruining Gil’s plans once again.

There was one course of action left to Gil: hide immediately and hope the man would not find him.

“You made two mistakes,” said the man a moment later, holding Gil firmly by the arm.

“You’re hurting me!” squealed Gil. “Help! This man’s trying to kill me!”

“I wish he would,” grumbled a merchant. “Hiding beneath my stall like that and upsetting my wares, you dirty, unkempt, trouble-making brat.”

“There’s no need for insults,” said the man with the tattered hat. “Gil is admittedly rather dirty and unkempt, but you don’t have to be rude about it. I’m unkempt and dirty too. It’s hard not to be when you live in a desert.”

The merchant chuckled. “Well, Innocent, I reckon you’re right. Just keep the whelp away from my stall, you hear?”

“I hate being called a whelp,” muttered Gil. The man called Innocent, still holding Gil by the arm, led him along the street in the direction of the police station.

“You shouldn’t bother the merchants,” said Innocent. “Now then, as I mentioned, you made two mistakes this time. Mistake One: you took the first hiding place that caught your eye. Didn’t it occur to you that it might also be the first to catch my eye? Mistake Two: you chose a hiding place with only one exit. You should’ve picked a place from which you could’ve escaped if I found you.”

“Are you going to turn me in to the Imperial Consul?” asked Gil.

Innocent hummed for a moment. “No, I don’t think I will. Do you want to go to the mines as a prisoner, Gil?”

Gil shook his head.

“I didn’t think so. You’d do better to work as a paid laborer in the mines until you save up enough to leave Green Isle.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“A week in prison should be enough, I think. Cheer up. That’s a week of rest, Gil, and three meals a day.”

“I hate prison.”

Innocent took hold of Gil’s other arm, kneeled on the sandy street and looked the boy in the eye. “Then stop thieving, you knucklehead! I’m going to keep catching you, you know, and I can’t keep you away from the Consul forever. And what do you think will happen if you get caught by another constable? You’ll be turned over to the Imperials.”

Gil shuddered.

“I’ve been asking around town about apprenticeships,” continued Innocent. “There aren’t any available at the moment, but something will come up sooner or later. I’ll get you work if you’ll just be patient and keep your hands to yourself.”

They kept walking.

“You’re worse than Theobald Loxley,” remarked Innocent.

“Who’s that?”

“He’s a thief who calls himself Mist.”

“Mist the Plunderer? You’ve heard of him?”

“I’ve met him,” said Innocent, and began to laugh. “Gil, your expression is beyond description. You look like you just met a god.”

“You actually met Mist the Plunderer?”

“He’s not very impressive in person. I can’t fathom why his parents chose to inflict a name like Theobald on him. No wonder he turned to a life of crime. Ah, here we are at the station.”

As they entered the lobby, the secretary bowed to Innocent and gave Gil the sort of look usually reserved for things dredged out of sewer drains. Gil stuck out his tongue at her.

“Welcome back, Constable Freo,” said the secretary. “You have brought along our favorite guest, I see. I think it high time we entrust him to the Consul of Orofino.”

“Let’s give him one more chance and see what happens,” replied Innocent, hanging his dilapidated hat on a nail in the wall. “Anything happen while I was away?”

“A messenger came from the Consul,” said the secretary. “You will not believe it, Constable. A High Arbiter of the Empire is visiting Green Isle, and he wants to meet with you!”

Apparently unimpressed by the secretary’s revelation, Innocent sat Gil in a chair and told him to stay put while the secretary filled out the paperwork for his imprisonment.

“I’ll visit your cell this evening, Gil,” said Innocent. “For now I think I’ll have a nap. Chasing you all over town has worn me out.”

“Constable!” exclaimed the secretary. “The High Arbiter! Will you meet with him?”

Innocent yawned and asked, “What does he want?”

“The messenger said something about the High Arbiter wishing to have the honor of meeting a Paladin of the Empire. I am not sure what he meant. Constable, are you well?”

Innocent had paled.

Gil leaned forward and tugged gently on Innocent’s sleeve. “You all right? You’ve come over all pallid. You sick?”

“Fine,” said Innocent faintly. “Did the messenger say when and where I was supposed to meet the High Arbiter?”

“The first hour of evening at the Hourglass Tavern. That gives you about forty minutes. You should dress nicely.”

“No, no,” murmured Innocent, retrieving his hat. “I think the time would be better spent bracing my nerves with coffee, or possibly something stronger. I’m off to the Hourglass. Keep an eye on Gil, will you?”

As Gil watched Innocent walk out, he felt a vague fear for the future of his—friend? Now that Gil thought about it, the closest thing he had to a friend was this police constable.

It was a lonely life, being an artist.

The story continues with the second part, The Tale of the Three Old Men.

I am excited to make an announcement today about the future of TMTF. For at least a couple of months, TMTF will feature—in addition to the two usual weekly blog posts—a longish story, serialized in conveniently short parts every week.

This story, The Infinity Manuscript, is something I’ve wanted to write for some time. The problem has been that I haven’t been able to find the right narrative form for the story: it isn’t long enough for a full-fledged novel, but it’s a good deal too long for a short story. While I considered writing the story as a screenplay, I decided against it due to my inexperience in the complicated field of moviemaking.

Then it occurred to me that The Infinity Manuscript is exactly the sort of story that would work well in parts. To wit, it would work well as a serial—which led me to ask myself, “Why not serialize it?”

A fantasy, The Infinity Manuscript will recount the story of Innocent Freo, a good-natured police constable in remote desert outpost, who is recruited by the Orofino Empire to track down and capture an infamous criminal called Jerem the Plague. In addition to terrorizing towns throughout the Orofino Empire, Jerem is rumored to be searching out and destroying pages of the Infinity Manuscript, a book without which the world cannot exist.

Some readers of TMTF will have no interest in reading a story like The Infinity Manuscript, and that’s okay. TMTF will continue to feature two blog posts every week about faith, writing, video games, literature, life, the universe and everything. The story will be an addition to the blog, not a replacement for it.

Installments of The Infinity Manuscript will be posted each Wednesday. Since TMTF will be back on a schedule of three posts a week, the first post of each week will be moved from Tuesday back to Monday. To put it simply, TMTF will be updated on Mondays and Fridays; the story will be updated on Wednesdays; the Solidarity blog (which is linked to TMTF) will continue to be updated on Thursdays.

In regard to writing fiction, my primary focus is still The Eliot Papers, a trilogy of novels on which I’ve been working for a long time. The first novel in the trilogy, The Trials of Lance Eliot, is edging slowly but surely toward publication; it will be released (I hope) sometime this year. The Infinity Manuscript is just a side project. Even so, I’m excited to begin the story of Innocent Freo, and I invite you to share in his journey.

The journey has begun!