***
Five attendants were waiting for him, all dressed in traditional ancient ceremonial garb. He recognized the royal attire worn by two. One was dressed as a courtier of the Qin court and the other was in Zhōngguó robes. The dragons appeared as humans. Grastein mused that the patriarch of the Red House still retained his affectation for mortal guises.
Something to remind him of the glory of the olden days, perhaps? he mused with amusement.
Then the visitor saw more members of the Red House inside the large inn. Unlike many dragon Houses, the Red House kept its family close together, living as a clan in proximity to each other. Grastein understood the practice. Each House had its quirks. The ageless dragon attributed to the peculiar circumstances arising from their different milieus and physical environments. Though in the Red House’s example, it clearly served them well. A lot of their clan survived, more than other Houses.
He allowed the courtier to guide him after the preliminary honorifics. Entering the inn, Grastein was startled to see a full house and not all of them were of the Red House. A grin graced his face as he recognized the garb and headgear of some of the strangers. Bright multi-colored robes of the Mesopotamians, the white linen of the followers of the Kemetian House of Apep, courtly clothes of the House of the West Sea, several from the Houses of the land of Wa, the highland Dzongka, and a sprinkling of other draconic lines. A pair of druwids, or druidēs, as the Imperii Romanii and the people of Hellas called them, were even present.
At least there appears to be more than I feared, thought Grastein. The War of Purging did exact its toll on us. We destroyed a vast number of the pests, but their fecund reproduction rate more than made up for such massive losses. Our Houses on the other hand…”
He let the depressing conclusion drop from his mind.
***
“You’re late,” greeted a smiling elderly man in a gold robe with an embroidered red dragon outlined in jade.
“These old bones couldn’t move faster,” he replied with a chortle.
A chorus of laughter erupted from the gathered guests. They were all familiar auras, even if the human guises have changed. The room exuded power despite what he knew were suppressed magical auras and the wards of the room itself. There was really no getting past that hurdle. The leaders of the ancient Houses were simply that powerful. Any predator or dark creature of magic within a radius of fifty miles would be racing out of the area without knowing why.
Then sadness stabbed him. A few were not around. He hoped they were too busy with their own affairs to come on such brief notice, but knowing his kind and the rarity of the call, it could also mean the demise of a Great House. Not that anybody would comment on the presence of empty chairs. It was as fate decreed, and so it shall be.
To the Houses, it was but nature taking its course and their deceased brethren had moved on to whatever future awaited their kind on the other side of the veil separating existence in this life and the next. Unlike deities, the ancient draconic race, with all its branches, believed that unlike deities, death for them does not mean a return to the magical ether. Their obligations continued in the afterlife, though the field of contention might be different.
“Come, take your place,” said the patriarch of the Red House. “Your insights would be most welcome. No, sorely needed.”
Grastein slightly bowed and sat on an empty chair. The rest followed suit. Everybody had stood up when he entered. He’d do the same if another guest entered the warded room. They were all heads of their Houses and deemed coequal in status, though their host had long been first among equals.
As convention demanded, they were all gathered around a massive round table made of black marble with the crest of the Red House embedded in the material. Nobody took offense. It was their domain. A practice tolerated nowhere else.
The Scourge of the North glanced at the drink waiting for him with an expectant smile. It had appeared the instant he had taken his seat. Of all the refreshments of the Red House – and he had sampled plenty – the simple concoction waiting for him was his favorite. A quick glance at the rest showed he wasn’t alone in the choice. It was Lonjing green tea, one of the oldest varieties of the plant. Humans called it the Dragon Well or Imtea and Grastein wondered if they knew the affectation of dragons for the drink.
“I submit my humble apologies for the hasty invitations,” began their host. “Matters needed to be discussed urgently.”
“The House of the Kulshedra also extends apologies for its absence. The hidden rogue tribes in their domain have suddenly come out of their holes,” the speaker added as he glanced at an empty seat.
“Do they need assistance?” ventured Apep, dressed as a high-born of Kemet.
“They have not asked for it,” came the succinct reply. “But what occurred in their lands could have a bearing on the subject of our discussion. But I have to emphasize that we must keep this meeting short. I know it is an opportunity for old friends to be together, but I fear each of you must return as soon as possible to our realms. The unknown faces us.”
At that warning, everybody looked at the patriarch. It surprised even Grastein. Such a situation where the elements of the challenge weren’t clear rarely happened – twice in the First World and once on Adar. The latter was expected because of being in a different world, sister as it may be to the First. It was an unexpected situation that resulted in the ancient Houses reprising their role as guardians, but against a specific threat.
“I will be brief. The tribes of the Sleeping Isle have been roused and their archigos slain. But their mother was furious at the loss of her favorite son,” said the patriarch knowingly. “We are fortunate in securing in the information because of the proximity of the lands of the Red House to the Isle. However, they have sent a flurry of messages to parts of Adar. The remarkable yet troubling aspect was that the magic used to send the missives was unfamiliar, and so we do not know what they communicated. But one thing was clear – they appeared to have been sent to various locations on the mainland and even some of the other islands.”
“Who was the foolhardy killer?” asked one wearing the form of an arch druwid.
“A Titan of Hellas. One of these troublesome gods of humans.”
***
“It could be something of concern, and yet it could be nothing at all,” commented the head of the House of Mušḫuššu. He wasn’t looking at them as he spoke, and clearly deep in thought. “Yet we all know that that archigos wasn’t in his prime. A few centuries above being a mere juvenile. Only a mother’s selfishness elevated him to that position.”
Grastein nodded. Yet he knew the fundamental problem. The Sleeping Isle was one place the Houses haven’t attacked. Its strange characteristic of draining magic would put the Houses, already few in numbers, at an additional and potentially disastrous disadvantage. The stalemate resulted in many rogue tribes using the location to regrow their ranks. And the Sleeping was a vast territory.
“And yet we have not seen the rise of a great champion among them,” remarked Grastein, adding his voice to the discussion.
“We could all agree on that point. But this news of the rise of a mortal Archmage after all this time. But his predecessors tend to keep to mundane affairs. I would say not keen on attracting our attention. Yet this one seems to be not of that breed. You’ve met the mortal Archmage. I hear deities and mortals of power are quite concerned about him. Your assessment?” asked the lord of the House of the Western Sea.
“Amusingly weak,” he replied. Havard was strange in that respect, not even knowledge about the fear that the ancient Houses had wrought throughout Adar’s history. The participation of the powerful elementals in his rise was also strange and noteworthy. But until he had concrete information, he wouldn’t have the temerity to submit it to his peers.
“If this problem involves the Prophecy,” somebody said, referring to the unusual movements of the rogue tribes, “are we now of one mind that the Rising referred to the rogues
? I have to admit it was quite vague on that point, and as I recall, that was not settled during our last Conclave.”
Grastein wasn’t sure who spoke. That interpretation was the view of the majority, though some were more cautious and kept an open mind. Adar was full of surprises, after all. Prophecies were notoriously misleading.
“The rise of a great rogue champion would indeed mark the Prophecy, whether it be of the rogues or some other race. Whoever or whatever it is, such a being will definitely have the power to rival or even exceed the power and strength of the head of a House,” figured the Long patriarch. “When the rogues do rise, they will darken the skies of Adar. Fortunately, we haven’t sensed the rise of a Great One among them. Nor has been a sign of any dangerous dark one worthy of our concern among the other races.”
“Hah, those bothersome gods. Most of their ilk are idiots. Dangerous ones blundering in the dark. Even after millennia, they still act as if they were on the First World,” said the arch druwid. “And the Prophecy, I wish Mother was clearer.”
“She can’t even if she wished to,” smiled Grastein, sensing the mood and trying to lift the onset of confusion. “There are greater beings than her.”
“Yet be on guard, my friend,” replied their host, turning his attention to him. “That Titan freed the Great Wolf of Skaney, and I know it has some bearing on the myths of the mortals of your region.”
“I know. Ragnarök. The end of times. Or the beginning of one. The Great Wolf, or Fenrisúlfr, was supposed to play a significant role together with his father, Loki.”
“Ah, the trickster. Even we have heard of him,” grinned the leader of the Mušḫuššu. “Yet, in the end, a petty god. These recent disturbances in the south bear his stink. Those in the southeast would be more than he could handle.”
“We digress, my friends. The affairs of men and gods are not within our remit and I, for one, am very thankful of not being embroiled in such inane games,” remarked their host gently. “But I suggest we heighten our watch, if only to guard against an incursion by the rogues. If they show themselves, then that gives us the opportunity to reduce their numbers. Even the alliance of that northern tribe with that fire lord gave the Gray House the chance of reducing their numbers.”
Soft chuckles rose from the gathered crowd. It was evident that they hoped for such an event. Grastein understood the sentiment. Hunting the rogue tribes was an extremely tiresome endeavor. The enemy’s remarkable ability to lose themselves in the nooks and crannies of the world was frustrating. Yet the reaction and attitude of his kin touched something in his psyche. It was a small ominous pinprick of worry. A rare emotion for a great draken. He quickly delved within, trying to determine the cause. Such unfamiliar reactions needed scrutiny, if he was to go with his experience. It presaged an ominous event or a factor that might lead to more difficult situations.
Yet the odd alliance between Sutr and one of the rogue tribes was unsettling on some level. That meant a degree of intelligence beyond a tribal mindset had developed. And even with such an agreement, the Reiði Elds tribe only sent a token number. The rogues have become more cunning.
Grastein looked around. He could see his kin making the most of the short time left to renew ties and exchange news. He took a deep breath. The ancient Scourge was happy. He had not felt this warm feeling of comfort, safety, and camaraderie in a long time. It felt good to be among family. Yet the casual and confident attitude of ultimate superiority among his brethren bothered him. A lot. Then suddenly, from the deepest recesses of his mind came the dismaying words of the Prophecy, portentous and disturbing.
When the Fanged One arises,
Abject terror shall grip the land;
Its howl shall bring forth the darkness,
And races great and small humbled;
For gather and reap it shall,
With magic blackened
And profane corruption unleashed.
Woe unto you! All things turned to blood and dust;
The living shall envy the cursed dead,
Amidst dimmed sun and a beggared moon;
Despair shall rule your days, the nights with dread,
For thy Winged Peril shall bear thy salvation;
Within its essence of destruction and rage,
The burned woods shall bear the key,
Though the Barren Stone lie asunder.
Chapter One:
Trapped
Tyler stared at the spot where the Scribe appeared. A wild parade of speculations had rushed through his mind after Lumeri declared his audacious plan. The immortal had concluded his monologue with the statement that rockfall would block the egress, and he had informed their neighbors of unexpected guests.
It was a theatrical statement that concluded the unsavory surprise appearance of the Scribe. A slight shaking of the cavern followed Lumeri’s exit. Tyler instinctively looked up, his mind expecting to see the rock ceiling breaking apart. He had his shields but being entombed alive, even for a time, was frightening. Then the young mage remembered that the traitorous immortal mentioned only the exit. A quick glance at the visible opening to the space revealed nothing.
The blockage must be at the entrance itself, he concluded promptly, with some relief. And neighbors? Momentary concern for the company flared up, but a recollection of the powerful group’s combined abilities immediately assuaged it. Still, he posed the question to his guides.
“He must be referring to native inhabitants of the island. A sizable group is approaching our location,” reported X.
“Mortal?” asked Tyler immediately. To his mind, that was the only question that mattered. They could be in whatever form magical evolution had made possible. More important was their mortality if they proved to be hostile. When the guide answered in the affirmative, the young mage turned his attention to his situation. The company could handle a small army.
The young mage concluded Lumeri had found it impossible to collapse the hollow and banked on his knowledge that Tyler hadn’t mastered elemental magic. It was also possible that the Scribe wasn’t allowed by his geas to start offensive magic unless in self-defense.
Fucking Mofo, cursed the mage, wondering if direct destructive measures were included in Lumeri’s geas.
Tyler was inclined to the inference. The immortal’s magical powers and knowledge were up to destroying an empire or two. Millennia of esoteric learning and gifts of powerful abilities had to result in an overpowered note-taker. If the geas wasn’t that strong at the beginning, additional encumbrances and limitations by innumerable entities would have reinforced and wrapped it in unimaginably powerful bonds. Lumeri was reduced to a whisper here and a half-truth there, weaving a tapestry of lies and misperceptions to suit his purposes.
Fucking one-man troll, griped Tyler, thinking about Adar’s version of the insufferable internet parasite. And a one-man opinews company.
Not that he was concerned about being trapped. Or the company outside the cave would be in danger from any normal attack. There were already three powerful mages among them, including that snarky ghost. For himself, he could either blast his way out or have one of his wards provide an exit.
But matters were bugging him about the situation. One was the abrupt and genocidal change in Lumeri’s thinking, and the second concerned the location itself. His deliberation about the Scribe’s motivation could wait. The matter involving the sanctuary of the deceased rogue Elder was an immediate consideration. Tyler was highly hopeful about his hunches, even if hedges of possible disappointment bordered such expectation.
He turned to his guides.
“Lumeri had been here and took the energy of that dead Follower of Zin. It couldn’t be Elder energy or even that of the rogues. The Scribe’s body isn’t prepared for it, even assuming he could detect such power. Another consideration is that you guys detected Elder energy. We used it as our guide in finding this place. Please tell me I’m right,” asked Tyler. He didn’t mind talking out loud. It’s not as if there’s any
body with him.
It wouldn’t hurt to confirm suspicions and tentative conclusions, even if the young mage could barely keep the excitement out of his voice. Tyler had thought about it during the journey and believed it to be a daydream. They were following an Elder signal created by an Elder – admittedly a rogue – but still a member of that race. The observations of his AIs on the Elder energy being around them and the barrier itself at the entrance raised his expectations. But he buried such thoughts at the back of his mind. He’d been disappointed before.
“This is an Elder sanctuary. We are sure of it. However, we have not started the required protocol because of the presence of the rogue. Even now, this hollow is lined with Elder energy. You wish to activate our brethren?” inquired X.
The mage looked around. The space was relatively large, yet he saw nothing that would indicate a shrine or monument. The Elder makers were an eclectic bunch, but Tyler assumed there would be physical confirmation of such a sanctuary. He told himself it didn’t matter. The validation of the guides was enough. Deep inside, it exhilarated him, as one would expect.
An intact refuge! A complete set of tablets! The young man tried to calm himself. Blood had rushed to his head, and the mage felt dizzy. He abruptly sat down, closed his eyes, and tried to calm himself, ignoring his guides’ notifications and warnings. Tyler knew his blood pressure had spiked.
“I know, guys,” he told the concerned AIs. “But you can’t blame me. It has been so long.”
“We understand, Archmage. Yet we have to be careful. This place had been a refuge for dark Elders,” warned Hal. The mage smiled. The guides rarely used the title given to him.
Tyler thought about it. The guide was right. There was no telling what those deviants had done to the place. He doubted if it was merely redecoration. A cursory examination again of the space revealed nothing new. Not even a hint of strange energies.
The Accidental Archmage: Book Nine: The Dragon Houses Page 5
