Chapter 650 - Book 6, Chapter 42 (1/2)

In the central square of Greenland, victory celebrations were being held.

Despite the grand victory they’d just won the city was absent what revelry one might expect. Cloudhawk and other leaders unveiled a large stone monument to commemorate the moment.

Solemn reverence took hold. It was an obelisk fifty meters tall, covered with names. This was the cost for their triumph in the Northern Barrens. Eighty thousand mighty warriors left to war, but only half returned.

The fallen were all represented. Those with names had them etched into the stones. Those without were remembered by the unit they served. Grief and admiration shown through the eyes of Greenland’s citizens as they gazed upon the memorial.

It was a shame that these heroes would not see the city they died for rise to prosperity. They would never know what their sacrifices wrought. Yet the living felt envy. Out in the wastes a single dead man meant nothing – so many bleached bones on the side of the road no one paid any mind to. These names, though, would forever be immortalized.

What did the wastelands lack most of all? Food? Water? Safety? No – as a people forgotten, what the wastelanders lacked was a sense of worth and purpose. When Cloudhawk’s sun rose on the horizon he brought light into their lives. He gave them an identity. Those who gave their lives for freedom would be looked up to by future generations forever.

At the very top of the memorial was etched a name that stood alone: The Old Drunk, Lieutenant Governor.

The vagrant had a name but Cloudhawk chose not to use it. He knew little about Vulkan the War Saint, but as far as he was concerned the drunk he knew was a much greater man. He was never forced to join the fight but chose to, up to the very final moment of his life.

“Salute!” The gathered crowds thumped their right fists against their chests in tribute. It was a salute they’d all learned from Greenland Institute.

The wasteland center for learning had grown tremendously. It offered all manner of subjects for study and every day more subdivisions and specialties were added. Without question it would continue to serve as the most important institution for harnessing wastelander potential. To underline the point a group stepped forward, a collection of people trained in a field all but vanished from this part of the world – musicians!

They carried an array of instruments; flutes, guitars, and things never seen in the old world. There were fifty musicians in total, ranging from ages ten to forty. Greenland Institute had given them the opportunity to pursue their passion.

Dawn addressed the people. “Representing Greenland Institute, these performers will celebrate the fallen and commemorate our great accomplishment.”

The festivities were simple for there was much still to do, but to the savage folk of the wastes who had never encountered theater it was a breathtaking spectacle. Indeed how could there be civilization without art?

Things had changed, were changing. The wastes hadn’t seen such unity in over a thousand years. The Green Alliance was now responsible for a hundred million souls from north to south. What once was a scattered network of cities and settlements were slowly being connected by complex trade routes. They shared food, resources and science to bring everyone up together.

The edible fungus that had been the cornerstone of Greenland’s progress was shipped out to other places where sustenance was scarce. When Adder destroyed Skycloud’s Great Wall, he forced the realm to release its stranglehold on energy. It seeped out to the rest of the area, causing it to change. Barren soil became more fertile and supported the already tenacious fungi.

Greenland’s efforts in developing sewage treatment and water purification equipment were also shared, solving much of the basic health problems of the wastes. With water and food less of a concern, wasteland populations could stabilize and civilization had a solid foundation.

Everything was getting better. Society and order was returning to a desolate land! In celebration of this a crescendo of music – triumphant horns, soaring flutes, and majestic strings – washed over the crowd.

Simple but powerful. Deep and far-reaching. Vast and profound. The music was majestic but at the same time sorrowful like soaring freely through a rainstorm – like a boundless, beautiful desert. The notes told a story of hope found in the depths of despair that resonated with every wastelander who listened. It was titled Sands of the Wasteland, a perfect choice for the occasion.

So ended the brief commemoration.

No one was under any illusion that their work was done. Their victory was hard won, but it only presented them with a chance – perhaps their last chance. It was rare and thus cherished by all. Every citizen hoped that the alliance would hold strong.

When Cloudhawk returned to the fort, Hellflower was waiting for him fresh from a recent trip to the Ark Base. She looked relieved. “I was worried you wouldn’t come back.”