The Poems of Madam Albithurst: Grand Junction

Oh, how suitably named is the Grand Junction; a place of a thousand wonders and delights. From all across the Myriad Worlds come travelers seeking new lands on which to place their feet, free from the confines of their old lands and cultures. They mix freely with each other like masters of their own destinies. Exotic Foods are exchanged along with foreign coin. Soft steel is traded for hard silk. Songs are sung, and even if the words are all wrong and the tune is not right, the song is clearly the same.

I myself have never partaken in one of my delightful jaunts without passing through the Grand Junction. It has become, I daresay, one of those particularly interesting places that I can call neither my home, nor a place foreign.

Perhaps one might call it a vacation home; a place that is wholly my own though I visit only periodically. As one might consider a music room in one’s house, though it is kept closed and locked until the rare occasion that one thinks of their piano forte, and unlocks the room once more to brush away the dust and indulge in a little light music-making, as one did at balls and celebrations when there was held a higher standard of fellowship among the upper-classes.

Of course, that was all long in the past, while the Grand Junction is very much in the hereandnow.

If there is one thing I truly loathe in life, and I daresay there is no more than one, I loathe dreams. Musing and theorizing about what might be, what could happen, what may become. There is nothing more abhorrent to me than such delusions: they tear you from the hereandnow, and consume you with teeth made of hopes and fears.

Perhaps that is why I joined the Grandiose Guild of Sensationalists, for there are no other students of such a fastidious nature, devoted to the clear and noble cause of living in the moment. Of all the Edicts, it is the sixth that strikes me closest to the heart. To embrace each second and wrap it around yourself, to feel every moment, to embrace every sensation, to truly live in the moment; is that not what it means to live?

But please forgive my rambling, I am certain you wish me to do more than pontificate over my history, when the hereandnow is so much more interesting and important — to say nothing of pertinent. Instead, let me describe for you what we saw when we arrived at the central hub of the Great Junction.

Of course, I shall not bother detailing the thick yellow buildings, nor the towering spires of the sky-fence. I shall not waste both your time and mine describing the thick air or heady smells, nor the cacophony of people who flowed across the walks like rainwater, as these change little from day to day, and anyone who has traveled through the Grand Junction need not hear my descriptions. If you have not, no minor description can do it justice.

Instead, I shall describe what I did not expect to see, yet there it was, plain as day. All through the hub of the central level, little groupings and huddlings of men and women and others of all kinds. Not of merchants or peddlers, nor of travelers and tourists, but soldiers. I could tell it at a moment’s glance.

I saw a group of five, tall and hairy, so weighted down with packs and spears and shields and rifles that each was the width of three men. The laughed as they walked from one end of the Hub to the other, bumping into traveler and building alike, apologizing easily and sharing jokes as they walked.

I saw twenty, bedecked in shining silver metal and wrapped about with chains, the mark of the Soldiers of the Bound Oath; they who swore never to go unshackled until the God Ei was at last spared her torments at the hand of the Desolate. They gripped their hammers with determination, standing still and silent as their commander spoke in hushed and urgent tones. When at last their orders were given, they broke into two teams and began their marching dance across the square in a perfect synchronized formation.

I saw a small band — no more than twelve — of Aeolam warriors, their thin limbs wrapped around strange rifles with bulbous ends and shields made from black wood. Their eyes darted back and forth as if they expected an attack at any moment, save the one who sang with hands held to the sky.

A single solder dressed in white cloth sat cross-legged under one of the light fixtures, their pistol and saber laying across their lap. Their broad-rimmed helmet covered their face, pouches of leather sat on their unmoving chest. The smell of incense lingered in the air.

The spicy smell mingled with the sizzle of fat and flesh cooking over an open flame in an iron cup, ministered by a smaller group of men and women not ten feet away. Their bowl-helmets covered their faces with metal bars as they sharpened daggers and oiled leather armor.

Ten red-robed Esquin soldiers muttered to each other, their two-handed swords resting point first on the ground in front of them. Around the throat of one hung a large guillotine blade: the mark of the Holy Avenging of Meledus. If battle came, these ten would not cease fighting until there was no more blood to be spilled.

A squad of insect-folk scuttled past, their arms wrapped in black leather covered with metal spikes and barbs. Their helmets and bayonets glinted in the light of the Grand Junction as they passed, sparing not a single sidelong glance as they marched their defensive patrol.

I even saw a band of Dworgs, their twiggy beards quivering as they chanted war-songs, knocking their battle-axes with wooden sticks, and slapping their paws on the ground. I daresay, had I not been present for the Battle of Hawklin Fox, I might have considered their gnarled limbs twisting about under thick leather caps and metal breastplates to be adorable, instead of horrifyingly ominous.

There were banners and flags of over fifty regiments from over twenty kingdoms and worlds. Skins and livery of every color filled the central hub, and what I always remembered as a bright and airy atmosphere had become dark, foreboding, and cold. I must admit I found myself surprised at such a difference in the Grand Junction’s demeanor since last I had visited.

“What’s this?” I asked of no one in particular before I turned to my mailed companion and asked, “Sir Juhrooz, do you have any idea what is going on here? I have never seen such a large number of soldiers from so many different worlds in one place.”

“Nor have I,” Sir Juhrooz scratched his head, his brow furrowed in a worrisome mask of grave concern. “Gallowglasses of the Argos Legion, Ghazin of the Capital of Jotto, a squad of the Dark Dworg Dragoons. And see there! A Sword-Moji of the Nevvaran Conference! I never thought I would see one outside of Nevvar.”

Now while I had of course heard of the Kingdom of Argos, I knew little of Jotto or Nevvar, much less their military standards. Nevertheless, I could plainly see — no, plainly feel — the discomfort that surrounded the Grand Junction. Merchants no longer shouted in mercantile glee, nor did long absent friends embrace in delight. Eyes were downcast, and chatter subdued, as the wandering merchants nudged and suggested, rather than cried out for exchange.

“By the Seven!” my traveling companion shouted. I looked to see what had caused him such consternation. “See there,” he said, pointing with a distinct lack of decorum, “Ordered Grenadiers!”

While I had never heard of the Ordered Grenadiers, I had no difficulty in seeing what Sir Juhrooz was pointing at: three Ogres loomed over the throngs in the Hub, carefully picking their way through as their lumpy metal bodies swung back and forth. They were tall, their whorled skin glittering in the bright lights of the Grand Junction Hub. Their joints creaked as they moved, and their golden eyes took the whole scene in, seeing everything, missing nothing.

“Soldiers of the One Order,” Sir Juhrooz breathed, his voice a hush even in the noisy crowed. “I’ve never seen them before, though I have heard legends.”

“The One Order?” Mr. Porist asked. “What is that? I thought Ogres didn’t have a culture or society of their own. They’re always alone whenever I’ve seen them, fixing their bodies or pulling some cart along the road. Weren’t they made by some God or other as servants?”

“Some say,” I nodded. “Others say they make each other, or even make themselves. I have traveled far enough to know the Ogres of the Myriad Worlds have their own strange ways.”

Now such a statement will surely shock you to read, but it is what I said, and it is what I have seen. Now, do Ogres have a world of their own? Perhaps, perhaps not. If they do, I have not been privy to any mention of such, but I have heard — as have many — tales of Ogre conclaves, strange hive-structures built in the clay and the damp earth. I have heard of the One Order, and of a far-off land to where Ogres without work are called. I would caution those who find such legends absurd to be ever watchful, and mindful of their assumptions, for such is the fertile soil of a burned and broken crop.

“I know not of their culture,” Sir Juhrooz shook his head, “but at the battle of Kin’wikan Pass, I heard how a single Grenadier of the One Order turned aside a legion of Arcwhite’s finest soldiers. That we now see three is an ill-omen indeed. I shudder to think — yes, even a Doppewassl like myself feels fear — at what the entire army of the One Order could do.”

“I wonder if this has something to do with the Death of the Duke of Ten Vials,” I mused, for surely word had spread far enough that everyone would now be searching for the Encinidine. Even with the Torquates on the hunt, however, I had not expected so many weapons to be involved.

I then remembered Sir Juhrooz’s explanation of his travels, and wondered if the Kingdoms of Arcwhite were not the only people concerned about the aggressive nature of the mysterious Archonarchy. “Do you think this has something to do with your military campaign?” I asked him.

“Perhaps,” Sir Juhrooz muttered, stroking his chin with a metal hand. “I should find and speak with the local Arcwhite Brigade Captain. They will know more about what is happening.”

I was of course prepared to ask Sir Juhrooz where this Brigade Captain might be, when I heard, to my immense pleasure and delight, the sound of a gently babbling brook given life and voice as one of the most charming and generous souls I had ever met:

“My dear Madam Albithurst! Do my many eyes deceive me?”

No sooner had I turned then I was embraced by the arms of Lady Quixtactictle, Duchess-Maiden of the Fair, Devourer of the Kiln, Countess of Numbers, and Margravess of the Many Rippled Path, to give her full list of titles.

“My dear lady Quixtactictle,” though this was, in fact, not what I said. I used her real name, as the right was given to me by her solemn vow, though I shall not disrespect her privacy by using it now. “My dear lady Quixtactictle,” I returned the embrace most gladly, “Whatever are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” the dear thing burbled, waving her arms about like branches in the breeze. “I had thought you were sitting happily among your flowers on Kthan.”

Now I had long since moved on from the world Kthan; the influx of settlers from the Inner Lands had become quite a deluge, and I found myself looking to the horizon more often than was perhaps healthy for someone who owned no less than three gardens. I told my old friend as much before introducing her to my traveling companions.

“A Doppewassl from Arcwhite?” Lady Quixtactictle cocked her broad head in amusement. “You are far from the first soldier I have seen today, and you will not be the last. And you, dear Mr. Porist, I have heard so much about from dear Madam Albithurst, I feel as if I know you already.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Mr. Porist bowed.

“Please, you must all join me for evening meal,” she turned, waving gently as she did. “I am having Wuisht, specially prepared by an Aeolam chef from the Blue School of Culinary Arts.”

“Wuisht?” Mr. Porist’s chin dipped to his chest. “Are you really? I only ever had it once from a street vendor in Pram.”

“Pram?” Lady Quixtactictle smiled wide, her dimples squeezing her many eyes tightly shut. “Then I assure you, good man, you have not had Wuisht. Please, I insist that you come and join me. I simply will not abide you having your supper anywhere else. There is no finer meal you will have in the Grand Junction. Then, after you have fed and rested, you might continue on your journey to wherever you might be headed.”

“I am delighted at your invitation,” Sir Juhrooz placed a metal hand over his heart, “but I must speak with the local Brigade Captain as soon as possible. Perhaps some other time, dear Lady. Madam Albithurst, it has been a marvel and a delight to speak with you and travel alongside you. Perhaps some day we shall meet again?”

I, of course, wished for the same, and told the dear man as much as we parted ways. I watched carefully as the man left us standing there, winding his way through the crowd until he had vanished completely.

I watched, because even though it has been expressed many times, there is still nothing more important than living in the moment when a friend takes their leave.