"Capulduk-part four" by Jym Greenfield

After a five-minute break, he slipped through the door and up the stairs. It was dark, but not like the total emptiness he had faced before. The torches were not lit, but he really didn’t expect them to be. He was hoping that the weapons weren’t stone as well, other wise they would be useless. He came across the guardroom door, braced himself against it, and pushed with all his strength. The door opened easily and he fell through it on the floor hard enough to bruise his hip. Grunting in pain and swallowing a few bad words, he rolled over and glared at the door. With a shock he saw that it was made of wood, and that the rest of the room was normal. Wondering about this anomaly, he gazed about the room as he unsteadily got up. What drew his gaze was a huge two-handed broadsword mounted on the wall opposite the door. It was a beautiful work of art, and he saw many unknown symbols and runes on the blade with a gold plaque below it. He drew closer to it and read,

Sean sat back and pondered what he just read. This was a sword of great power, and he knew he would not be able to lift if he tried. He wondered if the sword was keeping the room from turning to stone. He would settle for something smaller and a little less grand, he thought. Something serviceable. He looked at the array of weapons arranged on the adjoining wall. Bows and arrows wouldn’t work, he only knew how to fire a gun. He doubted they had any of those here. Not the larger swords, either. Spears were too unwieldy. They were thicker and heavier then the staves he had used before. He selected a slender sword, one that fit him. It was double hilted, but could be used easily with just one hand. It had a slight curve to it, giving it a graceful look. Runes were inscribed into it, along the length of the blade, and it seemed almost tailored for someone. He strapped it on over his back. He also picked out a dagger, the blade a little less then a foot long, with the handle designed as a dragon, its spreading wings acting as the hand guard, a fierce face glaring out of the hilt. Decorative, without being ornamental or opulent. As he strapped this one to his right thigh, he glanced up and saw something he had missed before. A smaller, silver plaque under the bracket where he had taken the sword that read

Sean wondered if it was right to steal the sword of the prince, but one glance out the window told him that the castle had been abandoned long ago and no one was coming back for it. I wonder what the runes could mean? he thought, taking it out and holding it up for review. He knew it was a custom among warriors to name their swords after a great battle or deed, to keep them in remembrance. Qef’bnacc Yuq sounded like a place. Maybe, if he could find out where Qef’bnacc Yuq was, he could find out what happened through this city. He shook his head. What was he thinking? He had to get back home. He didn’t think about if he even could go back home. He headed down the stairs, sheathing the beautiful sword as he went. It was almost sad, the way empires fell. All the grandeur and complexity crumbled in dull splendor, wasting away, rotting to fertilize the soil of humanity to grow another empire, which was destined to fall as well. At least earth and this place have one pattern in common. He thought with satisfaction. It made him feel a little less alienated. He stepped out into the low sun, watching it play tag with the shadows in the dead city. He felt safer, even though he had no training in swordfighting. The city didn’t seem to be petrified, so may be he would find something to eat, and a place to sleep. The portcullis was raised about two feet off the ground, enough room for him to lie down and wiggle under. He got up and walked into the city. He wandered the still streets looking for food and shelter for the upcoming darkness. The sun was hovering over the horizon, and the sky was golden when Sean stumbled upon food. In one of the houses he found five cans of preserves. Two were moldy so he threw those out, and he broke one of the remaining three open and cleaned it out. It was some kind of fruit preserves, but time had leached some of the flavor out. It was still good, though. He took the empty jar and went outside, to the well. He drew up water in a bucket and rinsed out the jar, then filled it with water. After drinking his fill, he refilled it and replaced the cap and fastened it with the wire clasp. He routed around several more houses before he scored a few more hits. A cloak with the hood ripped off, a decrepit backpack, some flint and iron, a blanket, and some rope. Everything went into the pack, except the cloak, which he fastened around his neck. Sean thought about all that school had taught him, without it he would not have survived this far. It was a very fragile existence. History told him about the castles and that cave men probably used flint and iron to start fires. Geography told him about the valley. Useless stuff he had thought. How was the French Revolution going to help him become a psychologist? Or the World War one tell him about Marine Biology? Now he wished he had paid more attention about the dark ages, which seemed to be an asset in this world. He went down a wide street and came upon a pedestal on which a statue once stood in timeless pride. Now it was only a rubble of rocks and a plaque that read

It was sadly ironic, that when they created this plaque, then had dreams and hopes for the future, the believed that they would flourish and grow. And grow it did he thought as he noted by the size of the city. Buildings upon buildings, built and designed to house a people, all empty. Wood buildings, stone buildings, buildings made of both, on the outskirts, buildings made of mudstone. Buildings for homes, shops, government issues, military issues, business and commerce. Open air markets, parks, bathhouses, restaurants, and on and on. Until…it died. They were all intact, so it wasn’t war or a raid that did the city in. Personal possessions, food, everything was left behind. All the people seemed to have simply vanished.

He went into another house and found a crude bed, but serviceable and even welcomed in lieu of sleeping on the ground. After a quick search of the closets, he found clothes that fit him, if a little loosly. He ditched his tee-shirt and jeans, which were torn beyond recognition and was fit for little more then rags, if that. He kept the braided leather belt, to help support his new pants. He settled in as night fell, and he crawled into the bed, trying not to imagine who had slept in before him. He had a hard time sleeping though, he tossed and turned in the dead silence. There wasn’t the slightest noise, not the sound of trees, people, cars, or even wind. He felt very alone and even frightened, for he had never run into something this quiet, this lifeless. It was like being inside a corpse, or the last person on the face of the world. The new moon did nothing to improve the mood, it only took away from which there was nothing to see. He felt guilty for taking that which belonged to some one else, long gone and forgotten into the streams of history and the winds of time. When he finally did sleep, his dreams were haunted by the dead ghosts of the Rufceban. They swirled around him, opening and closing their mouths, as if trying to speak. The dead don’t talk. Where was it that he had heard that? What do they want? They pressed closer and closer, hands outstretched. He shrank away from them, but he felt restricted. They were all around him! He had to fight. He reached for where his sword should be over his back, but it wasn’t there. He looked around franticly. There was am icy clammy grip on his wrist. He spun around, and saw that one of the ghosts had grabbed him by the wrist. They were all armed now, wearing armor and carrying a variety of weapons. He needed his sword! Where was Eakh?! Suddenly, he saw it falling far below him. He dived for it, and the ghosts came after him, riding the howling wind of Death. He aligned his body and tucked his arms against his body, to accelerate his descent. The rush of the air filled his ears, the sounds of the shades just after him. It became a race at 98 meters per seconds squared, winner takes all. As the shining sword neared closer and closer, a calm part of Sean was thinking of the irony of what he was doing. He heard then the ringing sound the sword made as it cut the dream air currents. He grasped the sword, and twisted, feet finding solid ground. The ghosts landed around him. They advanced and Sean, yelling for all he was worth, ran at them swinging his flashing sword high…..then he woke up.