by James Hunter
Wow. Honest-to-goodness Dragon Armor. Now, I was content with my Night-Blessed Armor—it was perfectly tailored for a Shadowmancer and had served me well—but I couldn’t wait to get my hands on that gear. Worst-case scenario, I could break the weapons and armor down using our new Salvage faction ability, then hopefully use the dragon bones and scales to upgrade my current items. I could dream, anyway.
I pushed the greedy thoughts away as the chanting stopped and the high priestess, standing at the front of the chamber, fell silent. She was an Accipiter—the great golden wings protruding from her back were a dead giveaway—with coppery skin, a sheet of raven hair, and dark, thoughtful eyes. Unlike the rest of the cultists present, she wore flowing robes of metallic green decorated with elaborate designs woven from golden thread; most importantly, around her waist sat the Jade Lord’s Belt. She regarded our party serenely from behind a wooden pulpit carved and sculpted to resemble a sinuous dragon.
I steeled myself, ready for the fighting to begin in earnest.
I was quite surprised when the Priestess broke out in a wide smile, her teeth brilliantly white against her dark skin. “It’s been a long time since we had visitors to our Citadel,” she said, her voice rich and inviting. “So long as you come with peace in your hearts, you are welcome in this place.”
That, now, was unexpected.
I reached up and pushed back my hood, revealing the Crown of the Jade Lord. “We’re just here for the belt,” I said, stowing my warhammer and raising my hands skyward, trying to placate her, though I couldn’t help but eye the length of scale-covered leather wrapped around her waist. “Once we have that, we’ll be on our way. No muss, no fuss. No one needs to die.”
A round of angry mutters broke out among the assembled disciples.
Several of them shot to their feet, glowering at us as they reached for short swords or curved bows. The Priestess, though, simply quirked an eyebrow and raised one hand, stilling the mob in an instant. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. We are a peaceful order, dedicated to the teachings of the Wise Sky Maiden, Arzokh. We care for the sick, minister to the poor, and care for the orphans and widows among Ankara’s population. But guarding the Ancient Artifacts of Arzokh, including this belt, is part of our sacred duty. We will not falter. If you wish to depart our Citadel without a battle, you will be leaving empty-handed.”
Abby slipped up next to me, pressing her body in close. “Jack, something’s wrong here—none of this is adding up in my head. I mean, this is supposed to be a demonic Dragon cult.” She paused and glanced at me, confusion evident on her face. “But these people don’t look bloodthirsty or murderous, not even a little.”
The high priestess responded with a laugh, cold and cynical, clearly hearing the comments meant for me. “Well,” she said, spreading her hands, “there are certainly some who believe us to be monsters. The Sky Maiden, after all, is the villain in most stories.” She paused and canted her head, carefully eyeing Amara and me. “Based on appearances alone, I’m assuming you received your information from the Dark Conclave?” It was part question, part statement.
I nodded, feeling more unsure of myself by the minute.
“Do not listen to her,” Amara snapped, shouldering her way past the others, a deadly glare on her face. “They worship the Sky Maiden. They are liars and murderers, this is a thing known by all. Those who follow the Sky Maiden are well versed in trickery. Do not let them deceive you, Grim Jack.”
The Priestess pursed her lips into a thin, thoughtful line as she stared at Amara. “Yes, the Dokkalfar despise the Sky Maiden most of all, and us by proxy. But, you have only heard one side of the story—their side.” She swept a hand toward Amara. “Perhaps we will part ways as enemies, but before it comes to that, I would implore you to at least hear our side of things.” She faltered and neatly folded her hands behind her back. “What harm could it do?”
Abby’s hand wrapped around my bicep, fingers digging in—let’s think through this.
“Give us a moment,” I replied, holding up a finger. “We just need to talk this out.” With a thought, I commanded Nikko to monitor the cultists—it was possible this was all some elaborate ruse—while our group formed into a tight little huddle.
“I do not like this, Grim Jack,” Amara said flatly, arms folded across her chest, hips cocked to one side. “We cannot leave without the belt, so what does it matter what lies they have to spout? It is a waste of time, and I do not wish to hear false accusations leveled against my clansfolk. It is a disgrace. Let us do what we’ve come to do and move on.”
“I don’t know,” Abby said, brow knit in concentration, a frown lingering on her lips. “This isn’t nearly as straightforward as I was expecting. You’re right, Amara, we can’t leave without the belt, but this whole situation makes me feel uneasy. Seriously, look at those people. Really look at them. They’re not just generic dungeon monsters looking to murder and loot. They’re do-gooding monks who want to talk, for Pete’s sake—”
“Yes, that’s what they want you to believe,” Amara interjected, “but words are just words, Abby. Besides, they worship the demonic creature responsible for massacring my ancestors and destroying the Nangkri Dynasty. Those actions alone speak far more loudly than anything else they could ever say or do. In my eyes, they stand condemned already. Let us kill them and wash our hands of this place.”
“What do the rest of you think?” I asked, before stealing a short peek over one shoulder. The cultists were still sitting, the Priestess watching us with a mix of fear and curiosity on her face.
“I gotta go with Abby,” Forge grunted with a nod of his blocky head. “More intel is never a bad thing in my opinion. ’Sides, these people seem alright. I mean that lady from the Affka den vouched for ’em, and I got a good feeling ’bout her. Sure, she’s a drug dealer, but she seemed like an honest drug dealer. And, honestly, I’m not sure how I’d feel about killing these people. I mean, I’ll do what we gotta do—the mission’s the mission—but if there’s a less awful way to go about it, I’d be open.”
“As much as it pains me to say it,” Cutter said, his hands absently fidgeting at the blades stowed in his belt, “I agree with Amara. Think about it, Jack. In order to unite the Storme Marshes, we need that belt. Period. End of the bloody story. Nothing this lady”—he hooked a thumb toward the Priestess—“says will change the quest. Likely it’ll only make doing our job more difficult. Sometimes, the best thing to do is keep your head down and do the job in front of you. Gentleman Georgie taught me that when he first took me under his wing. But, I’ll back your play, whatever you decide.”
“Vlad?” I asked.
He frowned, shrugged, and wagged his head from side to side in indecision. “It is a hard call, but we Russians have a saying—wisdom is born, stupidity is learned. Knowing more is better, I think.” Amara glowered at him like he’d just slapped her across the mouth, but Vlad patently ignored her, unmoved by her cutting looks. Vlad didn’t really care much about what other people thought of him, a trait I admired.
I nodded and turned back toward the Priestess. “Okay. I can’t promise anything, but we’ll at least hear you out.” I thrust one hand out and recalled Nikko to the Shadowverse—a small sign of good faith.
“Very wise.” She dipped her head. “Nasim, take over for me,” she instructed a younger man with a thin build and a thick mustache. “As for you, honored guests, please follow me.” She turned on a heel and glided toward the wall of bookcases. She halted in front of a hulking case loaded down with leather tomes and a sprinkling of antique knickknacks—bits of bone, small golden figures, a few candleholders. For a moment she just stood there, scanning the titles, until she eventually slid one book free and stepped away as the wooden shelf swung outward on silent hinges, revealing an earthen passage gouged into the wall.
The soft chanting started again as we headed into the secret tunnel, winding our way down a claustrophobic hall lined with more bones and bits of
scale. We emerged into an enormous rounded chamber with an arched ceiling and thick gray walls. Along the back wall, directly ahead, hung a beautiful crimson tapestry: an exquisitely woven thing, depicting some epic battle from long ago. A monstrous dragon posed mid-swoop, while a Murk Elf man waited, his feet spread wide, his beefy sword upraised. Behind them was a volcano, frozen in time as it spewed magma and smoke into the sky.
The final battle between the Jade Lord and the Sky Maiden, no doubt.
Everyone stared at the mesmerizing piece in utter silence, except for Cutter, of course, who let out a soft whistle, then mumbled, “I wonder what that’d go for on the Black Market,” under his breath.
“It’s priceless, I can assure you,” the Priestess replied, strutting across the room, then lightly—reverently—trailing her fingers over the fabric. “We have many treasures here. Not just the belt you’ve come in search of. We have tomes of forgotten knowledge, some even dictated by the Sky Maiden, Arzokh. We have dragon bone weapons. We have ritual spells. But this tapestry is among our most valued possessions. For its beauty, of course, but more so because like these other artifacts”—she touched the belt fondly, then gestured toward my crown—“it contains a bit of her essence, though willingly given. With it, we can see her mind. Her memories. Some of them, anyway.”
She wheeled, robes flashing out. “Sky Maiden Arzokh, these visitors would know the truth about your Downfall. They would know your tale.” As the words left her mouth the floor began to tremble, to shake, bits of dust raining down as piles of bone, strewn around the room, danced and clattered. Then, the gorgeous tapestry shifted—morphed and changed—as the picture sewn into the fabric took on a strange semblance of life. It was like watching a movie made of embroidery and silk. The volcano in the background zoomed forward, consuming the tapestry, as a voice, stately and female, boomed in the air:
“They came for the gold,” the voice said. “Svartalfar miners, sent by the Jade King and his brothers.” On the tapestry, a host of Dwarves—squat, bearded men with pickaxes slung over their shoulders—trudged through thick grass with their heads bowed. Ahead of them, riding on an immense ebony puma, was Nangkri. “I’d been hibernating for a hundred years, then,” the voice came again, “while my mate, Irrinth, stood watch over the mount. I woke for the hatching, though. You see, the great volcano lies dormant, often for many years—hundreds of years—but it always wakes, eventually. And, when it does, it spews molten gold up from the bowels of the world.”
Suddenly, the mining party was gone and we were inside the volcano, perched on a wide brim of rock pitted with shallow pools of burbling liquid gold. In each pit were eggs, each the size of a basketball, their shells shimmering with metallic rainbow light. Like giant diamonds held up to the sun. There were twenty or so in total. “The Jade King knew this thing,” the voice said. “He knew of the gold. Knew it was protected by fierce dragons, though he didn’t know of the eggs or that the gold was necessary for them to hatch. To survive. He soon learned, though.” The voice paused, engulfing us in a sad, sullen silence. “Not that it changed anything,” she finished.
A hole appeared in the side of the volcano as a pickaxe burst through, accompanied by a brilliant shaft of sunlight, followed shortly by a Dwarf. Then, another Dwarf, and another still. “I was weak, too weak even to move,” the voice said, “but Irrinth, he fought.” A dragon with slick green scales, not much larger than Devil, threw himself from the ledge, taking wing over the volcanic fumes and burbling lava, then diving at the invading miners. “The battle was fierce—my Irrinth was a warrior to his core—but the Jade Lord had powerful magics and a quick wit.”
In an instant, the dragon was on the floor, wings broken, hide scorched, one eye gone, while the Jade Lord stood over him, his face somber as his sword whooshed down. Emerald scales and pink muscle parted as Irrinth’s head rolled away from a flailing neck, leaking viscous golden blood. Dead. Murdered. “Nangkri didn’t stop there, though. No, he and his miners came for the gold. I pleaded with them, too weak to fight, but strong enough to speak. To explain. They didn’t listen …” Mining picks smashed through fragile multicolored eggshells; young dragons, only partially formed, squealed as they died. “Just business. That’s what the Jade Lord told me. He needed to finance a war so that he could defend his kingdom.”
The voice died away and the vivid images on the tapestry faded, reverting to the picture we’d first seen.
“It hurts her to remember,” the Priestess murmured, tears welling in her eyes. “The Jade Lord, burdened by guilt, spared her—an act he very much regretted later because eventually she regained her strength and flew south, consumed by revenge and rage. The Jade Lord killed her, then, but only after she extracted a terrible price upon his kingdom. Afterward, driven by a blind rage, Nangkri formed these artifacts, trapping a portion of the Sky Maiden’s soul so she would never be able to leave the Twilight Lands and enter Kuonela, where the souls of her mate and children wait for her. The only way to free her from her fate is to gather the three artifacts of the Jade Lord and destroy them—”
“That is enough,” Amara spat, slashing one hand through the air as though to physically cut off the words. “Lies. Deception. As I said. Lord Nangkri and his brothers were honorable men, they would never do such a disgusting act. You and your foul magic pervert the truth, and shake us from our purpose.”
“Amara, maybe we should finish hearing her out,” I hedged, uncertain. I wanted to believe the Dark Conclave’s version of events, but this wouldn’t have been the first time in history a leader had done something terrible for the sake of power, then covered it up. Heck, that’s sort of what world leaders did. “I mean all that stuff happened a long time ago. How do we know the Dark Conclave didn’t—”
“No, I will hear no more of it,” Amara snapped, wheeling and bolting for the door, leaving the way we’d come, the ghost of tears building in her eyes.
Cutter shot me a tight-lipped grimace, then turned and went after her. “Amara,” he called, feet click-clacking on the stone floor.
“The truth can be hard to hear at times,” the Priestess said, watching them go with a frown. “The Jade Lord and his kin are the most honored ancestors in the Murk Elf society—to hear this tale is to lower their eyes before their ancestors. A grave sin.” She shrugged and folded her hands. “But such is the way of truth at times.”
“Jack,” Abby said, grabbing my sleeve and offering me a fake smile. “Can we speak privately for a moment?” She didn’t even let me answer; instead, she hauled me over to the other side of the room. “Look, we can’t do this, Jack,” she said in a whisper. “We can’t. Either we need to find a peaceable solution or we need to abandon this quest.”
“What?” I said, genuinely shocked, though trying to keep my voice down. “You can’t be serious. Obviously, what happened is awful—assuming it’s true and it might not be—but we need these artifacts, Abby. We need them. We don’t have any choice. Osmark is breathing down our neck, but if we unite the Storme Marshes … it’ll change everything. Besides, it’s not like any of that stuff really happened. This is a bit of tragic backstory some overzealous Dev came up with. There was no Sky Maiden. No Jade Lord. No massacre.” I paused, glancing over a shoulder, making sure no one was close enough to overhear. “It’s a game, Abby. But this war with Osmark? That’s real.”
She folded her arms across her chest, wilting beneath my words as she chewed on her bottom lip. “Look,” she finally said, “everything you’re saying is true. But this all feels off, Jack. This whole scenario”—she waved her arms around at the temple—“it’s exactly like the story we just heard, except we’re the bad guys. Think about it. Nangkri killed Arzokh and her family, who were all innocent, in order to fund a war for the greater good of the Storme Marshes. That’s messed up, right? But now here we are, preparing to kill a bunch of innocent people in order to go kill Arzokh again—all in order to help our own war effort.
“The parallels are too close for comfor
t,” she continued. “It feels like history is repeating itself, and not in a good way. Plus, this seems a lot like what Osmark’s done. The things we’re fighting against. I mean, he broke laws, hurt people, and made a lot of morally questionable decisions—teaming up with Carrera, and others like him—all in service to the ‘greater good.’” She used air quotes, showing exactly what she thought of his motivations. “I’ll support you whatever you decide, but I’m not sure we should do this. Just call it gut instinct.”
I blew out my cheeks and absently ran a hand through my hair. She was right, of course. Killing a bunch of innocent people—well, potentially innocent, I reminded myself—was exactly the kind of thing Osmark would do. At the same time, we did need that belt. It could change everything. I glanced away, unable to meet Abby’s gaze, entirely unsure what to do.
Before I could make any decision, though, a shout rang out—Cutter, yelling an inarticulate curse—followed by the ring of steel on steel. “What treachery is this?” the Priestess hissed, lips pulled back in a snarl, one hand dropping to a small bronze knife riding her hip. “You are no better than the Jade Lord, then. Merciless killers. I’d hoped this could end differently, but if it is a battle you demand, then none of you will leave here alive.”
And just like that, the decision was out of my hands: the Priestess pulled her dagger free and began chanting as the bones, piled around the room, rattled and danced along the floor, rising into the air.
TWENTY-FOUR: Bones and Battle
The Priestess chanted, and as she did she morphed into something new and terrible. Her skin sprouted thick green scales—tough as plate mail, no doubt—her limbs elongated, her fingers grew gleaming black talons, and a reptilian tail broke free, lashing wildly at the air. Her nose melted away, replaced by a pair of flat slits, her eyes took on a golden hue, and her mouth filled with row after row of needle-sharp teeth. She wasn’t a dragon, but she sure wasn’t human. She was something else, somewhere in between.
