The Last Smile in Sunder City (The Fetch Phillips Archives #1) - Luke Arnold Page 0,36

at the Kirden Amphitheater.

12

The faded tourist map was no help so I relied on the reluctant directions of beat cops to lead me through the sodden sports fields and up the embankment.

There were plenty of free seats in the amphitheater but I stood at the back against a leafless tree. Down on the circular stage, a group of hungry-looking troubadours bounded around in snarling masks and black cloaks. Thirty or so people, mostly children, watched from the marble steps that curved around the stage like the shadow of the moon. I hadn’t seen the play before, but I knew the story. Like a lot of the fables of creation, fact and fiction had been blurred right from the beginning. You could trace any magical creature back to a moment of connection; a divine point in history where the great river reached out and touched reality. Each species had their origin story and the one being played out on stage was one of my favorites.

This legend begins with Domik Tar, a dark Wizard of old. Through propaganda and promises, he amassed a formidable army of apprentice Mages who followed him across the land to carry out his bidding. For their loyalty, they were to be given the glory of standing at Domik’s side once he had overthrown the entire world. Their army soon grew to such a number that the roving band of evil Wizards needed a settlement to house their swelling ranks. Domik, a servant to none but his ego, selected the base of the Elk River upon which to build his fortress.

The Elk was a well-known holy wonder of the Northern Valleys. The natural springs that filled it were said to run alongside the great river itself, which infused it with elements of that sacred power. Domik chose a location right beside the mud-flats where the springs came down the mountains and joined as one. This location was, and had always been, inhabited by the Ingari people.

A tiny village built around the riverbank was home to the small, Half-Elf tribe that lived in a symbiotic connection with the land around them. They valued the health of their environs above all else, and in return, the rivers and forests rewarded them with a bountiful harvest of fish and fruit.

Being foragers and farmers, they had neither the nature nor the training to fight Domik’s forces, and their entire population was slaughtered in a matter of hours. No ceremony. No remorse. Every last Ingari was left dead in the mud.

The stones for the fortress were gathered from the mountains. Forests were flattened and turned into tables, beds and bonfires. Soldiers came from surrounding provinces to join the army and assist in the construction of the citadel. By the end of the following year, the great fortress was home to five thousand warriors of many species who were all preparing for war.

Seemingly impregnable, the building had foundations on both sides of the river with bridges and runways connecting them. The towers were decorated with barred windows and pointed spires on all sides. Domik looked upon his creation and crowned it the Castle of Gargos. With the mountains behind them and the river ahead, an advancing army could be pummeled with arrows and magic-shot from a multitude of positions before they ever got within range of a siege.

As a final monument to his fearsomeness, Domik commissioned the creation of a hundred statues. From across the lands, he rounded up the most celebrated artists he could find. They were coerced or kidnapped by his apprentices and taken back to the fortress to begin construction. Gathering their mud from the element-rich banks of the Elk, a hundred sculptors created a hundred mighty statues: each one intended to be more monstrous than the last. The artists combed their nightmares for inspiration and created horned, fanged, winged monstrosities that would sit atop the towers and glare down a warning at any adversary that dared to approach.

The Mages fired the statues in their magic flames, turning the mud into solid stone. Soon, deformed creatures lined every gangway, arch and parapet in the castle. In celebration of the citadel’s completion, the villains toasted their work and drank themselves to sleep.

There has been no first-person account of what happened that night. The stories choose to pick things up the next morning when the hallways echoed with silence. The Wizard’s magic would have been no use against the stone flesh of the statues, and neither would the soldiers’ swords or arrowheads. The