"Well. They had, until recently, several profane sites well within my lands." Trevayne said, shaking their head. "The Crusaders and the Royal Army that marched through destroyed them, but the aura they gave off? No one will approach where those twisted rituals were they were performed. No one will go near any place once marked. And nothing has been done about the black things that hug the shadows."
Jeria growled like a mad dog.
"Relax Father." Zansui shifted some to regard the male. She knew exactly what was on his mind.
"Wrymstone, you will not be heading North with us, nor will any of our Troops." the Half-Elf Lady of the Warstalker Lands turned towards the bearded, wild-haired Captain of the Men-At-Arms. "You and two company of able men will immediately escort Priests of the Pantheon to each location. Thereupon you will do two things. Burn the land and allow the Priests to cleanse them through ritual."
"Then you will burn the land again, just to make sure."
Wrymstone started to salute and bow, but Zansui raised a hand.
"There is more."
"I want you to dispatch to General Applehiem of the Royal Army to let them know what you are doing, and you are not to be interfered with. I will also send a missive to our newest Neighbor, the Orcs, to let them know what they may be in for at Icewyrm Wall. We must be wary of those, things, these Invaders, if any are left behind for us to worry. I charge you any anyone who can wield steel to bring these things low."
"The Royal Army, the Crusaders and the Orcs will render you any amount of aid you seek or they will face the wrath of one Zansui Warstalker, Daughter to Jeria Warstalker."
Zansui made a dismissive gesture towards Wyrmstone. "And make sure you stress the word Wrath, and the name Jeria."
The Captain smiled as they finished saluting, then quickly departed from the meeting.
"Satisfied Father?" Zansui leaned back, offering a coy smile.
"Appeased." Jeria tilted his head forward slightly. Zansui knew that the Samurai wanted to march out right then and there to make absolutely sure the Temples were destroyed. To kill every one of those things described.
To ensure there was nothing left to harm Zansui's people.
"Now on to your Sanctuary. Granted. Granted several times over." Zansui returned to Trevayne. "Any and all supplies we have will be made available to you and your people. Alistair?"
Zansui shifted to regard the Corsair Captain, who struck mailed fists against a breastplate hidden by a bulky great coat.
"You will be in charge while Wyrmstone is away. You are to gather all the Carpenters you can find and Commission them to build homes for the influx of refugees. Good homes, do you understand me Alistair?"
"And what of the Wall?" Alistair asked as they bowed. "Since we are so close to the Stone Well, we could contract Dwarven Masonry."
"Expensive. We will see what our finances look like when, and if, we return from this current crisis, for now, tear it down for materials and I will not object to a palisade put in place." After Zansui responded, again she made a dismissive gesture and Alistair departed just as briskly as Wyrmstone.
When the Corsair was gone, Zansui pinched the bridge of her nose. "Did I just place Ozok's killer in charge of my City?"
"Best not dwell on it, love," Grigs stated, reaching out to pat her shoulder reassuringly. "Without Alistair, we may have been in some trouble with those Cultists. He is also well liked in the City."
"I can kill him now if you want." Jeria offered casually.
"Dad!" Zansui snapped.
"What?" the Samurai questioned, unsure of what he did that was offensive.
"About the March North," Islin interjected before an awkward silence could settle. "I would imagine my kin are neither welcome nor wanted here-"
"-so long as I breathe you and your kin are welcome and wanted here," Jeria stated flatly, which surprised virtually everyone save Trevayne and Iyrest.
Trevayne did not know Jeria's passionate hatred for the Din.
Iyrest did not care.
Jeria turned further, nodding towards the Outrider Captain. "And the Outriders will always have room within Mistfire Castle. What you and yours have done go above and beyond what was asked for, and the price paid by the Outriders and the Din can never be repaid."
"The Din owe the North of Bel much for what we did." Islin pointed out grimly.
"You owe me nothing." Jeria directed to Islin. "The Din owe me nothing."
Jeria then looked on Iyrest, and the hatred was there again in those slitted, green eyes.
"Illindan Ilithorn however, is another matter."
Islin shifted uncomfortably. The Din Paladin had seen the ghost of Markus Warstalker beneath Mistfire, as several others had the misfortune of witnessing. Markus' fate had been a by-product of Illindan throwing their race's ways to the winds in order to deal with an unprecedented Evil that prowled their Winter Quarters during the DIn War.
That Evil being Jeria Warstalker, who obviously survived the ambush that claimed Markus over fifty five years ago.
And after what Islin had seen of the results of unleashing Jeria on the enemy, the Paladin had been sure that what horrors that had been wrought by Jeria were more fact than flights of fancy.
"Jeria." Islin reached over, blocking the man's glare with an open hand.
Jeria's focus shifted to Islin, annoyed that their ire had been obscured.
"As I was saying." the elder Paladin nodded in appreciation of Jeria's somewhat unwanted attention. "The Din will march North with you. I would imagine I will be receiving orders to do so at any rate."
"My Raiders will be coming with me," Jeria added, and Zansui leaned back to continue to look on her Father with surprise. "Some of them are descendants of Samurai, and marching with the Din would speak volumes of a unified Alliance."
"More Political Suave from the murderous cut-throat." Grigs offered teasingly.
"Shut up, Thief." Jeria shot back with a scowl.
"Whatever you say, Dad."
Jeria grinded his teeth, and Zansui could not help but smile at the exchange.
"Pleasant to see you are not a completely emotionless weapon you make yourself out to be." the Half-Elf rolled her eyes, and her expression grew serious again as she addressed Lord Trevayne next. "Where does this leave you and your men?"
"I will be going along with you, I am afraid I will not be returning to my lands for some time," Trevayne said sadly, followed by a long, haggard sigh. "Or perhaps not at all. My Wife died years ago, and I am afraid I do not have any children. I have no cousins nor kinfolk. So my lands will be forfeit to the Crown when I die and I have no interest in seeing them ever again."
"My life, however, is to my People, and if they are here safe, then I will take my sword arm to aid my King."
"My men will follow or stay. I will not demand them to go, nor will I fault them for not. They have fought harder and longer than I have paid them, and even till the end they fought for little else than honor's sake."
"Spoken like a true Noble of Rilstar." Zansui smiled warmly at Trevayne. "I think we are exhausting our current coffers here, but I do know I have an abundance in Westwatch. I will see to it that your men are paid in full, even if they stay. All I need are their names."
Trevayne bowed, "Warstalker generosity is limitless."
"Unfortunately this is where I part ways with you all," Nemo spoke up, looking around himself. "The Outriders will return, in perhaps a decade or so, but my brethren are all but spent."
"The Outriders took our vengeance on the one who wronged us, and I thank you for the safety and haven you have provided us."
"We will be taking our Usfoundly Cousins to their borders so they may find peace, then we will be making for the Underhalls and start a journey home."
"As my Father said Nemo," Zansui smiled towards the brown skinned elf. "The Outriders have done more than enough. Rilstar will remember, and as he said, when you return we will make Mistfire ready for your use."
"Yes, and sp
eaking of your Father." Nemo gestured towards the Samurai. "You used one of my Dragonfists to defeat Ulimax. That is a statement more than a question my Lord."
"Keep it. You will perhaps need it again to surprise the unsuspecting. It is the only help I am capable of giving considering my duty is to bring what is left of my Outriders home.”
"You are afraid of the taint of Necromancy on it." Grigs pointed out, and Nemo's expression grew serious.
"Not in the least." they retorted mockingly, yet there had been a crack of humor on the Plainstrider Elf’s Face.
"It is worth a fortune." Jeria pointed out, "You yourself said as such."
"I will return for it." Nemo offered reassuringly, though with no real enthusiasm. "Just to make sure no curse had fallen on it."
"And if I fall?"
"No insult intended, but I quite imagine that it will not be that hard to find your Corpse, my Lord Jeria."
<><><><><><><>
The Father of Grigs' Warstalker, Triden Mastershield, inspected the ballistae they had dragged from the bandit camp. He was a Dwarf with knowledge of certain aspects of shady dealings and back alley arrangements. Triden had been, after all, the Lorekeeper of the Shadow Guild in Westwatch. Then the general 'den master' of the Thieves Guild that festered from the previous Guild's remains.
Other Dwarves had poured over the piece of Dwarven Technology and nodded their approval of such a fine Ballistae.
Triden however, became suddenly very afraid.
There were markings on it that told the Dwarves who made the base. Who handcrafted the gears, and who went about produced the ammunition that were designed to bring Dwarven Airships down.
Only Dwarves were fool enough to craft a weapon that would bring down their own contraptions and sell it to anyone willing to pay the coin.
But four Dwarves in particular, each with their own brand on each piece of working mechanisms for a weapon commissioned by someone who remained a mystery.
To them at least.
Triden knew each smith by name, family, and clan. Triden knew them because he shook each of their hands individually, and for two of them he had attended their weddings.
Each and everyone had been a member of the Keystone Shadow Guild.
"By Ossin's Beard, Pa." Triden murmured in worry. "What did ya do?"
Chapter 5
Ungala did not like the manner in which he had to be dressed.
Pyras Broodlings were already various shades of ruby reds, and having to wear vibrant red armor made Ungala feel like he was standing out like a sore thumb. But it was on loan from the Armory, considering everything Ungala owned was to far away to fetch in a reasonable amount of time, and that had not been much in the way of clothing.
Broodlings normally wore little in regards to cloth, and wore what they did for other species’ modesty, not their own.
The only ones wearing anything, as he found himself walking down the length of the Hall, had been some Wizard and their Apprentices, and of course, the Cult.
There were few of the Cult than anything, much to Ungala’s relief. Though they glared at the Pyras Broodling openly, and sneered as he passed by. It was no secret that Ungala refused to avenge the Nameless Cult at Reikard’s Shield, instead retreating beneath a truce to save Humans and Orcs under his banner.
Yet what had caught his eye had been the Wizard and their various apprentices.
They did not know the name of the Wizard, but they were Mingor in scale, with gray hairs jutting from beneath a wide brim hat. They were overseeing their apprentices, adding more runes to the Castle Wards. Ungala did not study in magics, but the Cult seemed interested, and after glaring at Ungala seem to turn their attention to the Wards.
Then there had been the Obvious, the Guard. There were a Full Company’s Worth of Dragoons in their heavy armor, with cleaver, hammer or lance. Their shields were broad and simple black, with the only discoloration on a uniform suit of protection had been either violet helmets, or white.
They were other Guards elsewhere, not as heavily armed or armored, yet these Dragoons were the Imperial Protectors, and they occupied whatever Floor the Emperor happened to be on.
Where the Emperor Occupied had not been the Throne Room this time, but the Tower of Landing. A place where Mingor Broodlings once used to Commune with their Ancestors, the Dragons. It was an Ancient Place, the Imperial Palace had been built around it in an Age before the Fall.
The Dragoons stopped him at the stone door, which was decorated with metal etchings of a spire like mountain, surrounded by Dragons in flight. There had been a Dragon of Color, represented by color, Red, Green, Blue, Black, Gold and Silver. There was also another, half Black and Half White nestled at the base of the mountain, coiled in slumber.
That was to be Char, the World Dragon, Sire of the Dragonkin, God of Secrets.
The Dragoons, White Helmed, cracked the door open and conferred with another inside, before pushing it further open and allowing Ungala access. Saying his thanks, the Pyras Broodling stepped in.
As Ungala entered the throat of the Tower, he could make out the soft, mute gray stone that had spider webs of cracks running along the foundation walls. Ungala’s heart skipped a beat, wondering how this structure stood at all, then realized that the last time a Dragon had occupied this Tower had been the Dragon Wars.
And rumor had been that its head lingered at the top.
Peering upward, Ungala quietly swore under his breath at the height, and knew he may have been expected to climb upward for his meeting, but was directed towards a lift smartly hidden from the center.
It had been coming down, silently without the noise of cranking gears or slipping ropes, revealing an occupant pacing in the middle.
It was a Human, a young man in Darkscale Black mail with a purple tabard with a black scale in its center. There were Captain bars on their shoulders and tabard, and a gold feather marking them as an Imperial Messenger. Their armor jingled and their sword rattled as the paced, restless and read to run as fast as they could. Then they made eye contact with the Pyras Broodling, and the Human smiled warmly and stopped.
Ungala thumped their chest at the sight of the man, “Captain Trasis.”
The young Captain stepped off the lift before it had finished descending and saluted the Broodling as they approached. “Morning my Lord!”
Ungala could not help but smile back and offered the young Captain a clap on their shoulder. “Morning, Captain, I am surprised to see you using the lift.”
“I have to my Lord, the Emperor has dispatched me three times already.”
“Has he? Are you on your way to another?” Ungala questioned, looking up the stairs.
“Yes my Lord, but I am sorry that I cannot tell you where.” Trasis bowed stiffly.
“Do not apologise for your duty to the Emperor my young Friend, I am jealous of your role.” Ungala commented, taking their first step toward the lift before turning to regard Trasis. “You have seen much more of this place then I have.”
“Yes Lord, I got to see a Skeleton to a Dragon up there.” Trasis pointed, and Ungala was actually impressed.
“Ahh, so the rumors are true then, I guess I will get to see it myself.” Ungala nodded, again looking back up. “How is the Emperor’s Mood by the by?”
“Somber my Lord.”
“You can call me Ungala my young friend, you have more then earned it.” the Broodling replied, and frowned as he looked back down to Trasis. “And why somber?”
“He seems sad about something. When he thinks you are not looking, he just seems so sad.” Trasis offered, the gloom affecting the Emperor clutched at the poor young man temporary.
With an understanding nod, Ungala and moved to stand on the lift. “Come find me for a drink Trasis, it would be good to catch up with how you are, and Trasis,”
The Captain had already turned and halted when Ungala called for him again.
“You be careful, stay far from the Cult.”
“They’v
e already tried my Lord,” Trasis replied reassuringly, “And they failed.”
Ungala was very, very impressed, and again saluted the Captain as the lift stated upward.
The ride had been long. Long enough to quietly contemplate the various reasons on why the Emperor had been described as, somber.
Emperor Emberstone’s Empire, dubbed the Darkscales, had been crumbling from within. The Cult of the Nameless had infiltrated virtually every aspect of the Empire’s Life, from Peasants in the Fields, to Generals of the Army. Ungala had not been born yet when the Cult took root in the Empire, but his Parents were part of the Quiet, Broodlings who Worshipped Char by keeping Secrets, and taking them to their graves.
Both Ungala’s Parents were still working the Fields somewhere in the Western Provinces, Ungala had not seen them in decades since he started serving Hungai in the Darkscale Army.
Thinking about his Mother and Father, Ungala’s talons twitched, and his heart offered a painful thud. Maybe he should send word to them? Let them know he was well, promoted, and would be granted land.
Of course, if Ungala lived.
Lost in his thoughts, the Pyras Broodling failed to immediately note that the lift had stopped. Peering around at the expansive floor before him, Ungala stepped in a great hall that sat on the top of the Landing. There were clean trails, though the room had not been overly filthy, or dirty. There had been benches with debris scattered across the floor.
As Ungala continued to peer around, he noted that had been enough room for one Dragon, and one only, for the bones of one stretched from end to end, curled along the western wall, clutching at emptiness.
The skull was massive, though the teeth and horns missing, it was not hard to imagine that they would be as long as the cleavers the Dragoons carried to War.
“The Last Mount of the Emperor.” someone off to Ungala’s right spoke, stepping forward to gesture at the bones. “Wounded and dying, this Dragon, whose name is as lost as the Emperor they served, brought home that Emperor, who was also wounded and dying.”
The Bloodied Shield Page 6
