The Imperial Way ended with Fort Bulwark, a pair of massive, blocky stone structures which marked the end of the Imperium's domain in the southeast. Karzt got through with ease; as a registered Frontier Agent, his papers were all in order. From there, they passed through another small stretch of desert. The Imperial Way ended well before the bridge, stopping at the southernmost reaches of the Ourolo desert which jutted out and acted as a natural border between Cascadian territory and the Imperium.
They made it through the last few miles of the desert without incident. His driver was Hohaym, a tanned Ouroloan man who Karzt had met before. This was the superstitious teamster from the Sandy Travels Shipping Company, the same one who had insisted that the creatures they had fought were “mutants from up Peril way.” The driver had been constantly muttering to himself in that nearly incomprehensible Ouroloan accent ever since they had set out, complaining about how he had been wrangled into this job by his manager and wishing that he could just get back to his family.
Hohaym would not break words on the topic of the caravan attack. Karzt assumed, as he often would in the case of Ouroloans, that the teamster knew nothing and was probably just superstitious and taken to flights of fantasy. He felt certain that there was a simple explanation for this problem: a wizard of some sort was responsible. A wizard, he thought, was almost always responsible when things went wrong in the world.
Karzt heard a knock from outside, and then the familiar voice of Hohaym saying “Sha-too Koss-ked.” In the driver's Ouroloan accent, it sounded more like a sneeze than the name of the castle they were approaching. It was a bright autumn morning, and a week had passed since the two men had set out from Saltflat. Karzt's carriage rolled onto the angular white stones of the Cascadian Bridge.
Once the carriage came to a halt near the castle, Karzt stepped out and stretched his legs. He called for Hohaym to turn the carriage around and wait, then he walked toward the castle's western gates. The pike-wielding gate guards in the distance didn't look like anything much; Karzt had never been to the Chateau, but in the Imperium there were many rumors about how the Cascadian Knights were supposed to be the most powerful soldiers in the world. These pikemen just looked like regular guards, dressed predictably in their chainmail coifs and simple banded mail. To Karzt, the two men looked more bored than fearsome. If the Chateau was to impress him, it would have to do better than a couple of mundane goat herders who had been handed pikes and told to stand in front of a gate.
There was an uneasy peace between the two countries. Citizens of the Imperium could tour the Chateau and have the rare opportunity to marvel at the magic that was practiced there, without having to worry about Imperium proscriptions. There was a fervent distrust bordering on hatred of the arcane in the Imperium, but underneath that distrust was a morbid curiosity that few citizens would dare to speak of. It was not uncommon for the Imperium to hire out Cascadian mercenaries to deal with frontier threats such as the one currently plaguing the sands of the Ourolo. There were a few caveats to this arrangement. Firstly, any Cascadian magicians were to avoid displaying their “degenerate” art within the cities. Second, that any Cascadian group would have at least one representative of the Imperium to act as a guide, a leader, and a watchdog against impropriety. In this case, that responsibility fell to Karzt.
As he proceeded toward the Chateau's minarets, it was difficult not to marvel at the falls below. It was a magnificent sight, watching that water fall off the edge of the world and into the misty clouds below. As single-minded as Karzt was, he was glad for the chance to see one of the great wonders of Genesis. He pulled a whetstone out of his backpack and walked back to the carriage, leaning against its wheeled frame while idly running the stone over the edge of his hatchet blade. He knew that it would need sharpening for the days ahead, especially considering that he’d blunted it recently during the encounter with those creatures.
His blade was keen enough to pierce a sand spinner's chitin when he sensed someone nearby. Looking up, he appraised the two approaching figures, evaluating them with a stern expression on his face. The first was a thin, absurdly tall man in a top-hat and theater get-up – looking down, Karzt decided that the man's black boots must have lifts in them. He looked nothing like a warrior; in fact, he didn't even seem to be carrying a weapon. With disgust Karzt decided that the man must be some sort of magician – only a wizard would choose to dress like that. Walking beside him was a boy who couldn't be more than twenty-years-old. The boy, at least, had a sword sheathed at his side and looked strong enough to wield it. The hangman's piercing glance lingered over the young man's striking green eyes. He disapproved of the youthful naiveté he saw swimming in them and of the unproven softness of the boy's otherwise masculine face. This one might have strength in him, he thought, but it is untested. Karzt's stern look turned into a scowl as he wondered to himself if these were really the ones meant to meet him.
They approached Karzt, and the boy extended his hand. Karzt took it, and they looked each other in the eye as they shook.
“Good to meet you, sir. My name is Jak Barnswallow. You're the representative from the Imperium, right?” Jak was eager to put his diplomatic training to use. The Westerner seemed gruff to say the least, but the young man's natural confidence made him determined to make a good impression in spite of any hurdles. He smiled warmly, waiting for a reply.
Karzt replied, “Aye, that I am. Y'all two are the only ones they're sending?”
Quentin smirked at Karzt as the Westerner spoke, his arms disrespectfully crossed at his chest. “The name's Quentin Gold,” he said. “The pleasure is all yours, I'm sure. I'll be more than sufficient. The boy is just a trainee, don't worry yourself about him.” He gestured lazily toward Jak.
“Lunarm is here too!” came a quiet, child-like voice. The small yellow rock-man peeked out of the top of Jak's satchel, waving his stubby arms wildly. As the sun's bright light hit him, he shielded his eyes with one tiny hand.
Karzt's head swiveled violently as he looked at the creature, naked shock apparent on his face. “What… just what in the God-damn hell is that?”
“Lunarm is a moon-rock-man! Lunarm is strong and gets more strongerer every day. Queen mistress says so, so it has to be true. Lunarm can help you, mister!”
Karzt shook his head in dismay. He had hoped not to have to deal with any magicians from the Chateau, but this rocky abomination was surely some demented wizard's creation. As if that wasn't enough, he would also have to deal with this obnoxious, self-important, top-hatted magician! He sighed, and then drawled out, “My name is H.M. Taker, and I'm to lead you boys on this mission.”
Quentin looked at the man's chest, his eyes fixated on the old scuffed bronze hangman's badge; it was still emblazoned with a noose. “H.M.? Like… Hangman? Hangman Taker?” he guessed, correctly, and went on jeering, “Real spooky. I'm sure that's definitely your real name. Nice badge, by the way. You're definitely not an asshole.” Quentin waved his open white-gloved hands in the air in front of his shoulders, waggling his fingers around while he spoke.
The weathered hangman shot him an exasperated look and ignored his comment. “Y'all will just have to do,” he said. “Get on in, boys.” He climbed into the back of the carriage as Jak began to protest.
“Wait, nobody has even briefed me yet. What are we doi—” but Quentin cut him off, raising his hand.
“We'll talk about it on the road, farm boy. We'll have plenty of time to speak whilst tolerating this one's travel-stink.” He gestured toward Karzt and wrinkled his nose. Jak's made a face at this; he was already perturbed at Quentin's conduct and hoped that the rude man wouldn't ruin a sensitive diplomatic mission with his untamed tongue. Soon, the carriage was underway. They heard a knock from the driver's side, and a throaty voice called out to them.
“Hallo. I emmh Hohaym. Weh all go-hing to die, mayh-beeh. Why they haff to geef me thees job?”
The Summoner
As the hangman and his companions were setting ou
t on their journey, a hushed conversation was happening many miles to the north. Derik's light footsteps echoed down an expansive stone hallway. An ethereal being glided alongside him without making a sound, save the barely perceptible windy whoosh as it moved. The hallway, carved entirely from dark grey stone, was totally unlit except for the flickering human-shaped flame that floated alongside the robed man.
“We lost maybe a couple hundred. Apparently, the caravan had some gunslinging cowboy protecting them. Might have been a Frontier Agent – bad luck.” The man's voice was gravelly yet somehow moist, like a pneumonia-ridden man speaking through a throat full of mucus. He spoke from behind a grey half-mask made from a soft, cottony material; it was pulled tight to his face and stopped just above the nose. The rest of his clothes were made of the same grey material, but all of his garments fit loosely on his body and did not restrict his movement at all. He stalked fluidly down the hallway with the lithe motion of a hunting cat.
“He will find more. They are legion.” The response was an inhuman rasp. The voice was all heat; it was twigs snapping and popping in flame, and it was dying embers smoldering. For an ordinary man it would have been disturbing to hear, but Derik was used to it – as used to it as a man can get, at least. What he still hadn’t gotten used to, however, was the climate.
He had been in this godforsaken country for months now and had long since tired of it. The sun had baked his skin into a desert tan, and it aggravated his ocean-blue eyes whenever he ventured out into its light. Most importantly, the desert heat did not agree with his augments, which were best kept moist and cool. He kept them tucked inside of himself unless they were sorely needed; openly displaying them would have been suicidal in this country anyway.
“Sure. He's said that every time he ventures out, an entire new colony of the things has already moved into the temple on the other side. Doesn't mean he'll be happy about the setback. You know how he can be.”
They continued on, down the long hallway, toward the chamber where they knew they'd find their leader tinkering. Derik wasn't looking forward to the summoner's inevitable lecture on this latest failure. The old man was a difficult taskmaster on the best of days, but this life was still far better than living as a serf on one of the hectares of a Tower Lord's fiefdom. Indeed, despite his issues with the boss, this work suited him just fine. His martial skill was impressive before, but now he had endured the dark gifts of his master. Now he was empowered to do violence in ways that he had never dreamed possible.
Derik thought back to their journey, how the three of them had crossed into the West. Getting to the eastern side of the mountains had been easy enough, but from that point on it had been long and treacherous. There were no man-made paths as far as they could tell, nor any maps nor charts to guide their way.
Derik climbed the steep rock face and hiked where possible; his augments were very useful for climbing, so keeping up with the old man was rarely an issue. The magical tattoos that were burned onto his body had also proved essential for this journey. All of these magical gifts worked together to grant him the stamina and strength of a beast of burden. Of course, none of these runic tattoos had been inscribed by his current companion; this one specialized in a different kind of magic, and he was no Tower Lord.
His companion’s unique talents had earned him the moniker of “summoner” and, pridefully, he refused to answer to any other name. Indeed, his skill was such that he was able to call and permanently bind an elemental to this world. Derik wondered why a mage of his caliber had chosen to serve a Tower Lord instead of attempting to become one himself but did not dare to ask. Those in the Affiliation who question spellcasters usually don't live long enough to hear any answers.
Derik did not know much about the summoner. He had never met him before this mission but had heard rumors of the man and his skills. They both served under the same master, known as the Lord of the Marble Tower; however, their stations in servitude were very different. The summoner was the seneschal of their master, his premiere servant. Derik, on the other hand, was more of an elite foot soldier – a magically empowered warrior slave. He had once served a different master, but the Serpentine Tower Lord had traded him off like cattle.
He assumed that the summoner was old, or even ancient, like the other spellcasters Derik had met in his travels. There was no way of knowing for sure. The man wore white wrappings that covered the entirety of his body and face, giving him a mummified look. Over these wrappings, he wore dark robes and a black veil as though he were a woman in mourning. Even the color of his eyes was a mystery. If the man ate or slept, Derik had never seen it. Every night the man would sit next to the campfire, meditating in a lotus position as Derik was falling asleep. When Derik woke up in the morning, the summoner would always be sitting in that same position. He found the summoner altogether eerie and off-putting; then again, that's how he felt about close contact with any powerful Affiliation spellcaster.
Derik would climb and the summoner would float alongside through some trick of the arcane. As was his habit, Derik did his best to quietly observe the magical power on display. For a rising star in the Affiliation, it is crucial to know the strengths and weaknesses of any man you meet. You never know when you might have to kill them.
It seemed that the summoner could not move very quickly with this power and walked along the ground with Derik whenever it was flat enough for faster travel. Like clockwork, every few hours he'd demand they stop. He would draw runic symbols in the dust on the ground, then carefully arrange rocks around the symbols. He would then cut the throat of a small animal while chanting in a language that Derik did not understand. An arc of energy would flash out from the runes into the summoner's hands. Afterwards, the summoner would resume their journey and Derik would follow.
Derik did not know the nature of this ritual. He had heard that wizards performed all sorts of useless rituals that appeared to be magical but were really just for show. In this case Derik surmised that the man really was channeling the creatures’ life force to power the magic that kept him afloat. He had seen such things before, most notably during the ceremonies of his augmentation wherein much larger beasts had been slaughtered in the center of great goëtic circles.
At first it had been rabbits, all of which they had brought along, live, in a sack that the summoner had forced Derik to carry. He had wanted to cook and eat them afterwards, but his spellcasting companion forbade him. He warned that the bodies were now eldritch-tainted but did not elaborate. Again, Derik did not question it further. He was always cautious around spellcasters. Magic had strengthened him beyond what he could have ever dreamed of achieving with his study of the martial arts alone, but he doubted that it would ever make him as powerful as a magician.
Once they had run out of rabbits, Derik would instead have to hunt something down. He wondered why his companion didn't just use his powers to summon some game but kept this thought to himself. A week into their ascent, wildlife became scarce; Derik ate his nutty trail rations in silence as they trudged on. He silently took note that the summoner had started using his magic very sparingly. The spellcaster would float over only the steepest of inclines and otherwise hiked alongside his underling.
The third member of their company was called Aksazyx. Lazy git that he was, he had been resting inside the fire opal necklace around the summoner's neck up to this point. He had made the gem his home and was happy to stay there. Unless there was something to interest the fickle creature, getting him to come out was often a struggle. What an elemental spirit finds interesting, however, is hard to predict; their desires are almost always esoteric by mortal standards.
After another week, the wildlife disappeared entirely. Derik saw that the summoner had stopped floating altogether and now walked and climbed alongside him even on the steepest of slopes. It pleased him to hear the shrouded man breathing heavily; apparently, it was possible for the spellcaster to tire. This was a weakness, and it occurred to Derik that he might be able to some
how leverage this fact to kill the man if he so desired. The thought made him feel powerful. Of course, attempting such a thing would be tantamount to suicide; he had some idea of the horrors that awaited anyone who dared to betray a Tower Lord.
The pair quickly discovered why the wildlife had vanished; just above them, the smog began to thicken. At first, it was sparse enough that they could breathe through their respective mouth-coverings. A day's ascent later, they found themselves suffering coughing fits, though the summoner was far less affected than Derik.
“It's getting thicker. If we can't protect ourselves somehow, I don't think I'll be able to breathe much longer,” Derik ventured, choosing his words carefully.
“This was planned for,” came the summoner's dry, raspy reply. “We are nearing a small colony of the Changed Ones. Bring one to me… alive.”
In a matter of seconds, Derik saw a multitude of glowing figures approaching from the smog above, and he heard their low keening. He rushed forward and up along the rocky path, meeting them with nothing but his body and his martial skill. Their soft flesh pulped beneath his hard strikes. They were unable to keep up with his blinding speed. When they surrounded him, his four horrific augments burst out of his body, lashing with great force and sending many of the poor unfortunate creatures tumbling down the mountainside. By the time it was over, he had the only survivor in a rear naked choke and brought the sorry creature over to the summoner as it struggled impotently in his arms.
Chateau Cascade Page 8
