He expected her to be able to match the fastidious Captain’s records and notes, a task that Tiadaria loathed almost as much as research. Still, the records she kept for Faxon helped to document the tasks she performed in service to the quints and the realm as a whole, and so earned her a stipend from the king’s treasury for her service. That part, she had to admit, was rather nice and could be easily adapted to.
Finally she found the cabinet with the map she sought. It was painted on thin muslin but was so large that it was still rather heavy and bulky for her to move on her own. However, even if she woke Jotun from his nap, he wouldn’t be much help. The elderly mage was much more adept at reading maps and remembering forgotten details than he was at anything as pedestrian as physical labor. With some effort she got the map to the viewing tables and began to spread it out.
When fully unfurled, the map took up nearly the entire viewing table. It was easily twenty feet wide and three-quarters of that high. Tiadaria had to climb to the top of one of the step-stools to get the proper vantage point from which to gather her bearings. Dragonfell was easiest to locate, as the inset detail of the cavern palace and the large alabaster stonework was unmistakable. From there, it was a relatively simple matter to trace the trade road south, past Wheatborne and eventually to Blackbeach.
Tiadaria gnawed thoughtfully at her lower lip. Faxon had said that Ethergate was outside the Imperium’s border, so she followed the trade route north from Blackbeach, across the Dragonback Mountains through which she passed so often and out past King’s Reach. There was a large city far to the northwest of King’s Reach. It was unlabeled on the map, but marked with the hand-eye-and-triangle symbol that was the common mark of the quintessentialists. Certainly that had to be Ethergate.
“Have you found what you seek, young lady?” Jotun’s gravelly voice startled her so badly that Tiadaria jumped and had to clutch the handrail on the steps lest she fall down. He had gotten silently to his feet and shuffled around to where she stood on the stool, two heads higher than he.
“Is that Ethergate?” she asked, pointing at the dot on the map. Jotun nodded, scratching his stubbly white whiskers and looking at her thoughtfully.
“Aye, young lady, it is.”
“How long would you say it would take to travel there on horseback?”
Jotun shook his head. “The trade road ends outside the Imperium, Lady Tiadaria. That slows things up something awful. Once you get onto the lesser used roads in the outlands, it’s slow going indeed.”
“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “I understand. But how long to ride from Blackbeach to Ethergate?”
He peered at her with his watery brown eyes for a long moment before he replied. “I’d reckon about two weeks, My Lady.”
“Are there smaller versions of this map? One I could borrow perhaps?”
Jotun went to a cabinet and produced a roll of parchment. Tia slipped the ribbon band off the end and unrolled it. It was a perfect copy of the map she had laid out, right down to the bends of each river. The only thing it lacked was the rich colors of the original. She suspected that the copy was meant to be functional, where the original was obviously a display piece. She re-rolled the parchment and slipped the ribbon down over it.
“Thank you, Master Jotun,” she smiled at him and his eyes crinkled with happiness. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“My pleasure, Lady Tia. My pleasure.”
She lingered long enough to replace the map that she had spread on the table and then departed the library, going directly to the stables. Nightwind nickered as she approached and she clucked her tongue to appease the animal.
“Easy now, lovey,” she said quietly as she took down her saddle and bags from the pegs near the stall. “We’re off on an adventure.”
Tiadaria quickly fitted the accoutrements to Nightwind’s well-muscled body and eased him out of the stall, leading him by the reins until they were outside the stables. With the ease of much practice, she hefted herself from one stirrup, swinging her leg over and settling herself into the saddle.
It was nearing dinner time and the sun was sinking low behind the mountains in the west. Traveling in the dark didn’t bother Tiadaria, as sphere-sight was just about as good as being able to see in the dark, but Nightwind didn’t care for it at all. He hesitated at her spur, and then reluctantly trotted onto the cobble road that would lead them out of Blackbeach.
Tia smiled. Faxon would catch up with her at Ethergate, she was sure. That was if he didn’t catch up to them on the road. It served him right to be left behind, she thought, still smoldering over the incident with the fire. She leaned in close to Nightwind’s neck and spurred him into a run, delighting in the spring air that swept her hair back as they plunged headlong into the twilight.
Chapter Two
Zarfensis sat on a rough-hewn bench outside the cathedral. Since being stripped of his rank and shunned by the pack council, he was no longer permitted to enter the holy places. Only his status and years of service to the Shadow Assembly had prevented him from being excommunicated from the Chosen entirely.
The cavern was empty, as was much of the Warrens since the failed attack on the Human Imperium. The heavy weight of the blame placed on him by the majority of the Chosen settled over his shoulders like a shroud. He deserved every bit of that blame, he knew.
The intervening years had done nothing to lessen the anger and shame that their defeat had brought. If anything, his need to go back and even the score had grown with each passing day. His leg itched abominably. He wanted nothing more than to give it a long, hard scratch. A feat that would have been considerably easier had it not been the leg he had lost to infection after the battle.
His crutch leaned up against the wall beside him, mocking him. He eyed it, growling softly, ears twitching in agitation. He knew the others viewed it as a sign of weakness. Without a leg, he had very limited mobility. Without his mobility, he was vulnerable. Though he was crippled, he was still a formidable opponent, which was why no one had challenged his decision to remain in the Warrens, even though he had been stripped of his customary duties.
There was a scrabbling of claws on the rock behind him and a pup appeared from the doorway. She was one of the recent litters, the Chosen born after the attack. The younger generation were the ones more likely to ignore his shunning. While the youngsters recognized the authority of the pack council, they also bridled against the heavy restrictions the elders had placed them under.
The pup was a thin thing, slight and gaunt from malnutrition. Her voice was a high pitched whine that went right to the base of the High Priest’s skull.
“Your Holiness?”
“Yes, whelp?”
“The technician is here. He wishes to see you.”
Zarfensis growled deep in his throat, his ears flattening back against his head. The whelp took a step back and he quickly controlled his agitation. It wasn’t her fault he had lost his leg. Nor was it her fault that he was desperate enough to call this thieving, hairless vermin into the Warren and guarantee his safety.
“Very well,” Zarfensis said. “Bring him to me, quickly.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
The pup bowed deeply and disappeared, reappearing a moment later with a creature no more than two feet tall. Its skin was dark as sackcloth and its eyes were enormous black pools that seemed to drink in the slightest light and trap it forever.
The hands, Zarfensis thought. These were the hands that would make him whole again. The fingers were long and slender, tapering to pointed tips. They were ideal for working on all manner of machinery. The gnome’s ears disturbed the High Priest, almost to the point of revulsion. Naked skin, they stuck out from the sides of the head, tilted forward to catch the minutest sound. All in all a repugnant creature.
To be beholden to such a creature would be a shame of its own, but if the technician could make him whole again, perhaps he could lead the Xarundi back from their teetering existence.
T
he gnome slipped the pack off his shoulder, dropping it to the floor with a metallic clatter.
“I am to be called Greneks,” the gnome said, pointing a long slender finger at his own chest.
“Very well, Greneks,” Zarfensis replied. “Have you brought what I’ve asked for?”
“No, no. Nothing to bring.” The gnome nodded vigorously. “First there is work to be done. Measurements to take. Drawings to make. All manner of things to discover before the making, yes?”
Zarfensis’s dug his claws into the palms of his hands. He had thought that the gnome would bring him a device ready to be fitted. This only served to compound his frustration.
“How long will the making take?” Zarfensis’s growl would have been a dire warning to any other creature, but the gnome seemed unfazed.
“Not long, not long,” the gnome replied with more nodding. “There is the finding and gathering to do, then the making. A day or two, maybe less. The device must fit perfectly. Otherwise, you are vulnerable. The High Priest cannot be vulnerable. This is the reason for the device, yes?”
That this lowly creature could so easily see Zarfensis’s urgent need to be whole raised the Xarundi’s ire. His eyes blazed with blue fire as he contemplated killing the technician and finding another way to attain his goal. He slowly regained control of his temper. The technician came highly recommended. Bringing him to the Warrens and sneaking him inside had cost a small fortune. He could put up with the aggravation for a time.
“Proceed,” the High Priest growled through clenched jaws.
The gnome steepled his long fingers under his chin and looked at the Xarundi, cocking his head this way and that, murmuring to himself. Without another word, he unrolled his tool roll and selected implements unfamiliar to Zarfensis. The tape was for measuring he knew, but the High Priest was wary of the object that appeared to be a curved metal wishbone. It reminded him of the pincers that, heated red hot, they sometimes used to extract information from the vermin.
Stretching the tape between his hands, the gnome approached Zarfensis, whose ears flicked back against his head. A warning snarl curled his lips. The gnome clucked his tongue.
“Now, now,” he said. “The measurements must be taken and must be precise. You want your device, yes?”
Without waiting for permission, or even acknowledgment, the gnome climbed up on the bench next to Zarfensis. He wrapped the tape around the stump, muttering to himself. The calipers he used to measure the distance to the center of the limb. He took a thin book from his back pocket, produced a stylus from another, and began scratching out his notations.
The measurement process continued. The gnome had him stand up, sit down, kneel, crouch, and bend. Every new set of measurements grating more against the High Priest’s already taught nerves until he felt as if he were ready to explode. The entire process took far too long.
Finally, when Zarfensis was sure he could bear no more, the gnome announced that the measurements were finished. He hopped down off the bench and tucked his tools back in the roll. The roll was then quickly bound and thrown over the technician’s shoulder.
The gnome steepled his fingers under his chin again, giving Zarfensis such a long and measured look that the High Priest’s patience finally snapped.
“Well?” he demanded. “You have your measurements! Speak!”
“I have the measurements,” Greneks replied, unperturbed by the outburst. “Now comes the finding. You’ll take me to your workshop now?”
A cold surge of dread crept out from the base of Zarfensis’s spine. The Xarundi had workshops, true, but they were utilitarian things and raw materials were exceedingly difficult to come by. Especially these days, as the elders had forbidden trading with anyone outside the Warrens, even the other races of the Shadow Assembly.
“We have a workshop,” he replied, his tongue snaking out to lick his muzzle. A nervous habit. “But we have no materials.”
“Nonsense,” Greneks replied. “Every people have materials, they just haven’t been found yet. Lead on, please.”
Zarfensis had grave doubts that the gnome would find anything of use in the Xarundi’s workshops. While some of the younger Chosen had slowly accepted the encroachment of technology that seemed to be creeping across Solendrea, most of the elders still held to the belief that claw and fang couldn’t be improved upon by gears and springs. Even so, to give up now would be to admit defeat. He might as well throw himself into the darkness under the cathedral.
With some effort he got to his foot, shoving the crutch under his arm. Every step he took fueled the fire of his rage. He hated having to rely on the crutch. He hated feeling vulnerable and weak. He hesitated and the gnome gestured impatiently for the High Priest to lead the way.
The corridors of the Warrens were not easy to navigate in his condition. The passages were made for padded feet and claw to find purchase and the tip of the crutch often slipped one direction or the other, forcing Zarfensis to fight for his balance. Their descent was agonizingly slow, but they eventually entered the lower caverns where the workshops were located. They were fortunate that the Chosen were so reduced in number. They encountered no one else on their way to the workshop.
Greneks, appearing from the tunnel behind Zarfensis, squealed with delight and dashed past the startled Xarundi and through the archway into the first of several workshops spread out along the cavern wall.
When Zarfensis managed to catch up, he found the technician climbing head first into a trash bin. With only his ankles visible, the gnome chattered away to himself, the bin making the sound echo hollowly.
An arm appeared, tossing debris out of the bin. The High Priest couldn’t imagine what the gnome wanted with these long broken machines, but he remained silent. Before long, the gnome climbed out of the container and dashed down the cavern to the next workshop. There he climbed into another bin of discards.
Twice more Greneks repeated the performance. Each item he tossed items out of the bins and into a pile. Still in the last bin, the technician’s head popped up over the side and he grinned, a wide smile stretching from ear to bat-like ear.
“So many treasures!” he said happily. “Much material to work with. You will have your device, yes.”
"When will you begin?" Zarfensis asked. He was tired and his arm was sore from leaning on the crutch too long and too often.
"Has already begun, yes! In the finding. Will begin with the making straight away."
Without another word, the gnome leaped from the bin and began to scamper back and forth between the piles, sorting the parts into smaller piles that the Xarundi couldn't hope to understand. He beckoned to an adolescent Chosen who had stopped tinkering with a machine of his own and was watching the gnome curiously.
"Yes, Your Holiness?"
"Keep an eye on that…creature. If he asks for anything, please see that he gets it. I'll be in my warren."
"As you command, Your Holiness."
Zarfensis suspected that if the gnome knew half as much as he was purported to, that the young Chosen might find himself apprenticing to the loathsome creature. He chastised himself for such an obscene thought and began the laborious trek to his warren.
Repugnant as it was, if Greneks could deliver what he promised, things would rapidly turn around within the Warrens. With two good legs, he would be as fearsome as ever and he would remind all of them of their place.
* * *
No longer permitted in his traditional quarters, Zarfensis kept a small warren in the upper tunnels. Although the climb was greatly hampered by his crutch, he was in better spirits than when he had descended. However, by the time Zarfensis reached the warren, all he wanted to do was tuck his nose under his tail and go to sleep. Alas, that was not to be the case. His sensitive nose picked up the smell of another Chosen as soon as he neared his quarters. Xenir was waiting for him.
The Warleader's tail twitched vigorously, his ears flicking forward and back. The tells of his anticipation were as evident as the
burning excitement in his one good eye. The blue fire positively danced with delight.
“I have news, Your Holiness,” Xenir said without preamble. “The northwestern team has sent back a runner. During one of the supply raids, they found the passage I saw in my vision.”
The High Priest lowered himself into a chair, propping the crutch against the wall beside him. That motion had become all too comfortable, almost a habit. Hopefully, soon, it would be a habit to be broken.
“Any idea what we might be chasing here, Xenir?”
The Warleader shook his head, visibly aggravated. “No, Your Holiness. Only that there is an object of immense power somewhere in the north, buried in the ice. I know it isn’t much to go on, but this vision is strong and it is insistent.”
Zarfensis rubbed his muzzle with both hands. He was so tired. Still, if Xenir's vision were accurate, they would have an item powerful enough to ensure that no one challenged their rule of the Chosen again. The risk they took in sending out raiding parties without the knowledge or consent of the council was great. However, if the raiders had located the tunnel that Xenir saw in his vision, the reward could be greater. He had no reason to doubt the Warleader. He had, after all, foretold their defeat at the hands of the Imperium.
“Then perhaps it’s time we consulted the Deep Oracle,” Zarfensis sighed.
Xenir tucked his tail between his legs, his ears laid back and his gums pulled up over his teeth. The stink of his fear was becoming more pervasive by the second.
“Is that…” Xenir licked his maw nervously. “Is that necessary?”
“Yes, Warleader, I believe it is.” Zarfensis could understand the Warleader's reluctance.
Buried in the deepest bowels of the Warrens, the Deep Oracle was an ancient spirit of immeasurable power. Zarfensis could count on one hand the number of times the Oracle had been consulted in the written history of the Chosen. It was an insidious thing, trapped there by a powerful shaman long ago with magic that had since been lost to the Xarundi. Its hunger for power could only be fed by runedust. The more it fed, the more powerful it was. The more powerful it was, the higher the chance that it might find a way to escape.
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