He scanned the desks. Artifacts and magic devices littered the tables; he knew exactly what he looked for: a specific type of talisman which bore a rune of the ineffable language. It was one of the items he would need to complete the ritual Absinthium had entrusted to him. Without it, the Dragon Impervious would merely kill him and resume its war upon those who had imprisoned it so long ago.
The acolyte pushed aside an unfinished khay-hee device and the necromancer’s journal. He scanned it briefly and shook his head in revulsion at the workspace. This necromancer had hoped to use the machine to live past beyond his death and become a technological lich. Prock threw the journal into the corner of the room with disgust.
Large flasks half the size of Prock’s body rested upon tripod stands. A couple of them contained pure, shimmering nawchash. The acolyte unstopped one of the others and blinked against the stench that made his eyes water and turned his stomach. Whatever the brew was, it was highly flammable judging by its pungent odor.
Scattering notes and items, he ransacked the room but found nothing. Suddenly, the room filled with smoke and a voice boomed through the fog. It queried, “What does the Order seek in the home of Eldar Darkshield?”
Prock cocked his head. The name was familiar to him from a children’s tale. He scoffed, “The Eldar Darkshield?” A gloomy fairy tale recounted the story of a man who became controlled by a demon who lived in a glowing box. In conflicting versions of the legend, different magi defeated the enslaved man’s traps and each was granted a boon.
A thin man stepped through the mist. “The one and only,” the emaciated man stated. He balanced his head precariously upon his thin neck; skin sagged from his face in sheaves. He, too, wore an eyepatch. “I demand to know what brings you here, and by what authority you vandalize my lab.
Straightening up, Prock got a better look at the thin man. He wore a talisman around that thin neck: the runestone hung upon the leather necklace, although the acolyte had no idea exactly how Eldar had gotten it to fit around his head. Thick metal plates had been screwed into the skull on either side of his head ripping through the skin which burned with puckered, red inflammation around the rims of the plates. The nearby hair was crusted with dried puss seepage; the matted hair helped conceal the tiny, coiled wires that connected the odd plates to the harnesses protruding from other, balding spots on the scalp.
“Absinthium, Arch-mage of the Gathering demands I return with that ineffable rune on your talisman,” Prock stated matter-of-factly. He smiled and suspected his master knew exactly what awaited the acolyte under these ruins.
Eldar chuckled unamusedly. “I don’t think so. The Order has taken enough from me over the years.” He never broke his gaze and those vacant eyes drilled holes into the wyvern rider.
Prock stared back, knowing this would come down to a fight. He scanned the room for threats from the corners of his eyes. The glowing panel on the wall displayed the text of their banter; it scrolled vertically as they postured verbally. He glanced at the panel. The Order has taken enough from me over the years, it read.
The children’s’ story came back to mind again. “We are at an impasse, then. What do you propose?” Prock tested the necromancer.
The screen flickered momentarily. I have surrounded this place with the dead of Domn. There is no bargain. If you leave now, you may keep your life to deliver the message that the Order never return to Domn. The box at the end of the text line blinked rapidly.
“I have surrounded this place with the dead of Domn. There is no bargain. If you leave now, you may keep your life to deliver the message that the Order never return to Domn,” Eldar’s voice dripped with repugnance.
Prock grinned. He’d connected the dots. His hands flashed and he chucked razor sharp shurrikens at his enemy. They struck true, but each flashed brightly, crackling with the sizzling smell of ozone as some kind of force shield flashed into existence around the necromancer with each strike.
Eldar sprang into action of his own accord. Pulling a scythe in hand, he sprinted forward with uncanny speed, swinging the reaper blade with a blow that should have cleaved the acolyte, but Prock caught it with the blades of his own.
The acolyte deflected the next blow and followed it with a deadly slash. Crackling with power, Eldar’s shield caught the edge of the kama with such kinetic energy that it flung the weapon away from the acolyte’s hand.
Prock ducked the next pendulum strike of the scythe and held up his remaining weapon to block a return blow while he twisted his body and delivered a wild haymaker to the necromancer’s face. He hit with enough force to dislocate the old man’s jaw.
Eldar staggered backwards as the acolyte grinned at him. Blood trickled down Eldar’s face which twisted into a mask of rage.
Taunting him, Prock stood near the door and beckoned for him to attack. “I will have that rune.”
No. You will not.
“No. You will not,” Eldar said mechanically. He brandished the blade and charged, screaming maniacally.
Prock set his feet and dropped his kama. He stepped into his enemy’s mad dash, letting himself be bowled over, but disrupting the timing of the scythe’s blow so that the blade would not find skin. Prock blocked the weapon’s trajectory with a well-placed elbow against the wooden handle while he clawed at Eldar’s face with his free hand and ripped away the eye cover.
Eldar’s momentum carried him forward and he tripped in the process. The acolyte rolled onto his back, expecting the fight to go to the ground; he thrust out with his lower body, propelling the old necromancer into the hallway.
Prock stood to his feet and tossed his enemy’s eyepatch aside. He picked up and holstered his kamas and took a giant, glass flask from its holder before going to the hallway. Eldar sat frozen on his knees, gaze locked with the largest of the moglobs. The small animal shook with hatred as it kept the necromancer locked in place. It squawked in ugly, guttural chirps as it drank in Eldar’s vile essence directly.
The acolyte stepped behind Eldar and cut the runestone from his neck, careful not to disrupt the moglob’s hold on its prey and cautious not to look at the creatures. He pocketed the artifact and then emptied the flask on the ground. Its contents leaked all through the hallway, filling the corridor with pungent stink.
Prock crept to the corner where the fluid ran thin and pooled to a stop. He glared at the cages of beasts which stood as an alternative to everything he had devoted his life to. He wanted to hate them, but that emotion would just feed the little beasts. He scraped a spark from his flint and steel and fire crawled down the hallway before erupting with a loud whoosh that sucked all the oxygen from the room.
Eldar and his pets shrieked as the inferno took hold, melting flesh and steel alike. Prock pressed his hand against the weight of the stone in his pocket in order to reassure himself that he still had it. He turned to exit the strange dungeon.
He was unsure if the undead would still wait for him at the entrance without their master to direct them, but he didn’t care about that. Prock knew he was fully capable of handling skeletons, even large numbers of them.
Right now, he’d taken one step closer to enslaving the great dragon and that placed him very near the top of the food-chain. Prock grinned. His self-confidence had finally returned.
***
“I’m telling you, she’s one of them,” Pinchôt hissed.
Grirrg shrugged. His eyes almost rolled back in his skull as he did so.
“You’re telling me that you don’t recognize her? I’ve seen her a bunch of times since the weird cultists turned up around here.” Pinchôt slammed another tall cup, shook the sour from his cheeks, and signaled the barmaid for another. “I’m tellin ya. She’s one of them krist-chins.”
Pinchôt turned to glare at his large counterpart when the massive barbarian failed to answer. “You don’t ever say much, ya know?”
Grirrg shrugged again. “Maybe you talk enough for both of us.”
&n
bsp; Pinchôt feigned outrage and splashed the last few drops of swill that clinged to the bottom of his cup into Grirrg’s face. The huge man’s eyes popped open wide and he licked his face as best as he was able. Both men laughed and hollered for the barmaid to speed up.
“I’m serious though,” Pinchôt said. “That old lady is one of the krist-chins.”
Grirrg squinted at her, but finally shrugged. “There is no way to tell.”
As their drinks arrived the woman had nearly ambled out of the square, carrying a wrapped bundle of sundries. The waitress held out her hand and waited for the two leaders of the Narsh Guildhouse to settle up.
Pinchôt cocked his head at her. “It’s awful early to settle up.” He could barely see her with the sun still up in the early evening. She didn’t say a word, but he got the point—it was too early to be this drunk and she feared missing a tip if her patrons blacked out before paying the tab.
He turned to Grirrg who grinned at him and shrugged. Pinchôt snapped his head back to the server with drunken, exaggerated motions.
“One second, misses. How about a bet, my friend? If that woman is krist-chin, you buy the drinks. If I’m wrong, I buy the drinks?”
Grirrg shrugged and then nodded. He stood to his feet and towered over them both. “Done. Let us go ask her.” He and Pinchôt both raised their drinks and chugged them. Before stepping off the veranda and into the street Grirrg pointed to the barmaid, “One more for me—the biggest cup you have.”
The barmaid rolled her eyes and returned to the taps.
“Scuse me, ma’am,” Pinchôt called out before their mark could get away from them.
The old woman turned to face them. She clutched the package to her chest. “I’m sorry, yes?”
Pinchôt tried to bow, staggered, and then finally succeeded. Grirrg chuckled but played along.
“Can we learn your name?”
She glowered at them and set her shoulders.
“My name is Pinchôt,” he offered first.
“I am Shinna,” she said reluctantly.
“You are one of them, right? The scum of the earth? One of those krist-chins who believe in a dead god and who assassinated our last king.”
Shinna grimaced and turned to leave. Grirrg sidestepped and blocked her way. She pressed ahead anyhow and he shoved her back. Shinna turned one hundred and eighty degrees to depart entirely, but Pinchôt blocked her exit.
The smaller man snatched her package. “What is this? Some kind of secret religious artifact?” He shook out the sheet which unfurled like a sail, dropping an assortment of sundries and food to the ground.
“It is a package for some boys who find themselves down on their luck,” she spat as she knelt to gather up the supplies. “You ought to be ashamed, harassing a woman who’s just trying to help another.”
Pinchôt ground his teeth as she chastised him. Drunken anger rose up from his gut and he shoved the old woman over with his boot. She cried out as her supplies slipped from her hands yet again.
He and Grirrg both laughed and then suddenly a large man filled his hazy vision. Not nearly as big as his companion—the man was rugged, muscular, and bigger than Pinchôt.
“Hey. I know you,” Pinchôt recognized him as a blacksmith. “I bought my first sword from you about ten years ago.”
The blacksmith clocked him with fierce roundhouse that knocked the drunk clean off his feet. Pinchôt lay in the dirt where he groaned and flailed as he tried to right himself and staunch the blood which caked to his face with the thick dust from the road.
“Thank you, Rondhale,” Shinna said as she snatched up her supplies again.
Rondhale nodded to her and stood between the woman and the barbarian. “Do you remember the game we used to play back when we were young, dumb kids?”
Grirrg cocked an eyebrow at the smaller man. He didn’t understand what kind of trickery the man was pulling. He planted his hands on his hips as the smaller Rondhale strolled up to him and squared up.
He turned back quickly to watch Shinna escape across the square at a hurried pace. The blacksmith turned back to the mountain.
Grirrg glowered at him, challenging the man to make the first move.
Rondhale grinned and then shoved—not a fierce shove, just a gentle push, and the mighty Grirrg buckled and crashed to the ground. He smashed the back of his head against the ground and saw a bright flash.
The drunken barbarian struggled to right himself and realized Rondhale’s twin brother had crouched down behind Grirrg’s knees as a fulcrum. By the time the two embarrassed warriors had struggled to their feet, the blacksmith brothers had slipped away into the crowd that had assembled to laugh at the two men.
The only face they caught in the crowd was an impatient looking barmaid who stood at their table holding a huge stein. Pinchôt threw a handful of coins at her and he and Grirrg retreated back to the guildhouse to nurse their wounds.
***
Havara led his traveling companions through the dusk. They’d hoped that they could slip beyond the Grinden region unnoticed during the momentary confusion of the relocation, so long as they did not draw undue attention. It was better for everyone if Rutheir and Absinthium’s forces thought they remained at the new settlement; surely the scouts had discovered their new location by now.
Day broke as the convoy passed quietly over the Rashet River and through the outlying lands; they passed the small hamlet outside of Grinden that encompassed the Luciferian monastery. It functioned mainly as a training center where monks were housed and educated prior to receiving their future assignments.
They rode through well-known local trails and traveled past the burned-out husk of the estate that Rashnir once owned and also passed the properties on which Rogis’ family had died. Near the blackened shells of the buildings, new houses had sprung up; the land had defaulted to the crown and been either sold or given to homesteaders.
Continuing the journey north, they traveled east and passed the troll and goblin-infested mountain range that sprawled across the horizon. The highest mountain of that range was easily seen; it towered above the others and was capped with a huge landmark. Goblins rarely traveled much distance above ground when away from their mountain homes. That they’d suddenly made their presence felt in the cities of civilized folk, towns such as Grinden, was an anomalous exception.
Visible amongst the peaks was a distinct spire rumored to be the long-sleeping enemy of the demonic council, the Dragon Impervious. Legend claimed that the monster was immune to nearly any sort of attack. It had lain dormant for eons, lulled into torpor by some forgotten magic conjured by only the combined forces of the Gathering. However, many claimed that the Dragon Impervious was only a folktale and that what sat on the mountaintop was merely an ancient monument of some sort, or perhaps a natural formation—perhaps it was nothing at all.
As they went along, Kevin instructed Havara in the fundamentals of faith. “Mankind is instilled with certain moral truths from birth. This is how God made us: with His laws already written upon men’s’ hearts so that all people would have no excuse at the time of Judgment. You see, the fact that mankind is born with a conscience has a logical explanation.”
In turn, Havara told the others things that he knew about the land abroad and the varied politics of this realm; much had changed since Rashnir’s traveling days and the ranger had many gaps in knowledge accordingly. His position as royalty provided Havara with a wealth of information that the Christians did not have access to. Havara’s resources provided him with all kinds of intelligence that they might find relevant.
A full day’s travel brought them a significant distance from Grinden. They ended the day’s journey on the highway that ran parallel to the base of the mountain range. The horizon stretching ahead varied; a dark wood sprawled to the east and jagged peaks covered the west. They made camp just outside of the forests that flanked the other edge of the road; the mountainside and woods sandwiched
the road in their middle.
Normally, caravans would travel that road around the mountain range and make sure not to stop until they were well past the forest; the waypoint was typically where the road connected with the town of Alad. Travelers, especially ones with precious cargo, found that stopping in close proximity to a major goblin hive was unnerving.
Alad sat on the edge of Lake Apigra. One could travel further north on that road, going west through the hills, or travel the long road east along the lakeshore until it curved back to the town of Driscul. The Christians planned to take the forest trails and head straight north to Driscul, saving two or three days’ time by braving the supposedly dangerous forest and circumventing the lakeshore.
“Are you sure you want to go through the forest?” Havara asked with slight trepidation.
Rashnir’s face had set in preparation for whatever obstacles they might encounter. Kevin’s, however, remained placid. Zeh-Ahbe’ looked around guiltily.
“What are you hiding?” the prince asked the sheepish Zeh-Ahbe’.
He could barely keep an ironic smirk off of his face. “I’m afraid the danger is nothing more than a rumor at this point and I may be partly at fault.”
Zeh-Ahbe’ explained that peoples’ fears were a greatly exaggerated reaction to his kin’s presence. Until recently, the forest had played host to the nomadic werewolves of the kil-yaw’ for several years. Shortly before Zeh-Ahbe’s tribe stumbled onto the Christians in Grinden the tribes had decided to move on to new hunting grounds in the Quey forests in southeast Jand. After the expulsion of the Say-awr’, the kil-yaw’ had probably moved again, most likely westward.
Rumors of the danger and bloodshed on that stigmatized north road had little truth. However, a year ago the bellicose Mil-khaw-mah’ and his packmates from clan Kaw-bade’ raided several caravans, proving that the danger had been real. They’d ransacked many caravans before his actions were discovered by the kil-yaw’ and were partly to blame for traveling to new hunting grounds. Mil-khaw-mah’s bloodlust had driven him to attack armed convoys; many humans lost their lives to the Kaw-bade’ who’d hoped to gain some kind of glory through the fervor of battle and justify a new era of war against the prey that surrounded them. Mil-khaw-mah’ had long desired leadership of the kil-yaw’ but he was much less stable of a leader than Sehkel-saykel and any of the Ahee-sthay-tay’-ree-on. Those few men who escaped had horrific stories of their encounters in the forest. Those stories warned others away from that path which had begun to overgrow with weeds.
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 35
