Crossroads
It is said, for there is no Memory of this carved on Aul’Domn, that Sorcerer Yskherdos was considered dead before his Hall opened from the inside. Surrounded he was by the people called W’adrhŭn and the Tall Men of the North and yet he drew no blade and forged no power, only he spoke to one of them; only one. How he spoke to him, it is not said, but long they spoke, ignoring the battle around them, as the Dweghom force attacked once more.
Exhausted and meek on this, the third of battles in a single night, the W’ahrŭn and the Nords could not hope to repel the attack. They did not have to. Without a word, Yskherdos nodded to the man he was talking to, then got up and walked back in his tomb. From there, he returned – and the first time a Stone Forged was witnessed on the face of Ea, its creator on its shoulders as if on a tamed, untoothed beast, no Mnemancer was there to record it. Futile were all efforts of the Dweghom warriors to find a Memory of such a thing. And, in the absence of it, in the presence of this unseen-before behemoth, this incarnation of Yskherdos’ might and Dweghom potential, the battle ceased and the Dweghom, without question, followed. They followed as Yskherdos spoke and they followed as Yskherdos, dismounted and resumed his seat before the W’adrhŭn Cuatal.
Three days the two men talked – in what manner, no one knew, for no one dared to go close to the guardian Stone Forged. And on the forth day, the got up, nodded to each other, and left, each leading their people away from the shattered tomb. Only the Nords were left behind, their search for treasure as futile as their understanding of events was hollow.
It is not known whether the two would ever meet again. But both the Dweghom and the W’adrhŭn remember what followed. For after their three days of singing metal to each other, both the Steelshaper and War Scion changed their people forever.
View on the Living World!
Prelude
It is said, for there is no Memory of this carved on Aul’Domn, that Sorcerer Yskherdos was considered the successor to Dhinsha, founder of her Clan. It is said that his sorcerous might was, in fact, often regarded as even greater than that of his predecessor and he was considered head of the Tempered Creed by the Aghm gained through his sorcerous achievements soon after his initiation was complete.
True to his interpretation of Aul’Domn’s cryptic Founding Memory, ‘Metal Bends,’ Yskherdos never sought to eradicate the Ardent or dethrone a single Raegh, instead acting as the de facto leader of the entire Hold. Under his leadership, the might of the Ardent was forged in strong steel in Aul’Domn and few dared to doubt or challenge it.
It is said that Sorcerer Yskherdos was the first Steelmancer of Aul’Domn, paving the way for three more to follow after his time. New alloys were presented and designs of work Automata and forges were made for the Hold, raising Aul’Domn’s production and expansion to an unprecedented pace. His grafts ensured for his Sorcerers unprecedented control over their elements, while his designs could have prolonged the life expectancy of Ardent fanatics, had they chosen to accept his offer. The Steelmancer then suddenly retreated, as is his kind’s way, and the Hold of Aul’Domn went on without his guidance. Eventually, after the Reigns of Raeghs Kholdin, Gashkea and Imdhos, Yskherdos returned, presenting a new design for an Automaton of war; an achievement which provoked the Ardent Kerawegh Odghya into challenging him.
It is said that Steelmancer Yskherdos accepted the challenge and declared that he would meet his enemies under the sky and outside the hallowed halls of Aul’Domn. Certain that he would deploy his Automaton prototype, Odghya brought the most fervent and gifted of her following. It is said, however, that Yskherdos stood alone before the Kerawegh’s chosen in the place that would be called the Field of Stone and Ash. It is said that the grafts and mastery of the Ardent over their elements failed them as they charged, and they were consumed, pools of cinders and ash along with misshapen rocks adorning the field, where they stood but moments ago. It is said that Odghya yielded and his victory was swift; as was his death soon after, spent by the power he wielded.
Having witnessed the deed, the Mnemancers declared that he was to be sealed there and the Hold complied. Of his enemies, the ashes were gathered and sealed in towers along with his Automaton prototype, while the petrified remains were sculpted into altars to Yshkerdos’ Memories. Finally, the very walls of his living hall in Aul’Domn were carved out and transferred, and a tomb was erected around the place where he fell. It is said that the Tomb of Steel was sealed as befitted his Aghm and the Memory of Stone and Ash was carved on it; but not on the Halls of Aul’Domn and no Duty was assigned to guard the tomb, the Memory of him alone ever guarding his own remains.
None, thus, Remember how the world changed and the Tomb of Steel was lost under the dusts of the Wastelands. Yet, its rediscovery would be soon Remembered by all.
Three forces are near the area. Who will find the Tomb of Steel first?
Choices
- The Nords
- The W’adrhŭn
- The Dweghom
Chapter 1
“This is the thirteenth night the metal suffers under your hammer, Cuatal.”
He gritted his teeth at the insult but did not answer. One had to make allowances to a tribe’s mistress. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the piece of iron before him. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. The hammer kept falling, the iron twisting and denting aimlessly under his usually skillful hands. Aatta sighed.
“It is also the thirteenth morning I had to listen to the tribe’s complaints about not sleeping.”
He paused for the first time but did not turn to face her, swiping his forehead with the bear back of his forearm, then, in a soft, mechanical gesture, rubbed his pierced ears. “One has to wonder then, Mistress, how your people will fare when we reach the Forge,” he said with a sigh as he caught his breath, then looked up in the distance, his eyes wistful and eager.
It was hardly past dawn, the ashen sun in the east painting the world in faded gold, and already the fumes of the Forge could be seen in the northern sky, dozens of rivers of smoke uniting into a dark haze that loomed over the horizon and a smile half-creeped its way across his lips. “Endless is the work of metal there, and endless are the labors of my Cult,” he said softly. “Day and night, the forges do not sleep, only they offer worship to the Lady and the memory of the Prime. Metal sings its song at all times, the heavy tone of steel and the cheerful notes of bronze forging a melody of might, a paean, a battle-hymn without equal across this world.”
His voice died out for a moment before his eyes hardened and he looked down once more to resume his work; the cacophony of his angry hammering soon resumed, contradicting the awe his words had betrayed just moments ago. “If the Tecuani have trouble sleeping with the sound of one forge, perhaps they should not aim for my cult’s camp,” he snapped.
“I understand,” she said calmly. “But I am sure they work the metal and that is a sound my people respect. What you do, good Cuatal, sounds more like interrogating than working.”
He paused his hand midair, hammer in hand, and his head snapped to face her; but his angry scowl soothed as he saw her teasing smile and soothing eyes. After a moment’s thought, he put down his hammer and looked at the misshapen piece his anger had forged. The woman, he thought, was wiser than he had first believed.
“I believe I have gotten as much as can be shared out of this,” he said simply in the end, his hand resting over the hammer for a moment, before picking up a rug to wipe his smudged hands, as he leaned against the tent’s pole.
“Are your dreams still plagued, Scion?” she asked. He nodded, then shrugged.
“It is what it is,” he said. “I thank you for your interest, Mistress, but such matters are my own and should be of no burden to you. I am not of the Tecuani.”
“You are, of course, correct,” she commented, nodding. “Your troubles are your own. To be called by voices unseen, to be chasing in darkness, to be forging water… Such dreams betray uneasiness, unrest. They stem from within, an unrest of the soul that the body is forced to share.”
Once more he sought refuge in silence, his eyes fixed on the hazy skies above the Forge in the distance.
“Perhaps the questions you ask bring more torment than wisdom,” she said softly. “Perhaps you should try and…”
“Metal is our prayer,” he said quietly but surely, unyieldingly. “That is what the Uk-… That is what we are taught. But we are also told that it reflects our soul. When one forges and hammers, one steels themselves. But if it is a thing unliving, how can it carry prayers? If it is a thing unliving, how can it reflect our soul? If it is a thing unliving, why did you say I am interrogating it, as if it had knowledge to instill, secrets to share, kept from me – from us! – as if a living soul?”
“Perhaps it was you you were interrogating, good Cuatal,” she said kindly.
“Perhaps,” he said but his voice did not believe it.
“Mistress!”
The call had both turn, as the shout seemed urgent and demanding attention. The rider reigned her raptor in, and jumped even as if it was still coming to a stop. With a nod to both, she went on.
“The Elders call for you, Mistress,” she said. “And you, Scion, of course,” she added with some reluctancy. “There was a thing in the Wastelands, shaped stones, unearthed by a storm, two days east from here.”
“Dead ones? This far?” she asked surprised.
“There are no ruins so near the Forge,” Cuatal said with a questioning look. “Weird rock formations, perhaps?
“I have seen them,” the scout snapped, pointing with two fingers at her own eyes. “Only the tops were exposed so we dug to see. These are carved and shaped structures under the dirt. But they are not like any ruins of dead ones we have seen before, that much is true.”
“We must alert the Forge,” Aatta said, turning to Cuatal. “If the tales the Ivory Tithe have shared are correct, then more dead ones awake of late, far from their lands.”
He almost agreed. Almost. Instead, he retreated into silence once more, his eyes turning east.
“Perhaps, Mistress,” he said in the end, “the Tecuani could investigate before we report to my Cult.”
“The Tribe needs rest and metal, good Cuatal,” she shook her head. “I cannot have them all divert.”
“Give me some Braves and Speakers then,” he retorted, “and I will see for myself.” Aatta looked at the rider.
“A handful we can spare, no more,” she said. “Would you not want the force your Cult could provide, Scion?” she challenged.
“It is your call, Cuatal,” the Mistress said. “I am sure the council would not object either way.”
He did not answer. His eyes fixed in the east, he wavered between caution and eagerness.
Thirteen nights he had dreamed of being called by voices unseen, of chasing ghosts in the darkness, of forging without end and result what turned out to be water. And the voices came from the east. His chase in darkness – he knew – took him east. And as the shapeless water run from his anvil, ever did it run to the east.
Choice
- “I will take what you can give me.” – Cuatal will give in to eagerness and will seek the ruins, accompanied only by a scouting force.
- “I will report this to the Forge.” – Cuatal will delay in favor of caution, taking a proper force from the Forge.
Chapter 2
“A silence reigns over this place.”
Speaker Bhokali spoke in but a whisper, her eyes fixed on the carved stone before them, her hand gently caressing her raptor’s neck reassuringly. Standing next to them on top of the small hill, Cuatal kept looking at it himself, instinctively doubting the Speaker’s words but knowing better than to voice his reservations.
“I have heard Speakers say the same of Dead Ones’ ruins,” he said, turning to look at her. “If I am honest, I had always wondered if it was a trick of the mind or heart on the ears, more than a quality of the places themselves.” She shook her head.
“Voices are hollow in ruins; muffled, distant, numb,” she said matter-of-factly. “This is different. This place whispers, as if cautious not to break the silence,” Bhokali replied, her hand ever on her raptor’s neck. “Ba’tiya feels it too,” she went on. “Do you know what it is?”
He did not answer immediately. Focusing once more on the exposed carved stone before him, he knelt to examine it closer. It was one of a few, he was certain. Only one beyond this one had exposed their secret, revealing worked stone; the rest – another, smaller hill, and a handful of pillars – remained covered by stone and calcified dirt but their true nature had become apparent once one had been revealed. His hand tracing the markings on the stone before him, he wondered on the meaning of their symbols – and their presence here.
“This is of Dweghom making,” he said absentmindedly in the end, remembering her question.
“The Warsouls?” Bhokali exclaimed, surprised. He nodded. “I thought their dwellings could be found only in the mountains,” she went on, a hint of tenseness in her voice.
“It is too small to be a dwelling,” he said, “unless all this is but the very top.” Bhokali swallowed nervously, as he went on. “Sometimes they raised outposts, during their campaigns, or watchtowers. There are ruins of a few, left there during the Bloody Dawn it is said. I have seen one in Huenantli, claimed by the jungle but this seems different. Almost… ceremonial. Two mounts and a handful of pillars or altars. I have never seen or heard of its like I know no tale that speaks of them as spiritual or ceremonial enough for something like this – much less so under the sky.”
“Two mounts?” she asked. He motioned towards the second, smaller hill and she nodded before she asked more. “How long do you think it has been here?”
“It is hard to tell,” he said. “Before the Bloody Dawn, I’d say, but how far back before that, I cannot say.”
“Then how come none have seen it before?” she asked with furrowed brows. “It is on no Path but this close to the Forge… This can’t be the first time a storm scrapes off its top.”
“Yes…” he muttered, more to himself perhaps than to her. “The land here cannot move under storms, like the deserts in the east. Hills and mounts do not rise and fall in but a night. Months and years, certainly, and this is here longer so perhaps…” He paused, scrapping off with effort more calcified dirt from the stone. “It is strange… It is as if the stone below gathers the dirt around it. Some metals, when hit or handled in certain ways, can attract others. This is similar but I have never heard of stone behaving like it. Very strange indeed…”
“You speak with little meaning, good Cuatal,” Bhokali said. He chuckled as he got up, dusting his palms against his legs and looking at her with a smile. He felt renewed, as if the weight of his restless nights had been lifted.
“Well, now you know how it feels when you speak of the voices in ruins,” he teased her and she managed a smile.
“What would you have us do, then?”
“This merits for more investigation, for certain,” he said quickly, and she nodded.
“Do we ride back to bring your Cult then?”
He shook his head, saying “No, no. I won’t leave this place yet. But send a rider to the Forge, nonetheless.”
“So, we stay,” she said, trying not to betray her disagreement. “There are still some hours of light to use,” she went on, eyes turning west. “My people could use a rest, but we could dig up some more for you to examine before we set up camp. Or we could use the time to dig some defenses instead. We’re near enough to the Forge for other Clans to be roaming but not close enough to enjoy its protection.”
Choice
- “Start digging.” – Cuatal will begin the excavation immediately, having material to examine during the night.
- “Secure the find.” – Cuatal will ensure an established position before beginning work the next day.
Chapter 3
The three whistling calls pierced his dreams and ears alike, like a knife stabbing through the sand. Startled in his sleep, he listened as hushed voices came from all around his small tent. Little more than calls of night birds to any non-W’adrhŭn, the signal was as strange to hear as its message was clear: enemies approaching, not of the Goddess.
No! Dweghom? he thought and he jumped up, adrenaline pumping in his well-formed muscles as his heart started racing. Grabbing his sword and covering his modesty, he opened his tent’s flap and crawled out, as hunters and braves equipped themselves, making little more noise than ghosts. Those ready, he noticed, were taking positions facing west. Towards the mountains, he thought with a shiver. He was no coward, but the legendary enemy of the Bloody Dawn was no threat to take lightly – if it really was there. Reading his expression, Bhokali rushed to his side and whispered:
“Northmen, we think,” she said. He frowned.
“What could Northmen be doing here?” he asked with furrowed eyebrows but Bhokali simply shrugged.
“Sometimes they venture deeper inland,” she said nonchalantly, as she led him to the west side of the camp and pointed to the torches in the distance. Usually near the lands of the Dead, though, seeking their treasures. But these came not from the shores north. They must have just crossed the mountains. Or they could have come from the land of Frozen Waters, I guess. Whichever it is, they will be here tomorrow.”
“They are not moving?” he said, squinting his eyes, as they were set on the torchlight far away.
“Don’t think so,” the Speaker said in an infuriatingly calm tone. “That’s why I think they crossed the mountains. I think they did not want to make camp there.”
“They’ve seen us.” There was a hint of question in his tone.
“If we saw their torches, they saw ours. But they don’t know how many we are, so they will wait.”
“Neither do we,” he nodded. “So should we.”
“The Northmen are different beasts if they smell riches. If they see what we guard, they’ll want it. I say we strike when they sleep. We don’t need light as much as they do. At best, we drive them out before sunrise. At worst, we are outnumbered, and we do a hit-and-run. This is no place for them; they should know. Since they don’t, they should be taught.”
“What good were those palisades we built be, if we go rushing to meet any who comes close, without even knowing how many they are?” he asked. She sighed, half-tired, half-annoyed.
“I was told to advise you and was given to you to command,” she said in the end. “I’ve said my piece. You have heard me. Command.”
Choice
- “We wait.”
- “We strike first.”
Chapter 4
“At least two to one,” he whispered and Bhokali nodded. “And that’s counting the raptors.”
Closer to three to one, she motioned in the hunter language of signals – or so he thought. He had never mastered it. But we will attack anyway, she went on. He motioned his head negatively.
“It’s not worth it,” he uttered between his teeth. “I don’t mean to endanger your hunters any more than I-“ Ignoring him, she whistled like a nightbird and almost immediately another whistle answered.
“Wait!” he groaned angrily but she was already climbing on Ba’tiya
“You made a good call, to strike first” she answered in a low voice, pulling her raptor’s reins as she settled on her saddle. “See it through.”
Cursing between his teeth as two more whistles answered from further back, Cuatal reached for his sword and rushed to the top of the hill to peak from behind a rock. One of the Northman lookouts was getting up, looking around with a frown, his instincts alerting him about the sudden burst of nightlife sounds. But by that time the first sling was already singing in the night – the lookout opened his mouth to challenge the dark but the stone flew. The Northman’s helmet clanged over his forehead, blood quickly dripping over his left eye, as he staggered backwards. Pulling his sword, Cuatal got up and started running, as four raptor’s galloping thundered in the night and a handful of slings sang, now in unison.
Then violence filled the night.
Choice
- Nord Victory
- W’adrhŭn Victory
Chapter 5
Cuatal raised his sword to parry at the last moment, blocking with the middle of his sword the axe by its handle, the blade just inches away from his side. Without a moment to lose, he slid the blade between the axe’s heel and shoulder, then yanked the axe to the side as hard as he could. Not surprised, the northman proved strong, gripping his weapon hard – but not strong enough. With the axe flying from his grasp, he was dead moments later, his torso slashed.
Two dead by his hands and not a scratch. Looking around, overall, the attack seemed successful and many northmen laid dead or wounded, while their tents had surrendered to flames. Still, he noticed at least one casualty and two wounded, while he counted one less raptor; the northmen were regaining their composure, the fast, erratic attack quickly loosing its advantage. Despite the initial losses, they had the numbers advantage and they were coming to realize it. With some luck, and common sense on the northmen’s part, he thought, they would think twice before venturing deeper into the Wasteland but for now the battle should end before the winds shifted.
Parrying a sword blade, he quickly slashed a man’s thigh and kicked him to the ground, then looked for Bhokali’s eyes, whistling. Without returning his look, she nodded, then whistled in turn, before crying for her warriors to pull out. Nodding satisfied, Cuatal made sure the last northman he had engaged had remained to the ground, then turned and dashed away from the fire light and into the night, as the rest of the W’adrhŭn did the same around him. Some arrows flew after them blindly, one slashing a huntress on her raptor, probably by sheer bad luck, but that was it. It was over.
Or so he thought.
Horns echoed in the night, distant but their call deep, hollow, angry. After a moment’s notice, more horns blared, these ones closer, from the northmen camp, sounding urgent and commanding. Still too close to the camp, Cuatal looked over his shoulder while running, the rest of his people doing the same. Only Bhokali turned her raptor and stopped, her face licked softly by the light of flames still raging over the northmen tents. Her eyes narrowed, then she turned and looked for him and as their eyes met, she raised her hand to point west. “Keep moving!” he urged those around him that could hear but, following her example, he stopped and looked at where she was pointing at.
A slow serpent of flames was descending the mountain slope, too far to be of immediate concern but too close to ignore. Now riding fast, Bhokali rushed to his side, with a questioning look on her face. He shrugged, uncertain.
“Regroup to the camp?” she asked. “Or try and see what in the name of the Lady that is?”
Choice
- Regroup
- Scout it out
Chapter 6
“We scout. Raptors only,” Cuatal said, and, after a moment’s pause, he added: “Can I ride with one of you?” his voice dressed in excitement and uncertainty. Bhokali raised two curious eyebrows. The clever play, her look said, was for him to guide the infantry back to camp, while she led the riders with the safety of speed to scout the new threat. He knew that, he praised its logic and sense. But he returned the look, determined.
He was, in his opinion, a level-headed W’adrhǔn. Tempered in manners and master of his passions, he rarely allowed events to sweep him off balance and guide him. Like the metals he forged, his life, his path, had been the result of planning and consequences of choices and intent. This – all of this, all of his experiences in the past few weeks, from the nightmares and restless nights to the venting on the metals he was supposed to shape – were foreign territory. He could pretend that his reactions were ultimately his; that he had chosen to be swept, to be guided by events. But as he returned Bhokali’s look, demanding to join a venture that was best left to fast riders and their raptors, deep down he knew that was only partly true.
So be it, Bhokali implied with a shrug and offered her hand for him to join her on Ba’tiya.
They rode as fast as the dark of night allowed the raptors in the hard, uneven terrain of the mountain slope. Bhokali led them south at first, circling around the Northmen camp but avoiding the ways to the northern shores, in case the barbarians had ships waiting there and they decided to break for them. Then, she kept to paths less dangerous even if they proved slower. Despite a gut feeling of urgency, he allowed her to lead her way and kept his silence. Slowly but surely, Bhokali led them further and higher, until dawn began to break and the eastern sky was painted shyly in faded colors, the majesty of dawn muted by the haze that reigned in the east, beyond the Wastelands.
Sleepless and battle-worn, Cuatal found it hard to stay awake, much more so on the saddle. Twice he had caught himself from sliding from his seat, and he grasped Bhokali tighter, but the speaker was relentless. The third time, his eyes were shaken open by her grasping his waste and straightening him.
“You chose this,” she said, matter-of-factly more than bitterly or accusingly. “Muster the strength your choice demands.” He nodded, even if she could not see him, and forced himself to look around. Obviously tired, the other riders followed without complaint, forcing their raptors to face their own fatigue. Scolding himself for showing such weakness compared to everyone else, he forced his eyes open and turned them east, hoping the pale light would help wake him up. It didn’t. But what he saw did.
“Bhokali,” he said, patting her waste urgently. “The Northmen. They have broken camp.”
She nodded, absentmindedly. “They started at first light,” she said.
“They are heading east,” he said and only then did she turn to look.
“The camp…” she muttered.
“BHOKALI!” one of the riders yelled, pointing high and both turned to follow her motion.
There, standing atop a rock some few hundred paces from the main group, two short figures with wide shoulders can clad in metal, eyed them suspiciously. Each held a crossbow, cocked but not aiming, with both hands, and a moment later one of them shouted something in an angry, commanding voice.
“Deep warriors,” Cuatal muttered but Bhokali ignored him. She raised one hand, palm empty towards them and pulled the reins with the other, turning her raptor, while she whistled for her riders to do the same.
“Wait, what ar-?” but once more, Bhokali ignored him, spurring her raptor with feet and words both and yelling for the rest to follow.
“Bhokali!” he cried, half angry, half concerned.
“I should not have listened to you,” she replied angrily. “If the Northmen head for the site and the deep ones hunt for the Northmen…”
“We cannot hold both…”
“And if the Dweghom see we’re unearthing their things, the Northmen won’t be their first target, Sion,” she said.
“Your raptors need rest,” he said. “As do we.”
“Whoever makes it, makes it, Cuatal,” she answered, raptors darting with strained muscles down the slope. “But we must reach the site before the deep ones. Better yet, before the Northmen.”
Choice
- Success
- Failure
Chapter 7
“What say you?” cried the Captain in the tongue of Trade, his voice booming on the empty wastelands, bouncing on the pillars and rocks of the site and reaching high on the tomb-hill where Cuatal was standing, listening. He looked so little, this human, so far down below, Cuatal thought, as, between his teeth, the Captain added in his own language “you grey-skinned, hel-spawn ugrson…” Cuatal did not hear the last part but Bhokali did; and while the words’ meaning escaped her, the anxious fear behind them did not. “He is afraid,” she whispered to Cuatal.
They had reached the camp before the Nords in the end; one raptor had fallen from exhaustion, while the others were far from fit to join the fight. It was almost the same with many of the infantry; they had run, sleepless, between the two camps and fought a battle in between. They were sturdy, well trained, and they were standing; they were W’adrhǔn. But they were also exhausted and only a fool would put pride above truth before battle. Cuatal did not consider himself a fool.
The ones that had remained in the camp had spotted the oncoming Nords and had already prepared to defend as much as they could; between the two forces, and with Cuatal and Bhokali arriving in time, numbers were closer to even and the W’adrhǔn were holding positions, behind the rudimentary defenses that had been raised before all else when they had arrived at the site.
Realizing that numbers were no longer such a big factor, after the first bout the Nords retreated. Soon after, their captain, face hidden behind his helmet save for the long, braided beard he sported and the sand-colored hair, had stepped forward and called for an alliance – at least to keep the Dweghom off when they came. In return, he offered that his men would depart without a fight, taking only what they would earn from the battle with the Dweghom and no more. The site would be theirs to keep, unchallenged by his warriors.
“If you refuse, I think he’ll take his chances in the Wastelands and we’ll be left alone with the Deep Warriors,” Bhokali went on. Cuatal nodded.
“You offer me nothing, northman!” he shouted in heavily accented Tradespeak. “I have the site. I have the palisades. I have the warriors to defend it. You dying outside my palisades offers me time. Why should I let you in? A minute more?”
“Because if I leave, you’ll be left alone with them,” answered the Captain. “Believe me, ashen-skinned; you do not want that.”
“His kind we’ve known since the Battle of the Bloody Dawn,” Cuatal answered. “If we fall to them, well we fall. Besides, there is no way for you to go. You’ve ventured too deep in the Wastelands, northman. If my kin don’t kill you, the land will. Would you die with weapon in hand or with parched lips and empty stomachs?”
“With weapon in hand or not at all,” the Captain answered, proudly. “Such is my way. So now I think this: you say I have nowhere to go. Then if I want to die with weapon in hand, I must remain here. I ask you, then: will I fall after I’ve killed some of yours, robing you swordarms before they come? Or will we fight for victory together?”
Despite himself, Cuatal almost smiled.
“I like him,” he said.
“Good for you,” Bhokali answered. “But if you let him in the camp, they could turn on us before the Deep Warriors come – or after. Say yes, if you will, but let him remain outside. He won’t attack, he has nothing to gain.”
“You said it yourself, earlier this day: of the Deep Warriors see us here, we are the targets, not the northmen.”
To this, she had no answer.
Choice
- Invite the Nords behind the defenses – Nords and Wa’drhǔn will join forces behind the palisades to fight the Dweghom together. Probably.
- Every man for himself – The Nords remain outside. Let this be a free for all.
- Agree but don’t let them behind the defenses – The Nords may find a chance to flee and let the Dweghom and W’adrhǔn fight between them.
Interlude
Few things sing more beautifully than two blades clashing.
It was not the violence Cuatal admired. He was, perhaps ironically, not a man of violence. It was the sound itself; what for others was a cacophony of clangs and rings, to him it was an orchestra of good steel meeting good steel, a paean to craftmanship and skill. The screams and curses being flung in three different languages around him were indifferent to him, annoying even, a discordance in the song, false notes that blemished a masterpiece.
He raised his blade to parry a Dweghom’s spear, marveling at the weapon more than the technique – truly, no spectacular blade, but the ringing of the alloy was unknown to him – then used his height to clash again and again from above, forcing the deep warrior to retreat from the makeshift palisades. Bhokali’s voice was heard from somewhere close, cursing but in annoyance more than pain, so he did not risk a glance, as the Dweghom were pressing once more. Next to him, a sun-haired warrior with sky-colored eyes yelled something to him but, of course, he did understand. For a moment, he thought he heard another voice, deep and distant, but he dismissed it.
Dawn had broken now, and so had the initial charge of the Dweghom, and still the defenses held – but for how long, he wondered. They were many and the miscommunication among the defenders made matters difficult, worse twice over since the northmen seemed to prefer very different tactics than those of the W’adrhŭn. When his people started singing their battlesongs, the fools had started singing songs of their own, thinking it a good thing, not realizing that the Wastelands warriors kept their tempo and passed on information and strategy through them. Despite that, in theory they could hold – in practice, steel would decide.
And, wondering if this song was why he had been called to this place, Cuatal joined the symphony once more, his blade singing the notes its wielder bid it to.
Chapter 8
His head was pounding, his ears ringing like blades being dragged, long blades that, like their ringing, seemed to have no end.
It had started slowly, lowly, a barely noticeable annoyance, born perhaps from sleeplessness and battle fatigue. And as the battle went on, as Dweghom wave after Dweghom wave was repelled by kin and Northman blade alike, the ringing grew louder and louder until the headache came. Then the headache grew worse and worse; trying to keep his eyes from wincing, Cuatal fought on, or so he thought until he realized two huntresses were always at his side, keeping him safe, blocking for him when his own blade grew slow. When finally the Dweghom retreated, only then did he kneel, not by exhaustion, but in pain, his eyes throbbing as the ringing in his ears swallowed all sound. Grasping his head, he did not realize that the Dweghom did not just retreat to try again later on; they fled, utterly and completely, as if the Wasting Winds were coming.
He never really realized that the Northmen, of course, betrayed their trust right when the Dweghom had begun to retreat. Mere minutes after the warriors had caught their breath, their captain with his most trusted walked quickly towards the biggest mount among the ruins, heading straight for the great, sealed doorway the W’adrhŭn diggers had uncovered. Or rather, they attempted to, for Bhokali did not stay idly. Whistling for her sisters, she rushed to the entrance, challenging the Northman – who replied in both confusion and anger. Not understanding each other, blades were almost drawn but, too tired and too few for any battle proper, the Northmen simply tried to form a line before the entrance, with the W’adrhŭn gathering around them.
Lying now on his back, his eyes closed, Cuatal barely registered any of that. He only turned to look towards the stand-off around the mount’s uncovered gate when the ringing, suddenly, stopped.
As if never there and never in pain, Cuatal got up, eyes curious and confused – then wide and fearful.
And then, with a low rumbling that shook the ground, the gate opened from inside the mount.
Choice
- Call for Bhokali to form a line and guard the burial mount’s exit
- Call for Bhokali to retreat. Fast.
Chapter 9
Their differences half-forgotten, Northmen and W’adrhŭn alike drew weapons with tired but urgent moves, all turning to face the gate.
It screeched, at first, as it opened, and groaned like a slumbering beast awakening. Cuatal winced at the sound, then marveled for he realized it was no rust or decay that caused the sound; just tons of stone and metal grinding sluggishly, complaining about the wastedust and hardened mud that had crept for centuries in the mechanisms deep within the ground and walls moved. Fearful, some of the tired warriors, took steps back, a near perfect line of drawn weapons turned at the gate now misshapen and uncertain. Bhokali growled an order, as did the Northman captain, but Cuatal could hear the hidden uncertainty in their voices, as could the soldiers. And when another northman, one dressed in robes for battle, his face painted in blue lines and markings, yelled something in their tongue, most northmen took steps back and made a run for it, their captain’s curses and threats not enough to instill some courage in them anymore. To Bhokali’s shame, so did a few of hers. She tried not stop them, but just spit a curse between her teeth and marked their names, all the while trying to steady her own weapon in her eager to shake hand.
Cuatal registered little of all this and paid heed to even less. His eyes fixed on the gate, his eyes frowning as he struggled to hear something, something beneath it all. He could hear it all. He could hear each cog and chain and piece of metal turning as the gates opened and he could hear the exclamations among those gathered, their panting breaths, their weapons humming in their hands. But as he alone walked towards the gate, passing the line of soldiers, his posture sure but his look uncertain, searching, seeking, he was trying to listen to something else. When the gates finally roared and shuddered as they opened wide and settled, revealing naught but a maw of darkness in the light of dawn, when everyone held their breath and tightened their grips on their weapons, only then did he hear it: footsteps, sure and steady, and behind them, over them, in them, there was a ring unlike any other, a call and warning, an announcement of calm, composed power, as if a blade drawn kept vibrating, without losing in intensity but rather gaining, ever gaining, until…
A sniff, uncertain and inquisitive, echoed from the darkness beyond the entrance.
You, the ringing blade sang in his mind, you smell like nothing I have smelled before. More so than the others here.
“The Deep Ones!” a huntress cried, despair in her voice. “The Deep Ones are coming back!”
Bhokali, her eyes fixed on him, standing alone right before the dark entrance, finally looked away,
We should learn each other, the metal voice went on in Cuatal’s mind.
‘Words?’ Cuatal answered in his thoughts. The metal voice… shrugged.
Or blades, it suggested casually.
Choice
- Words
- Blades