“Father? I have no father!” screamed Fenrir wildly. “Would a father allow a son to be bound for almost an eternity? It was worse in this new world! Being those creatures’ meal day after day! Being eaten alive and becoming whole again at each dawn! Did that miserable god even deign to search for me? NO!”
Fenrir was facing the Titan, and Perses noticed the copious spittle coming out of the former’s fanged mouth as he shouted. But what struck him were the eyes. They were livid in their hatred, and the look in them betrayed a homicidal madness. The Titan was taken aback but didn’t let it show. He had his suspicions about the Great Wolf’s state of mind. Even a deity would go mad after being in solitary imprisonment for such a time. More so in Fenrir’s situation, where he was the painful meal of that drakon tribe for a period no deity knew.
“Your decision, Fenrir. I have fulfilled my word in rescuing you,” calmly remarked Perses intentionally, noting that such murderous odium could easily be turned against him by a gravely unhinged mind. “Now, I have to find my purpose in this world.”
Yet another predatory grin greeted his statement. It was broader this time and prominently displayed the fangs of Fenrir. Coupled with the look on the face, it was an enormously unsettling vision for the Titan. The drool flowing down the sides of the man’s mouth only added to the macabre sight.
“I have my purpose,” voiced the wolf with a sly expression. “Loki had me rescued for his own reasons. Another scheme, no doubt. Big plans. But a surprise awaits him. Such an unexpected gift it would be, my friend.”
Perses said nothing, not wishing to trigger anything. If Fenrir wanted to say more, the wolf would continue his dialogue.
“Loki wishes to start Ragnarök. That’s the only reason I could surmise. Oh, it will be the end of days! But Odin can wait. I have a score to settle with that so-called father of mine. And all with him.”
Prologue
Players Awaken
“THIS CANNOT BE BORNE!”
The shout, tinged with a hint of maddened fury, echoed through the enormous cavern, the space dimly lit by a few mage lights attached to the basalt walls. The floor was smooth and black, with a large circle embedded in the floor, enclosing a ritualized spider design. Three figures stood in the gloom. One was standing in the middle of the room, his back to the pair silently watching him.
“Aaghhh! Nincompoops all! Cowards! Useless pigs! Imbecilic excuses for deities! Nitwits! Week-old swill! Rotten tomatoes!” continued the mad tirade, the speaker raising his clenched fists in the air.
The two listeners looked at each other. One was an elderly black man, clad in a simple black robe, while the other was a beautiful black woman dressed in light leather armor. The male shook his head when his armored companion moved to the one ranting at the rocky wall. She halted, an inquiring look on her face. Only a wry expression was her reply from the former. Anansi sighed. His visitor could be inanely melodramatic at times. Then he reconsidered – it was most of the time.
But the outburst could be excused. An unexpected defeat at the hands of the Zhong warranted the reaction. The sudden intervention of the Mesopotamian pantheon and its forces made the debacle a foregone conclusion. The Zhong may have many deities, but the Mesopotamians had more and most with demonic blood in them. Anansi figured the intervention itself wasn’t in the cards. From what was told him, the depredations of Sutr were supposed to pin them down. Who would have thought that the dwarves were able to blunt the initial assault? The paranoid Norse fire lord recoiled as a result and even his neighbor Ymir had become surprisingly chary about the Dokkalfr campaign.
An ominous emerald glow suddenly appeared around their furious companion. It blazed its way through the lit space, threatening to drown them all in its spectral light. The silent radiance increased in intensity and clawed its way into the darkest recesses of the cavern. A terrifying aura of power gathered around the agitated speaker. The eldritch occurrence drove the watching black man into action. Being melodramatic was one thing, but destructive magic as a form of self-expression was dangerous.
“Enough, Lord Loki. You don’t have to destroy my sanctuary to satisfy such anger,” Anansi calmly told the glowing shape. He’d seen this melodramatic side of his friend in times of stress, of crisis. The theatrics were a given in Loki’s personality. He couldn’t escape it, same as Anansi couldn’t lose the spider aspect of his being.
The figure whirled and faced the protesting deity. The glow surrounding Loki had intensified. Blazing green light filled the cavernous hollow. Vivid lighting etched the god’s face in a haunted mien, the unfocused eyes staring yet not seeing. Then a thread of consciousness streamed through the visage, and Anansi saw some lucidity return to the maddened deity.
“Anger? Who said I was angry? I don’t do angry! I do righteous fury! That’s cool.”
“Cool?” came the puzzled remark. Once again, Anansi faced one of Loki’s bizarre terms. It didn’t help that the Norse God jerkily pranced in place to music he alone could hear. It only reinforced the co-conspirator’s suspicion that his friend had access to a viewing portal focused on the First World.
“It means I am down with it. A First World expression. First World… First World… First World. It’s all the fault of that First Mage! Why didn’t I see it before?” exclaimed the deity, rising from the floor as he cried out, arms dramatically raised toward the heavens.
“He’s but a mortal, Loki. What can he do against deities? He got lucky with a few gods, but that doesn’t mean he’s a threat. From what I hear, mastery of the arcane arts is a struggle for the neophyte mage,” replied the black smoothly. Anansi knew the personality of his fellow deity. There was no telling what Loki would do. Personally, he’d rather have the Norse do his tantrum somewhere up north. The far north.
“I don’t know how he did it! The Norns warned me about him. A vague and incoherent prophecy, I have to say. As is their wont. I covered my ass with that deal with him! Yet somehow, a damned imp in my brains keeps on telling me he’s responsible for our setbacks!” shouted the Norse deity.
“A mortal? Even as a First Mage, his limitations and the length and breadth of Adar…”
A furious cry from Loki roughly interrupted the disbelieving and dismissive reply of Anansi.
“I know! That’s what makes it sooo ridiculous! He doesn’t even know how to handle magic!” came the loud remark. Then Loki laughed, long and hard. The cackle reverberated through the space, yet it didn’t sound as if his discovery amused him.
“That blot, that bacraut! I feel in my gut his involvement! I should have gotten rid of him somehow!”
“The whirlwind. The black destruction. Not to mention your oath. You’d risk death and the destruction of this world?” asked Anansi sedately, though an eyebrow was raised. There was no point in feeding the madness and obsession of the incensed Norse.
The deity had long since learned how to deal with the peculiarities of his friend. Raising one’s voice in argument was bound to fail and might even release the madness that simmered beneath the shallow surface of Loki’s sanity. The deity was truly insane, Anansi knew that simple little fact. Still, it was a peculiar affliction. Loki was extremely focused and clear-headed in the pursuit of madcap, yet tantalizing schemes.
The Norse deity gave a devilishly meaningful smile as his answer. It was classic Loki. The abrupt and startling shift from insulted anger to malicious mirth. One could even say it’s a trademark.
“Hah. I have my other plans. A few of them, in fact. And opportunities just waiting for me to smile at them. You really think I’d put all my eggs in one basket? Susceptible to cracking in such crowded conditions. All we need to do is wait for another opening while we strengthen our grip in the South,” smiled the deity. Anansi couldn’t fail but notice that the crazed gleam in Loki’s eyes had not abated.
“But that pain in the unmentionables has to be dealt with,” he continued, musing as he stared at the ceiling. “Now how to squat a stinging fly…”
Th
e woman stared at Anansi, asking for permission to speak. The ancient deity nodded. It wasn’t as if he had anything to suggest. Tampering with a magical oath wasn’t to his taste. He still hasn’t tired of existing. Yet if Uttu was interested, who was he to interfere? Especially when he suspected the goddess to be quite ambitious herself.
“Lord Loki,” began the woman, her melodious voice softly echoing through the viridescent chamber.
The Norse deity whirled at the sound, glanced at Uttu, and raised an eyebrow.
“If you’d permit me, I’d like to see what I could do regarding the mortal. Short of killing him myself, I suppose.”
Loki grinned, a knowing, mischievous look etched on his face.
“Observe. No killing,” the deity instructed. Then he whirled and looked around. “Hear that? You insipid magical geas? I said observe! And no killing!”
Far to the North, on an isolated and ice-covered mountaintop of the Dökkálfarrange, a colossal gray dragon awoke from his slumber.
***
On a sunlit yet frosty mountaintop, the air shimmered, reducing snow into droplets of water. The enormous condensation abruptly moved together and coalesced into a human form. The resulting haze swiftly dissipated, revealing an old man with gray hair.
Despite the cold, he merely had tunic and trousers, both embraced by a thick cloak. His attire was a cloudy gray, the prosaic color being offset by ornate designs in gold along the garment’s hem and the tunic’s collar and sleeves. The material of his clothes was unusual, glistening with sparkles of white and gold.
Yet his expression wasn’t a happy one. It was the face of somebody rudely awakened from a deep, satisfying slumber. The elder rubbed his eyes and held out his hand. An ivory staff materialized in his grasp. He looked around in the same grumpy expression. The Scourge of the North wasn’t in a good mood.
Then Grastein sighed heavily, clouds of moisture forming in the chilly air. There were some things one couldn’t ignore and the old man reflected on the call that woke him up. It came from the west and made by a familiar source. It was an unusual summons; his kin didn’t issue such invitations lightly. Grastein immediately expanded the magical scrutiny of his surroundings. The energy spread out in an ever-expanding circle and delved into the ether.
No rogues, he told himself as the spell reached the limit of its coverage. Such a call normally meant a great disturbance related to the Rising. It intrigued Grastein. The Red House of Long wasn’t known for its frivolity. A reputation for adherence to tradition and prudence was its hallmark. Not to mention a penchant for vicious yet imaginative enforcement for perceived insults and violations.
He sighed again. Going west would leave behind the lands of fire and ice. Even with that colossal struggle going on in Ymir’s realm, at least the weather in these parts didn’t change. West would mean a warm climate. The only consolation was that the Red House had its domain in the high mountains of the Zhong Empire. It was cooler there. Then he reflected it could have been worse – Pakhangba could have called the meeting. South would have been murder on the sheen of his scales.
Exhaling deeply, he let himself merge with the magical energy around him. As Grastein dissolved into his element, he latched on to the invitation’s trail and followed it west. His consciousness moved instantly, and the primal draken soon found himself before a massive magical barrier.
He reappeared in bodily form just in front of the eldritch blockade. Grastein smiled as he glanced at the valley before him. The visitor was standing on a dirt road leading deeper into the forested expanse. A fork in the road awaited him. The left track would bring him to his destination and the one on the right was reserved for the uninvited – mortals and deities alike. The latter would lead to the other side of the mountain range. A long and difficult journey given the numerous beasts magically affected by their proximity to such power.
No matter how powerful the deity or the mortal, no natural magic could be as powerful as one wielded by an ancient high draconic race. The excretions of the Void Lands and occasional transdimensional intruders were the exceptions. There was no telling what kind of energy they brought with them. The Houses of Mušḫuššu and Ušumgallu, as humans called them, have been greatly reduced in number because of battles against the bizarre intruders. Deciding to be close to familiar Mesopotamian civilizations, they had their fastnesses in the southern mountains of the Double Monarchy of Sumer and Akkad.
What a waste, thought Grastein. Great Houses all, now reduced to guarding hidden passes against encroachments from the Void Lands.
He instinctively glanced to the north – where the Void Lands lay like a repulsive pustule on the world. The races and creatures it spawned were threats, but ordinary beings and their gods had so far handled them. So far. If it got out of hand, then the Dragon Houses might have to intervene. The Houses of Mušḫuššu and Ušumgallu would never call for help. Pride and arrogance, the racial characteristics of the ancient race, would not allow it. Grastein smiled inwardly – he himself was guilty of such haughtiness.
But he knew the inherent risk in such an intervention. The rogue dragon tribes were watchful and adept at taking advantage of any opportunity. Entanglement could cause what the ancient Houses had provided eternal vigilance for millennia on this world. The ancient Houses have been reduced in numbers and there was no way they could handle both crises.
Grastein hoped what called him forth wasn’t dangerously similar in magnitude. He’d know soon enough. But first, he had to follow custom. Most of his kin were ferociously territorial. The being raised his hand and touched the barrier. Its glimmer dimmed and an opening yawned before him. The shapeshifted dragon bowed slightly as he gave thanks.
Despite the long years of their stay in their adopted world, the High Houses still maintained tradition and protocol. He grinned. It bears remembering how touchy his kin was about territory. At least, those who established domains. Unlike many of his brethren, Grastein didn’t keep a fixed realm. The few members of his own House had adopted the same approach. True, he could be possessive about his part of the eastern heights of the Dökkálfar Mountains, but he liked his privacy. A draken’s roost is its trelleborg and damned be the unwanted interloper.
The weather was cool; he observed. Some beings might think of it as frosty, but that’s their opinion, mused the northern draken. At least his scales wouldn’t dry out. Maintaining a spell to prevent such a disaster would be bothersome. Past the barrier, the ancient draken stopped and examined his surroundings. It was still wilderness, and the welcome scent of draconic magic was in the air. He felt right at home.
Grastein could see the floating thread of magic guiding him to his destination. A draconic kingdom within a human empire. Not that the Zhong knew of the existence of the enclave. The Red House had long stopped any interaction with rulers and kings. Contact was a necessary evil at the beginning. A time when humans needed knowledge to grow and defend themselves against the more predatory of the deities they had created.
The old man grinned at the memory. It was a busy and exciting time; he admitted. The ancient race was still young then, and the First World was a place where guidance was sorely needed. Each House went about the task in its own fashion. But it was always aimed at encouraging the courage and ideals of the mortal races. A hero or two might be led to fight a rampaging rogue, or, as practiced by the patriarch of the Red House, an anonymous beggar or stranger would offer advice or gift a village with new knowledge.
Until the rogues and other debased draconic races finally found the rudimentary idea of forming tribes, he reflected. And the great battles long-forgotten. Dragons and mortals against mortals and dragons. I wonder if the mortal races remember the legends?
The Great Inn of the House of Long
The hegemon, or Ba Wang, of the Red House of Long was an innkeeper. Or fancied the guise of one in this time period. Grastein could only shake his head at the sight of the magnificent edifice before him. It was grander than a Palace, though the inn was
in front and clearly a separate, though attached structure. Behind the place was the massive sanctuary of the Red House.
The Red House was peculiar. Alone among the ancient Houses, it had a history of being interested in mortals – humans in particular. Until the Great Concordat, it had been active in encouraging the growth of civilizations it had encountered. Even if it didn’t involve itself directly in mortal politics, innumerable heroes had been trained by them and vast knowledge given to humans.
While the Red House found it practical to destroy a human dynasty or three when the cruel frailties of mortals showed themselves, their helpful actions gave the protégé civilizations an unfair advantage. Worse, other Houses started emulating them, leading at times to war between pets. The rising danger of rogues allying themselves with corrupted and ambitious realms thankfully put a stop to the practice.
At least, the patriarch of the Red House didn’t style itself as Di, or God of Heaven, a title synonymous in the past with emperor. Or even Huang, which translated to having godly powers. Presumptuous mortal rulers who ruled after the mythical age adopted the Huangdi title, a combination of the two words. Grastein still couldn’t understand the human obsession with titles. Even his description as The Scourge of the North was given by humans. But names? Names were different. One’s true name was a window to the being’s essence, and with the right spell or ritual, could bind or kill.
Grastein snorted. August God. Huangdi.Mortals. The more power they had, the more self-importantly deluded they become.
The patriarch could have adopted the Huangdi description. The entire region was their domain. But it wouldn’t have gone well with the other Houses. Titles are trifles, but dragons are peculiarly afflicted with that dangerous condition called pride. Through time, the amusement would simmer into resentment and then who knows? Kin wars have started over more idiotic reasons.
The Accidental Archmage: Book Nine: The Dragon Houses Page 4
