Grinden’s normal hubbub had departed. Instead, a fearful oppression permeated the air.
The cart crossed the Rashet River and followed the beaten path until it was forced to deviate. It rolled through the fields and grassy countryside. The elf, Dri’Bu peeled off the false beard and tossed the pointy had aside where they landed atop his sack of disguise props.
He kept a sharp eye out for his friends, but they weren’t anywhere in sight; the area where the Christian encampment had previously been was deserted. Dri’Bu crawled out of his wagon and crouched to assess the ground. The grass was beaten down by enough hoof prints to indicate a horde; the sod was pocked with divots and upturned clods littered the field.
Dri’Bu followed the tracks until he’d guided his cart far enough south to spot the smoke. Blackish wisps crawled slowly skyward from the old quarry.
His thoughts immediately turned to despair and he urged his horse to move faster, pushing the animal into a gallop as he steered it towards the edges of the pit. The horse-drawn cart slowed to a halt at the slope’s precipice. The elf stood atop cart and stared incredulously at the vast scene spread before him.
The floor of the quarry was strewn with countless bodies and discarded weapons. Parched and blackened dirt smoldered in various areas; gravel was kicked up and displaced by larger stones that had impacted deep within the bedrock. All around the excavation site craters marred the surface.
Dri’Bu hurried down the steep bank on foot. Christians milled amongst the fallen bodies, looking for lost loved ones and hoping to find those who might yet live. He passed them by and found the main group of Christians where they gathered around the hill in the center.
He quickly recognized a few of the leaders who’d gathered as they often did in the mornings. Their eyes brightened when they saw him approach. Dri’Bu whistled and his distant horse began the precarious approach down the embankment, hauling the precious cargo.
“What happened here?” the elf inquired with genuine concern.
“The Luciferians made good on their attack threats,” Kevin said. He stepped aside to let those who had taken a part in the battle retell the events in great detail. They described the mustering of the armies and the attacks of the combined forces. Kyrius told him about the loss of Shinna and her sacrifice—how he had flown over the site earlier this morning to find that nothing remained but glowing embers and baked stone. Rashnir described the battle with the Dragon Impervious and sketched out the details of the battle.
That morning the Christians took a quick census of those who remained alive. The estimated that they’d lost about eight hundred friends. Many of those casualties had been new converts that had not benefited from Rashnir or Jorge’s training. However, many of them were also notable Christians who had been with them since the first sermon in the park. Zeh-Ahbe’ lost many of his kinsmen to the horde; they’d also lost Jhonnic, Bomarr, Shinna, Leethan, and they remained unsure whether or not Jorge would survive.
The enemy had also lost many important persons, though. Among their fallen they’d discovered the evil acolytes, one of which they’d captured alive. While it had been reported that Jandul, the Luciferian combat master, had returned to the city uninjured a witness claimed he’d been carrying the body of Frinnig, the local priest. It was also rumored that Pinchôt had somehow survived the grievous wounds which he’d received from Zeh-Ahbe’. While they also knew that Dyule had escaped with his life, the opposite was true of King Rutheir. The country would be directionless for a short period following the impending power vacuum and the Christians fully intended to take that opportunity to divide their numbers and depart the hostile region, leaving for new mission fields as quickly as possible.
After the morning planning meeting they encouraged people to pray or help search among the bodies for any of those still on the field who were wounded and not yet dead. A great deal of them had already been found and brought to the makeshift hospital unit set up at the base of the hill.
The list of their dead shrank slightly as more and more bodies flowed in with serious, but not fatal, wounds.
Jorge was amongst those being cared for by anyone and everyone with a hint of medical experience. His closest friend, Kyrius, remained by his side. Rashnir also went frequently to visit the wounded angel.
Ersha wiped the caking, red blood from her hands and checked on the unresponsive angel. Her scowl informed Kyrius and Rashnir that Jorge’s condition had continued to worsen.
“I am afraid that there is not much I can do to help him,” Ersha apologized. “Everything that should normally work has not helped him, even things that I really thought would have.” She motioned for them to help lift his body so that she could examine the wound. It seeped gray puss from the black tinted puncture; dark tendrils crisscrossed his skin near the gash like a poisonous spider web. “It is more like some kind of supernatural wound. Perhaps you could get more people to pray; that’s the only thing that I can see making any positive difference at this point.”
Kyrius nodded. “If this is the diagnosis, then I will seek the remedy.” He departed immediately in search of those closest to the angel, asking them to intercede on his behalf.
***
Far away, above the mountains of Briganik, the dark lord of the Gathering sat upon his throne. He nursed his mangled nose and face and his body slumped wearily as he waited for an update; he could not revert to a noncorporeal form without the wounds becoming a permanent reminder of abuse he’d taken.
A booming, clanking noise shook the air as his chamber’s knocker announced an arrival. The door cracked open slightly and beh’-tsah caught the inquisitive eyes of eiztchkey, his demonic scribe, through the portal. A taloned paw shoved an elf through the door and the door clicked shut.
beh’-tsah glowered at the terrified elf who reeled and spun in panicked circles, looking for some avenue of escape—each time he turned he tried to shield his eyes from the dread beast at the throne. Finally, the demon had enough.
“Enough! Bring me your news.”
Swallowing the lump in his throat, the timid elf shuffled towards the center with a defeated gait. “Your forces were defeated at Grinden, my lord.” The elf cowered at the sound of his words. “The arch-mage was spent; the vrykolakas were destroyed; the dragon was killed; the combined armies were routed by krist-chins.”
The demon bit his lower lip so hard that it bled and he shook with rage; the news was a devastating blow to his ego as well as his grand schemes. His nostrils flared as his eyes, bloodshot from the angel’s fists, locked on the messenger. eiztchkey had been wise to send a proxy.
He stood to his haunches and reached out with his spirit and latched onto the source of his power. The elf screamed as beh’-tsah’s power immolated the ill-fated courier. Melting sheaves of flesh peeled away from bone as the hellish spell ripped the ekthro’s skeleton from the pocket of meat and smashed it against one of the room’s many pillars. The fragile frame crumbled to dust and the demon knew his fit served no purpose—though he did find inflicting pain cathartic.
beh’-tsah brooded as he paced the floor of his throne room. He did not plan for failure.
Had it not been for the untimely interference of the coup within the Gathering he could have easily crushed the invading threat. Now, he’d lost a minor battle on the surface and he was barely winning the war in Paradise. Several surprise assaults had taken a heavy toll on his forces; if it were not for reinforcements from his demonic allies whom he’d promised seats to on the Gathering, his forces might have faltered.
exaporeh’-omahee entered the throne room. An aura of delight haunted his steps. He looked at the dark lord with his sunken, hollow eyes.
“You bear news for me, EXAPOREH’-OMAHEE?”
The demon nodded and bowed. The Gathering had always been a dangerous place, but if the demon overlord was in a foul mood it would be ever worse. Demons always found it imperative to demonstrate loyalty through action.
&n
bsp; “Yes, BEH’-TSAH. The armies of your enemy, sheh’-ker, have been destroyed. The demon, however, has escaped. He fled to the safety of peh’-shah’s new stronghold, the fortress formerly belonging to tah-av-aw’. We believe that peh’-shah and the others will give him command of what remains of kes-eel’s forces.”
The news brought no cheer to beh’-tsah. He knew it was of no concern to exaporeh’-omahee, either. The demon of despondency was truly happy, beh’-tsah knew, because the city of Grinden had suddenly become a haven for his own special interests. Overnight a blanket of despair had fallen upon the city.
Had beh’-tsah not been sure of exaporeh’-omahee’s allegiance to him he might have suspected some sort of treachery. For the time being, exaporeh’-omahee was a vital ally to him and he needed every loyal ally that he could find.
“Did you bring me the reagents that I require,” beh’-tsah inquired.
“Yes, BEH’-TSAH.” exaporeh’-omahee unclasped a satchel that hung against his emaciated waist and offered it to the dread lord. “You will find it all there, as requested.”
“Good,” beh’-tsah muttered as he hauled himself off of his throne. He seized the bag of magical catalyst items and looked them over.
The two demons returned to the place where they had been working dark magics together. The floor space immediately before beh’-tsah’s throne was covered with scattered, withered reagents and the blackened corpses of spent sacrifices, along with many other items that they had used in their necromancy.
Working their sacrilege, they repetitively cursed the object of beh’-tsah’s despise, trying to bring him down further with exponential hexes. For the most part, they were met with success as they bled the supernatural energies from the wounded angel, Jorge, as he lay comatose with his friends.
With only a little more effort, the combined enchantments of the two could shatter the angel’s life force and spill his essence into the void, annihilating his very being. They huddled around their workspace and set to working their profane spell.
***
Rashnir watched from Jorge’s side as his brothers and sisters worked diligently, turning over bodies that they recognized. Many of the casualties still clung to life; their souls refused to give up on the work that the Lord had prepared them for.
As more and more of the living were found and brought in, people’s excitement grew more and more hopeful. Others began to go out and comb through the body-littered fields in search of the living.
He smiled, hopeful that more would be found alive, but Rashnir had other plans at the moment. Counter-balancing that joy, Rashnir glanced away—to the place where they’d held the enemy prisoner. He planned to interrogate the acolyte as soon as possible; perhaps he had information vital to their survival.
They held the dragon rider on the shady side of the hillock, out of the way. Though the acolyte was one of the most notable offenders, the Christians did not plan to kill him in cold blood, however justifiable that might have been. Even though they’d decided to spare his life, they could not release him; he was far too great a threat for that.
For now, the acolyte had been bound to a large post planted firmly in the ground. Arms tied behind his body, his wrists were tethered around the beam that his back rested against. He sat with his legs spread before him. He’d refused to speak since his capture. It was unlikely that Rashnir would get anything out of him, but he felt the need to look his enemy in the face.
As the ranger approached him from behind he noticed the odd markings on the acolyte’s body through the ripped and tattered cloak. More than mere tattoos, one organic design caught his eye: a birthmark Rashnir was sure he had seen before. The unmistakable sepia pair of images hung high between the captive’s shoulder blades where it contrasted the pale skin of his neck and the tapestry of darker designs inked by artisans of the Order.
Rashnir bit his lip and rubbed his own clavicles as he carried a drinking skin slung high over his shoulder. Despite his wholesale ignorance about it, something deep inside hoped that none of the others noticed the natural marking.
He sighed and approached. The interrogation might not produce much, but Rashnir would accomplish at least one thing: he could give the prisoner some much needed water. Unlike the Luciferians, his friends would not act like monsters, not even to the worst offenders.
***
The arch-mage held council with his goblin subordinates in the deepest chambers of Jand’s Royal Castle. Harmarty’s line was broken, Rutheir was dead, and now a new order would need to be established. Absinthium still planned to continue controlling the throne of Jand. It was the platform from which he would launch his master’s world-shaping revolution.
Absinthium sat and drew within himself. He stared at the bowl he’d placed on a nearby pedestal. The bowl, made of hard, glazed mortar smoldered with the various crushed incenses and leaves he’d piled within. He’d lit the mixture and then dampened it so that he could scry the smoke and divine particular events yet to come—the shifting balance of power in Babel had long a concern of his.
grr’SHaalg and his twin brother, tyr-aPt, sat with the wizard in the sub-levels of the castle where the goblins were most comfortable. Perhaps more importantly than comfort for the ekthro, the mage felt more at ease in the darkest foundations of the structure. Following the incident at the quarry he’d entered a period of recovery and he’d not yet felt ready to emerge from the shadows. He preferred the brooding darkness and used bitterness and wrath to refocus himself.
“Problems are beginning to develop in our plan,” King tyr-aPt informed him. “Things were going very smoothly,” he said, “until this defeat. I am not concerned about my loss of thousands of troops. We have plenty more at our disposal; the problem is political. When the other goblin kings hear of the defeat, they will hesitate to join the great goblin unification we’ve discussed.”
grr’SHaalg agreed, but he knew the problem was not as severe as his brother had stated, not with the deceptions he’d already initiated through his minion, Griq’nnr. Even though his brother had not yet been brought into the fold on it, surely tyr-aPt had deduced snippets of the plan. The shadow ruler was not beyond using his brother’s argument. “The other kings had been happy to receive your missionaries and have been vying for your attention, desiring to supplicate you, as we have done. When they learn of this defeat, they may doubt your power. The other subterranean regions may reject any kind of alliance, now. Should any unrest result in the loss of Griq’nnr, our chief missionary—trained by Zilke, the overlander, I would be put out. I have much invested in that one.”
tyr-aPt glanced at his brother for a split second and flickered his second eyelid. Only he knew of Griq’nnr and grr’SHaalg’s special relationship and in that moment grr’SHaalg knew that tyr-aPt had realized the ambitious shadow-lord’s plans.
“And what of you two,” the old mage leveled his eyes at them. His words seemed to crackle with raw, dark power. “Do you doubt my power as well?”
“No, no,” they both assured him. They had no desire for an impromptu display.
“We are simply curious as to the next phase of the plan,” grr’SHaalg informed him.
“You will tell everyone that we achieved victory,” he said. “Any of your units that escaped the tragedy at Grinden must believe this truth or be executed, along with any others who might doubt; eliminate all dissenters from your ranks. The Goblin Kings must believe this one thing: that the krist-chins were uprooted from their stronghold outside of Grinden. We divided them and we will soon conquer them piecemeal.”
“The krist-chins have scattered? I would think it too soon for that.”
The arch-mage looked through the wafting smoke that curled towards the ceiling. “Not yet, but they will—and soon. It was always their original intent, and now we’ve made that opportunity a viable option. They will leave before we can muster an army capable of preventing their departure if such a thing were possible on such short notice.
”
“Tell the nine kings that everything is proceeding according to our strategy. Truthfully, aboveground politics remain unaffected by the existence of these cultists, at least for now. I will be meeting with the Nindan councilmen this evening, and the plan proceeds despite this trivial mishap of heavier losses than expected. Perhaps the ‘accidental release’ of the Dragon Impervious by these cultists will be the blame?” Absinthium thought aloud and tapped his chin thoughtfully before nodding.
“I will handle the surviving militiamen and the people of Grinden. They will believe that they accomplished their mission by uprooting the krist-chins, even though casualties were higher than anticipated by some foolish, rogue wizard.”
“Then, we will still be given possession of the city, as agreed?” tyr-aPt asked.
“Soon,” said Absinthium, “it is still part of the plan. Your first surface city, grown out of the unity of Grinden and Under-Grinden; it will be an example to the masses. Your race’s stage for an emergence to power and dominion over the other ekthro will demonstrate to the entire realm that it is possible for man and ekthro to embrace the Order’s doctrine and coexist.
“It demonstrates what true Luciferianism embodies and what it will not abide. It reminds them of the prophetic messages regarding tolerance of the abnormal, the deviant, and the perverse. Instill and use their blind faith in doctrine as a crutch; it will help cope with the paradoxes that the doctrine feeds them and keeps people subservient.” He grinned and winked as he spoke so candidly with the two most powerful rulers of the subterranean population.
“Repopulate Under-Grinden,” Absinthium urged them. The mage had already recognized that there was little more usefulness to the city. The militia was spent and most of the young men were already harvested and pressed into Jand’s royal military. Grinden’s fire had burnt out and the only emotion left in the city was despair; it would take too much energy to rebuild it into something useful to his master’s plans. Let exaporeh’-omahee have them, he thought. Nothing is left in that city but bones
The Kakos Realm Collection Page 55
