Ren of Atikala: The Empire of Dust

by David Adams

  “Hey,” she said, snapping her fingers. “You listening?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Ouch. That hurt.”

  I stared at my breastplate. “I don’t care that you’re in pain.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “You know, I’ve been married a hundred and forty four times.”

  I had heard of married. Tyermumtican had spoken of it. Some kind of ceremony. “Is that a lot of times?”

  “Humans might say so. Elves who love them might say so. For me, though…I honestly kind of forget them after a while. A lover comes into your life, you have your fun, it’s good, but then time takes them, and you find another.” She smiled. “You’ll find another.”

  “Not like him,” I said, and I felt the emotion rise up within me, a choking hand threatening to cut off my air. “Not like him…”

  “And yet,” said Z, “I’m sure he’s not the first person you’ve been interested in and lost.”

  The truth of it stung me. “T-there was Khavi,” I said, “a kobold, strong and vicious, but I…I cared for him greatly. Contremulus killed him.”

  “And now you want to kill Contremulus,” said Z. “Because he took someone away from you. He hurt you.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Put simply.”

  Her blue face inclined, smiling curiously, but unnaturally. “Who killed Tyermumtican?”

  Valen.

  Fury burned in my veins, white hot and unable to be contained. I strapped on my armour and shield, snatched up Incinerator, and I stormed out into the city. I made my way to the central bazaar.

  “Where is Valen?” I shouted to the crowd, my tail spasming with rage. “Where is he?”

  Nobody answered me. They seemed afraid of me. Given my bearing I could understand why. I swung my sword around like a lunatic, leaving a trail of ashes behind wherever it went. “I want to see Valen right now!”

  “He’s not here,” said a voice from the crowd. Sirora. “He is being honoured by Yelora and Pergru for his service to the city.”

  Service to the city…driving a dagger into Tyermumtican’s neck. Killing my dear friend. My hands shook at my sides.

  “I want to see him,” I said, absolutely failing to keep my tone even. “I want to see him right now.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Now.” Flame sparked between my fingers, and wisps of smoke trailed up from the embers. “Where is he?”

  Sirora pointed to the charred ruin of the central spire. I summoned my wings, and leapt into the air, flying directly and with purpose. My wings beat and left ashes behind as I burned my way across Ssarsdale.

  There. Pergru and Yelora standing at the entrance to the grand spire, Valen in front of them. They had him hoisted upon a hastily erected stone platform, waving enigmatically to the crowd, his face split in a wide smile.

  I flew down in front of him and landed with a thud that shook the stone.

  “Ren,” said Valen, his tail swaying behind him eagerly. “Have you come to honour me too?”

  I slid Incinerator out of its sheath. “And why,” I said, stepping towards Valen, “would I do that?”

  The beginnings of doubt flashed across his eyes. “I killed the dragon,” he said, taking a step away as I advanced.

  “You killed your friend.” I swung Incinerator above me in a broad arc, sending a rain of embers all around him. “You killed Tyermumtican.”

  “He was attacking the city! He was roaring, wings flapping, uncontrollable!”

  I swung again, this time much lower, the tip of my blade whistling as it flew over his head. “He was talking! Talking to me, talking about things that you have no idea about, nor could ever comprehend!”

  “Ren,” said Pergru, “you should calm down, yes. You’re excited. Angry, yes.”

  “Yes, I’m angry.” I snarled, teeth bared. “Tyermumtican is dead. Not from age or misadventure, but from your hand! Valen did this!”

  “He did as was taught to all Darkguard, yes,” said Pergru. “He was protecting you, yes. Be reasonable. If one of us had walked up to the gates of a gnome settlement, we would be slaughtered without hesitation, yes. We were merciful!”

  I couldn’t think properly. I couldn’t formulate an answer to Pergru’s words. Instead, I dropped my rapier and lunged forward, hands closing around Valen’s throat.

  The crowd watching grew silent. Pergru and Yelora watched as Valen squirmed in my hands, his windpipe closed. I pushed him down to the ground, pressing him against the stone.

  I squeezed, and I squeezed, tight as iron, hands around his throat. He kicked at me, struggling for a moment, and then he sank down into my shadow, and like being swallowed by some dark beast, disappeared into it, leaving just his red eyes floating in the darkness, glaring at me. Then they, too, vanished.

  I went to give chase, to fight, to argue some more, but alarm bells rang out throughout the city. All eyes turned towards the gates, still open, with Tyermumtican’s bloated body stuck between them. It had taken the city as long as I had been asleep to move him scarcely fifty yards.

  “A patrol returns!” came the cry from the front. “Humans have been spotted in the nearby tunnels!”

  I saw the problem immediately. Tyermumtican was blocking the door. If we were attacked, they would be able to come right through. I’d been so caught up with my own problems that I had forgotten about the war, but seeing the dead body of my friend, and the burned skeleton of the central spire, reminded me of that impending doom.

  I glared at Pergru. “Find Valen,” I said, and then I looked to Yelora. “Bring me a thousand warriors, Sirora, and Vaarden, if you can find the damn elf. March out to meet me.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Yelora.

  “Destroy our enemies,” I said, and I leapt into the air.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  FINDING THE HUMANS WAS NOT hard. They marched with heavy feet, stomping on the stone without a care for where the reverberations would take them. I could hear them below me, their heavy footsteps echoing far.

  These were the bootprints of a confident force, but it was smaller than I had expected. No more than a few hundred. Another probe, another strike at us.

  Or perhaps, Contremulus really thought that this would be enough. In that case he’d delivered us a few hundred corpses.

  They had approached from underneath, from the deep tunnels far under Drathari. Clever things. They must have been marching for a month, travelling low down to avoid detection. Now they were speeding up, dropping all pretence of stealth. Their heading would take them directly to Ssarsdale, and they would be there in just over a day.

  But there was only one way to get there, through the tunnel underneath an underground lake—a lake so small it was barely on our maps. It was a single, long hole in soft limestone that stretched for almost four hundred yards. We would only need the last two hundred.

  I flew back there, to the choke point, and my army joined me in a few hours. Yelora and Sirora marched in the lead. A body of Ssarsdale’s warriors, clad in leather and their backs burdened with bundles, followed behind. They marched with discipline, strength, and courage. From behind the lines of troops I could see Vaarden’s large, bulbous head. He didn’t look pleased.

  This would do nicely.

  “In just under a day,” I said, raising my voice so all could hear it, “humans—our enemies—will pass through this tunnel. This is the only way to Ssarsdale, through this corridor. Here we make our stand. Here we will destroy them. Victory at any cost.”

  I took in a deep breath. I could feel Tyermumtican’s ghost watching me…judging me.

  This was different, though. This was defending my home against an oncoming threat. Totally different.

  “Leader Ren,” said Yelora, “what is your strategy?”

  I considered, looking to Pergru. “What supplies do we have?”

  “Spears and armour for all,” he said. “Yes. Sovereign glue to seal wounds. Spare weapons to replace breakages. Food and water ratio
ns, yes. Digging equipment. Oil for lighting and cooking.”

  Sovereign glue. That was probably the most important thing. An alchemical substance that set instantly and irreversibly bound two objects together. Spare weapons, too…also useful. Water and food, not so much.

  The digging equipment was interesting. And oil burned.

  “Vaarden,” I said, “do you have any thoughts?”

  He sneered unevenly, contemptuously. “Must the wizard do everything?”

  “I’m asking for your opinion.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “I have some ideas,” he said, turning his gaze to the tunnel behind me.

  They shall all burn, whispered Magmellion in my head.

  The hours ticked away. The human bootsteps grew louder. My soldiers scurried around, busily preparing everything for the arrival of the humans. We had a plan. It had to be perfect.

  Travel through the underground could be fast, but these humans were slow. If one knew where they were going, one could get to where they were going very quickly. It had taken Khavi and I weeks to get from Atikala to Ssarsdale. The humans had come from Northaven, and it had taken them months. They had to carry light. They had to carry food. They were too big and couldn’t fit into the spaces kobolds could. No doubt they had trouble with scavengers. Predators. Incomplete maps.

  Every little thing slowed their progress. We would take advantage of that.

  “How go the preparations?” I asked, probably too often. I was worried. If the humans arrived too early, we would not be ready.

  “Adequately,” said Vaarden, although the disgust on his face painted a different picture. “The glue is set. The weapons are arranged. Such primitive methods. I disapprove.”

  My tail curled. “And you think you can do better? If you have any suggestions, now is the time to hear them.”

  “I always have suggestions.” He put his large hands together. “I have found, in my experience, that no one listens. Because they are idiots.”

  “Why would no one listen to an obviously powerful wizard?” I couldn’t help but be slightly sarcastic. “Maybe you should speak louder.”

  The compliment seemed to please him. “I assure you, the volume of my voice is not the problem.”

  “Then what is?”

  “The efficacy of my methods. A wizard’s spell repertoire is broad and contains many elements. My speciality is a killing cloud. It’s something special, something that I use when faced with large armies. The gas is powerful and dangerous. It should fill most of this tunnel, although some will escape.” He put his fingers together steeply them before his face. “But you will find, I promise you, that its effect will help tilt the odds in your favour.”

  I was actually familiar with this cloud. Firsthand. It had nearly killed me and had killed many of my fellow refugees from Atikala. “It was you,” I said, memories flooding back to me. “It was you. Back in the tunnel, the passage from the surface to Ssarsdale. The humans chased after Khavi and me. The killing cloud came for us, but I never saw the caster, and we never recovered a wizard amongst the bodies.”

  He rolled his shoulders apathetically. “It is possible. I do not remember every single detail of everything I’ve ever done. Every battle with rodents is the same.”

  My hands balled into fists. “If you worked for Contremulus—”

  “I have worked for a lot of people. Yesterday I was there. Today I am here. Mighty Vaarden does whatever he likes and does not concern himself with the opinions of lesser creatures.”

  I would have to investigate this at a later stage. “It’s hard for me to trust you,” I said. “Your killing cloud murdered many kobolds.”

  “Then you would know firsthand the deadly power of the spell.” He slowly rubbed his hands together. “It’s been a long time since I’ve used it. It will be good to flex these muscles once again.”

  I wasn’t sure why, but in that moment I felt a change of heart. “I am not comfortable with such methods.”

  His round face scrunched up in confusion. “You are not comfortable with killing?”

  “I am not comfortable with…that.”

  “Is a spear better? Is the sword any less kind? When your warriors descend upon them and hack them to pieces, are their screams going to be less pained than from the gas? Dead is dead, kobold. What does the method matter?”

  “It matters to me,” I said. “No killing cloud.”

  He strained his back, and I felt for a moment that he was looking down on me, metaphorically as well as literally. “As you wish,” he spat. “So much for victory at any cost.”

  I shoved that thought into the back corner of my mind and ignored it. “What other spells do you have?”

  “I have many,” he said, as though speaking to a child. “My mind is a fortress with a thousand different bars and gates and traps for the unwary. Sometimes even I lose track of what’s inside it.”

  Were all wizards like this? Overblown, arrogant, condescending? Or was it because I was a kobold? I thought about making a quip about his head being full of rock, but I decided against it. “I am not concerned with your mind, only the spells within that will destroy my enemies.”

  “Then you will not be left wanting. I am a specialist conjurer; death is my forté. Not through violence, as an evoker would—I am not a blunt instrument—nor through manipulation of flesh like a necromancer, but through finesse. Through control. Manipulating the world is my art. Adding, taking away…I see the world as a rich tapestry ready for weaving and unweaving.”

  “How does that help me?”

  “The fact that you asked that question shows me that you truly do not understand.” He groaned, and with a loud squelch, passed gas. The smell hit my nose like the rancid stench of a dying thing. “I will show you, in time.”

  I would have to be satisfied with that. I left him to his own devices. Not far away, Sirora and Yelora were discussing something in low tones, huddled over an unfurled scroll. Another was beside it, still sealed with wax.

  “Sirora?” I asked, craning my head to look at the scroll. “What’s that?”

  “Something I took from the gnomes,” she said, “before they were destroyed. I was saving it for a situation like this, but alas, I cannot decipher it.”

  The moment I saw it, I knew what it was. A scroll of stone shaping. “Leave that to me,” I said, reaching down to pick it up. “I’ve used their type before.”

  “As you wish, Leader,” said Sirora, eyeing me curiously. She slid the second one into a pouch on her belt. “Where in the Hells did you find a way to read one of their filthy scrolls?”

  “It’s a long story. After we’re done here, I’ll tell it to you.”

  “I look forward to hearing it.” She clicked her tongue. “I suppose you’re here to ask me what I can contribute to the coming battle?”

  Astute as always. I nodded.

  “Have you not learned?” She clambered to her feet. “There is a reason why sorcerers are given an extremely unusual amount of leeway in our society. Mages are different. Let us play to our strengths; we know our power better than anyone else. Each one of us is unique, and I don’t mean simply the difference between sorcerers and wizards.”

  “And magi,” said Yelora, the scales around her eyes bunching together. “Everyone overlooks us. At least until the fighting starts.”

  I held up my hands. “I…I understand.”

  “We should rest,” said Yelora. “Our preparations are complete. The warriors will continue their work, but spellcasters…we should be fresh for the battle.”

  It was true. How long had it been since I’d slept? I carefully peeled off a pauldron.

  Tired, but not too tired. I could use some rest.

  The three of us arranged our belongings, and then curled up on the stone floor, trying to sleep as warriors busied themselves all around us, moving and gluing and building.

  Someone was shaking me.

  My hand went to my side, snatched Incinerator from its sheath, and th
en swung it in a wide arc. It connected with something.

  Ashes rained all around me. I scrambled to my feet. My heart was beating a million times a second.

  “Ren!” shouted Yelora, her voice high as she ran towards me. “Stop! Stop!”

  Slowly, slowly, everything came back to me. I’d been sleeping. Waiting for the coming battle.

  There was a half-charcoaled body at my feet. A kobold. As I watched, he crumbled into blackened dust.

  I’d hit him. I’d killed him. It was an accident.

  Sirora, Yelora—everyone—stared.

  “I…” I wasn’t sure what to say. “It was an accident. I didn’t know—wasn’t sure what was happening.”

  “I will make sure,” said Sirora, her words slow and clear, “that the next person who wakes you does so using their voice. At least you are awake.”

  “Who was that?” I asked, glancing around. “What was his name?”

  “Just one of the warriors,” said Yelora. “I do not know.”

  “Find out,” I said, and I took a deep, slow breath, trying to steady myself. It had just been an accident. It wasn’t my fault.

  It was just a warrior.

  Sirora approached, eyeing my weapon with justified caution. “Are you feeling yourself?”

  “Yes,” I said, trying to steady the beating of my heart. “Everything is fine.”

  She studied me as one might a crazy person. “I trust you.”

  Curious, because I did not think I trusted her. Not yet and possibly not ever. She had been kind to me since Tymumtican had died—or rather, been murdered by Valen. I was not sure if this was an act I had failed to see through, or a more genuine change of heart.

  Still, there was something about her that I just didn’t like. She had always been suspicious of me, making fun of me, dangling information just outside of my reach…yet despite this, she had been loyal. Never actually working against me. Why was she being so nice? Perhaps I was imagining it.

  “Thank you.” I sheathed Incinerator. It had no blood on it, but there was a smell to it, bitter, tainted with the acrid smoke of the nameless warrior’s annihilation. “I should have been more careful.”