Post by Sire Halfblack on Aug 9, 2014 10:34:22 GMT
Deeber IM 1006: The Final Dawn
It was the Deathly Season and the cold came to the city with the fury of a betrayed wife. It whistled about the streets and with it came snow, dirty stuff that fell through the clouds of sickness that hung over the city. For the last week the markets had dwindled and the city broke out food from its own stores, for the city grew little enough on its own dead land. The traders and caravans that brought so much there had not been arriving. It was not unusual for such to fluctuate but for nigh on none to come was an event so rare as to be beyond living knowledge. Still such came along the rivers, from Alguz and Keys but everyone knew that the food came from the Heartlands. Doubtless the small merchants had been hoarding for months, and though it had been a thin sort of harvest, the fact that almost none came was cause for some concern.
But it was also a time of happiness. At least for the House Majius. Their Lord was to be married at long last and that promised some measure of stability. With children he might name his heir, and therefore he at least might be removed from his relatives list of people-to-kill.
The people waited for the worst to come. Word had readily come that the city had declared ritual war on Eartholme and few doubted that retribution would come. They knew that the Dragon of their neighbour was strong in his hateful little city and anyone with any knowledge of ritual feared the coming of earthquakes and other terrors.
He let no emotion cloud his face.
There were of course many bakers in the city. Grain did not come to market in sacks, as it was, but was turned to bread of sweepings gruel and there were still a lot of people in Deci, many of whom were readily perceptible to the scribes. Few of them made extravagant cakes, but in Hightown there were a few businesses that specialized in such things for the rich and the showy. One in particular worked almost exclusively for the Spire and so it had been to there that Anath had directed the visiting merchant, Matrim, to deliver the precious Light of Averlaeren.
Having ensured that the cake would as grand as any he had seen in Gressen, Anath was a little confused as to why the final product resembled a dirty great hound with… a prominence. “You do realise that I have no sense of humour?”
The master baker, Tapling Point, was bemused. “All has been made according to the directions given.” He said formerly, stiffly, but still a little fearfully. He was also telling the truth. Such was so rare in Deci that Anath knew it when he heard it. Certainly from the trades. He shook his head and refuted such a claim, asking that perhaps his letter might be found?
Swiftly, it was.
Anath read his letter carefully. It was indeed which he had sent. The formal greetings were there, the wishes for expedience likewise. But between the two, in his own hand, there was indeed and order for the gift of the cake to be in the shape of a hound with ‘an enormous…’. “Does this word look like ‘mock’ to you, Point?” He held out the scroll.
The baker peered at the word. “No, it definitely says-“
“-Quite so.” Anath was not going to waste so precious a commodity as he had invested in this cake. It was also definitely an order in his own hand, and it was the original. He sniffed the page. It was not a forgery either. He would have known. Somehow the words on the scroll had been changed, or rather made as if they always had been. “You will notice, Point, that I am not angry?”
“I am noticing that very closely, Lord.”
“I am not a Lord, Point. Having noticed my absence of anger, what can you suggest as a means of ensuring such a happy state continues?”
Point trembled. He took off his hat and wrung it between his hands. “Best not rebake it, Master. See…”
“Dress it somehow, Point. Dress it.” It was a masterly piece of work, nonetheless. “I look forward to seeing your solution come the wedding feast. Good night to you, Point.”
*
It was hot in the forge. Hot enough that no snow falling settled within two score yards of the open sided building where stripped to the waist Jander hammered the tip of the spear with small, precise taps. The sound of the simple tapping echoed about the Quarter and as night drew in people shouted from buildings nearby for the Forge to stop all ‘that fecking racket’. Jander ignored them, pausing only when he felt another enter his workshop. Carefully he wiped the first edge with silk before setting it once more in a particular part of the sullen blackstone heat. He looked up to see a dwarf dressed in layers of iron and the dust of the long road. Turning back to his work Jander picked up the first of several bands for the spear, running it through his strong fingers to smooth out any tiny flaws in the Deci Ore. All the while his associate Bull pumped the bellows for the forge with regular, steadied heaves of his arms. He had maintained the beat for four hours now.
“Call that smithing?” The newcomer opined loudly.
Jander did not look up. Yes. He finally answered.
The smith did not reach out for any of the components already completed and laid out on the iron wood bench near to his hand. That would have been rude and he was not about to assail the proprieties of the smith’s art. Instead he blew air out of his nostrils to make a disbelieving sort of snort. Ashalan sniffed the air and inspected the smoothed wood of the shaft and the delicate screw that had been made already. Bars of rare and precious ore stood nearby. Etched and smelted runes sat redly on the edge of the rare coals. In truth, there was very little to criticize. “Moradin would serve you better in such things.”
Moradin is doubtless a very fine smith.
“You are the so-called ‘Forge’?”
Jander frowned as he felt a striation in the metal that he did not like. With his thumb he massaged it out and into the heat. He nodded. There are some that would call me that. He admitted. Me for one.
“It is fair work. Not the best. But fair. I do not doubt you make a good pot. But you are a false god. I just wanted you to know that.”
Bull pumped the bellows, sparks did not rise from the blackstone coals. There was no wasted power here, and indeed much of it was being drawn from many places throughout the Empire.
Yes, well. Thank you for your concern. If I offend you than that is not my wish. I have the greatest respect for Al’Macsar. But I can see that my presence in this land disturbs you. I would not be so coarse then as to offer you a drink.
Ashalan nodded and tucked his hands behind his back. For several minutes nothing was said. Jander stared at the spear point, but did not think it sufficiently heated to continue with the edge. He noticed that Ashalan had not left and felt it only polite to mention his observations.
The dwarf agreed that this was so. “You mentioned a drink.” He added. He had entered the Braided Fox as soon as he had reached the city, for a pint of the brown stuff after his long journey. He had to presume that a city famous for its murder had started with the brewers. “Not… local, is it?”
With one foot Jander drew out a small barrel from under his workbench. Gods no. He kicked the wall and three tin cups fell to the bench from a shelf he kept wonky for that very purpose.
*
“Dingy-dong! Master Berry?” In brushed satin, the visiting merchant Matrim opened the door of A Stab In The Back. He knew what it was to have place to live and he appreciated what had been done to the place. In its own little way it rivaled his own enterprise. Rivaled, but not did not eclipse but then they catered to different markets and so were markedly different in so many ways.
He removed his hat, brushing the feathered plumes together subconsciously before tipping it amongst others on the crowded racks by the door. His cloak he left in the same place. He had not worn his sword for it was would have been considered a little out of place in the shop that specialized in knives and daggers.
As shops went, A Stab In The Back made a very good meeting hall. There were people everywhere. The seats that stood beside mirrors were full as customers saw the arrangement of knives either visible or hidden about them as they tried different blades and harness. Many simply sat about and gossiped. There was laughter and the top twelve inches of the shop were thick with pipe smoke. That left Matrim’s head firmly in the haze for most folk in the city were much shorter than he.
Quite the ugliest hag Matrim had ever seen brushed his tunic down with an iron brush. He smiled at her. “Good day to you, are you a troll?”
“I’s Mrs. Berry!”
“My apologies. Is your husband here?”
“E’s been aht forra bit. What’s yer poison?”
“Wine, if you have it?”
“Nah, what’s yer poison?”
Matrim blinked. He pointed to a bottle of the Bockley’s Old Number Twelve Blade Liniment. Just so as not to make more of a tool of himself than he had already. People looked at him but not with hostility and a number there were dressed as grandly as he. If somewhat more restrained in their choice of colour. Matrim found a seat and smoothed out his tights as he set himself amongst the better sort of patron. He had rather been relying on Sire Berry being there, but if such was not to be then at least he could talk taverns.
There was from without a soft detonation. No one mentioned it. Or the sounds of fighting in the city. So neither did Matrim.
“Are you here for the wedding, sir.” An elderly man asked from across a table nearby.
“I, sir? No, sir. Not directly. I have merely supplied certain consumables. Trade.” He shrugged off the matter. He introduced himself.
The man, in turn, returned the favour. “Patronis Lock.” He frowned. “The Fare Thee Well?” Matrim admitted that this was so. “I myself own the Braided Fox, and the Sought For in the Poison Quarter. Perhaps, sir, we might speak of business? I have heard something of your brewing?”
In response Matrim took from his tunic a sampler bottle. A brass tasting cup was produced by the other man. Outside someone ran by, on fire.
*
Cheapside was clogged with smoke as scores of fires showed where fighting had been seen over the last three nights. What had started the sudden eruption of violence was difficult to say though who had come out on top was less difficult to discern. At least, when the occupier of the small alchemists stepped into the street it was abundantly clear that the name being foisted about the jumbled Quarter was ‘Blackjack’.
There was not so very much fighting going on anymore that the Deci Thugs and their more shadowy brethren could not stamp hard on what remained. It had taken all of them to do it and they had reacted quickly when the fighting had risen. Coming from every Quarter in the city the brutes employed by the city as their ‘Watch’ had fought fire with fire, showing the gangs what a real gang was like. They had stomped and beaten and even cut down those that had not fled as they came to every street, lane and alleyway.
Now, only two places remained outside of their immediate control. The little row of neat shops that stood incongruously along what was almost a proper street and the pile of shacks, garrets and tenements that were Blackjack’s. Part of that turf had collapsed in the night, leaving behind the stump of a tower and from which could still be heard the sounds of laughter and celebration.
Two of the thugs raised a hand to Trevelleyn as he came into the Quarter. They got out of his way when they were told, sternly, to ‘stop being stupid’. The man ran a potion and drinking place up in Hightown and had influence. Much of that showed itself in the ghouls that snuffled about the shadows and the nastier examples of the city’s beggars that went before him.
Cheapside was a mess. But then it always had been and even the fires and destruction were little more than a graze on the city’s knee. Bits fell down to reveal older bits, rubble was already being thieved to repair people’s turfs and dwellings. The wood was so old it was harder than stone anyway and Trevelleyn almost laughed when he passed one burning hovel, people there were warming themselves at the blaze against the cold and falling snow. As always in Deci, the snow was filthy stuff, falling as it did through the constant smog that hung over the city from its mines, foundries and other stinking industry. His feet told him that there had been, briefly, a series of decent roadways laid here but they had been swallowed wetly by the Quarter. They were still there, but so covered in filth, wet ash and brown snow that no one really noticed.
“You with the Council?” One of the battered thugs called after Trevelleyn.
“No.”
“Right.” The thug called back but made no move to do anything further. Half the Empire’s adventurers seemed to come from Deci. What passed for a Watch here could sniff a bad one out at ten yards.
Trevelleyn wandered Cheapside, finding his way through an area he knew well. It had more miles of lane and alley than half the cities of the Empire and it gave scribes a headache when they tried to perceive it. But he knew the way to go and so in less than fifteen minutes he came to where the celebrations were being made by men and women well pleased with themselves.
“You!” He shouted at a red-haired figure.
The man wandered over in a thingyy sort of way. He winked at Trevelleyn. “Wotcha, boss.”
“Who’s the big cheese here?”
“King Blackjack, Fell Orc of Darkness and Chief Snouter, Rooter and Butcher of Old Cheapside Town.”
“Where is he?”
“Pissed. You want a word, boss?”
“Marmalade!” A gruff voice bellowed over the cheer and smoke. “Marmalade, where’s me bloody cup been and gone and been?”
“This way, boss.” The man, Marmalade, winked again and led the way.
*
Beasts came to lurk on the fringes of the Shedeff. The Gremlin was obscured by a thick bank of fog and they might have been removed entirely from a land where the foul stink of the city pervaded. They began to howl, growl or call according to their nature until the sound of their cacophony reached across the river and into the dead wastes of Deci beyond.
*
King Blackjack, Fell Orc of Darkness and Chief Snouter, Rooter and Butcher of Old Cheapside Town was kicking at a lump of stone. He had been drunk for months now. He had been very well behaved for all that time, relatively speaking, as a favour to the Council. But as the year had started to die others had taken that for weakness. They had been attacked! Not by any of the great gangs but by some conglomeration of the little ones. All led and forged together by a meaty looking man that had downed droves of Blackjack’s followers with fists as large as a young man’s head.
When Blackjack, Marmalade and a few others had charged him down the bulky fellow had vanished into the shadows and not been seen again. But the damage had been done, the fighting had spread and though King Blackjack, Fell Orc of Darkness and Chief Snouter, Rooter and Butcher of Old Cheapside Town had started off fighting in defence the Quarter had fallen to chaos and confusion. Everyone had been drawn in. The Great Gangs had been hammered, mostly be each other. Hours before and he and Marmalade had caught the Rooftails running through his turf. Now they were significantly weaker, and broken.
On his head, King Blackjack, Fell Orc of Darkness and Chief Snouter, Rooter and Butcher of Old Cheapside Town wore a parchment crown. He also had some decent woodshine in a series of leather bottles about his neck. He took a chug from one, emptying it. Somewhere there was a big gold cup, but he had dropped it when punching a wall.
He was right on the edges of Cheapside now and the row of filthy, ancient tenements there were now less than rubble. Apart from their outermost walls, which were a good four foot thick.
“Blackjack?” Marmalade called. The orc turned and grinned broadly at the smaller man. Marmalade tossed him his thought-lost gold cup. Blackjack frowned when he saw the stocky fellow that his henchman had brought to see him. “Dis der law?”
“No, I’m just an interested citizen.” He looked about the street. The wall that Blackjack was kicking looked suspiciously like the remnants of an old fortification to him. “What happened?”
King Blackjack, Fell Orc of Darkness and Chief Snouter, Rooter and Butcher of Old Cheapside Town looked at Marmalade. Marmalade shrugged. So they told their visitor about recent events. Trevelleyn cursed. “Problem den, big boy?”
“Not as such. I had cause to enact certain rites and got a certain name. That name had cropped up a number of times. Do either of you know a ‘Sammy Haymaker’?”
Blackjack gave the matter some thought. “Dere’s a Milly Bedwetter over Muddy Starfish Lane. Dat who yer lookin’ fer?”
“If she big, nasty and punches people?”
“Not really.” Marmalade admitted.
“Then no, that is not whom I seek. You know that you’re the biggest gang in Cheapside now?”
King Blackjack, Fell Orc of Darkness and Chief Snouter, Rooter and Butcher of Old Cheapside Town turned with a growl and let out a whistle to summon the lads and lasses. “Dat some sort of problem, big boy?”
Trevelleyn sighed. “Just play nice. And don’t go messing with the alchemists place down on the Row.”
“Der Tamary place? ‘Course not. You fink I’m fick?” Blackjack scratched himself under one armpit. The fighting had revealed fragments of the old city, when Cheapside had been Deci. And it was his, all his. He farted. “Oy, Marmalde. Where’d dat funny lad go?”
Trevelleyn had indeed vanished.
“Who cares, oh King Blackjack, Fell Orc of Darkness and Chief Snouter, Rooter and Butcher of Old Cheapside Town?”
“Bit poncy, s’wall.”
*
There was an alarming lack of help on the steps of the Cathedral. It was an impressive structure, the dome shaped to resemble the coils of a vast snake and the motif carried over to the pillars and nigh on every flat surface of the building. It stretched for a hundred yards or more to either side of the entrance and there Talath Majius, the Baron Throttle, stood and spoke to the guests as they arrived. They came from the city in small groups, and there were not so very many of them that his task was made the harder for it. Indeed, few if any had come from outside the city. There was a ripe suspicion that being invited to Deci at the time of the Final Dawn was just a little… convenient.
About his boots a tumbling serpent knot fell smoothly from step to step. Since the Cathedral had been established snakes had taken over the city. There had still been rats until a week or two ago, he had heard, but even the last of them had been eaten by the serpents. Now snakes occupied that tier of the food chain.
It was all to do with faith, he supposed. Something else that occupied his thoughts as Lord Claugh and a dozen scions of the Claugh’s climbed towards him. He let his thought flick out and over them but not too deep. He had to be careful with the local Nobility. Faith. There was some sort of faith being held in ‘Majius’. He was no ritualist and never would be, but he supposed that such could be used by any member of House who could for whatever rite they chose. He looked over his shoulder and nodded to some of the shadowy figures from the Spire that were watching things within.
It took an hour for the notables to be assembled and then there came a clatter of hooves as the groom’s carriage drew up below. Talath checked over his tunic, hose and cloak. All was as it should be.
He managed a smile as Troy stepped from the carriage and hurried up the steps. “Is she here?” He whispered.
“I am sure she will be.” Talath assured him. He led his elder into the Cathedral and the doors shut with a soft sound behind them.
*
The halls and corridors of the Silversmith’s were dreadfully silent as Twirl walked in the wake of the tall man that had received him. A pair of roustabouts grunted as they carried the chest between the Guildsman and the wizard, and even in the dim lights allowed in the Guild their eyes were bright and fearful.
Even Twirl felt some trepidation as he crossed floors made from old and recovered tiles, through doorways taken from one salvaged ruin or another, and along passageways paneled in wood and silver whose arrangement did not sit easily on the eye. All the time he had been in the Guild Hall he had not so far seen another soul.
“Where is everybody?” He asked in a whisper.
The Guildsman answered but ignored the question. “It is right that you should witness the art that we have wrought here. It is right that these commoners should speak of what we have done.”
“But where is everybody?”
“Tell me, have you heard of Cragholm?”
“Why?”
“Have you?”
Twirl too could play the obtuse-answer game. “I wish only that you inspect this chest.” But there the conversation, such as it had been, faltered. The Guildsman took out a series of keys from within his robe and used one to open a door. It was just one of many in the corridor, all different and all taken from various diverse place. This was arched at the top. The Guildsman stepped back and indicated that Twirl should enter. He followed only when all the visitors were within, shutting the door and locking it once more behind them.
The chest was placed on a worn looking table and the Guildsman opened a cabinet. From this he selected a number of tools, bringing them to where a lantern already burned by the chest. The silver of the tools reflected the lantern light upon the silver of the mask that covered their hosts face. For a while he tapped and inspected. At length he took up a sealed pot and broke the lead that covered its mouth. The ink he took from within smelt strong of old earth. A complex symbol was etched on the chests lid. “You may inspect the contents now.” He suggested.
Carefully Twirl broke the box lid open a crack. He grinned as he peered inside. Before the roustabouts could see also he closed the chest with an audible crack. “Excellent.” He whispered.
“It would be best if you now left.” The Guildsman said, replacing his tools and opening the door to the small chamber. He stood to one side and Twirl ordered his helpers to pick up the chest once again. They waked back the way they had come and now Twirl was aware of more distant sounds, a humming only as such words present were reduced by distance and the muffling of wall and door.
They came once more to the entrance of the Guild and their host waited for the chest to be taken into the square outside. He placed one hand on Twirl’s shoulder. The wizard turned with a frown and his hands twitched for his magic. Just in case. “What is it?” He demanded. “You wish payment?”
“Indeed. Be so good as to remain in the square until the year has died. That will be sufficient. And our gratitude delivered to Anath, if you would be so kind? We might never have achieved what Amora prevented if not for he.”
Twirl sighed and told the roustabouts to set the chest down. They did so quickly, eager to be away. Twirl sat on the chest, crossed his arms, and stared up at the heavens above. He could see nothing of the stars beyond the filthy smog of the city and the snow that now fell to stain his clothing. Shivering, he pulled up his hood and waited.
*
The Cathedral was not crowded. Indeed, with the local Nobility and most of the Guild Sires in residence there was more than enough room for the likes of Anath and Ashalan. It was dark enough within to resemble a summers evening and despite the season, just as warm. The Dragon loomed over them, sinuous and beautiful despite its serpentine form and most of the icons that ran about the dome and the people standing beneath were of serpents. Mostly entwined with people in various states of carve ecstasy.
But time was getting on and so far there was no sign of the bride. Troy was growing worried, Anath impatient. The year was growing old and it would be inauspicious for the wedding to miss the point of death and darkness.
“I will see what is keeping her.” Talath promised and slipped away.
*
The citadel was nearly deserted, the scribes chambers and other foundations of rulership similarly barren. A floorboard creaked. Skirting bent and warped. A crack appeared. A nose poked free and sniffed the damp air. With some caution the Mouse Lord pulled himself into the room through the crack, one which was far too small to allow his passage.
Nonetheless, he stood in the darkened gloom of part of the bureaucratic chambers. Near by and quills scratched on unrolling parchment. No one was actually there other than he, yet still the quills scrawled. He peered at the marks on the unfolding rolls but none of it made any sense to him. So he pulled his cat skin cloak about himself and went to the fireplace. No fire had been lit there for as long as the scribes had been resident. They did not concern themselves with such things. Still there was a heap of wood ash in the grate, so old that it lay in a single lump.
It was dangerous work this. His passage here would be noticed when his work was complete. That could not be helped.
He was the Mouse Lord and he could slip through the walls of any house. He was the Mouse Lord and where there were scribes then the walls went a very long way indeed. He was not a bad sort of person. He was indeed thankful that no scribe had elected to work over the night of the ‘Dawn. That might have led to violence, however quiet, and the Mouse Lord abhorred such brutish things. It had not always been so, but then nor had so many things.
The chimney was not very large but it would join with others. He twitched his nose, licked each hand and reached up into the flue. Slowly he let his arm follow, turned his head so it might likewise too, and then only his hips and legs remained in the room. Then they too were lost to view.
There were few cats in Deci, so he liked Deci.
The snakes had eaten them all.
*
The High Priest, dressed in his formal hood and serpentine mask seemed entirely nonplussed by the proceedings. He stood, perfectly at rest with one hand on his hip. The other he inspected carefully for signs of dirt under his nails. Troy had taken to walking about the circle that center the Cathedral and muttering under his breath. The acoustics of the dome however ensured that everyone heard his curses with awkward clarity.
Anath was not a man given to trusting to fate. There had already been a number of blesses in the poison pot over the last few days. He looked about the Cathedral but the gloom leant him no great insight into what was going on. He was half expecting Argoth to turn up and kill them, just in passing as it were.
“The union must be made.” The High Priest said. His voice made the words with difficulty, more used as it was to the tongue of snake and dragon. There was steel there too and Anath tried to catch Troy’s elbow as the bigger man swept by. “There shall be all manner of horror,” the priest continued with a slight lisp, “and… beastliness, otherwise.”
“Quiet.” Troy snapped.
“You shall not profane the place of the Dragon with your vibrant and manly words.” Threatened the priest. Anath frowned, but Troy drew his attention. Lord Majius had a knife in his hand and looked about to explain a few things to the priest, who in response began to intone a sharp and sibilant prayer to what, they had to suppose, was the Dragon.
The great doors opened and there Talath stood with a bundle in his arms. There was an uproar, both sudden and savage. The small crowd leapt to its feet and several of them fell over one another. A punch was thrown, then another and for no readily clear reason steel was drawn! Two of the Guild Sires went for one another until two of the Spire’s dangerous employees materialized about them. Quietly they were removed from both consciousness and the immediate area and Anath watched, lips pursed, as the younger Majius was forced to pick his way to where an astonished Troy stood open mouthed.
The High Priest, in the full throes of his task, continued with his chanting and seemingly oblivious to what was going on as Talath lowered Berina Hadensford to the floor. She was a mess of swelling and streaks of blood, though much of it had been washed clear by Talath as he had sought to see the extent of his wounds.
Troy seemed to turn to stone. “Who?” He demanded. The ruckus stopped. “WHO!”
“She is not dead.” Talath promised him. It sounded a little weak for if Berina was not dead then she had received a severe beating. Her face was so swollen it was hard to tell if it was her at all. “I found her.” On one hand a ring had been half torn from her finger. “Perhaps, Argoth?”
“He would have killed her. Not beaten her.” Anath pointed out.
There was a deep cough. Ashalan pushed through the circle of people that had come close to see Berina. He demanded they step back and with Troy thinking only of blood it fell to Talath to see that the order was carried out. The visitor from Al’Macsar coughed at the scents of the Cathedral. “I can do nothing here.”
“We have but a little time remaining.” Said Anath sharply.
“I can do nothing here.” Ashalan snapped back. It was Talath who shouted at the gathered guests to stand aside once more. He bade Ashalan follow and the dwarf picked up Berina in stronger arms. They hurried from the Cathedral.
“Stop!” The High Priest demanded. “You must return.” He stamped his foot. “Do you have any idea how long it takes to make this sort of hideous regalia match?”
But the crowd was following Ashalan. All but Anath. The priest looked at Anath. Anath looked at the priest.
“I am sure the Dragon will forgive us?” The Finance Minister asked. He knew what the Cathedral had cost. If the serpent faith did not like what was going on then he would happily forward them the bill.
“No, no, no! You simply must return. Right now. Oh, love the skull cap by the way, sweetie.”
Anath knew he had to follow the procession before worse things happened. He spared one last look at the High Priest then left him to his fluster. Later, and he would be one of the first to find the fellow beaten and bound in his chambers and with no knowledge of any of this at all. But that was later, and for now Anath had maintain a dignified run if he was to catch up with the wedding.
*
The trader was not a young man and he had achieved that astonishing feat by not acting like an idiot when a seven-foot orc told him not to do something. His wagon held ore he had gained, in part, from the markets. Deci’s markets were mostly for show anyway. At least as far as the traders were concerned, and they were still wary of the place anyway. Still, as the snow fell on his wagon he was happy to pack his pipe and leave his crossbow under its oilcloth cover.
He did try his hand a little though. Given that a mile back along the pass he had seen Trotter Bile and most of his horrible followers hung from the stunted trees hereabouts. He had no love for the man, but he wouldn’t have wished what had come to the brigand to anyone. The brigands had been gutted by some sort of big claw and like all those killed they had been naked from the waist down. It might have been orc work, but most likely not. The dead had not been eaten. In the traders experience it looked like rivals making a point.
“So, is there anything stopping me leaving? Only, I can see that this is a blockade. But, I’m going the other way?”
The orc screwed its face up and put thoughts of smashing the traders head to ruination to one side for the moment. He would only get into trouble. And the whole point of being part of the Hird was to avoid that sort of thing. “Dunno, ‘ang on.”
The trader nodded. He did not see any gold on the orc and there had been chests cracked open on the road. Trotter had bought up gold as a means to keep his wealth. Proper ornaments and armrings too, not the raw ore. Minutes later and a smaller orc came along in the company of twenty or so others.
“Owright dere?”
The trader nodded. “Is there some sort of, ahem, tithe I have to pay?”
“Don’t be daft old man, we ain’t robbin’ no one. But nothink gets ter Deci along the path.”
The trader explained once again that he was going the other way. He even mentioned how brigands had been killed and robbed. The smaller orc did not seem to care.
“Ain’t our business wot happens that side’a the border. ” He thought for a moment. There was nothing in their orders about stopping people leaving Deci. And from what the bloody goblins were saying, who could blame them? “G’wan then, off yer go granddad.”
The trader thanked the orcs and urged his oxen onwards. He wanted to get to Gothiel ahead of the really bad weather.
*
Lady Berina Hadensford and Lord Troy Majius were married in the streets of Deci and not so very far from Jander’s Forge. So close to the end of the year Ashalan had been frustrated in his attempts to heal Berina and did not like to think what might have happened had he not been there. She had received such a savage beating that whilst she had not been close to death, she had been the next best thing.
They were married in Moradin’s name, which might have been unusual but Troy and Ashalan were old friends. The happy couple walked arm in arm through the streets and word spread. Every street they passed people came out to cheer them, or just to slap a back and pass on good wishes. The shadowy men and women from the Spire fretted alarmingly and Talath was breathing heavily, holding his head from his own defensive efforts by the time they returned to the Cathedral.
Half the city seemed to be awaiting them. Lewd comments were thrown at Troy and the Governor, good-naturedly took them all well enough as he passed amongst his people and thence to the step. He mounted them slowly, raising his hand as cheers and whistles rose and at length managed to gain some measure of silence.
“Friends, I thank you all for sharing with my happiness. Our union here is one that has faced the worst it could and survived. But as the year dies about us let us think of the Empire of which we are a part, and give thanks that under the Empresses enlightened word we have peace in which to enjoy such happiness.” Troy turned to Talath and the younger scion of House Majius approached with a cushion handed him by Anath. It was of course black and tasseled in new silk. Upon it lay an old crown. Troy took it in both hands and slowly set it upon his forehead. It seemed to fit him perfectly. “And so with that in mind, I declare myself King of Deci!”
The crowd roared, even Anath managed a small smile. Then like the unseen stars above their heads the jubilation winked and died out as a black cloud leaked about the Cathedral. In the it took for a figure to step free of the black mist only Troy remained seemingly oblivious to it.
For Argoth had come.
He sneered. The crowd all looked at their feet, the smog clouded sky and indeed anywhere else than to the events they dreaded were unfolding before them. No one made to move away. Everyone feared to be the first.
Do you play card, Troy..? Argoth whispered. Nonetheless his words carried about the city.
The King of Deci turned and stared down his nose at the interloper. “Yes. Is that a challenge?”
There is always a card that beats a King, Troy. You might be the King, but I am the Ace. I will allow you to play with your crown but I am the god here. Remember that
“You think to bully me, Argoth?”
On your knees, Troy.
The King struggled. “No.” He hissed back. Sweat broke down his face despite the cold.
Argoth laughed. Anath coughed and raised a finger as if to interject but someone nearby let a knife touch his throat. Say anything Halfblack, and I’ll kill you. Think anything too loudly Halfblack, and I’ll kill you. Argoth promised. In fact Anath, you’re going to have to work very hard right now for me not to kill you. He turned to the city. People of Deci, a storm is coming. And we should be prepared for it, and we shall survive no matter what the Empire, he nodded at Troy, tries to do to us. Stick together my children, we are one.
“I will not kneel to you, fiend.” Troy said. Anath’s eyes widened. Troy’s eye’s widened. “I am King here. You are nothing but a…” He fell to the ground as if his legs had been cut out from under him. The Murder was before him, there without anything so mundane as actually moving. Talath took a step forward and three arrows slapped the cobbles between his feet.
That’s one chance King Ma-ji-arse. One. See how nice I am?
“I defy you. Do your worst.” Troy seemed to choke on the words, his throat tight.
Hush now, Argoth whispered, darkness comes. It would upset me to think that you would miss it. There was a roar as Ashalan came through the crowd to rescue his friend. Argoth crinkled his brow and the visitor vanished.
King Deci was allowed to stagger to his feet.
Eh, King? The Murder said. The year died. Primus saw. Primus heard.
*
He had no way of knowing what the time was or even the hour. Twirl was cold and a little hungry and felt there were doubtless any number of little celebrations going on that he was probably missing. He looked about the square made up of the wings of the Guild. Tall, narrow and oddly jumbled he could have easily mistaken them for several different buildings had he not known better.
There were no windows that he could see, but between the cracks in the stone and wood he spied now a thin silver light. It rose until the square seemed covered in an angular web of light. Then it was gone.
The door to the Guild now hung battered and decayed on its hinges. Still with one eye on his chest he hurried up the steps to peer inside. There was nothing to be seen but a hollow shell. The floorboards were old and rotten, the brickwork crumbling and fragile. It looked as if the building had not been inhabited for years and already snow and ash was falling through a roof that was rent with holes.
“Hello?” He called.
There was no answer.
*
The affairs of the night were of no concern to the Forge. The first light of the reborn year leaked over the city wall and touched the tip of the weapon he held aloft in his left hand. Trollsville wood, Deci ore, new moon silver and more had been wrought into the war spear with skill and care and sweat, an alloy of primal force quenched in the soul of a demi-god.
The first of the Dawn Blades caught the weak sun.
I name you Foe Bane! Jander shouted to the empty city streets.
And so it was.
By Alan Morgan (CI9V2)