Ren of Atikala: The Empire of Dust

by David Adams

  Except the humans glued to the ground. Trampled, gassed, burned, they were silent now.

  “Finish them,” I ordered. “Make sure all the humans here are dead.”

  “Allow me,” said Sirora, stepping forward eagerly as she cast, chanting in a dark tongue. A black hand, as big as I was, reached out for the nearly dead, and one by one, snuffed them out.

  With each death, Sirora looked younger. Every human life she ended with the black hand fuelled her, rejuvenated her, and seemed to empower her body.

  “What magic is that?” I asked, floating closer. “Healing? Impossible.”

  She smiled a young smile full of teeth. “A temporary effect,” she said, and even as I watched, the cracks began appearing in her scales once more. “But a pleasant one.”

  “I can imagine.”

  She dropped down on one knee, black robes billowing as they settled. “What is your command now, Leader Ren? Should we pursue the remainder of their army?”

  “No,” I said. “The Darkguard will finish them—hunt them slowly. Painfully.” Instead, I knew what had to be done. “Take the bodies of our fallen back to Ssarsdale and put them in the tunnels. Gather our supplies and return to Ssarsdale; you are in command of these soldiers now.”

  That last part seemed to please her substantially. “It is a shame about Yelora,” she said, “but magi can never be true leaders.”

  I was not sure how I felt about her insinuation—I used both blade and spell in equal measure, too—but I let it slide. “It is, but she will heal. The wound is deep, and she may limp…but life remains in her yet. Do not fail to remember that.”

  “I will not,” said Sirora. “And what of the human dead?”

  “Leave them for the scavangers,” I said, as though that were obvious. “Why do you ask?”

  A wide smile crossed her face. “Not only information can be pried from the dead,” she said. “These corpses may be useful still.”

  “Then bring them with us.” A thought occurred. “I’ll remain here and hunt the paladin. He escaped, and I want to know to where.”

  “As you wish,” said Sirora.

  My army cheered wildly as I strode down the corridor, ashes and glowing embers following my every footstep as I followed the retreating human force, ash-covered blade in hand.

  CHAPTER XX

  I FOUND BANEHAL FURTHER DOWN the corridor, propped up against the stone wall, wheezing faintly, his blood covering his chest and trickling down to the soft earthen floor. His face was puffy, black and bruised, and the water had clearly done its work on him. His shoulder, in particular, had been wounded, and his arm hung limp and useless.

  He was still breathing, his eyes open, and he regarded me with a tranquil grace that I found startling. For a moment—just a moment—I thought I saw something else in his bright green eyes. No anger, no hate, no rage. A kind of recognition, but more than that.

  Forgiveness.

  Banehal’s sword, larger than I could ever wield, laid by the barely conscious paladin’s side. He knew it was there, and that it was within easy reach. Yet he did not reach for it.

  “Make it fast,” wheezed Banehal, the gas clearly having damaged his lungs. “You’ve bested me.” His black-skinned hand was resting over a smaller bloodstained lump of rags that I suddenly recognised as the unconscious form of one of our warriors. This one was clad in chain, a vanguard, and had skin the colour of tanned hide. His body, too, was caked with blood…although I could see that most of his wounds were not that severe.

  “Is that what you want?” I rubbed my thumb along Incinerator’s hilt. “A quick death?”

  “No death would be ideal,” he said, fixing his gaze on me. “But I’m guessing that isn’t an option.”

  I had cut the hand off the last human I’d imprisoned. This one…this one I knew his name. I knew his face. He could have ended Valen and me out in the desert, and I would never have been able to resist him.

  “A life for a life,” I said simply, and I sheathed my blade. “Let me tend to your wounds.”

  He was sceptical. That much was obvious. Yet his injuries prevented him from doing anything to stop me, even if he wanted to. I tore strips of cloth from his tunic, and I wrapped them around the wounds that I could see. All the while, Banehal wheezed softly, punctuated by the occasional cough.

  “Not sure I can do anything for your lungs. Vaarden’s killing cloud is not something most can survive.”

  “And yet I did,” he said, coughing wetly.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “Right now, everything hurts. And I know you are doing all you can, but I think this is the death of me.”

  I hoped that wasn’t the case. “You’re strong,” I said. “You’ll be fine.”

  He said nothing and wouldn’t look at me any more. I finished bandaging him as well as I could, and then I turned to leave.

  “Ren?” he asked.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m not wrong about you.” Banehal shook his head. “Don’t think that this cures my heart’s yearning for justice. Sooner or later, you and I will meet again, and when that time comes I imagine you will not have an army behind you.”

  “You realise that the only way I can prevent that is to kill you now, yes?”

  He smiled crookedly, and blood trickled out of the corner of his mouth. “If you were going to do that, you would have already.”

  “True enough.” I wasn’t sure what else to say, so I nodded firmly. “Best of luck,” I said. Something I found myself saying to my enemies more and more.

  He said nothing. I waited. He said nothing. So, with nothing else to do, I left.

  I caught up with the army after a few hours’ travel by foot. I could have flown, but I didn’t feel like it. I wasn’t sure why. I had plenty of magical reserve left, plenty of spells I could have cast, but I wanted to walk.

  It gave me time to think. Not that there was much to think about. I just won a very important victory for my people. I should be celebrating, but strangely, I didn’t feel like doing that either. All they wanted to do was think about the next battle. The next time I would cross swords with Contremulus’s men. The next fight. The next war.

  My warriors were carrying the bodies of their fallen, along with teams bearing the bodies of the humans they had killed. Yelora was carried by four of her warriors. Her leg reeked, although I was uncertain if it was that, or the bodies we carried. Either way, the smell made finding us easy, but I worried about attracting scavengers…or survivors.

  “We should bury the human bodies,” I said to Sirora. “They’re slowing us down.”

  “That they are,” she said, the youthful visage I had seen earlier almost completely faded. “But I promise you, the potential rewards will be worth it.” I got the feeling that she was referring to Yelora, too.

  “Specifically?”

  “Well,” said Sirora, her lips drawing tight on her face. “I’m not sure you want me to tell you. You might say no if they do.”

  I ground my teeth together. “You realise this isn’t exactly a good way of convincing me that I should permit this, yes?”

  “And yet,” she said, “here we are. Carrying the bodies of our fallen enemies back to our city.” Something in her rapidly aging eyes caught my attention, a flicker of darkness I had not seen before. “I think you want me to walk down this path with you. You want it a lot. You’re just unwilling to admit it to yourself.”

  I wasn’t even sure what she was going on about. “Why don’t we talk about this when we’re back in Ssarsdale?”

  “That,” said Sirora, “would be perfect.” She inclined her head forward. “You should check on Yelora.”

  “I didn’t think you liked her,” I said, “nor were concerned with her welfare.”

  “I ask not for her benefit, but for yours.”

  That was entirely fair. I dipped my head and increased my pace until I was with her, but she was unconscious. Delirious. Feverish.

  I was not certain she would s
urvive.

  Soon enough, but later than I’d like, the gates of Ssarsdale appeared before us, the burned bodies of the dead humans who had attacked the central spire arranged haphazardly around the entrance, forming a macabre honour guard of charred skeletons. Tyermumtican’s body was gone, but a dark black stain remained, where his blood had soaked into the stone. I doubted it would ever come out. The massive twin slabs of metal groaned and began to open as soon as they gate guards saw us.

  I wondered what they saw. An army of kobolds, diminished but bloody, shrunken but triumphant, carrying as many of the dead as they could manage back with them. What would they say, seeing the dead and bloated faces of their friends? Of their comrades who had died in my name?

  They cheered.

  It was something that, even after everything, still surprised me. My people cheered. They swept up the soldiers and surrounded them, asking question after question, barely giving each of them a chance to answer. Helping hands unloaded the corpses, and after some discussion and direction from Sirora, went straight to work. The kobold dead were taken to the eastern tunnels. The human dead were taken to the south, Sirora with them.

  And ten thousand cheering, crying kobolds chanted my name.

  Ren! Ren! Ren!

  I stayed, and I basked in their adoration for some time, but the occasional creaking of my armour and the thinning of the crowd reminded me that the energy I was feeling was an illusion. I didn’t feel tired now, but I would. Excusing myself, I made my way over to Pergru’s dwelling, fully intending to sleep.

  The dwarves had set up another tent structure nearby. This one was new; its cloth door was wide open, and from within I could hear singing, raucous and loud, along with a strange but vaguely familiar smell. Curious—I knew I couldn’t spend too much time there, nor did I want to—I approached.

  It was some kind of festival or feast hall, similar to the one I had seen in Irondarrow. A long, low table surrounded by dwarves in various states of drinking and eating. Some slept in the corner, some slept under the table, but most were awake. Kobolds ran around serving food and drink—I had no idea who had authorised that. Certainly not me.

  What kind of soldiers had they sent me? The thought left a sour taste in my mouth. These dwarves would not be ready to fight any time soon…most could barely stand.

  “Hello, Ren,” said one as he stood up and ambled towards me. I recognised him. Z.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. “What is this place?”

  “This place is fun,” said Z, clapping me on the shoulder. “You know what fun is, don’t you?”

  I peeled off his large, dirty hand. “I know what fun is.”

  “Bah,” he said, shaking his head as he turned his attention back to the hall. I wasn’t sure he was actually listening to me at all. “The wenches here have no tits.”

  “Tits?”

  Z blew out a long sigh. “Breasts, lizard. Mammaries. Comfort pillows. You know…tits.”

  Well of course not. They were kobolds. At least, I think that’s who he was talking about. “I think it’s pronounced teets,” squinting slightly. “And kobolds lay eggs.”

  “I meant the dwarven women.”

  “I’m pretty sure they do, under their clothes.”

  “Pah,” said Z. “Some of ’em. If you can call those flat little chakrams tits.” He gestured to his chest, and as I watched it expanded, swelling from beneath his clothes. “This is what I mean.”

  I stuck out my tongue. “What in the Hells…”

  Z groaned in displeasure, and as I watched, the…comfort pillows shrank away.

  “I don’t know what your problems is.” I grabbed a passerby—a strong looking dwarven woman with a sharp looking axe at her belt—and I moved the cloth covering her chest. “See? They do have—”

  “Hey!” The woman snarled and snatched up her axe. “Watch where your hands are going, blasted reptile!”

  “She didn’t mean anything,” said Z, stepping between us and flashing what I presume he imagined to be a very charming smile. “It was just an accident.”

  I tilted my head. “No, I meant to, I was just showing my friend that you have breasts.”

  Her face turned an angry purple-red colour. “How about I introduce you to the business end of my axe, you iron-clad little beast?”

  “What I meant,” said Z, shaking his head at me and trying to tell me something with his eyes, “is that our good friend and host—Ren of Atikala, this is—gravely misunderstood the nature of our people, and her curious lack of boundaries regarding humanoids meant she simply didn’t understand that what she was doing was wrong.”

  They’re insulting you, whispered Magmellion. In your own city. Mere yards away from your own house.

  I forced his voice out of my mind. “I am sorry,” I said, holding up my hands.

  The woman’s eyes widened, and she lowered them immediately. “My apologies, Lady Ren, I was not aware of who you were.” Her axe returned to her belt.

  “It’s completely fine,” I said, taking a step away. “Really.”

  She bowed low and left.

  Z shook his head and leaned in to me. “Seven stones, lizard!” he hissed. “You’ll get us thrown out faster than I will at this rate.”

  Just in front of us, two male dwarves bumped into each other, clearly poisoned by the mead they had consumed. One punched the other. The second punched back. Everyone started cheering. Strangely, they both had weapons, but neither of them seemed interested in drawing them, nor did anyone else.

  They swung fists at each other for a few moments, and then, immediately started laughing and walked away, arm in arm, to acquire more drinks.

  I did not understand dwarves at all.

  “Wanna get out of here?” asked Z, casually sliding his arm around my shoulder.

  Wise. Probably the wisest thing he’d said so far. “Actually,” I said, “I should go to bed.”

  “Sounds like fun,” he said. “Did you want me to be a kobold, or—”

  “Alone,” I said, glaring at him again.

  Reluctantly, Z took his hand away. “Fine, fine,” he said, “I’ll stay here and drink some more.”

  “You do that,” I said, and I left the loud, strange smelling place behind. Instinctively, I wanted to head to the eastern tunnels to see if I could meet Tyermumtican there, but the pleasant idea was cut off by remembering. He was dead. So, instead, I headed for the quarters I was borrowing. I should sleep. If I couldn’t do that, I should go and mourn the dead and learn their names. I had a lot of catching up to do.

  Instead of sleeping or visiting the burial chamber that, by now, must be quite overstuffed, I ended up wandering Ssarsdale for hours.

  It was the first time—properly, since Tyermumtican’s death—that I actually thought about him. In hindsight, it was entirely reasonable that I didn’t feel like sleeping, eating, or…anything except war. I no longer had a goal. Tyermumtican had suggested one, leaving to the south, but he was gone. Dorydd had left. Tzala had left. Valen…who knew where he was. All that was left behind was me.

  I was ready to mourn. I was ready to say that I loved Tyermumtican, and that I was lessened by his passing—broken in some strange way that I had not experienced since Khavi’s death.

  I needed to say it. I needed to say I loved him. There were moments where the words threatened to bubble up to my lips, but they died as soon as they passed my throat, unsaid. There was nobody to hear—the whole of Ssarsdale surrounded me as I walked, wading through them like water, but I had no connection to any of them. They were just kobolds. Just people.

  And, in some way, for some unreasonable, illogical reason, I…hated them. The realisation came slow, but when it hit, it hit hard.

  I hated my own people.

  Where this anger was coming from I had no idea. Nobody had said a bad word about Tyermumtican or my apparent friendship—or whatever it was—with him, and even Sirora, the last kobold I expected, had been supportive.
Only Valen had not understood.

  Valen. That little rat. He was hiding somewhere in the city, I knew, and we had unfinished business…when I found him I would—

  Would what, exactly? Magmellion’s crackling voice teased at the edge of my mind. Would you slay him for harming you? Promote him for his obvious skill? You can hardly afford to kill any more of your own warriors. You have a war to fight, after all.

  “Why don’t you just leave me alone?” I snarled angrily and tore off my helm, and as I did so, I realised I had wandered into the grand bazaar of Ssarsdale, surrounded by thousands of my kin. They stared, concern on their faces.

  I said nothing, and finally feeling tired and worn to the bone now that Magmellion was not sustaining me, I stomped my way to Pergru’s dwelling.

  The door swung open with ease, and I, angrily, threw my helmet inside. It landed with a clank, rattling around on the ground, slowly coming to a stop in a corner of the room. I stared at it loathsomely. Binding Magmellion had been a mistake.

  As I watched the helmet, smoke began to pour out of the floor all around it. It was green, translucent, and clearly magical in nature…as I stared, transfixed, it solidified into the ghostly image of a human, green and pale and translucent. I recognised the image instantly.

  Contremulus the Sunscale.

  My father.

  My enemy.

  “Hello, Ren,” he said, his tone similar to one discussing the allocation of food resources to the city’s underlings, and a joyless smile on his lips. “I was wondering when you and I might speak again.”

  CHAPTER XXI

  WORDS DIDN’T COME TO MY throat. I stared at the image of my father mutely. I could see through him, the far wall of my borrowed quarters visible through his transparent body.

  “I understand,” Contremulus said, touching a ghostly finger to his chin. “You must be confused. What am I doing here? Why am I in your room?” His eyes turned to my wall, as though looking out to the city beyond. “But it is not your room, is it. A minion’s. Someone you trusted enough to stay in their home, alone.”