by J. T. Wright
Mud Elementals could crush anything that came between them and what they desired. The Spirits would smother any life that caused them harm. But left alone, they were inert as the mud from which they took their name. Their Levels could not be increased through combat, nor did they require flesh for sustenance. Violence could be a result of their actions, but it was never the intent.
If Qoeveht had cast Fire or Lightning at the Spirit, he would have come to regret it. As it was, the restraining Water and Earth were nothing more than a light snack to the living puddle. The Ice had been bothersome but not hurtful. The Spirit was at peace with the day’s events.
Qoeveht was not so calm. Crimson stained the grey and white of his scales, and he needed a Healer. Even so, the Shaman felt no pain. He had no room in his thoughts for his condition. He only had eyes for the apprentice who had paused a dozen feet away.
Qoeveht had the iron chains prepared especially for this task. It had cost the tribe a great deal in trade. Those chains would have reinforced his Spells and bound the Spirit securely until it could be transported and freed in a location that would not inconvenience the Lizardmen.
Qoeveht and O'kanti had left the tribal village at the same time. While Qoeveht had struggled for hours attempting to use the least amount of force necessary to contain the Spirit, the apprentice had had plenty of time to arrive. The Shaman was looking forward to hearing why he had been delayed. After listening to the excuses, the aged Shaman was keen to share the plans he had made for O’kanti’s remains!
Seeing his teacher’s attention was on him, O'kanti’s neck bulged and swelled as he repeatedly swallowed in panic. Seeking some way to appease the Shaman and spotting the discarded staff nearby, the apprentice scooped it up and hurried to present it to its owner.
“Teacher, you are bleeding, allow this lowly one to heal you!” O'kanti’s neck stretched and his frill spread downward, subserviently, as he offered the staff to the Shaman. “I will send someone to fetch Mana restoratives immediately, Teacher! You must need…”
Qoeveht took the staff with a trembling hand. O'kanti recalled that he had been told to bring Mana potions with him when the Shaman brought the wooden symbol of his Class down on the flat of his apprentice’s head.
“Ssss, Teacher! No! Spare this wretched one! I have cause! Good cause for being delayed!” O'kanti quickly substituted a better word for the “excuse" that he had been about to utter.
It didn’t matter. Qoeveht wasn’t listening. His Mana hadn’t recovered, but the strength of his arms remained, and he used that strength to demonstrate why handing him a stick was misguided.
Orion made his way through the crowd of silently observing Lizardmen. Black eyes jerked to follow him, but none barred his way. The tribe was fierce in protecting its territory, but the plains beyond the Elwire tree hadn’t been claimed by anyone. Not yet. The Al’rashian was free to come and go as he pleased.
And if the silver-eyed man wished to get closer to an angry Shaman, that was his business. The Lizardmen didn’t think it prudent, but they also didn’t blame him for his curiosity. Watching Qoeveht instruct his apprentice was a favored form of entertainment in Blackmire.
Drawing close to the five chain-bearing Warriors, Orion was surprised to note the intricate swirls of gold that decorated their black scales. From his lofty perch, Orion had assumed them to be laborers. He now realized that they were Blessed-Scaled Harbingers, the Lizardman equivalent of a Paladin. Orion shuddered.
The Advanced Class holders had struggled to move the chains they carried. The weight of those iron lengths would be enough to crush a common worker. While he didn’t know what the chains were for, the fact that Blessed-Scaled Harbingers were being put to such a task impressed upon Orion the seriousness the Shaman conferred upon the day’s event.
O’kanti squirmed and issued sibilant shrieks as he bore his punishment and attempted to shield the more vulnerable areas of his body. He knew attempting to escape would only infuriate his teacher. When the apprentice’s eyes weren’t shut, he used them to desperately scan for a way to distract Qoeveht. Orion’s arrival gave him just that.
“Him! It’s his fault, Teacher!” O'kanti accepted a blow to the head that set his earholes to ringing, and he stopped his thrashing to point at Orion. Qoeveht’s staff paused. “He is a trespasser! We saw signs of his passing and searched for him, that is why we were delayed! Beat him, Teacher! Kill him!”
The apprentice was howling in the native tongue of his people, a language which Orion did not speak. The hate-filled black eyes and pointing claw told him poignantly enough, that whatever was being said, was about him.
Clearing his throat, Orion stepped forward and, grounding the butt of his staff, bowed deeply. It wasn’t a sign of respect often used by Lizardmen, but as Orion had no neck frill to lower or spread, it was the best he could offer.
“Honored Elder, forgive me. I do not speak your language.” Orion straightened up and met the Shaman’s gaze. O'kanti was ignored by both for the moment. “I am Orion Embra, Kin Slayer.”
Qoeveht had led his tribe for many years. In his role as leader and spiritual adviser, he had dealt with Al’rashians often when a Riding or Clan visited Blackmire. He was aware that Orion’s title was meant to announce both his exile and that he still carried honor, as the Clans judged such things.
“Wretched spawn of a rotten egg,” The Shaman spoke to the apprentice that had taken the opportunity to scurry over and cling to his teacher’s leg. Though he addressed his apprentice, the Shaman spoke in the Common Tongue for Orion’s benefit. This made it slightly easier for the Al’rashian to understand, but only slightly. Lizardmen’s mouths were not meant to speak Common. To Orion’s ears, the Shaman’s words lost the sibilant elegance and sounded more like the cawing of crows.
“Does the mud feel cool beneath your claws?” Qoeveht asked O’kanti.
O’kanti’s eyelids worked furiously as he considered the question. “Mud, Teacher? The ground is hard, there is no mud here, Honored Master.”
“Ah, then we must be outside the Blackmire, and if we are outside the swamp, then the Al’rashian is no intruder.” Qoeveht’s tail lashed out to knock O'kanti away. “If he is no intruder, then… You… Are… Late…. With…. No… Excuse!” Qoeveht punctuated his lecture by striking his squealing apprentice with his staff.
Seeing the Shaman’s wounds reopen with this exertion, Orion supplied the Healing , O’kanti had tried to offer. His Spells sealed the Shaman’s wounds and restored cracked scales. They could not replenish lost blood, however, and Orion was impressed by the Shaman’s resilience. A lesser Awakened would be unconscious after suffering such wounds.
“Thank you, Kin Slayer.” Qoeveht paused in his assault and, turning away from his apprentice, looked Orion over.
Orion bowed again. “It is nothing, Honored Elder. If I may ask, what is your purpose here?” This was the reason Orion had approached the Shaman to begin with.
Try as he might, he could make no sense of the day’s event. Shamans were not Warlocks or Necromancers to bind Spirits and control them. Shamans were more closely related to Druids and should be working with an Elemental, seeing to the Spirit’s needs. As he was an outsider, Orion held out a Mana restorative as a bribe and hoped the Shaman wouldn’t see his query as impertinent.
“This is difficult to explain, Orion.” The Shaman’s use of his first name caused Orion to relax. The Al’rashian knew he couldn’t defeat the gathered forces of the Shaman and his people if things turned out badly. Only confidence in his ability to escape prompted his approach.
Qoeveht gestured towards the crowd of tribesmen and Orion watched as a mud brown Lizardman broke away and hurried to respond to the Shaman’s command. The brown Lizardman was unlike any Orion had seen before. It…he?... lacked the imposing, musculature of even the smallest tribesman. Not only that, but his hide had not one scale. His skin was soft and pliable, without a Lizardman’s natural armor.
When the diminutive brown m
ale arrived, his head didn’t reach the Shaman’s shoulder. Qoeveht reached out and set a four-fingered hand on the newcomer’s head in a fond gesture of approval that made the forgotten O'kanti hiss in jealousy.
“This one,” Qoeveht continued, “says the soil here is fit for growing. You understand, Orion Embra?”
Orion did. The small brown Lizardman was a Farmer. This was momentous. Lizardmen were Warriors, Hunters, and Gatherers, and the rare Shaman they produced always became their leader. They knew very few other Classes or Professions. For a Farmer to be born to them…
“Change has come to your people.” Orion was amazed to witness this, but it didn’t answer his real question. “Congratulations, Honored Elder. But why constrain the Mud Elemental?”
“I did not wish to disturb the ancestor Spirit of Blackmire,” Qoeveht said sharply. “But if I do not remove it, the Spirit will spread. The farmland will be lost, the Blackmire will devour it.”
“I see, Elder.” Orion glanced at the chains the Lizardmen had prepared, and the purpose of those iron bindings became clear to him. “Apologies, Elder, but this plan of yours will fail.”
The Shaman’s frill tightened and lifted in agitation. Orion hurried to soften his offense and offer a solution. “The Elemental is too strong, too old for these methods. But if you will allow me, I can speak with it. I am a Spirit Summoner. I cannot guarantee the outcome, but it will listen.”
“Do not hear the trespassers lies, Teacher! He seeks to…” Thump! O’kanti never got to finish his accusation. Qoeveht’s staff rendered him silent and dazed.
“If you can convince the Spirit to withdraw, I would be grateful, Spirit Summoner.” Qoeveht’s tone turned from respectful, to threatening. “But if you harm the ancestor…”
Orion accepted the warning for what it was. Offering a bow, he strode to the edge of the puddle, crested by the Elemental. Hundreds of black, unblinking eyes followed his every movement.
Approaching the Elemental, Orion extended the senses granted by his Class. The Spirit’s power was staggering. Orion’s respect for the Shaman’s ability grew. To contain this Spirit for the short time he had, Qoeveht was not a person to be underestimated.
Standing before the Elemental, Orion tried to appear confident. It was difficult. He had only dealt with Minor Spirits before, and the one in front of him now was not a barely intelligent dot. Orion was uncertain how to begin.
Fortunately, the Mud Elemental spoke first. “Spirit-Summoner-why-are-you-here? I-will-not-serve-you.”
This was not an auspicious start. Even worse, the words stirred the Dominating Tyrant within the Al’rashian. After days of self-examination, Orion came to understand why he was able to gain the Rare Class, but what he had uncovered, had not pleased the Al’rashian.
He hadn’t been born to leadership, but having been adopted by the First Elder of Clan Embra, he had been groomed to command. As an Al’rashian Rider, he had held Advanced Classes, two of them, Sword Master and Dragoon. The seeds of a Tyrant were planted.
Had acting as judge and executioner of his brother, Albion, watered those seeds? He knew that his time in exile had. As a Mage, he had leaned towards crowd-control spells like Water Shackles, Earthen Chains, and Bind. They were Spells that would allow him to confront greater odds on his own. But they were Spells of dominance, and what was a Tyrant, if not one who seeks to control all around him?
Spirit Summoner restrained the Tyrant within him to some degree, but Elemental’s words provoked him. To the crowd of waiting Lizardmen, the Spirit sounded like the splashing of water and bubbling of mud. To Orion, he heard nothing but a challenge!
“Why not serve me?” His own question sounded foreign to Orion. He had come to negotiate! What was he doing? “You cannot stay here, ancient one. Forming a pact with me…”
“You-are-too-weak! I-need-more-than-you-can-offer! I-have-been-stalled-for-too-long! You-can-not-aid-me!” The murky pool-like Elemental surged and sloshed in agitation. It was the creature’s turmoil that soothed the Tyrant and allowed the Spirit Summoner to emerge.
The Elemental was old, but it was still a child. A lost child, and Orion was a guide. “Do you have a name, Spirit?”
The Elemental couldn’t have been more still. Trapped in Qoeveht’s Ice, it had shown more life than it did now, as it considered Orion’s question. “I-am-the-Spirit-of-Blackmire.”
“That isn’t a name, it is hardly a title,” Orion chided gently. “You seek to expand yourself when what you need is a Name.”
“And-you-can-give-me-one?” A bulge of mud appeared at the center of the extensive puddle. The creature’s tone was hopeful.
“No, that is not within my power.” the bulge collapsed, but Orion wasn’t done. “What I can promise is that I will seek your Name with you and offer a resting place, which will strengthen you. I carry an Orb.”
The Spirit Orb in Orion’s staff flashed brightly, capturing the Elemental’s attention. “You-will-do-this-if-I-form-a-pact-with-you?”
“No, this I offer regardless, but you must either come with me or return to the swamp. The Lizardman tribe is in the midst of change, and you hinder them.”
What the Elemental sought was change. It had no empathy for the everyday concerns of an Awakened species to which it could not communicate, but it understood the tribe’s need.
“You-are-too-weak! I-will-accompany-you. In-the-future-we-may-speak-of-pacts.”
Orion couldn’t help but puff up as a tendril of mud was extended to touch the Orb in his staff. He had succeeded where the Shaman had failed. The nearly formless bulk of the Elemental followed that tendril, and the Spirit flowed into its new home, an Orb that wasn’t a thousandth of its size.
Orion’s swelled head deflated quickly as he turned to receive the admiration of the waiting tribe. The Lizardmen had gathered behind their Shaman. Their expressions were hard to read, but it wasn’t awe that Orion saw there. No praise flowed from their lip-less mouths.
Brandished weapons indicated that the tribesmen were less than pleased with what had just happened. O'kanti, still clinging to Qoeveht’s leg and spitting in his native tongue, confirmed it. Those were sounds that called for death.
“This is not what we discussed, Al’rashian!” Qoeveht’s command over the Common Tongue roughened in his anger. “You were to persuade the Ancestor, not capture it!” The Lizardmen could not understand the words of the Elemental, but Orion’s side of the conversation was clear enough to them.
Orion didn’t bow. He straightened his back and took a firm hold of his staff. “This was necessary, Honored Elder. The Spirit has outgrown the swamp. Someday, if it wishes, I will return the Elemental to its home, but only after it has found what it seeks!”
“Lie! Kill! Teacher, Kill! Trespasser! Defiler!” O'kanti chittered. His command of the Common Tongue was slight, but he managed to make his thoughts known.
The four fingers of Qoeveht’s hand came down and stroked his apprentice’s head. Before O'kanti could revel in his teacher’s praise, that same hand pressed the apprentice to the dirt and held him there. As O'kanti squirmed and squawked, Qoeveht’s free hand grabbed hold of the smaller Lizardman’s flailing tail. There was a sucking, ripping noise, that wasn’t quite covered by O’kanti’s screams, as the Shaman pulled the tail from his apprentice’s body.
The tail in Qoeveht’s hands flew up and came back down with a thump. O’kanti’s hissing wails were cut off as his own limb rendered him unconscious. When he awoke, the searing pain in his posterior would be a dull ache. It remained to be seen if the apprentice would consider this a mercy.
“The wretched lazy egg has failed in his task! Let him be hung from the Elwire for a day… two days… so he can reflect on what it means to serve the tribe.” Qoeveht delivered this pronouncement in his native language, and the tribesmen hastened to obey. They mostly managed to hide the amused chattering laughter that O’kanti’s predicament inspired.
“Come, Spirit Summoner.” Qoeveht walked to Orion and p
laced an arm around the man’s shoulders. “Come, Kin Slayer Orion! We will feast. The Hunters have said you have led them on a merry chase these past few days! I will hear your side of things. We will feast, and you will rest. You must be at your best if you are to assist the ancestor!”
A bemused Orion was brought to the Lizardmen’s camp. There he was plied with all the delicacies Blackmire had to offer. This included a fermented pulpy drink made from local fruits. He shared his supply of Fire Bees, and soon all the tribe welcomed him as fervently as the Shaman.
Orion spent two more days in Blackmire. He ate, traded stories, and received guidance on magic from the skilled Qoeveht, and Qoeveht, pleased to have a student who listened, held nothing back.
O’kanti experienced none of this. Orion was escorted to the road by an honor guard of Black-Scaled Harbingers and was well on his way to Smooth Meadows, by the time the apprentice was brought down from the Elwire. It would take O'kanti months to regrow his tail. When it was finally back to full length, the apprentice had learned to step quicker when his teacher gave him a task. He didn’t gain a point in Wisdom, but his progress pleased the Shaman, for the time being.
Chapter 23
Dale of Kilpond sat on a round of wood before a campfire and clutched his Guild token in one hand. The sun had set hours ago. He should have been curled up in a blanket. He and his two companions had a long way to travel in the morning. It would be smart for them to travel quickly, and for that, they would need their sleep.
He should have been snoring, but he couldn’t wrench his eyes away from his Guild token. He had gained the disc at the age of thirteen, a month after he Awoke to his Status. The token had been wooden then. It had looked delicate, frail, like he could snap it with the least bit of pressure.
That was impossible, of course. A Guild token was meant to last. It represented an Adventurer’s standing and told anyone who saw it how well the owner was trusted. Tokens recorded deeds and to a Guild Attendant or Guard, or one experienced enough to read the marks, a man’s whole life could be laid plain on the disc.
