Steel Wolves of Craedia (Realm of Arkon, Book 3)

by Akella,G.

  Over the past ten days the citizens of Suonu had rebuffed six attacks and had razed nearly all the siege towers besetting the city of the punishers. Every combat-ready man, woman and child had taken to the walls, preferring death in battle to being slaughtered on one of the mad god's many altars. But today, the attackers' strategy had shifted. After falling back and leaving yet another hundred or so corpses piled up outside the walls, the disavowed tapped into the emanations of fear and pain soaring over the city to summon Nerghall. Diarten knew then that his time had come. Two hundred years in the service of his mistress had earned him the right to summon her—once, just once—and this was exactly the moment that called for it.

  To stand a chance against the Lord of Darkness you had to be a Lord or... a god. Diarten knew the price he would have to pay for summoning his mistress—his life. But he didn't doubt his decision for a second. Standing in the square, across from the main gates, before the eyes of the city's worn-out defenders, the magus slit his wrists with his trusty kris, then threw up his hands and began to sing the summoning chant, feeling his life fleeting away with every drop of blood trickling from his veins.

  The city gates collapsed with a deafening crash. The hoisting chains clanked and rattled, tearing like worn threads, as the Ancient Beast emerged from billows of dust and entered the city. Nerghall moved his massive head to his left, then to his right. The black pools of his eyes—oozing a boundless, everlasting hunger—stopped on the tiny tifling standing tall across the main gates. Having identified the enemy without error, the Lord of Darkness shook off the wooden and stone debris, and roared triumphantly, exposing rows of razor-sharp teeth as long as a man's arm. Shards of glass burst from a dozen windows of nearby houses, spraying the streets. The defenders fell from the walls like flies, their bodies convulsing in anguish. The magus felt an excruciating pain grip his body, but he didn't wince or move an inch. What was pain to a man who had already crossed the threshold between life and death? His chanting continued uninterrupted. The enraged monstrosity shrieked to the skies, and charged the insolent tifling, claws shattering the pavement. When no more than twenty yards separated the two, there was a tear in the fabric of this realm, as rays of Primordial Darkness smashed into the Ancient Beast's chest.

  "Step aside," a voice sounded softly in the magus' ears. The necromancer obeyed, moving several feet to his left, then turned around... and froze in awe. He had done it! The mistress had answered his call!

  Celphata was a dream, a beauty unlike any he'd ever seen. The goddess' closed dress—reflecting every shade of darkness imaginable—looked soft and elegant, accentuating her flawless figure. Her huge brown eyes pulsed with life, animating her fine symmetrical features, while her magnificent bush of raven-black hair, bound with a fanciful pin, cascaded down her immaculate shoulders. The goddess' hands, parted ever so slightly, were beaming two rays, dark as the very essence of midnight, right into the chest of the Lord of Darkness, paralyzing him in his tracks. This was worth living and dying for, the thought flashed through the necromancer's mind. Diarten gave a weary yet contented smile, savoring the sight of his mistress.

  "Take this," Celphata's even voice brought the magus back to earth, as a warm wave of healing coursed through him, restoring all his strength in an instant. He regarded his mistress' palm, which held a soulstone with Nerghall's imprisoned essence, and raised his incredulous eyes at the goddess.

  "What? But I summoned you, mistress. I am supposed to—"

  The goddess pressed an elegant finger to his lips, stopping his rambling.

  "Silence! This is your burden to carry by choice. I cannot destroy this creature, but you know how and where to hide this to ensure the Twice Cursed never finds his servant."

  "I understand," Diarten accepted the stone, which was warm to the touch, and put it away in his pocket. The city militia, having just regained their faculties, were rushing to shut the gates and stop the flow of punishers streaming into the city. "I will do as you say."

  "Go then! Give this stone to one you deem worthy, and I... I shall wait for you at the end of your path." The young woman brushed a cool palm against his cheek, a hidden pain flickering in her eyes...

  All that had happened only yesterday.

  The footpath finally led him to a large meadow. He made it! All he needed now was to seal the cave from within with a barrier impenetrable by the undead. Then, once the Ancient Beast took over his flesh and consciousness, it wouldn't be able to escape its prison. Diarten let the cool breeze caress his face, his shoulders slumped from exhaustion. All of a sudden he felt a gripping horror; it rose in waves from the very depths of his soul, clutching his heart and mind with cold clammy fingers. The menacing whisper in his head rose in volume, resounding like a funeral bell.

  "No!" the magus whispered, breaking the chains of horror with an inhuman effort, conjuring the visage of the goddess in his mind to help shake off the delusion. "I am here, mistress!" The Master of Death whispered with cracked lips. With a farewell glance at the sun hanging over the woods, he staggered toward the dungeon, its entrance gaping darkly ahead.

  "Krian! Dar, wake up!" Salta's voice betrayed a certain degree of panic.

  "I'm here," though my vision was still blurry, I was quickly coming back to my senses. "And I'm all right."

  "You call that all right?! You were completely lifeless for five whole minutes!"

  "It happens," I sighed, struggling up to my feet, my hand still gripping the soulstone. A grayish haze billowed around the little pyramid, and I almost physically sensed the shackled Great Essence thrashing about inside it. I raised a prayer of gratitude to Altus for gifting me high resistance to mental magic—I suspected that the incoherent mumbling I was hearing would be far, far worse otherwise, like the sinister whispering and repugnant visions endured by the magus.

  You've accessed the quest: Celphata's Will.

  Quest type: epic, unique.

  Shatter the soulstone. Release Nerghall's essence and slay the Lord of Darkness.

  Reward: experience, increased reputation with Celphata the Goddess of Death, increased reputation with all the races in the Realm of Arkon, up to unfriendly (reputation would remain unchanged if already higher than unfriendly with any race), unknown.

  Attention! To complete this quest you will need at least three hundred allies.

  The time for completing this quest is limited. If you fail to release Nerghall, imprisoned in the soulstone, within one month, the Lord of Darkness will escape on his own. When that happens, if the Ancient Beast isn't slain within five hours of his escape, the reputation with the race on whose territory it happens will fall to hatred.

  What the... This Lord is stronger than Shaartakh! I thought. And besides, what kind of quest was this that I couldn't even refuse it? Now, I could just leave the soulstone here, but the timer had already started, and I didn't feel like earning the hatred of all the dominions at once. Not even my courier's badge would counteract that.

  "Maybe you could finally explain to us what happened?" the restless archeress interrupted my musings.

  "The commander probably had a vision about Lata, the goddess of love. And here you are distracting him from contemplating her divine form," Reece defended me with but the subtlest touch of sarcasm in his voice. His face, at least, showed nothing but righteous indignation.

  "No, but I did see Celphata," I returned the mage's smirk, though his face grew suddenly pale. "And she tasked me with a quest. I'll explain everything later, but now we have to go."

  I bent over and gathered up the magus' body in my arms. For some reason I didn't want to put it away into inventory like some object.

  "We'll bury him on the surface. He deserves it like nobody else," I grumbled in response to my clanmates' stunned and outraged glances. And then, without turning back, I started toward the exit, the lifeless body of the Master of Death slung over my shoulder.

  We buried the necromancer's ashes under an oak not far from the dungeon entrance. Upon learning o
f the tifling's heroism, the demons showed incredible zeal in gathering firewood for the funeral pyre and digging a grave under the tree. In the end we all stood there in solemn silence, watching the flames devour the remains of the Master of Death, honoring his noble sacrifice.

  "Dar, do you think he's at peace there, in the Flame?" Reena asked me softly when the final stone was laid upon the necromancer's grave.

  "I know he is," I nodded to the girl. "The magus is with his mistress."

  "What's she like? You've seen her, right?" the demoness' cheeks still bore glistening streaks from recent tears, though her eyes shone with a kind of unnatural curiosity. "They say the face of the goddess of death is pure horror..."

  The demons all turned toward me and froze in anticipation. I took my time, trying to find the right words, comfortable with the silence. Only the gentle rustling of the leaves could be heard overhead, in the crown of the mighty oak.

  "She's beautiful," I said at last, softly. "And... desirable. That is how the necromancer saw her, and that is how I remember her."

  Chapter 4

  A gust of wind flung a handful of raindrops in my face, cold and tiny like glass beads. I pulled the hood over my forehead, wrapped my cloak around the torso, and turned around to inspect the string of wagons stretching back over a quarter mile.

  The yaks were trudging along, heads hanging low, while the farmers—all wrapped up in brown cloaks in hopes of finding at least some respite from the rain and blistering wind—were whipping them with equal measure of lethargy and despair. Even the men and women on guard duty seemed to resemble the walking dead, all drowsy and miserable. Up and down the caravan everyone dreamed of warmth: a dry spot near a campfire, a hot plate in a lap, and a strong drink in hand. Everyone except for Gloom, at least. The razorback puffed merrily as he paced, like a house dog out for a walk after spending too much time indoors. He made sure to sniff every irregularity in the road—every bump and every hollow—to the point where I began worrying about him getting a hoof stuck somewhere.

  "No undead yet," Iam reported, steadying his horse as he caught up to me. "Though Farot is still about a mile and a half out. But here's what's strange: there was always a bridge here, even before the undead turned up. And now it's gone. I don't like this."

  His horse, also clad in metal, huffed noisily, as if sensing its master's mood. Its ears twitched anxiously from behind the steel headstall.

  "Everybody wake up!" I bellowed in the party channel, then looked back at the demon. "You mean to say they had the men for watch duty, but not for clearing the roads of the filth?"

  "I don't know. They never had much in the way of a garrison," the getare shrugged. "I heard dar Elnar is a fine commander, so they probably just didn't have the manpower."

  "Fine. Ride back to the end of the caravan, make sure everything is in order there. Although..." I looked over the woods framing the path on either side, "I doubt the undead have gotten smart enough for ambushes. Still, Hart helps those who help themselves."

  "Sata," Iam corrected me. "It's Sata, the goddess of fortune, who protects those who don't lose vigilance."

  "Fine, Sata it is," I said to the back of the demon as he rode away...

  Upon our arrival in Ballan, we were met right at the gates by the elder. The old man was shifting his feet nervously, and with no particular joy in his face.

  "Gvert, did something happen?" I asked, hopping out of the saddle.

  Immediately recognizing his freedom, the black-furred traitor looked around for Reena and trotted over to her, wagging his sorry excuse for a tail in the most comical way. The young woman laughed, scratching the boar behind the ear, and slipped him a treat as usual.

  "Dar," the elder looked aground, kicking up road dust with the heel of his boot. "When I promised you ten farmers, I didn't imagine that these valiant warriors," he looked over the demons lined up behind me, "would be leaving us for good. We have just over twenty families left, and so many kids..." he sighed heavily.

  "Go on, spit it out," I frowned. "Say what you want to say."

  "Well, um..." Gvert gave another heavy sigh. The old man was obviously putting on a show—thankfully, he wasn't much of an actor. He pulled out a dirty rag and crumpled it in his hands for some reason, then looked up at me and blurted out: "You cannot take these people from us, dar! What's going to remain of the village? But your warriors were saying you plan on buying horses in Xantarra, right? Well, we happened to catch a bunch of horses in the woods after what happened in Feator and Uriatta... And then all the horses ran off... The undead ain't got use for horses, nor do they venture into the woods... There was a reason I'd asked to clear out the pastures, you know. The horses eat like mon—"

  "Get to the point." I'd already figured what the elder was getting at, and was trying hard to hide my relief. The fact was that the ten farmers, their maximum level set at 145, would be quite a burden on my party. I had hoped to solve the matter of new recruits in Farot or Xantarra, where my reputation was revered and friendly, respectively. But the matter of horses was already staring me square in the face—after all, Lucy alone had cost me eight hundred gold. For a moment I felt a pang of guilt for not summoning the mare even once after her death, and promised myself to do just that as soon as we reached a place that would be more or less safe for the animal. Getting my clanmates all mounted up would require a small fortune, even if horses were half as expensive in Craedia. And here the elder was offering the perfect solution.

  "Give us back our ten farmers, and take ten horses in exchange," Gvert spread his arms in a gesture that seemed to emphasize what a generous offer he was making. "You don't need a horse, sure," the elder shot a wary glance at Gloom, who was busy cadging a treat from the head archeress. "Not with that beast you don't. But how will your men go on without horses?"

  I bit my lower lip to hold back a smile. In times of danger Gvert became grim and resolute, the kind of determined leader I saw when we fought together to save his village. It made for a stark contrast with the role of an obtuse peasant he was playing now. Stanislavsky would have been amused...

  "Are you trying to say my warriors are of equal worth as your horses?" I managed to force a frown.

  "No way! I refuse to be a horse!" Reece's voice came from behind me. "Well, if it's a boy horse, then maybe. They've got those, um... You know what I'm talking about, dar. But definitely not a girl horse, I don't care how pretty her mane is!" With those words, the mage gave Salta a sidelong glance and slipped behind Aritor's massive back.

  "What do you propose, dar?"

  "I have fourteen fighters. Every one of them needs a horse, and a spare one for carrying cargo. And have Skyle forge armor for all the horses, at least one set for each."

  "You want to take my pants while you're at it?!" breathless with indignation, Gvert pulled on his trousers at the knees, which made him look like a Red Army general from an old Soviet war film. "Or maybe throw a harness on me and have me plow the field?" He patted his upper back and spread his arms. "Fourteen horses. The metal for the armor is on you. And if anyone can actually turn that bigmouth into a horse," Gvert motioned at Reece, "I'll pay for the fifteenth set personally."

  "No, Gvert," I shook my head. "You caught a whole herd of horses, remember? And they're voracious eaters. I will not accept less than twenty. As for the metal, we'll provide everything the smith needs. I'll even assign Aritor to assist him."

  "You've got yourself a deal," the elder suddenly smiled. "Don't think we've forgotten that we owe you our lives. Take twenty horses now, and I'll give you eight more when we reach Farot—I just don't have enough yaks to pull all the carts."

  For the following two days, as the village prepared to evacuate, it was all hands on deck. Having assumed the role of treasurer, I must have spent a natural day in the clan vault, arranging and rearranging all that we had obtained thus far: weapons and equipment, reagents, consumables and materials for trade skills. More than once I was tempted to dump the responsibility on somebody e
lse, but my clanmates were busy enough as it was.

  With the clan reaching level four, I had been given the option of selecting professions for my non-player subordinates. Alas, I hadn't realized this until after we'd returned to Ballan, so now I was playing catchup. While Aritor helped Master Skyle forge armor for our new mounts, and rare breastplates from defiled ore in Ballan's smithy, Iam, Surat and Hurd smelted heaps of common metal armor we'd gotten in Feator. Reece taught alchemy to Reena, and all the archers were busy crafting arrows—which, from our personal experience, you could never have too many of. Hagedia unraveled all the common cloth armor into fabrics and threads. As for the leather, I gifted it all to Gvert, and was glad to be rid of it, seeing absolutely no sense in lugging it all to Xantarra.

  Costing the clan about a thousand gold coins, the level four treasury looked like your typical warehouse. Filled with racks, shelves and cabinets of all shapes and sizes, it functioned much like players' private rooms. When first I laid eyes on the mountains of junk strewn about the place chaotically, I nearly suffered a stroke. Thankfully, as the saying goes, all things are difficult before they are easy—in the end I managed to whip the entire inventory into shape. And yet, at the end of that day I felt more exhausted than if I had battled all of Arkon's bosses put together, cementing my resolve to find someone to take over the role of quartermaster as quickly as possible.

  The figures, however, were a cause for optimism. We had stockpiled nearly forty sets of plate and mail armor in the 140 to 175 level range, slightly more of leather and cloth sets that I had set aside to be sold off, and a whole separate rack filled with uncommon quality weapons. Of rare quality pieces we had exactly thirty, though, sadly, none that we could use since I wasn't planning on outfitting my demons in cloth or leather. As for the old bones—the quest items that needed to be turned in to Xantarra's quartermaster—we had slightly over twelve thousand of them. I sincerely hoped that the quest was of the repeatable kind, since otherwise we'd be hauling all this viscera with us for naught. When all was said and done, we still needed to buy three carts from the elder to carry all the stuff that didn't fit in the treasury. And then I led my clanmates, glowing like polished brass coins with a sense of their own importance, into the next zone for their first mounted training.