The Ghost Warden

Chapter 1: The Warden Exam

“Faith in God Almighty to give might to the weak. Strength through compassion to ward off the night. Courage through hope to defeat the Enemy. Diligence and humility to save the soul. Charity and virtue to retain the heart.” - The Five Warden Oaths

When a demon comes, death is sure to follow. Feodore Warg steadied his arm as he aimed the hand cannon down range. It was a foreign thought, but it felt true. In every encounter with a demon someone died.

Feodore shook his head and refocused on his hand cannon. He’d shot this six-shot steel revolver a thousand times, but he still had to readjust his hold on the stained oak grip where five silver stars emblazoned into the base drew his gaze. Novice shooters would dip the gun in anticipation of the shot, as it felt that the Oak Hand Cannon could rip off a hand from recoil alone. Feodore had trained too long to let himself give into rookie mistakes. A strand of dark blonde hair fell over his right eye, blocking the iron sights. He brushed his hair aside and adjusted his aim. He’d trained to join the warden order his entire life. Failing the test would show weakness and dishonor his family. With a gentle pull of Feodore’s finger, the trigger broke past the sear, the hammer dropped, and an intricate mechanism released the firing pin into the cartridge primer, igniting the powder and sending an inch long, round-nosed, copper coated lead bullet into the target a hundred feet away. The impact hit just left of center. A minor mistake like that could cost Feodore. His trainer, Warden Harvey, might even fail him for it. He couldn’t let that happen; he wouldn’t let his family down, even if he didn’t intend to become a warden. Feodore had to prove to himself, and his father, that he rejected the order, not because he couldn’t qualify, but because he chose to.

Feodore closed his eyes and took a deep breath. As long as his grouping held and he scored a minimum of 27 out of 30, not even Harvey could fail him. He opened his eyes and focused on the target while again pulling the trigger. The shot echoed through the range and out to the edge of the town of Adamon. Birds scattered from the desert brush surrounding the range and fled toward the red butte looming overhead. Feodore thought he glimpsed blood-red tendrils flowing behind a giant bird leading the flock. Blood ravens shouldn’t be this deep into Parish. No one had seen a demon in Adamon for half a century. He shook his head. His mind played tricks on him; he was sure of it. Feodore turned back to the target. He took in a breath and held it before pulling the trigger a third time. His shot hit just left of center. Either Feodore had created a habit in his shot cycle that pulled the bullet left or he had serviced the hand cannon improperly. Either way, Feodore would lose points. At the very least his three-shot grouping hadn’t varied, and he scored 27. He offered a sigh of gratitude.

“Clear!” Warden Harvey shouted.

Feodore responded by releasing the hand cannon cylinder and clearing it of the remaining three cartridges. He holstered the gun in the black leather holster strapped to his matching belt and black pants.

“Not bad, Warg, not bad at all. If you’d paid a little more attention during training, you might have scored three tens instead of two nines and an eight. What a shame. I’m going to have to fail you.” The old man was large, but underneath his weight he carried a storied confidence. Legends of Harvey’s days as a warden flowed like the desert sands in Adamon. It was rumored he was offered a position as an elder, but he turned it down. Harvey instead opted to retire from the order to live a quaint life in a nothing village in South-central Parish, married to a tiny woman with the fortitude of a mountain. She’d birthed eleven children to create their massive family and not one had passed in childbirth.

Feodore stood at attention but leaned his head past Harvey to inspect the target, his blonde hair fell over his eyes again. He knew he’d hit three nines. The old warden’s terrible eyesight wouldn’t cheat him out of passing. Feodore straightened up and pushed his hair off his face. “It’s three nines, the last broke the line.”

“You saying I have bad eyes?” Harvey leaned into Feodore. The big man’s hot breath smelt of mint and tobacco.

“I’m saying you’re old and need glasses. I shot three nines, go down there and check yourself,” Feodore said.

Warden Harvey shoved an eyeglass to his right eye and looked down range. “Well, I’ll be damned, the boy is right. Three nines. How in the hells did you see that?”

“I can just tell,” Feodore said.

Warden Harvey let out a hardy bellowing laugh and slapped Feodore on the back. “You’ll make a fine warden if you can keep that eyesight of yours, just clean up your grip and you’ll be hitting tens every time. You’re too tight up there, boy. Loosen up and relax, got it?”

“Last time you told me to tighten up. You know, I’m starting to think I might not be the problem. At some point you have to blame the teacher,” Feodore said.

“Didn’t your dad teach you manners? Where are you getting off speaking to me like that? I could smack you upside the head and down the back if I had a mind for it,” Harvey scowled.

Feodore laughed and gave Harvey a light punch in the gut. “If you had any ounce of intimidation left to give me, I’d have made three tens. You’ve gone soft Harvey.”

Harvey snorted and opened the gate that lead out of the dirt range. “You’re not the best shot the town has ever seen. Hells, you ain’t the best at anything!”

“Thanks, Harvey, I can see you truly care.” Feodore stepped through the gate and into the open valley path that led toward the town. The path winded down a small incline, through brush and cacti. An orange light settled over the valley as the sun set behind the mountains far to the West.

“Shut up and let your elder speak. You ain’t the best at things, but you pick up quick on changes and adapt well. Men have gone, served, and died who’re a better shot, better at alchemy, and more careful in artificing. Being a warden isn’t just being good at shooting. It’s about adaptation. Knowing what skill to put where. And, boy, you know where to put ‘em. That’s what’ll keep you alive. You’ll be a great warden, I’m sure of it.”

“What becomes of the men who qualify for the wardens, but choose not to serve? I don’t mean those who grew up on the outside. But those like me, who have been in Parish their whole life, but they don’t join.”

“And who would those men be serving? God, or themselves?” Harvey pulled a pipe from his pocket and began stuffing it with tobacco.

“Well, a man might still serve the town, the people in it, if he is to stay.”

As Harvey lit his pipe, two young men, the same age as Feodore, emerged from either side.

One, lanky and carrying himself as if weighed down by the despair of life, meandered up to Feodore. “Come on, Feodore, say it.”

The other, stout and headstrong with his tight cut black hair shining in the sun, fenced Feodore in from the other side and said, “Lavina is what you mean to say. One might stay to serve Lavina.”

“Shut up, Fineus. I wasn’t talking about myself, thank you.” Feodore pushed Fineus off the path, who narrowly avoided crashing into a cactus.

“We mean no harm! Right Balthazar?” Fineus said, jumping back to Feodore’s side.

“None at all. Only trying to help. If you’re leaving soon, you should at least be honest.”

“I am being honest; what do you want me to say?” Feodore turned to face both Fineus and Balthazar while he walked backwards toward the town.

“Admit that you don’t want to leave because you want to marry her,” Fineus said, “You think that’s a good enough excuse to shirk your duty? Won’t go to the field because you want to stay home and play house?” Fineus nudged Balthazar. “Must be nice to have so much figured out so young.”

Balthazar clasped his hands together, “To be young and in love! What a treat?”

“At least I can actually talk to a woman. How’s Fia, Balthazar? Or do you still not know?” Feodore said.

“Relax, we’re only poking fun. We’ll all be leaving soon, don’t have much more time to keep that ego of yours in check,” Fineus said.

Feodore turned around and let his two friends catch up to him. They walked side-by-side toward the town when Harvey trotted up behind them, “Leave the old boy alone. You’ll be gone soon, best not to sour the waters now of all times.”

“You saying we don’t belong here?” Balthazar asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Harvey slapped the two young men on their backs.

Feodore laughed and said, “I just want to be sure that the town isn’t forgotten by the wardens when we go. The next set of boys won’t be ready to train for three or four years at the most.”

“Trust me when I say it, boy, but Adamon is well protected from demons. Plenty of retired wardens live here. Plus, there hasn’t been a demon sighting in a hundred-mile radius for fifty years. You have nothing to fear when you go off on an adventure of your own. It’s not forever, you know. And Lavina will be here when you get back,” Harvey said.

“She won’t be if she gets married to someone else or if I die. What’s the survival rate again for new wardens?”

“That fifty percent rate is inflated by heathens,” Balthazar said, “You can’t take that as fact. If five of every ten wardens died each year, then we’d have run out of men to join the order long ago. There’re not enough recruits to keep the order alive with that high of a mortality rate.”

“It’s not about that number being right, it’s the perception of it. What it says is that enough wardens die in service that saying twenty percent die each year is believable,” Feodore said.

“And how many would die without them?” Fineus asked.

Silence followed the question, each man walked while reflecting on the necessity of that sacrifice, dirt crunching under boots.

“What was the world like before Parish, how did the people get along?” Balthazar asked, turning to Harvey.

Harvey took in a deep breath, preparing to give a long-winded reply, but he let out a sigh instead when he saw a young woman running from the town to greet them.

“Another time, boys, Feodore has company.” Harvey tipped his hat and then stepped off the path. The fat man meandered off toward a large farmhouse that stood on the outskirts of Adamon, the small town in which Feodore Warg had grown to young adulthood. It was tucked away in the province of Goldwaste, deep in the center of the country of Parish, all of which resided on the continent of Ahman. The town itself loomed ever closer with each step the young men took toward it. Wooden buildings sprouted from the dry desert sand, in a constant state of disrepair and never free from a healthy heaping of dirt pouring from every crevice and cranny.

“Lavina!” Feodore shouted, waving at the girl. Her long brown-red hair flowed behind her as she stumbled over the rocky path, her dress kicking up a cloud of dust around her feet. She had a long rifle slung over her shoulder.

“Hello boys!” she said as she approached. Feodore stopped just before her, staring at her. She sighed and then jumped into him with a clumsy embrace.

“Lavina,” Balthazar and Fineus said in unison while offering a small head nod.

He released Lavina and stepped back. Feodore pulled a small piece of paper from his shirt pocket and put it into Lavina’s hands. “I made this for you.”

“Just for me? How sweet of you!” Lavina grinned and put a hand on Feodore’s chest. She held the paper up and then laughed. Feodore had drawn a rough likeness of Warden Harvey dressed in overalls and a straw hat captioned with the words ‘Overfed warden farmer.’

“What are you doing out here?” Feodore asked.

“Well, I was actually on my way up to practice with my dad’s rifle, but now I think I’ll see you off. I don’t want you to forget all about us and find new homes. You need to know that we need you to come back home, to Adamon, safe and whole. Got it?” Lavina lowered the paper and stared the three young men down until they answered.

“Yes ma’am,” they said in unison.

“Good, and you,” Lavina said pointing to Feodore, “Need to put in your papers.”

“I am, just had to get my qualification done. It’s not an easy test,” Feodore bit his lip. It was already strange enough he’d waited so long to get qualified. Further delay in his submission would spark greater suspicion. He would tell the truth soon enough. Especially to Lavina.

“Was for me,” Fineus said. “Getting to see the world, fighting demons, and all the while I get to eat and sleep and shoot for free? Sign me up. That’s the dream. Made that test a piece of cake.”

“I guess I’m still scared about it.” Balthazar looked away from Fineus as he spoke. “They say the Southern Enclave has more demons than people. That the jungles are the sworn territory of monsters and any man who steps inside is cursed with death. But if I don’t go and try to change a place filled with so much evil, what good am I? Plus, I want to get my life started sooner, not later.”

“I’m going to put them in tomorrow.” Feodore’s gaze moved between Fineus and Balthazar. “Just, what if what’s out there,” Feodore gestured to the sky and beyond, “Isn’t worth dying for. What use are we all dead?”

Lavina touched Feodore’s arm, sending a shockwave through his body. “Do you think Adamon is worth dying for?”

Feodore hoped she truly asked, Am I worth dying for? But she wouldn’t say that forthright with Balthazar and Fineus around.

Feodore brushed Lavina’s hand with his own. “I think it’s certainly worth living for, if I could be so bold.”

She smiled and played with Feodore’s hair. “And I’m glad you do. What is it about Adamon you would live so boldly for?”

“Oh yes Feodore, why do you love this dinky little town so much?” Balthazar smacked two hands onto Feodore’s shoulders and squeezed.

Feodore jumped back from Lavina and pushed Balthazar off of him. “It’s just where I grew up. We all did. Memories here are good, and what not. It’s a nice place, is all. Not too bad to look at, I guess.”

Lavina halted with a stomp. “Not too bad to look at? Just a nice place? That’s all it would take for Feodore Warg to want to give up his whole future as a warden for? A quaint memory and decent enough view?”

“That’s not what I said.” Feodore stopped alongside Lavina.

“Getting yourself in trouble again?” Balthazar said.

“What trouble is it? I’m just answering the question! It’s a great place to be, a wonderful place. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. I think it may be right by me to stay behind and keep it safe. To live for Adamon,” Feodore said.

“Oh, so that’s what’s right? To live for Adamon? Just Adamon? That is enough for a man to know what is right to do?” Lavina said.

“How else is a man to know what is right?” Feodore said.

“It’s like you don’t even listen to me. A woman, obviously. But you’d just ignore me anyway, like you always do, so I won’t tell you. You have to figure it out for yourself. How does that sound?” Lavina winked at Feodore and then skipped off toward the range.

“What just happened?” Feodore asked.

“Well, Lavina walked us back to town and all the while you made an idiot of yourself,” Balthazar said as they walked into town, marked by the two rickety wooden shacks that passed for storefronts on either side of the road. Feodore glanced at the sign to his left, Mr. Jensen had refreshed the old worn sign marking the building as a general store with a new coat of paint. That wouldn’t matter, the dry heat and blistering sun would fade it all the same as the old paint in a matter of days.

Fineus jabbed Feodore in the ribs and pointed toward the town center. “The warden recruiters just got here. You can drop off your recommendation and get your assignment by tomorrow.”

“What good would that do? I can just do it tomorrow if I need to. I’d rather wait on it while I can,” Feodore said.

“Just trying to help,” Fineus slapped a hand on Feodore’s back. “I’m headed home. Look after yourself.”

“You should talk to them,” Balthazar said. “They might know something the others don’t.” The lanky young man then gave Feodore a wave and slipped away between the buildings behind Fineus.

Feodore continued down the main road toward his own home. The dirt roads becoming more crowded as he walked through the main plaza, a large dirt square fenced in by a circle of buildings crowned at the upper point by a humble white church, the steeple towering above the town. Every town in Parish centered around a church, the building acting not only as a place of worship on the first day of each week, but also as the town hall, a meeting place, and the home for any visiting wardens.

In front of the church, people crowded around two wardens as they told stories of their adventures into the outlands. They both wore the standard warden outfit, a long leather coat overlayed with two straps lined on either side with different calibers of ammo. One for their hand cannons and the other for their rifle. Another belt of ammo wrapped around their waists; this one filled with various hand cannon munitions a gunslinger warden could load based on the threat. On their backs one carried a long rifle with a massive scope, the Nails ‘n Hearts, the other a short rifle with a ringed iron sight, the Eye Ring Repeater. On the inside of their coats, they carried several vials of varying sizes. Some of those vials were potions that could lessen the pain from wounds or assist in dampening illness symptoms. Another contained a mixture that burned only demon flesh. Then along the other side of the coat were the bombs. Small hardened glass cartridges that would explode when lit or launched from a Testament Launcher. And atop their heads sat a black wide-brimmed hat, curled slightly on either side. These two had come from the Northern Enclave, a wretched cold wasteland inhabited by demons born from the ice that could freeze an entire town with a breath--the warden training books called them hags.

“And as the demon took in its breath to finish me off, Galan’s Nails ‘n Heart shot struck true. It ripped the head clean off that demon from the neck. Then, as the summer sun rose, the frigid mist broke, and warmth returned once again. The icicles melted, frosted windows cleared, and fires roared to life. I had never seen anything like it, but those people, that village, are alive because God led us there,” the warden told his story with what Feodore assumed was some embellishment. They had to, otherwise they might not be seen as heroes. What man would go on such a quest to come home with lackluster stories? The warden had probably rehearsed that one on the trip back to Parish.

“Feodore!” one of the wardens called from the crowd. Feodore recognized him as Galan Hansen, a young man who left Adamon only two years prior, now sporting a full beard and a head of long brown curly hair. Galan turned to the other warden, said a few words, and then pushed through the crowd to meet Feodore at the edge of the town center.

“They’ve got you recruiting this year, Galan?” Feodore walked with Galan until they came upon a bench underneath the awning of Mr. Crenshaw’s bakery. He wasn’t particularly happy to see Galan.

“Yea, I guess they do,” Galan said. He sat on the bench and motioned to the other side.

Feodore nodded and sat with the warden. “I thought you’d been assigned to the Eastern Enclave. What were you doing in the North?”

Galan stretched his arms over the back of the bench and slouched down with a relaxed sigh. “The assignments aren’t as rigid as you’d expect. I started to the East, but my work took me up North. Freddy, my partner, had a feeling we should go North after some time in the East. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead. And that town would too. By God’s grace we’ve been guided to where we needed to go, just as Comfort Hawkes said the wardens would.”

“But then you decided to just come down here to recruit?”

Galan cast a sideways glance toward Feodore. “No, this is an assignment from our sergeant. He wanted me and Freddy on it. Really, I’m glad. I’ve been wanting to do this for a while.”

“I have a hard time believing you wanted to recruit for the wardens,” Feodore said.

“And why not? We need as many young men as we can get. More accurately, the people outside of Parish need them. They need you.”

That was not the answer Feodore expected. It was one of reverence and humility. It paid deference to the calling of a warden, something Feodore only heard Galan make light of. It sounded more like the lectures from Father Porter than Galan. This warden seemingly returned to Parish a different man. In the recesses of Feodore’s mind a particular memory of Galan clawed its way into his thoughts.

---

“Three tens,” Galan, young, beard-free and unapologetically handsome, said before twirling his hand cannon in his fingers and sliding it into his holster. A small group of five boys, Feodore among them, surrounded Galan and stared at him wide-eyed.

“My turn!” Fineus stepped up to the firing line and reached for a hand cannon resting on the bench behind Galan.

“Don’t touch that!” Warden Harvey shouted. He smacked the gangly teenage boy and snatched the hand cannon from the table.

“Ouch!” Fineus clapped a hand to the back of his head and sniffled as he walked from the bench.

“How’d you shoot so good, Galan?” Balthazar rubbed his hands together. The other boys echoed the question.

Galan walked passed them to the gate across from the range. “I just point and shoot. Easier for me than most.”

“You saying you don’t even have to practice?” Johannes, a stout boy with curly brown hair, jumped in front of Galan.

Without a break in his stride, Galan pushed Johannes aside and said, “Nope.”

Warden Harvey’s massive hand appeared out from behind the group of boys and grabbed the back of Galan’s shirt. “Boy,” Harvey said, “Don’t fill these young ones here with that nonsense. They’ll believe you.”

“I’m not going to lie to them. It’s not hard to shoot an unmoving dot from a short distance. If it’s hard for them, then I don’t know what to say.” Galan pushed Harvey’s hand off his shirt and opened the gate.

Harvey jumped forward and grabbed the gate, blocking the path out of the range. “Look, boy.” Harvey speared an iron eye at Galan. “Not a single kid from this town has left as a warden without first going through my training and my tests. You have the talent for it, but if you don’t take it seriously, you’ll die. I’ve seen it too many times. Talent will keep you alive so long as you can see what’s coming, but then what do you do when you take on more than you can handle? Do you know what it’s like to fail?”

“I guess I’ll have to wait and find out.” Galan shoved at the gate, and it flew open. He sauntered forward and chuckled as he walked by Harvey.

Feodore looked back to the range, to the targets still standing against the wall of sand at the end of the 30-yard field. Galan’s stood out among them as the only target with a tight grouping in the direct center. Then Feodore glanced at his own, he could see five holes, he took six shots that day. Two were on the edge, just barely hitting the circle. The other three Feodore somehow scattered across the target, none hitting even close to the center he aimed for. If Galan, so natural in his skills, could still die as a warden, what chance did Feodore have?

On his walk home Feodore strolled by the Forge house and stared up at the second-floor window. He didn’t know if he actually watched the oldest Forge girl Lavina’s room, but he imagined he did. And that Lavina would one day open the window and call down to him.

Suddenly the window flew open and Feodore’s heart raced. He tossed his head back and forth to search for a place to hide, but he stood in the middle of the dirt path with nothing to cover him. So, he ran.

“Feodore!” Lavina’s voice called down from above.

The young boy turned around, without stopping his run, and just as he saw the gorgeous red-brown haired girl that was Lavina Forge, he tripped and fell face first into the dirt.

“Oh!” Was all Feodore heard before the window snapped closed. He rolled to his back and sat up, rubbing his throbbing forehead. Though he wanted nothing more than to get up and run home, he couldn’t stand.

“Oh, Feodore, are you okay?” Lavina burst from the doorway of her home and dashed to him. Her dress fluttered over the dirt with an enchanting grace.

“I’m fine,” Feodore said. He tried to stand but fell back and bruised his thigh. He shouted in pain.

“Hold on, I’ll help.” Lavina reached for him and grabbed his arm, helping Feodore to his feet.

“Oh, how sweet!” The sarcastic voice of Galan pierced through the shame laden tension.

“Shut up, Galan!” Lavina said. “He’s hurt.”

“He’s only hurt because he can’t focus on anything. How can you expect to save people from demons if you can’t even run twenty feet without tripping?” Galan stepped into Feodore’s view from across the road. He leaned against a hitch post and cackled.

“Leave me alone. I’m doing just fine.” Feodore got to his feet with Lavina’s help. He wiped his forehead, and his hand came back covered in blood. Each beat of his heart pounded through his head like a blacksmith’s hammer, bringing with it the pain of being struck with one. Though, each thump somewhat lessened the pain and with it the numbness surrounding the rest of his face faded. He could start to feel the blood trickling down his chin and onto his neck.

Lavina pressed something to his head and grimaced. “We need to get you to Doctor Hansen.”

“No doctors outside of Parish, Warg. What will you do when a hell boar rams you through the gut? Or when a cainigore bites a chunk off your arm?” Galan laughed again.

“Shut up, Galan. You’re not helping. Just leave already so we can be in peace.” Lavina grabbed Feodore’s arm and led him toward the center of town.

“I am trying to help.” Galan ran up alongside Lavina. “The poor kid has no talent as a warden. He won’t make it. We’ve had enough boys die from our town. How many more have to die before we realize not everyone is cut out to serve?”

“That’s not what being a warden is about,” Feodore winced as he spoke.

“Tell me what it’s about then? Serving God? Making your family proud? Sure, maybe. But since when is that enough for you to kill yourself?”

Feodore scowled and opened his mouth, but no words came out. That is what serving was about. He had to serve. God expected him to and more so, his own father needed him to serve. It was his duty. Even if it killed him.

“Tell me, Warg, are you sure it’s worth dying for? What’s out there?” Galan shook his head and then said, “Because if I’m not even sure, how could you possibly be?”

“Go away, Galan.” Lavina pushed the older boy into the road and quickened her pace with Feodore.

“Fine, but think about it, Warg. Don’t throw your life away just because everyone else is telling you it’s a good idea.” With a sigh Galan turned on his heel and walked off between two houses.

Feodore and Lavina shambled forward in silence. His head throbbed, and blood flowed. The walk to Doctor Hansen’s office was short from the Forge’s, but the pain it made it feel like hours. The whole way Feodore kept his head down. He watched the ground as it passed by, noting the occasional blob of blood drop from his chin. When it splashed into the dirt it made a tiny puddle of mud, one that he thought he might be able to stick his pinky into, but he never got the chance to try because Lavina dragged him along at a relentless pace.

“What if he’s right?” Feodore said as Lavina left him on a bench while she banged on the doctor’s door.

“So what?” Lavina said.

“I’m not good enough to be a warden.” Feodore rolled his head back against the wall behind the bench and let out a groan.

“I don’t care.”

Feodore rolled his head forward and stared at Lavina’s blood splotched, blue dress. “I like your dress. It looks good in red.”

“Thanks. The only reason I helped you was to get this cool new style. I’m glad you like it.” Lavina smiled at Feodore and then pounded on the door again. “Where is this useless doctor? What’s the point of having a doctor if he doesn’t even work when you need him?”

“I’m fine, really. I just need a small bandage. My mom has a few of those. Just take me home.”

“No, now stop talking.”

Feodore grabbed Lavina’s arm and pulled her to the bench. “He’ll come when he does. I’m fine.”

Lavina let herself fall next to Feodore. “Stop it. I’m going to go find him.”

“But what if I die? You’ll be sorry you didn’t spend this time with me.”

“You are dying. I just don’t want to be the one to have to bury you.”

Feodore snickered and said, “Fair enough.”

---

The memory receded and Feodore came back to himself. Galan still relaxed against the bench, his head thrown back, his arms tossed over the back rest, and his legs spread wide.

Despite Galan’s newfound reverence of warden propaganda, he still returned bellowing stories to inflate his ego. That much of Galan remained the same. He could never pass up an opportunity to boast.

“How much of that story is true?” Feodore asked.

Galan gave Feodore a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”

“Your partner, the story about the ice demon. Are hags really that supernatural?”

Galan’s face fell. “You can’t know what it’s like until you’re out there. We don’t know anything about these monsters. They’re terrible, Feodore. I wouldn’t lie about such evil and horrible things. Truly, nothing more devastating can happen to a town than to be assaulted by a demon like that. They kill and maim without remorse. The residents die one by one in slow agonizing pain, whether through starvation, torture, or chill. I’ve seen the remains of a town decimated by some creatures that fought over the children, Feodore. The dead, desecrated bodies of children. The demons had torn the children apart to use in a demented game. We don’t tell stories of everything we see. The stories Freddy tells now aren’t to make us look good. It’s what we want to remember. What we need to remember. Because if we don’t, then none of us would make it back whole. If you can say we even do with them.” Galan trailed off as he struggled to keep his breathing steady. A breeze blew by and carried with it the smell of fresh baked bread. The crowd surrounding Freddy cheered as the warden told another tale of heroism.

Feodore turned away from Galan. Perhaps he changed. Humble men did not boast of enduring such horrors. “I’m sorry, I was just curious is all.”

Galan shook his head and perked up. “Don’t be sorry.” Galan put a hand on Feodore’s shoulder. “You haven’t been outside of Parish, much less Goldwaste, you can’t be expected to know what awaits those who are cursed to live in the outlands of Ahman, lacking Parish’s protection.”

“Why’d you choose to join the wardens?” Feodore asked. He had no intention of asking when he started the conversation, but now he needed to know. The terror of what a single demon might bring to a town made him curious why anyone would choose to face such evil willingly. As Galan told him before, what chance did Feodore have?

Galan sighed. “I didn’t want to be one at first. I thought I might rather work as an alchemist. The potions interested me and mixing new concoctions always sounded like something I’d love doing, but that’s lifelong work. There’s not many spots open for either them or artificers. You see, they aren’t hurting for applicants and if you aren’t the best of the best, you have to stand out, serving as a gunslinger puts you a cut above the rest. It’s that or run a local bakery, I guess.”

“You were the best alchemy student in our town before you left. I don’t believe you weren’t good enough to choose that without becoming a gunslinger,” Feodore said.

“Yes, I could’ve gone into it just fine. What I meant is you, Feodore, aren’t good enough as an alchemist or as an artificer to make it. You either join the wardens as a gunslinger, or you’ll stay here and farm in shame. People from towns like Adamon don’t get opportunities without proving their worth as a warden.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

Galen looked to the west, toward the setting sun. “I’m just about done in my service as a gunslinger and in a few months, I’ll go to the academy in Bluewater to finish training as a research assistant in alchemy. When you get to the warden training camp, you’ll go through training stages, and they’ll test your aptitude in alchemy and artificing. If you show any promise at all you’ll get a recommendation to join the academy after your service. If you’re the best, then you might even be able to cut your service short to join the academy early. They offered me a position at the academy before I even finished training, but then I met one of the twelve. He traveled through from Bluewater to the Northern Enclave to facilitate a church building in a new town. But he took the time to stop and visit with us new recruits. He looked each of us in the eye and told us what we were feeling, what we were thinking. He knew what we all wanted. The man didn’t hesitate to say that most recruits only sign up out of obligation or duty. He knew the burden we all placed on ourselves to bring honor to our towns and families. But he lifted that burden. His words made it about something far more than duty. He said he knew how the work came with a deadly risk, but the fate of humanity relied on each individual warden that would choose that path. No man would be forced into it, but they were called to it. Ahman needs wardens to fight the scourge of demons, outside of Parish. The only thing protecting us from the demons is our efforts to extend our territory and wipe them from Ahman for good. He recounted the history of the restored warden order. Before when Parish had just been an idea, and every person lived in fear of the coming night. It was only because of the men who took up arms and pushed into the beyond to protect the most vulnerable that we can live in peace. He showed us how necessary it is for gunslingers to risk themselves. And I’ve seen that every day. Not a single one of us in that training camp questioned our intentions after that day.” Galan finished speaking. The sun dropped below the horizon and the final orange glow of twilight faded into the distance. Across the town center, in front of the church, the people cleared away and Galan’s partner leaned against the church door.

“You should go. I’ve kept you too long,” Feodore said.

“We need you, Feodore. We need you as a gunslinger. There’s not a man in the world we don’t need on the front lines. We aren’t wasting our lives out there, like some people think, we’re fighting to make sure that Parish survives and that Ahman as a whole will know peace. You could be the difference for a town of a hundred people dying or living. It’s that simple.” Galan stood up and adjusted his hat.

“That all may be true, but I don’t need the warden order to keep my town and family safe. I can do that on my own. I already know how and if I don’t, I can learn,” Feodore said.

“Your future family needs Ahman to stay safe. And this town has more than enough warden veterans. You aren’t going to help, but the towns out there.” Galan gestured around him. “Those towns have no one. If a hoard of demons, or heaven forbid something worse, attacks one of those towns, then they will suffer and die.”

“You’ve been a warden too long. There’s more to life than hunting demons.”

“There is, but without the wardens there is no life but hiding from demons.”

Galan slapped a hand on Feodore’s shoulder and nodded before walking back to the church.

End of excerpt.