by Sain Artwell
Alron picked it up. The vestige was hot to touch. He could hear the presence within. Like an open door into a warmly lit home, it called to him. Whispers of a voice long lost spoke in his mind. They urged him to listen. Closing his eyes, Alron dipped his dragonsoul into the blur of memories.
***
Mlevanosk was in a small room, bright lights blinding her bleeding eyes, and drugs slurring her thoughts. Everything hurt, but far worse was the deep alienation she felt as she watched the man above work her flesh with his faceless assistants. Scalpels and saws were dismantling her life’s work—unmaking her.
“Marvelous, you truly are marvelous. To hold onto your consciousness in this condition? You will have to tell me how you managed it later.” The concerned fatherly voice belonged to the man hovering above her.
His face was covered by a mask. Embedded in its blackmetal surface were eyes extracted from oracles.
“You may rest assured. The pain you feel now will subside once we transfer you into your new vessel. We will build a new world together, you and I. Like we always said we would. Don’t worry, my friend, I promise no brutes will distract your genius from dedicating itself to our dream.”
One of Rasdrev’s faceless metal assistants moved a large glass tank next to her. Mlevanosk didn’t have to see the machinery beneath their metallic bodies to recognize them as crude copies of her handiwork.
Screaming internally, because she lacked vocal cords and a throat, Mlevanosk swore to end Rasdrev if it was the last thing she did. He could break her dragon-core, extinguish her vis-source, tear her vestiges, and destroy her body, but he could never enslave her mind. Not as long as Alron lived—and her bones knew he did—would any force on the Great Den or above its heavens. Any day now, he would come for her. Any day now…
***
Alron pulled out of the memory in the vestige. There was more in it, but he wished not to delve deeper now. He exhaled the residual emotion before looking up. His sense of triumph had waned, something heavier settling in its place.
“Fei, I love you, and I am sorry for not coming to find you myself. Thank you for finding me,” he said.
She materialized from the flames on his back, her arms wrapping around him in a hug. Fei gave him a burning kiss on the cheek and returned to flames, veiling them. “If you want to make it up to me, we’d best hurry back into the pipes. That big hole and all the action made me kind of horny.”
“Fine, I could use the distraction, and a moment to recuperate.”
“Ow. You’re calling sex with me a mere distraction?”
“The greatest of distractions. It alone has the power to stall my wrath, to hold me back from ruining Mlevanosk’s preparations and walking into Rasdrev’s home. Sex with you is the only drug as tempting as violence to my soul, and I intend to drink deep of that temptation tonight,” he replied.
Fei made an odd moaning sound inside his head, which Alron interpreted as approval.
With her veil around them, the three left the crater, and blended into the abandoned mines and shantytowns sprawling across the lower levels of Blackmetal City.
No oracles traced their steps, and whatever response Death Metal Industries and the City managed to mount were not quick enough to catch them.
Chapter 14 - The Unwelcome
Kastalos lit a roll of goldleaf to suppress the stench of sulphur and metal which permeated the salt and glass wasteland. It was nigh unbearable here, near the weather-worn concrete and metal monstrosity standing atop the highest peak of Abyssmaw’s shoulder—the infamous Blackmetal City.
Trapped within the megalomaniacal dreams of its current sovereign, tens of millions of wyrmkin slaved in destitution to replace ancient majesty with a soulless future. Had the threat of Alron been any lesser than it was, Kastalos may have opted to let the City be devoured, before making his move.
A cannon hidden in the mountains surrounding Blackmetal City flashed. Kastalos pulled the reins of his mantadrake, and shouted, “HALT!”
Two seconds later, the round tore a hundred-yard wide hole in the ground directly before Kastalos. A warning shot. Against a fellow sovereign? The sheer arrogance of this madman made Kastalos’ blood boil.
“Send him a message to speak with me at once!” he snapped to Ashir—one of his slaves in gilded armor. “I don’t care how many oracles you need to punch the words into his skull. Make it happen.”
Kastalos loosened one of his protective amulets, an artifact imbued with a vestige to protect him from scrying, and allowed his oracles to broadcast his thoughts.
“Rasdrev! Do not pretend you cannot see me!” Kastalos bellowed.
An errant whip of the winds tossed flakes of salt and glass past his mantadrake mount.
“Master, I’ve received a response!” Ashir shouted against the howling gale.
“Speak!”
“Yes Master,” Rasdrev’s oracles replied. “We were told to wait outside. Rasdrev is on his way.”
“Make sure they understand the urgency of our matter.”
“Yes Master, I stressed it.”
Kastalos scoffed, turning back to the thicket of spires ahead and the cloud of black noxious fumes they’d spewed. His vestige-enhanced sight, which could peer beyond three hundred dunes, spotted a distant figure taking flight from the tallest spire. Four pairs of thin metallic wings propelled it, their undulating motions reminding Kastalos more of oars than graceful draconic wings. It was Rasdrev. No one but him, and his cadre of desperate clans afraid of their own impotence in draconic power, would submit willingly their bodies to such mutilation.
After a spell, Rasdrev reached Kastalos and folded his metal wings, descending into the crater his cannon had carved. Rasdrev cracked his neck, rotating it far past where it should’ve turned.
“Kastalos, what a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe the unexpected honor of your visit, my old friend?”
“Spare me your ramblings. You know why I’m here. Sorcerer King’s oracles confirmed that Alron has entered Blackmetal City, after defeating the current Arch-Knight of Myrwing. Since you are obviously underestimating the threat he poses, I’ve taken the matter to my own hands. I am here to assist you in slaying him.”
Rasdrev touched thin metallic fingers together, his mask remaining as impossible to read as his soft voice. “I am fairly certain my opinion on the matter was made clear. How very unfortunate. You will be disappointed again. Blackmetal City is not open to foreign invaders, though I wholeheartedly welcome you as well as a limited number of your personal entourage to enter as guests. However, I’m afraid the rest of your army will not take a step further.”
The audacity! Kastalos glared at the lone wyrmkin standing before an army of five hundred awakened masters, two-thousand mantadrake-riders, five fortress class mantadrakes equipped with artillery batteries, ten-thousand Sandblade elites from Kastalos’ personal army, a menagerie of five-thousand sandbeasts from the deadliest corners of Dustwing Dunes, and one and hundred twenty thousand warriors from the clans and tribes of Dustwing Dunes.
Kastalos had spent a great deal of his personal wealth to mobilize as quickly and massively as possible, and now this walking worm in a tin can presumed he could walk down from his scrapyard towers to come spit in his face? In front of his women, his people, his army? The audacity! The insolence!
“You are a lunatic, Rasdrev, if you believe I will accept that,” warned Kastalos.
“Quite peculiar. You presume to threaten me within my domain? Old friend.” Rasdrev paused, folding arms behind his back as his one-eyed mask looked up.
“Enough of your posturing!” Kastalos snarled. “Did you battle the last dragongod? You did not! Alron is half a step from being a dragongod, bound to a wyrmkin form only by Sorcerer King’s lingering magic. You may believe his strength to fall within your calculations today, but he grows past them by tomorrow. Allow us entry, and we will assist you in destroying him. This is of no cost to you.”
“Again, I must disappoint you.” Four s
ets of metallic wings spread out from the black robes covering Rasdrev’s hunched body.
Kastalos lifted two fingers in a hand-sign to his trusted slave, giving the command for a group of awakened oracles to sensory overload Rasdrev’s mind under the dunes. Rather than collapsing under the concentrated assault, the masked creature simply tilted his head. A chill, which had nothing to do with the freezing atmosphere of Abyssmaw’s shoulder, ran from Kastalos’ neck to his tail.
“Old friend, the world has moved on from secret sects buried beneath sands and ancient magics. You may not have noticed, but you too brought along several pieces of artillery designed in this very city behind me.” Rasdrev raised his hands in a grand gesture as his hunched back straightened, revealing a strange silhouette.
The salty breeze tugged at his robes, granting Kastalos a harrowing glimpse of something beyond his wildest imaginations. Madness did not even begin to describe this abomination before him.
Rasdrev continued, knowing full well that only Kastalos understood the meaning of his words. “To surpass the limits of awakening, and restrictions of manifestation, this is the only viable path forward. If you are patient, and wait for Alron to complete my final preparations, you will have a chance to behold them in action.”
Though his pride seethed, Kastalos held his tongue. He did not want to fight this thing, if this even was Rasdrev anymore. Not this close, and not without an army between them. “Very well. Good hunting,” he said.
“I appreciate your understanding.” Taking his cue, Rasdrev’s wings lifted him off. “Rest assured, this part of the experiments is one I thoroughly enjoy.”
After a spell, when Rasdrev had become a spot in the sky, Ashir spoke, “What shall we do, Master?”
“We will set a camp here. If the spires start falling, or Rasdrev calls for aid, we march.”
“Master… You believe he might prevail against the Betrayer?”
Kastalos did not answer. He was in deep thought, weighing his options. One way or another, the battle of Blackmetal City would give birth to a monster capable of changing the Ascendancy, perhaps the world itself forever. Only now, Kastalos was not certain whether he preferred the destruction Alron would bring over the nightmare future Rasdrev might usher.
Chapter 15 - Interview
A day after raiding Death Metal Industries, Alron found himself downright electric with anticipation, and, for once, awed by the ruse Mlevanosk’s Friends had crafted for the infiltration of the Ministry of Metal.
If fate favored them, today would end with all the remaining vestiges reclaimed, Mlevanosk’s masterpiece assembled, and Mlevanosk resurrected.
“Drat! A redcloak,” Sofi whispered, pressing herself against the corner.
The street behind it was wide, and built to accommodate and entertain hundreds, if the number of seats on the terraces and the stench of old grease and trash were any indication. Today, metal curtains and portcullises blocked entry to shops and stalls. Gone were the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds of yesterday, replaced by silent streets, hollow creatures of metal, and an occasionally repeating howl of sirens.
Most of Blackmetal City was in martial lockdown.
Two sentinels stood in front of an unassuming establishment next to a lantern shop, whilst their scarlet robed monitor was halfway through the door. The redcloak snapped a rapid tide of questions at the owner.
“Is that the establishment?” Alron asked, nodding at a boutique named ‘Vronica’s Vestige Appraisal’.
“That’s the one,” Sofi said, and hurried to add, “Please wait a moment. We cannot afford the redcloaks sounding an alarm.”
“Fret not. The concept of patience is not entirely foreign to me.”
“Apologies. I would never dare imply such a thing,” Sofi said. “Unless, of course… Wait, were you joking now or was that spoken in earnest?”
Fei giggled softly.
“Both,” said Alron.
“Both? Oh, okay then.”
“Dearie, you don’t need to fear retribution for a misspoken word, or even an intentional offense,” said Fei. “You are ours now.”
Alron made no mention of Fei’s previous snaps at Sofi. Sofi let it pass too, giving the invisible Fei a small nod of affirmation, before turning to the redcloak, who stepped inside a building and locked the door behind him.
“We need to draw him out, without him calling reinforcements,” Sofi said, chewing on her new claw.
“Would a few break-ins and a little chaos suffice?” Fei inched forward, pulling up the hood of a gray cloak, which covered a dress of purple silk trimmed with gold and embedded with jewels—an elegant outfit prepared specifically for tonight.
She paused at the corner, looking to Alron, who gave her a nod.
“Go. Make light mayhem, and let us know if he’s about to return.”
Fei sent him a flying kiss, twirled on her heels, and sauntered downstreet. Sentinels began to track her from their posts by the door, and watched her as she finally paused by a placard reading ‘Guns, Blades, and Gunblades’.
With a spinning kick, she opened the door. The sentinels began to move away, followed closely by the redcloak storming into the street and towards Fei’s shop. Much shouting ensued.
When their backs were turned, Alron picked Sofi up and crossed the street in a single silent bound.
“Pardon us, but we couldn’t help but notice the door was open,” he said.
With ease, Alron forced open the door to Vronica’s Vestige Appraisal, before its curly haired owner could fully seal herself in.
She stared at him flabbergasted. “Open? Why this is… This is an outrage! You must leave at once.”
Alron entered and closed the door behind him and dragonized the lock. The woman’s eyes bulged wide. She dropped a sword on the polished stone floor.
“Th-that…” she stammered. She took a good studious look of Alron’s appearance.
The woman straightened herself for a trembling curtsy. “Why, that is correct! Welcome to Vronica’s—that is me, I’m Vronica—Vestige Appraisal, o’ honored awakened master. Whether you’re looking to acquire or barter away vestiges, I’m certain we’ll find something to suit your needs and means.”
Sofi pulled down her hood. “Vronica, the Friends of Mlevanosk need your services.”
Vronica flinched. “I’ve paid my debts to your cult already, you cannot hold the claw to my throat forever. Please let me be, Mlevanosk gave me the permission to leave, don’t take this away from me.”
“Please be understanding.” Sofi frowned guiltily, gesturing to Alron. “This is—”
“No, please stop right there.” Vronica held her arms up, leaning away. “It’s difficult enough to convince the Ministry of my ignorance as it is.”
“But…”
Alron placed a hand on Sofi’s shoulder, meeting Vronica’s gaze. “Mlevanosk’s Friends aside, I’m afraid I will have to personally insist.”
Vronica suppressed a groan, buckling under the threat of his glare. “Fine! Tell me what I need to do, and leave. Please.”
“Okay. Thank you. We know you had an old mirage field projector from Rasdrev.” Sofi’s words left the woman shaking her head. Sofi pressed on, “Do you still have it?”
Vronica clutched the counter. “And you won’t be satisfied with anything else?”
Alron interjected, his tone calm yet firm. “You misunderstand the nature of this negotiation. In the end, we shall leave with what we need. The only exchange occurring is that of your promptness for my favor.”
He could hear Vronica’s heartbeat rising. “Are you going to kill me?”
Alron frowned, and considered it for a brief spell. “Once we are done, I suggest you leave the City. Otherwise, you may die.”
Vronica stared at him, at the locked glass shelves filled with vestiges, at the masterful stencil portraits on jadepaper, and sighed. Wordlessly, she knelt by the wall, reaching her hands through solid stone. She produced a dark golden metal tube covered in pulsing
metallic veins.
On one end of the tube, prismatic light shimmered within a gemlike purple eye. When Vronica turned dials on the other end, the emerald-tinted wall paneling, polished floor tiling, opulently designed lantern, shelves of merchandise, and decorations glimmered with a prismatic sheen and disappeared. In their place were rusted shelves, locked trapdoors, and secret cabins, and a shopkeeper with a completely different face to the previous Vronica.
“Just when I’d gotten out of that star cursed cu—” Vronica sighed. “Go. Please. Leave me be.”
They left. Whilst waiting for Fei, Sofi tinkered with the projector. Despite some fault resulting in it only having one setting—which dyed Alron’s hair and horns black and gave him a crooked nose—even Alron found himself impressed by the device.
Somehow, Rasdrev and Mlevanosk had managed to squeeze the powers of a Shimmering Dream—a rare oracle technique—inside a simple tube, which required nothing but vis to fuel it. It was incredible.
Several hours later, garbed in a heavily layered disguise of silk and jewelry, Alron stepped out of a luxuriously detailed firewagon. Fei and Sofi followed. Like Alron, they both appeared as beauties of venerable status, with the magma-red eyes and dark gray complexion common on Abyssmaw’s northern shoulder.
Although, out of the two, only Fei possessed the natural charisma and poise to project the elegance expected of an oldblood. Meanwhile, Sofi wore the gilded collar of a slave and was tasked with hauling a large case containing Alron’s jadegold glaive as well as a large number of fragmentation bombs.
“Halt! The Ministry of Metal is not accepting visitors.” The voice belonged to one of the four redcloaks guarding entry into the massive structure, which loomed above, hanging from the domed ceiling of the City like a square-edged stalactite of metal.
“How awkward,” Fei mused, raising an accusatory brow at Alron as she spoke in the thick rolling accent of Abyssmaw’s residents. “Did you forget to arrange the meeting?”
Alron played along, flashing her an annoyed look before addressing the closest redcloak. “I am Mihail of Lashnikov, here to settle last year’s tax dispute on behalf of my clan. Slave, open the chest.”
