Chapter Nineteen: Beneficent

Chapter Nineteen: Beneficent

            Vadhyl

            Tunnels

            Olaf lifted his torch, looking around the tunnel for the signpost. Good, there it was. According to his father, there should have been a river that they could access beneath the fortress. Helpfully, Thorvald had left dozens of signs pointing down into the ground which apparently led to this water source. After setting up in the tent area. Olaf had decided to head down to the river alone, as the others were busy seeing to fortifying the gates, just in case. Olaf would have taken some help if he could, but the others had been somewhat less than willing to enter the tunnels. Legend held that the land underneath the fortress was traversed by demonic creatures, and some of the more superstitious beings inhabiting the fortress believed this. Olaf decided that it would do no good for him to force them to, and thus embarked on the quest to fill a barrow-load of water-skins himself. He had been walking for about sixteen minutes, but he could tell he was getting closer. The moisture content of the air seemed to be rising, and he could now hear the sound of rushing water. The tunnel up ahead was illuminated by a bizarre blue light, which set off alarm bells in his head. There was no way any light could be striking the water this deep down, which meant the pool was lit from within. Olaf closed his eyes and muttered a quick fireburst spell, which armed a fireball in his right hand. At least if there was anything aggressive in the cave, he could put it through a good deal of pain before he got ripped limb from limb. He made his way to the cavern mouth and stepped through, into a carven underground chamber through which flowed a moderately wide river. The banks were worn smooth by years of erosion, and stalagmites protruded from the surface of the water. But the glow…the glow seemed to be coming from the water itself. He knelt at the bank, fascinated at what he was seeing. He dipped his right hand into the water, feeling it rush over his fingers. Almost immediately, he recoiled, surprised to feel the ripple of magic up his arm.

Magic water? He thought. Now there’s something new. Curious, he began to wade into the water, feeling the energy course through him. Satisfied that it posed no threat, he dipped his hand into it once more and drew some out to take a drink. He threw the water back and swallowed. That was when his throat constricted, and he felt like his entire body was on fire. His knees buckled like someone had gut punched him, and he collapsed to the ground, convulsing violently. A burning sensation suddenly tore across the entire left side of his body, focused mainly on his left shoulder. He tried to open his mouth to scream, but could not. After an agonizing minute, his throat relaxed, and he sucked in huge gulps of air as he slowly tried to rise. After failing miserably multiple times, he finally managed to get to his feet. Then, he shook his head until hos crossed eyes cleared. Olaf’s shoulder dully throbbed still, but he was unharmed other than that. It was then that he noticed the monolith. It was larger than the other pillars and, unlike them, seemed to have veins of many precious stones running through it. All around it were carved runes, but runes out of place with those on the marker pillars. It seemed as the monolith was some kind of altar, and on it rested a massive, black book, bound in leather and sealed in a case of dwarven glass. Olaf put his hand on it and felt for a lock. He immediately knew there would not be one; instead, there appeared to be a sigil carved into the case. He drew the hunting knife in his belt and scratched away part of the sigil with it, murmuring a quick warding spell as he did so. Cases like this one could conceivably have spelltraps, and getting the magical equivalent of a dragon’s firestorm to his face would not be pleasant. And with that, the lock was gone, and the book shot as if of its own will. Olaf’s hands snapped outward, catching it midflight. He took it and began to read, his eyes following the ancient Kortish script as he did. As he read one line, his heart skipped a beat, and he turned away from the book, covering his mouth. This was no mere tome of spells or journal; it was the greatest single work of Arden the Black, the dwarf who had cast such a long shadow over his family’s name. The words that Olaf had read were as follows.

            The time of my judgment draws near, and I know now the fate I have made for myself. To my judges I have nothing to say, nor anything that could be said. Even were I to tell them of the Seal and its power, even then they would not believe. Nor should they. Blame the Seal though I would, it would be the sheerest of lies to say that things I did were inconsistent with my desires. To my descendants, I ask merely for understanding, not forgiveness. The latter would be too great a demand even for my hardy kin, though I know that dwarves have hearts as ready to forgive as to avenge. To my nearest of kin, to my son, or his, or whatever scion of my people may find this book, I warn you to read it with caution. To any other who may take it read, I leave this warning. Within are included many spells, but the most powerful are written in a hand only those with the Seal of Perdition can read. If you find spells in the margins of my journal, then may the Maker have mercy on your soul, for none other shall. To any who would disregard my tale, I pronounce no other curse on you than my own. You will live a life as you think best, only to take from yourself everything you valued, all in the name of your own arrogance before this tale. If you believe the power I wielded will not corrupt you, you are mistaken, as I once was. I would advise you to close this tome and walk away now, for fear of corruption. If you do not, then read at your peril. For the acquisition of wisdom saddens the heart. You have been warned; use my power not at all, and my tale little. The former is too much to bear, but the latter you may stomach, if you have heart.

            ARDEN         

Olaf picked up the book and turned away from the monolith, feeling a chill run up his spine. He needed to go up and tell the others the water was no good for drinking, he thought. And he forced his thoughts to dwell elsewhere. He did so trying desperately to forget the fact that, for the briefest of instants, he had seen, or thought he saw, a spell written below Arden’s signature on that page.

Wolf Sanctuary

Thomas looked at Carsten, unsure how to respond to Deyann’s challenge.

“Do you feel like taking him first?” he asked. Carsten nodded.

“I’ll do it,” he told the dark elf. “Which arena?”

“That one,” Deyann answered, pointing to one right next to them. “After all, it is the closest to us, and it is a multipurpose area. I assume you will want to use your own sword?” The dwarf raised an eyebrow.

“Do you think I’d find a better one here?” He queried. “And even if I did, I’d rather use this one. I’m comfortable with it.” He stepped under the ropes on the side and into the center of the square space, where he drew his sword.

“Stand you ready?” Deyann asked. Carsten assumed a forward plow stance, his feet moving back and forth over the turfed floor of the arena.

“Ready as ever,” the dwarf answered, his blue eyes narrowing in concentration. “Let’s get started.” Deyan drew both his swords, spinning them on his wrists.

“My pleasure,” he said, his eyes focusing on the dwarf’s sword. The first few strokes were nothing extraordinary; Deyann feinted a few thrusts and swipes, but Carsten blocked or dodged each one. The dwarf made a few probing attacks of his own, but Thomas could easily tell that he was not seriously attempting to penetrate the dark elf’s guard. Things escalated quickly from mere probes against his guard, however. Deyann immediately moved into a fusillade of uniquely elven attacks: Tempest Strike, Raging Fury, Shadow’s Bane, and a few others that were over far too quickly for Thomas to follow. He fully expected Carsten to fall under this withering onslaught, but he did not. Instead, the dwarf retreated with measured steps, taking each hit in stride. Then, once Deyann had finished, Carsten went on the attack, launching a Dragonslayer combination, followed by a Blackheart’s Gambit and a Fallen’s Redemption. Deyann blocked this last attack, but it was in doing so, opened himself up for a lethal follow-up; Carsten stepped in close, driving an elbow into his chin. As the dark elf staggered, the dwarf followed up with a knee to the stomach and then a hilt strike. As Deyann went backwards, Carsten began launching tight, controlled slashes aimed at his chest. The twin blades came up to block them, and that was when Carsten made his move. He suddenly spun off one of the thrusts and cracked the dark elf across the knuckles with the hilt of his sword. One of the blades suddenly hit the turf, but Carsten did not press his advantage. Instead, he kicked the blade out of reach and waited for Deyann to recover. In fact, both of them need the rest. Carsten had bruises giving birth to bruises, and Deyann had welts and a few lacerations on him.

“Crippler’s Feint,” the dark elf panted when he caught his breath. “I thought that move had passed from memory.” Carsten shrugged.

“I’ve picked up some things in my travels,” he explained, moving back into the plow stance. “Again?” Deyann nodded, but this time he opened with an attack so fast that Thomas could barely see his blade move. In the torchlight, the weapon looked for all the world like a wheel of orange flame, battering Carsten from all sides. The dwarf stubbornly held on, taking each hit on the blade of Sorrow’s Bite, and even returning with a few attacks of his own. The dark elf’s face twisted as his concentration mounted, while Carsten’s face remained impassively unchanged. The blows were coming harder now, and both of them were sweating profusely. Carsten seemed to be trying to get himself a little room to maneuver, but Deyann would have none of it. The dwarf’s tactics suddenly changed; he ducked the next word slash and uppercutted Deyann with the hilt, only to have the dark elf retaliate with a palm strike to his face. Before he could react, the dwarf felt the tip of Deyann’s sword at his throat. The dark elf made momentary eye contact with his student, nodded briefly, and then lowered the blade.

“Well done,” he remarked. “Half of the current Lords of the Free would not have lasted that long under an assault like that.” Carsten shook his head.

“I still lost,” he said hoarsely. “Which means I wasn’t good enough.”

“Yes, but you can be better. That is the whole reason you are here to train, my boy. I am going to you more than a man or a fighter. I am going to make you a knight, my boy, and you will strike fear in these raiders’ hearts. Now, you are strong. I will forge you into the ultimate warrior, and you will lead us to victory.”

Carsten shook his head. “I can fight, but I can’t lead. That’s not my place.”

“It became your place when no one else stepped up,” the dark elf told him, his voice taking on an intensity and hardness Carsten had never heard before. “If not you, no one will, my son.” He put his hand on Carsten’s shoulder. “The time has passed for you to be a child. You must learn now to be the man your father would expect you to be, because you have been called to. You once asked me how good you are, Carsten. Now I have the answer: as good as you need to be.”

            Karkopolis

            King’s Dining Hall

            Oriem surveyed the table and nodded approval. His daughters had chosen and organized the place settings with the servants’ help, and done so with remarkable speed, something he admired, especially given that he had been gone for months orchestrating the delivery of messages to all the leaders of the people groups in the Outlands, even a few that no one save he knew existed. This meeting would be the largest gathering of Outlanders since before the war, though it might be the prelude to another, he thought grimly. Some of them would be willing to fight. Sigurd, for example, would be more than willing to crack skulls with these upstarts, as would Oriem himself. The goblins would not agree unless some profit were to be had, while the orcs would simply be happy to murder anything. The Nagai, though…them he did not, could not trust, not though a millennium could pass and the sky change to orange. Those snakes, he thought, would be willing to sell out if they saw no chance of victory or had a better offer. Though their leader had a very, very large army, which made it politic to win him over to their cause, which Oriem planned to do. The humans seemed to be more than a little mercurial, but he truly believed that they would help his cause. Other dark elves would rally to him even he were not the king, which he still happened to be. A messenger entered the hall dressed in the standard House Blackfire livery, dark blue and purple with a dark grey owl depicted atop a branch in the center of his shirt.
            “My lord,” he said, “the emissaries have arrived. Rather, the humans and dwarves have. The orcs are assembling as well, but they as yet lack a leader. We caught the goblins trying to sneak in through the drainage system again as well, which makes four groups.”

“And the dwarves from Vadhyl? Did they receive our message.” Oriem asked. The messenger hesitated. “Do not lie to me. Tell me what has happened.”

“He was found dead, sir,” the elf said haltingly, an expression of distress contorting his young face. “Murdered and dismembered.” The dark elf king put a hand to his forehead.

“That means they likely know what we are doing,” he murmured. “That is not a good thing at all.” He turned to the messenger. “There is no more time to waste. Show them in.”

The representatives sat at the grand table in order of importance, with Sigurd the Dwarf and Heldergan, the great orc chieftain, occupying the second and third seats beside him. Several leaders of various roving bands of human mercenaries were there, too. Ordinarily, they might have charged for their services, but a situation like this sidelined any monetary concerns. The first was reserved for whatever leader the Nagai might have sent, but Oriem now doubted that they would come. He sat down heavily on his gilded chair, his combination scepter and wizard’s staff hanging by his side. The goblin diplomat entered the room, his eyes darting from one side to the other.

“Lay off, Krast,” Heldergan told him in a loud, boisterous tone. The orc spoke to most people in such fashion, which caught them off guard. Although massive and cruel-looking, he had a jovial nature that belied his fearsome appearance. “There’s nothing worth stealing here, even if you could lift it without being seen.”

“Krast wasn’t stealing,” the goblin complained. “Krast was nervous he should have taken off his shoes before he came in.”

“Given the sewer contents on them, probably,” Sigurd said, laughing. All of those assembled at the table shared in the outburst of merriment, one that in other times might have lasted longer. Around this table sat some of the greatest warriors in the Outlands, friends from all over the area. They had all known each other for many years, and each one knew that he or she was among friends. One of the human guild leaders, the head of the Theives Guild, spoke up. Her name was Keelly Ervad, and she had ascended their ranks rapidly, famously defeating the former head in a shell game.

“Oriem, what’s this about?” She asked. “Is this another one of your attempts at a reunion?”

“I summoned you for a much more serious purpose,” he told them, his eyes roving the table to meet each of the leaders’. “These raiders have gone from merely destroying villages to attacking fortresses. They have numbers sufficient to be an army, and we can no longer ignore this threat. We must act quickly, act together, and act strategically.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Sigurd told him. “My people had a harsh winter. Many of them are just now recovering, and at least twenty died. Such losses we can ill afford, Oriem. How can we muster an army?”

“None of us can do so alone,” the dark elf agreed. “But that matters little. We are all here now, and we can do it together. Nay, we must do it together. If we do not form any kind of united resistance, what hope do we have of defeating these madmen?”

“What hope do we have now?” Heldergen asked. “With all due respect, I think you place undue faith in our ability to resist, Oriem. We’re depleted, battered, and nigh on hopeless. Some of us have yet to harvest, as you know. There’s little we can do.”

“But Krast refuses to surrender hope,” the goblin said, his eyes darting to the faces around the table. “Krast knows places lords could get food, if they wanted it.”

“Agreed,” said Tarvin Lask, the human leader of the Assassin’s Guild. “We need supplies, but the question of resistance is settled. No other choice has been left to us but to fight, as suicidal as that sounds.”

“Is open war the best idea, though?” Sigurd murmured. “Perhaps a covert war might serve us better in the long-term.”

“Even if we decide to wage a covert war, the problem remains of assembling an army,” Heldergen said. “Again, I hate to be the voice of doom, but we have very, very few resources we can properly utilize against them.”

“The problem with this is that no one knows where to even attack them,” Sigurd put in. “These raiders don’t have a clear base of operations, and even if they did, we would have no idea how to attack them.”

            “Then we get the intelligence we need first,” Oriem told them. “Krast, you probably know someone. You always do. Search long and hard; any detail would be worthwhile. Sigurd, you and your dwarves can forge weapons. Do you have any shilthain reserves available?”

            “A few,” the dwarf answered. “They should suffice for a large arsenal. I can have them fire up the forges. Production will not be high initially, I must confess. After all, most of the village has yet to harvest their crops.”

            “I knew well that you are in a bind,” Oriem said dismissively. “It matters not. The shilthain should be ready by the time we can amass an army.”

            “Now,” Heldergen growled, “to the issue of raising an army. Together, I imagine we can muster no more than ten thousand men, and I feel that assessment is somewhat hopeful.”

            “I know,” came a low, raspy voice from the door. “That wasss why Oriem called me.” All of the delegates whirled to see the snake at the door. Or rather, snake-man, called by most Outlanders Naga, or Nagai in the plural. The six-foot reptile was white and red, with a knobby and spiked hide covered by haphazard metal plating. Though he had no weapon in his hand, a massive battleax hung on his back. Noticing their stares at the weapon, he decided to leave it at the door. His eyes were a frightening shade of dark brown that made them look almost black. Killer eyes, Sigurd thought. This was a dangerous creature. At the same time, a creature of such lethality was a potentially useful one to have on hand if things turned out badly, as they were wont to do. The method of locomotion the Nagai used accentuated the aura of deadly grace; though upright, it had a long, curving tail that stretched for several feet behind it. The tail itself ended in large, bony ridges that looked as though they had been painfully filed to points. “Now,” the snake continued, taking his seat at the table, curling up his tail, and steepling his long, clawed fingers, “did someone asssk for an army? Because, if so, I believe I have one on hand.” The message the serpent was sending was clear: I am too conniving to tolerate, but too important to alienate, and you will do as I say.

            Outlands

            Wolfpack Sanctuary

            Carsten lay on a straw mat, his mind wandering over recent events. Aside from hours and hours of intensive weapons training, Deyann had also had him working with the phoenix that they had healed of its wounds. The creature had taken a liking to the dwarf, and Carsten had happily agreed to work with it. The dark elf had encouraged him to take the animal out for a ride now that its wing had healed, but Carsten demurred. One of his two fears was heights, the other was death; and of the two, he feared heights more. Thanks to his new mark, however, he had little to worry about with that. He put his hand over the necklace, sending a mental message to Arcaena.

            Evening, starlight, he thought. Are you doing all right?

            Arcaena’s voice seemed a little more tense than usual. I suppose so. Better, now that I can hear you. Father has all the diplomats here, and they are far from keeping it together well.

            He called in the Nagai, didn’t he? Carsten asked.

            Did you really think he would not? Arcaena countered. Like them or not, the Nagai have one of the most powerful armies in the Outlands, numbers notwithstanding. We can win if we all fight together.

            The question is whether or not we can trust each other, the dwarf surmised. No offense, but your father never struck me as a very open individual.

            Agreed, she said. By the way, your father is here. Should I tell him about you?

            Please do, Carsten told him. I would desperately like to tell him myself, but I can’t. So please, let him know for me.

            He could practically hear the smile in Arcaena’s voice. I will. By the way, I have been thinking a lot about our plans recently, and I have a question for you…do you really want to get married?

            Carsten nodded. I do. But the how is rather difficult to negotiate, given we aren’t close enough to talk to each other face-to-face. More on that later, starlight. In the meantime, how fast is the strategy end of things coming?

            Slow, she answered, sounding exasperated. These fools have no respect for the problems at hand. We all face extinction, and all that we know how to do is fight among ourselves. It is truly maddening. I would expect a verdict later this month.

            This MONTH?! Carsten sounded shocked. We don’t have MONTHS! Your father may be a fool in some regards, but at least he knows that, does he not?

            He does, and he steadily tries to force a conclusion, but the work is slow. Even with him, Heldergen, and your father all pushing for it, they will not unite without some sign that we can unite. They need some proof that we can win this fight.

            I know a way, he told her. But it could take time.

            What is the way? She asked. I have a feeling I will not like it. You did, after all, author the plan.

            He told her. And, true to her prediction, she disliked it.

            Waste

            The Exile sat in the Chieftains’ Circle, idly fingering his sword blade. He had been waiting for over an hour for Shargann to arrive, only for the Shadow King to prove late. It was in his nature, The Exile noted bitterly, to make a dramatic entrance. After all, the man was king, and generally expected to be treated as such. One more time, he put his fingers on the gemstone on the sword’s hilt and squeezed it tightly. Not for good luck, but rather to reassure himself that it was still there. Of all the Vanahym there, he alone respected its true function, and he alone knew that it was the reason why he would be victorious in this single combat. He knew this because of the assurances of the benefactor who had provided it, not from personal experience. The stone was not the only part of the blade that had been a gift from the benefactor; the sword was of a straight-bladed, double-edged design foreign to the Vanahym. The hilt, however, was of a spiky, jagged make familiar among his people. And, of course, the benefactor had assured him that the blade would be capable of not merely wounding one of the Shadow King’s people, but kill him or her as well.. A Mierthyn had not been slain for over a millennium (all those deceased having done so from natural causes), and he had not felt like broadcasting the fact that he knew how to kill them and could do so if he chose. His bodyguards stood around him, their hands at their sides and their eyes scanning the Waste. If Shargann came, as The Exile believed he would, he would do so in typically theatrical fashion, and they wanted to ensure that he did not use their momentary surprise as an attempt to gain the upper hand. It would hardly do to have put all that careful preparation into this fight only to fail in the end due to an oversight.

            “We expected him by now,” one of the Berserkers remarked petulantly. “He is late.”

            “Pardon him for that.” The Exile got to his feet, his hand wrapped tightly around the hilt. “He knows as well as we the value of intimidation, and thus would have kept us waiting. It allows us time to mull over his potential strength.” The Berserker’s eyes narrowed.

            “I care not for what he thinks he might show,” he growled. “When…”

            “Will he appear?” The voice came from behind them. They all turned and saw Shargann was there, accompanied by several other Mierthyn, including his rather attractive niece. “Right about now seems as good a time as any.” He surveyed the area rather disdainfully. “Truly, now. A leader of another people group I had hoped to engage in single combat, and you can barely furnish ruins.” The Exile raised an eyebrow.

            “I hardly think that fair, in truth. Look at the time we have had to rebuild our forces and our way of life; we want much of what we need to make our last move.”

            “You had orders, Murethal,” Shargann growled, dropping the condescending manner. “We told you what had to be done and when, and yet you resist. You defied strategically sound and intelligently planned orders, which would have kept us from scrutiny until we had occasion to show our plan. But now you flout every order we give you, ignore calls to leave civilian targets untouched, and on top of everything else, you nearly cost us one of our most valuable pieces in the game.”

            “The dark elf?” Murethal, also called the Exile, snorted. “Please. The benefactor assured us that the dwarf would not permit any harm to befall the witch. And look at what we did; they should be breeding in no time.” Shargann bristled at that.

            “Breeding? You talk about them like they are unreasoning animals. Carsten and Arcaena are both valuable pieces in our plan, and eventually will be our allies. But we have no capacity to force them to do what we want.”

            The Exile shook his head. “I disagree. Look at what our benefactor has managed to do. He effected the marking of the red-haired one and brought him to the dark elf’s side. Sepaking of which, how have things gone with the dark one?”

            “Issavea has seen Olaf marked,” Shargann answered. “But we wanted that to be done six months from now. The benefactor was very specific, and I shudder to think what he would do if he learned that we have done this. He and the fiery one are far from genial even on their best days.”

            “Do you believe what they say? About…the threat?”

            “I do,” Shargann replied, looking at the ground. “That does not mean I approve of their methods.”

            Murethal’s eyes narrowed. “Neither do I. Why manipulate the Free and these Outlanders when it would be simpler to destroy those who would resist our will?”

            Shargann drew his double ax-staff and assumed a battle-ready stance. “For the same reason I am not going to kill you when I defeat you in this contest, Murethal. Because you cannot make a good soldier of an unwilling heart.” Murethal got to his feet and gestured for his bodyguards to stand back.

            “Prepare yourself, Shadow King.” He let his hide cape drop to the ground and drew his broadsword. “Prepare to kneel before your master.”

            Shargann refused to answer, instead whirling the axe-staff around in a series of brutal attacks against Murethal’s raised guard. The Exile struggled to parry or block each one; the Shadow King seemed to have the strength of a dozen men behind the weapon, and he wielded it as though it were nothing more than a child’s walking stick. Further, each of the hacking blows seemed to come from a different angle, and no tactical advantage seemed to govern his attack pattern. The barrage of blows ended with Shargann driving an armored boot into Murethal’s chest, sending him careening to the other side of the Chieftain’s Circle, where he skidded to a stop. As he got to his feet and spat blood from his mouth, Murethal was struck by a horrible thought. What if the benefactor wanted him dead?