by A W Tinney
“You do not want to find out what happens to those who do not honour an agreement with the gnome guilds,” Nymida added.
“The Code binds,” Eresor added, “and Sky Queen Terida is fond of …”
The merchant interrupted. “You think I care about your archaic code, and your far away queen, gnome?”
Eresor grinned. “The sky is everywhere,” he hissed, “and so are we.”
Kahil was not impressed. “I told you both, my patron is a person of great means and influence. You should not threaten me.”
Eresor was growing weary. He was not fond of growing weary. So, he drew a pistol, pulling back the hammer, the satisfying click preceding a sudden silence in the room. Kahil raised his hands, colour draining from his face as Eresor growled. “I have no doubt, that your patron, whoever they may be, is important. But we had a deal, merchant, and you will honour it. It’s your choice; one hundred gold sovereigns, or that dead thing between your ears you call a brain will join those swords in adorning the walls.”
“You wouldn’t…” Kahil trailed off as he suddenly realised that the gnome was deathly serious. Hurriedly he reached down into a pouch by his waist and opened it. Eresor watched as the man methodically counted out one hundred coins, placing them tenderly on the work top. The gnome could tell that this was a fellow who begrudged every sovereign he was forced to hand over. Can’t blame him for that, Eresor mused, knowing he too was reluctant to part with any coin. A gnome’s greed rivalled that of any dwarf.
The money was dropped into a separate pouch and handed over to Nymida. Eresor kept his pistol trained on the merchant. In drawing the firearm, the situation had escalated, drastically. Necessarily so, the gnome reasoned, but maintained his position. Though confidently in command of the situation, Eresor was not about to drop his guard.
“You have your money, now go, sky-worm.” Kahil spat the derogatory term with unmasked venom. “And take your exile elf with you. Remember our deal; not one word to any living soul.”
“I will remember, Kahil. Words are iron. Until next time.” He backed out of the cramped shop swiftly, knowing full well there would be no future interaction between the two.
The world beyond the store greeted them with the heavy metallic taste the steel city carried in its air. The streets were near empty; a trio of beggars muttering incoherently amongst themselves eyed the odd elf and gnome couple. A line of ash-coated miners trudged along in the distance, wearily stomping towards their next shift, operating in one of the many mines littered throughout the mountain city.
Above, the sky rippled and flickered as the shadow storms that wreathed the Amethyst Isles raged on. Eresor’s heart sank. He had heard rumours of the vast wealth those Isles held. Goannus hoard. Gold that dripped like honey from the heavens. Trees made of pure silver and skies that were thick with precious jewels embedded in the clouds. Such a venture was longed for by all sky-gnomes, yet all knew the storms could not be navigated. Many had tried in the decades since the Portal’s closing. Even a mighty Ironwrought airship would be reduced to ash if it so much as brushed the shadow clouds. There had only ever been one way to travel to the fabled isles.
Then the Vigilants had come and closed it.
“Was that necessary?” Nymida probed, nodding at the pistol still in his hand.
He holstered the firearm. “Not entirely, but I’m fed up with pompous gits trying to swindle me.” The gnome glanced about the grimy streets. There is no beauty here, he thought. Though he understood the necessity of cities, humans had a made a habit of allowing squalor to reign. Not like the sky-ports where the gnomes resided, where the air was clear and the craftsmanship beyond compare. “I think we have long overstayed our welcome.”
“That we can agree on,” the wanderer said. Like Eresor, Nymida distained the cities built by mortal men. Where he missed the freeing force of the wind and the sky, he knew she longed for forest lands of Pellan, where close-knit trees and hanging boughs surrounded her. They were drastically different beings, yet Nymida had saved his life and Eresor owed her a debt. Words are iron.
“Come, let us not linger. There are no doubt more cities and more fat fools in the world in need of an explorer.”
“As long as there are followers of Arayn needing death, I am with you.”
Eresor nodded as he marched away, his companion elf following close behind. “Of that, elf, we can almost be certain.”
3
Kahil emitted a frustrated gasp as the aggressive gnome and his miserable elf companion departed. Who do they think they are, threatening me so? He took a breath, stilling himself. No matter. They will all be but fragments of memory soon. Remnants of another life.
He counted to thirty, slowly, to be certain the pair had vacated his premises, then moved with a speed uncharacteristic of his bulging form. He grasped a series of keys that hung from a peg on the wall and set about locking the numerous padlocks and chains affixed about the shop door. Once sealed, he shuffled back to the counter, wrapping the mystical staff in cloth. Even through the thick bolt of fabric Kahil could feel its power calling to him. Whispering to him.
This is indeed a powerful artefact, a most rare and valuable item. The merchant let a smirk sprout over his globular face. Jardis would be pleased.
Kahil opened the door to his storeroom, hinges groaning with rust. The store was a spacious chamber that was linked to his loading yard by a double wooden door. Hella, his apprentice was there, sweeping the floor lazily. The girl regarded him with glazed over eyes and a feeble toothy grin.
Mercury fiend, he groaned inwardly.
“Go fetch Jardis,” he barked. Hella jolted, dropping the broom, her smile vanishing. The girls narcotized gaze falling to the bundle in his hands.
“What’s…” she began.
The merchant ground his teeth. “Nothing that concerns you, girl. I have told you to go, so go.”
Hella departed hastily, not bothering to close the door behind her. Kahil scowled. My luck to have a mercury fiend for an assistant. He had often thought on talking her out of her addiction, for it made her lax in her duties, not to mention the slow poisoning mercury shots wracked upon the mortal form.
No matter. She will soon be a distant memory too.
Kahil moved to a table, setting the staff down. He rushed to the door and gave a furtive glance outside, ensuring no-one was skulking about his property. Satisfied, he turned, closing the door.
Only to discover the staff had disappeared.
“No, no, no,” he wailed softly, moving to the table. How? How is this possible? It was there but a moment ago. He checked underneath, gasping as he supported his bulbous body on one knee. Nothing. Perhaps down the side, along the wall? Crawling, he huffed breathlessly as he scrambled on all fours, searching. Nothing. No trace of the staff, when but seconds before it was in his very hands.
This cannot be. This should not be. Jardis is expecting it. I will look like a fool. He will punish me. He will… Kahil did not even wish to ponder what miseries Jardis would inflict upon him.
“What have I done?” he whimpered aloud.
“You have done well,” came a shrill voice.
Kahil turned to see a figure hovering by the entrance to his shop. It was a man, tall, broad shouldered and cloaked by a cape of deep obsidian. His face was hidden behind a mask of dull steel, that shimmered as if made of silver feathers. The embroidered shape of a silver raven adorned the right breast of the cloak. The intruder was sinister to behold but Kahil let out a sigh of relief. “Jardis, it’s you.”
“That it is. And this,” Jardis said, tapping the cloth parcel in his grasp, “is what I sent you to retrieve. A task you completed excellently.”
Kahil let out a cry of joy. It’s there. He has it. Thank the Shadow Witch. “It is,” he said. “And I must say, to great expense.”
A smile formed under the nose of the mask. “Of that I have no doubt. Fear not, you will be appropriately rewarded.”
“I have only just sent He
lla to find you…how did you know it had come?”
“Didn’t you hold the staff? Did you not feel the power rushing through it? It calls to me, to us all. This is our means to achieve freedom. The journey of a Thousand Path’s has finally begun in Faris-Manzil. Shadow is upon us.”
Kahil grinned. “Shadow is upon us,” he chanted. The merchant let out a loud cackle, rubbing his meaty hands together. “I have longed for this day. The price has not been altered I presume?”
Jardis inclined his head, eyes piercing through the slits in the mask. “It has not.”
“Three hundred thousand gold sovereigns!” Kahil did a short jig on his rounded heels. With such wealth I could buy the entire Solder and rule it like a King. No more relying on the benefit of others. No more patrons. “You have brought the money?” he asked, unable to mask his greed.
“I have not.”
Kahil’s face fell. “You have not?”
“Kahil, you know a sum like that cannot be trudged through the streets. Not by myself.” Suddenly the smile vanished, replaced by a menacing sneer. “So, I solicited the aid of my brothers and sisters.”
From the shadows of the store, more bodies appeared, men and women of varying statures all cloaked and wearing the same abyssal feather-mask as Jardis. They materialised as if from nowhere, springing into reality with shimmering silhouettes. Kahil glanced around swiftly, counting eight of the newcomers. Then he noted the curved blades in their hands.
The merchant swallowed hard. “Now, now. There must have been a misunderstanding.” He backed a few paces, only to find the exit blocked by two robed men. Blades rose, the steel singing. Kahil cowered, sweat soaking his crimson face. “Jardis…we had a deal.”
Jardis sighed and moved forward, uncovering the staff. He gripped it tightly in one hand, and it rippled with eldritch energy. “We did, Kahil, of course we did. Yet you know as well as I that you cannot be trusted. You desired wealth above all else. Golden coins. That is where your loyalty lies. But fear not. You shall be rewarded.”
With lightning reflexes, the staff shot out and struck Kahil in the gut. The spiral apex pierced robes and flesh, and the dull gem in its centre suddenly started to glow. A deep mist breathed from the wounds and began to shroud Kahil. The merchant made to grunt with pain, but the sound that followed was heavy. Metallic. With horror, Kahil looked upon his hands and saw them shimmer like gold bullions.
“See, friend,” Jardis said. “Gold. What you have always wanted. This is your path.”
Laughter echoed around the room, and the cloaked assassins began to chant.
Kahil looked up into Jardis’ eyes. “All things change,” the masked man said as the merchants body transformed.
4
The forest lands surrounding Faris-Manzil were vast, meandering over the valleys, hills and slopes encircling the mortal city. The magic of Goannus, god of the forge, was rife in the Manzilian realm and residue of his craft lingered in every living organism. The trees possessed barks of copper, and leaves of malachite that shimmered mesmerizingly under the light of the bronze moon. Thorns of pure steel littered shrubbery and bracken, and the moss that grew sporadically sparkled with flecks of glinting quartz. Streams of quicksilver burst from rocky crags, flowing under roots of twisted bronze. Flowers of pewter leafed on branches and out of the metal-dust ground, seeding pods of mercury farmed by narcotic dealers.
Few traversed the forests, for it was in habited by all manner of curious beast. Wolves, their manes thick bristles of iron, prowled the heights, vicious fangs ready to devour any that strode too close. Other, fouler things too, roamed the forest land; biped brass stalkers, twisted from nightmares hissed and scuttled along their way, preying on anything that dared venture too deep. Sky-sharks, made of shimmering steel swooped and hunted across the highest branches, snatching whatever morsels they could with shard-like teeth.
And it was not simply the inhabitants of the forest that deterred would be travellers. The trees themselves twisted into a maze, impossible to navigate. Boughs intertwined, creating a labyrinth of crooked pathways wreathed in shadow. A dense canopy of branches overhead blotted out sunlight and the purple radiance of the Amethyst Isles. It was the ideal way to conceal an army. Which was exactly what Tchensar had done.
The ar’kan shaman watched as herd after herd trudged by. There were ar’kans of all variation, each beast lovingly augmented by the Shadow Witch’s benevolent magic. Thick pelted, multi-coloured kn’arkan chieftains made the bulk of his force, their muscles ripping with arcane might, yet lesser beasts also filled out the ranks. Smaller un’kan scurried along the flanks, their twisted canine maws chittering gleefully to one another. The un’kan carried either bows of bone, or sharp-edged spears and shields spattered with symbols of Morigana; the silver moon, and the shadowed raven. Hulking mor’kans, akin to the minotaurs of far western myths, lumbered in the rear, their huge forms sporting differing hues, some bright crimson, others muted blues. In all Tchensar had gathered the might of six herds. No more, no less.
As the Shadow Witch commanded.
Tchensar sent out a soft pulse of energy, emitted from an outstretched clawed hand. Sensing the power, the shadow raven beneath him shuddered to life, a scathing shriek spiking out from its unnatural demonic beak. The creature flapped heavy wings, carrying him up and over the heads of the marching ar’kans. His retinue, a trio of champions bound to his will, followed suit, their own ravens droning softly as they weaved between the branches and trees. They passed a dense grove, where nailed to the metal barks were the bodies of silver human scouts. What steeds they had, had been devoured and their Goannus bright flesh was desecrated. There would be no warning of this attack.
Good, thought Tchensar. All is going according to plan.
Ahead waited Tchensar’s coven fellows, a trio of shaman from other tribes. Their piercing saffron eyes glared at him, long talons gripping their staves tighter. They were jealous of him, of the might Morigana had blessed him with.
Let them be jealous, he thought, for none of it truly mattered in the grand scheme. All things change. Each will find their own destiny in the Thousand Paths.
“Tch-Tchensar,” the pearl-hued Haazdar hissed in greeting as the shaman hovered overhead, “th-the steel city is cl-close. Is-is your mor-mortal ready?”
The shaman nodded, a necklace of bone pinging off his golden chest-plate. “The mortal will not fail me,” Tchensar said, his voice both a hidden whisper and a booming shout.
“He-he will n-not fail the Sh-sh-shadow,” Haazdar corrected. “Re-Remember your pl-place, Tch-Tchensar.”
“I do,” the shaman replied. “The attack on the walls is but a distraction.”
“On-one that wi-will c-cost lives. T-The lives of ma-many from t-the t-tribes.”
“A necessary sacrifice.”
“It be-better be.”
Tchensar snarled. “It is. Once the mortals are in position, they will open one of the Paths and we shall infiltrate the city. Then shall the ritual begin. Fear not; the Acero Portal will open once more, and the Shadow shall rise over Faris-Manzil once more.” He glowered at the trio. “As the Shadow Witch wills.”
“As She wills,” the three offered in reply.
“And the Umbral Staff?” rasped Thumzaan, his mane of thick violet hairs rippling as he spoke. “Such power cannot remain in the hands of an unworthy mortal.”
At that, Tchensar smiled, revealing a row of immaculate ivory canines. “Do not worry, brother. The staff will be ours once the task is complete.”
“Does he kn-know of th-this?”
“No. Yet his co-operation will be assured.”
The final shaman to speak was a hunched figure, Drazacha. Horns like a goat sat broken atop her shrivelled head, and her trembling form was coated in aged feathers of ragged grey. Though weak in appearance, Drazacha glimmered with eldritch light, and was as powerful as any of her counterparts. She sniffed loudly, drawing a breath of metallic air through a split nostril. “And what of
the foul child of Balar?”
Tchensar waved his stave dismissively. “I have been assured the Vigilant will be...removed.”
“Th-This mortal se-seems con-confident. I tr-trust your be-belief is we-well foun-founded.”
“It is,” Tchensar said confidently. “He is a servant of the Shadow. As are we all.”
Drazacha hissed, pulling her head up to reveal a maw of green-rusted copper teeth. “That is what concerns me. The Shadows are not set. All things change.”
Tchensar snarled. “You are done questioning me.” He cast his arms about. “All of this is my doing. I gathered the tribes. I suffered the pains and shed the blood to gain their trust.” Memories of ritual combats, too fresh and vivid, grated Tchensar’s mind.
“We do not doubt your strength,” Drazacha said, “only your faith.”
“All the endurance I needed to survive these trials was granted to me by the will and unmatched power of the Shadow Witch. The Portal will open, and Faris-Manzil’s journey along the Thousand Paths will resume.”
Drazacha blinked her orb like eyes once. “I can only hope you are right, Tchensar. For your sake.”
The threat was not lost on the shaman. He gave his companions a swift growl and set his raven to the sky once, more, followed by his retinue who instinctively readied their bows. Though they had made a pact, sealed on ancient scrolls of binding, Tchensar knew that he would need to cull his coven, sooner rather than later, if his ascent to power was to be assured.
It did not bother him. After all, how could it?
All things change.
He grinned wickedly as the trees began to thin, and the shimmering walls of Faris-Manzil crept into view. Tchensar raised his hands, iridescent power rippling between his fingertips. Morigana had blessed him well of late. He turned to a nearby un’kan that had dared to glance upon him. The shaman uttered a word, one single forbidden syllable. Void energy erupted from his hand and engulfed the un’kan, wreathing its flesh in mist and tearing it to chunks with ethereal claws.
