Ren of Atikala: The Empire of Dust

by David Adams

  Yet the strength of it was undeniable. More than simply steel, the armour’s magic flowed into me; we were symbiotically linked, the two of us.

  New armour, have you, said Magmellion in my mind. Perhaps the Leader would appreciate a new weapon, as well?

  “Certainly,” I said. “I will ask Kresselack to gather iron from the deep tunnels.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see him raise his head, squinting in confusion. “Deep…iron?”

  This would be wise, his soft voice whispered, crackling like a welcoming hearth.

  “Then I will instruct Kresselack to forge me a new blade,” I said to the room, drawing strange stares from him and the other attendants. “A rapier, like my last, but better. Stronger.”

  “Supreme Leader,” asked Kresselack, confusion in his voice, “is this a command?”

  I ignored him.

  You have everything you need right here.

  I found myself drawn to Vrax’s weapon, covered in soot from the burning. Great power lay within. It was a greatsword built for a human. It was appropriate, in my mind, that it had been his tool. A weapon for men, for a kobold in league with men.

  I should have gotten rid of it. It was dangerous and had destroyed Vrax’s body utterly. Too big for me to wield, however some part of me had decided to keep it. Apparently this had been a wise move on my part.

  “You can reshape this?” I asked, stepping over to the weapon, hanging on the wall, suspended by two hooks.

  “It is possible,” said Kresselack, the words hesitating on his tongue, “but doing so will destroy whatever enchantments have been—”

  “Not you,” I said, clipping my words.

  Kresselack, clearly confused, simply bowed his head, a worried look on his face.

  Many things are possible for an elder elemental, he whispered. I can sense the power of this weapon. A soul-eater. Forged in dark, cold places. A horrible fate awaits those who die by its bearer’s hand.

  He was not wrong. Vrax’s body had crumbled and disappeared when I had killed him with it. I had considered consulting my forge masters about its properties, but feared it would attract too many questions about where its owner was and why they had left such an iconic weapon in my possession.

  “Can you change the type?”

  All things can be changed.

  “Make it so,” I said. “Resize it for my hand. Long and thin. A rapier.”

  I can do this.

  “And in doing so, preserve the magic?”

  Preserve…and enhance.

  Tendrils of orange smoke drifted out from my pauldrons. They became twin fists, hands like he had possessed in the forge fires. He plucked the weapon off the wall, scorching the stone as he lifted it into the air.

  The steel glowed red, then white, and soon began emitting light of its own. Heat poured into it. The tip sagged, the crosspiece shrank back into the hilt, and the weapon became a white-hot ball of metal.

  Moments passed. The metal shifted into an elongated oval, a featureless blob. Egg-like.

  Had he destroyed it? I waited, patiently, and then Magmellion dropped it.

  The metal shattered when it hit the stone floor, breaking open. Within was a thin blade, set into a complex weave of steel that served as the crossguard. It appeared as burning flames; fire grew up the blade, masterfully carved, fading to smoke and embers near the tip.

  Since you are so fond of naming your possessions, said Magmellion, I shall christen this blade thusly: Incinerator.

  “Masterfully done,” I said.

  “Wait,” said Kresselack. “Do not touch it. Let me inspect the thing first, with my own hands.”

  Prudent. I stepped back. Kresselack carefully approached Incinerator, and then reached out for the weapon—gingerly laying his hand upon the hilt.

  Nothing. He picked it up, turning it over in his hands. His face became a profoundly disapproving, even envious, scowl, which faded quickly as though actively suppressed. If he was searching for a flaw, I knew he would not find it.

  “It is masterful,” he admitted, somewhat bitterly, turning the weapon and handing it to me.

  I touched it, and just as with my armour, I felt empowered. The grooves on the hilt were fit for my hand. I swished it through the air; the blade sang as it cut nothing, leaving a thin trail of smoke in its wake.

  “It should be tested,” said Kresselack. “All the best blades are.”

  That made sense. “Will you do it?” I asked.

  He smiled a wide, eager smile. “You can do it yourself, if you would like,” he said, beckoning one of his attendants forward. The one with the burnt tail. She scurried forward obediently. “Cheselth, your clumsiness has proven you unworthy of serving in the forges. But fear not, you can still serve our Supreme Leader in another way.”

  She understood, slowly sliding down to her knees before me, lowering her head and exposing the back of her neck.

  “Must I?” I asked, eyes flicking between the freshly reforged steel and the exposed neck of my fellow kobold.

  “Supreme Leader,” said Kresselack, holding up his hands. “You must do absolutely nothing. That is why you are the Supreme Leader.”

  We should test it, urged Magmellion. My magic is mighty, but not without error. This minion will provide an excellent experiment. You should find the result to be…agreeable.

  The use of that word, experiment, caused my heart to clench. I had been an experiment once. In Northaven. At the time I did not know the purpose. Now I knew. To twist me. Harden me. Make me part of some object that would allow my father’s mate to be revived.

  Some part of me knew that to continue this cycle would be evil. That it would put me another step down the path I was already far along, but Magmellion and Kresselack were right.

  The blade must be tested.

  I reversed my grip, and stepped over to Cheselth, the sharp tip of my new weapon glowing faintly as it hovered above her neck.

  A memory flashed into my mind. It seemed so long ago, years and years and years. Another life. Another me. So far removed from this moment that its arrival caused my tail to jump.

  Khavi, my friend from Atikala, standing over No-Kill, the Feyeater in his hand, surrounded by the ruins of the gnomish city. He had hesitated before killing her. He was savage, brutal even, but even he knew that to kill an innocent person who had done nothing wrong—even a gnome, our mortal enemies—was wicked indeed. He had sworn to kill her, and spoke constantly of his lust for her blood while she travelled with us, but when the moment came his doubts proved enough to, at the very least, give him pause.

  I had no such weaknesses. I plunged Incinerator into Cheselth’s body, sinking it right up to the hand guard.

  The pommel and hilt ignited, and a glow within her flesh told me the same was happening down the length. Her back arched, twisted horribly as though in great pain, her maw split in a silent shriek, and then her body turned to blackened chars dotted with red-hot coals. A macabre image of her carved out of smouldering charcoal, which after a moment, crumpled into a pile of ash, joining the scorch marks on the floor.

  So it works, said Magmellion in my mind, no small amount of pride in his tone. It has been hundreds of years since I reforged something so powerful; I am glad I still have the knack for it.

  “Some things are difficult to forget,” I said, staring at the rapidly cooling pile at my feet that had, only moments ago, been a kobold.

  “Very good,” said Kresselack. “Do you want to remove it now? It should be comfortable enough for you to wear most of the day, should you desire.”

  “I do desire it,” I said. “Will it be comfortable to wear on the march? Long distance travel?”

  “On the march, Supreme Leader?” asked Kresselack. “Yes, of course, but…are you leaving us?”

  The scorched remains of Northaven, and the army of the dead marching from it, played in my mind.

  “I am,” I said. “Have a sheath made for my weapon—ensure it is fireproof—and then p
repare my travel pack.” I set my hand on my hip. “Give both to the dwarf, Dorydd Thunderhelm. I will meet her near the central spire in an hour’s time. Tell her to pass word to her wizard friend.” I thought for a moment. “And summon Valen, too. It’s high time he saw more of the outside world.”

  “Why the dwarf, Supreme Leader?” he asked, curious.

  “Because,” I said, unable to keep the fire out of my voice. “Contremulus will come to know of the battles we have fought. He’ll see that we are proactive in our approach to him. He will strike out at us with his allies; I can feel it. It’s time we got some allies as well.” I smiled. “And I promised her I would take her to see her homeland.”

  He dipped his head low. “As you command,” he said, and then he and his assistants left me alone.

  Alone, save for the ashes of Cheselth arranged in a small clump on the stone floor, and the vague feeling I was being watched.

  But I no longer felt tired at all.

  CHAPTER XI

  SCARCELY AN HOUR LATER, DORYDD met me at the base of the central spire of Ssarsdale, her shoulders burdened with her large backpack and a huge smile on her face. Valen stood beside and behind her, her tiny black-scaled shadow.

  “Ren,” said Dorydd, smiling widely and drawing me into another crushing hug, her strong arms squeezing the air from me. “Our wizard should be here momentarily.”

  “Good,” I said, groaning and squirming away from her. “Would you mind if we left right away? The attack has…inspired some urgency in me.”

  She regarded me with a critical eye. “You don’t need to sleep.”

  “Apparently not,” I said, smiling.

  Dorydd didn’t seem entirely satisfied by that, but she nodded amicably. “As you wish. I’m glad you finally agreed to visit my people. Very, very glad.”

  “Of course. I always intended to go.”

  “I know,” she said, with slightly less conviction than I desired. “I always believed you.”

  It had been a long time. The delay wasn’t exactly her fault, but nor was it mine. I forced my posture to be neutral. We were about to embark on a journey together to what was—for me at least—a strange and exotic location. The last thing I needed was to start off said adventure fighting with my travel mate.

  “Thank you,” I said, and despite my misgivings I genuinely meant it. “You’ve been very patient.”

  Dorydd clapped her hands on my shoulders. “Patience is for healers,” she said, smiling widely.

  What relevance did this have to…anything? “I imagine such qualities are required in their line of work, yes.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “It was a joke, child.”

  “I don’t understand it,” I said.

  Dorydd waved her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry, I’ll explain later.”

  I wasn’t sure I was looking forward to that. “As you wish.”

  “Leader Ren,” said Valen, stepping forward and bowing his head. “I wish to thank you for taking me on this journey. I promise to guard you with my life, and more if I am given the opportunity.”

  “I know you will,” I said, reaching out and giving his head a pat. It was good to have him by my side. The three of us, Dorydd, Valen, and I, stepping out into the world once more…the thought of it kindled many memories.

  “I hope,” said Valen, “that my skills will not be tested. But if they are, you will not find them lacking.”

  “I hope that things are quiet too,” I said, then I turned to Dorydd. “Where’s your wizard friend?” I asked. “He should be here by now. I said within the hour.”

  The edges of a dark cloud covered her face—almost certainly at my phrasing, but possibly because of my impatience, too. “I would not call him friend,” said Dorydd, “but Vaarden will be along presently. Perhaps you have heard of him.”

  I had not. “I know almost no one from the surface.”

  “In this matter then, child, you are truly blessed.” Her voice adopted a strange accent, her Draconic twisted and harsh. “Mighty Vaarden, bearer of unlimited arcane energy, hardly has the time for such frivolities!” It returned to normal. “He prefers to be known as The Mask of Annihilation, but unkind voices behind his back refer to him as The Sphere of Annihilation, or The Misfortune…or amongst his detractors, The Robed Flatulence. He is rarely on time, but the debt he owes my family is substantial. He will be eager to see some of it repaid.”

  Almost as though on cue, the air around us rippled with magic, shaping and distorting. Scarcely ten feet away from where we stood, a rift appeared, black and red at the edges. It collapsed, revealing the strangest, ugliest, fattest elf I had ever seen. The second elf I’d ever seen, truth be told, but the difference between the two were startling.

  Vaarden was a twisted, warped, asymmetrical elf whose hair seemed to be falling out in clumps. His arms were too small for his oversized body, eyes too far apart. The top of his head swollen and bulbous, as though his brain were some kind of horrible otherworldly growth struggling to escape its meaty prison. He wore pink-yellow robes that stank; his whole body stank, immediately marinating the area with his significant odour. His skin glistened with…something. I could not identify it. A clear and translucent grease, similar to that produced by some minor magics, but which appeared to be occurring naturally.

  His face broke into a vicious sneer, and he said something in a tongue I did not speak, glancing around himself with clear disdain.

  “Lady Ren would prefer you address her in her native tongue,” said Dorydd, her tone clipped. “As would I.”

  “Shit of the dead gods,” Vaarden spat, a thick glob of spittle rolling down the side of his mouth. His accent was rough and grating, forcing out his words with palpable strain. “You bring me to a kobold settlement? What manner of business would a Thunderhelm dwarf have with such beasts?”

  His accent was grating, and I got the distinct impression that he did not hold my people in high esteem. My fingers twitched by my sides. This elf had been within Ssarsdale for less than the time it took to piss, and already I was fantasising about killing him.

  “You go,” said Dorydd, “where your debt commands you to go. If that includes Ssarsdale, or the Shadowlands, or another plane of existence entirely, then so be it.”

  “I do not fear the planes,” said Vaarden. “My unlimited arcane power allows me to unweave reality and rethread it for my purposes; truly, I am a wonder to behold.” Finally he turned to face me, steepling his bloated fingers and sneering down at me as though I were physically difficult to look upon. “And what manner of rodent have you dragged along with you?”

  “I am Leader Ren of Ssarsdale,” I said, struggling to keep my tone even. This wizard was powerful. We needed him. “Spellcaster, warrior, and commander of my people.”

  “What kind of spellcaster wears plate armour?”

  “I am a sorceress,” I said. “And I have practiced enough that the metal does not bother me.”

  For a moment he simply glared down at me. “Sorcerers,” he said, the words coming without particular malice or cruelty, simply apathy. “The barbarians of the arcane world. A pale imitation of the wizarding art. What knowledge we painstakingly acquire through a lifetime of study and sacrifice you blindly stumble into. For one such as me, almighty Vaarden, to be compared to a sorcerer is akin to comparing a rat to a much bigger, more powerful, immortal and invincible rat, who is not in fact a rat but a mighty, mighty wizard named Vaarden.”

  I struggled to understand him through his thick accent. “If you say so,” I said, certain I was being insulted but not entirely sure how. What was a rat, anyway? What kind of spells could it cast?

  “Hardly almighty,” said Dorydd, placing her strong hands on her hips. “Alteron Devateri was the greatest spellcaster of our time. You are but a shadow of his greatness, Vaarden.”

  The wizard’s face twisted into a horrid, warped sneer. “Alteron is a piece of shit! Certainly his lichdom redeemed him in the eyes of many wizards, but I will tell you thi
s, in life he is nothing compared to me or what I will become when I finally—”

  I cut him off. “Who is Alteron Devateri?” I asked, my second question the most important. “Is he some kind of lich?”

  “He is the lich,” said Vaarden. “The most powerful. Peerless, save for myself, of course. When the Godsdeath knocked the pathetic clerics down to the position that truly reflects their station—powerless godslaves without true magic—he disappeared along with them.” What could only be described as genuine sadness crossed the elf’s ugly features. “None know what happened to him, but there are theories. Some say he was so mighty that whatever cataclysm took the Gods also swallowed him up. Some say he is investigating the matter, and as we speak, working to restore them. Others, well, who cares what they say.”

  I wanted to learn more about liches, especially given Contremulus and the threat he posed, but an elf and a dwarf were attracting strange looks from many of Ssarsdale’s citizens.

  “Shall we talk about this later?” I asked. “We should head towards Irondarrow Keep.”

  “Hardly a keep these days,” said Vaarden dismissively, extending his hands, one to Dorydd and one to me.

  “You know dwarves,” said Dorydd. “We like change, but we don’t like to change the names of things.”

  “Change is upon you, like it or not,” he said, and then focused his energy inward. I recognised the telltale signs of spellcasting: a mind retreating into itself, drawing upon an inner well of power and using it to reshape reality.

  I took Vaarden’s hand. It was greasy and damp, clammy and gross… I tried not to focus on the disgusting feeling. My other hand clasped around Valen’s.

  Seeing Vaarden cast was different than I expected. He seemed to be mumbling under his breath, recalling some chant or mnemonic device, rather than simply bringing out the power that raged in his blood. His magic seemed to flow from an understanding of it deeper than I could comprehend.