With the sea breeze fueling their strides like the hissing bellows of a blacksmith’s forge, the Kerawegh and her iron-clad entourage made their way swiftly toward the Shrine. Weapons tense in eager grips, the drumming of clanging plate cut the otherwise dense silence that had overtaken the central path outside the watchtower. The decision to engage had fueled the Kerawegh with a great boost of energy, and such conviction was contagious—now latching onto her warriors in the same way it had swayed her into action.
Here, beyond the lee of the thick-set battlements of their watchtower, the Dweghom cortege was especially vulnerable—or so the Kerawegh felt—but that did not matter, for their target’s blurry silhouette was now becoming visible, meekly illuminated by the anemic rays of sunlight that were just now beginning to emerge. An automaton, she thought. Draconic, perhaps. Definitely old. Maybe it can be of use. It falls upon me to claim it.
The Dweghom warriors followed the gesture-borne order that came from their Kerawegh, yet their uninhibited focus towards the target was shaken ever so slightly by the emergence of another same-raced group from the edges beyond the watchtower’s reach. Theirs was a cacophony of rattling armor and strained lungs, but that did not matter—the gigantic automaton was hers to claim, for the Kerawegh had decided as much when she first laid eyes on the construct. Her sight focusing on the new arrivals, the Kerawegh allowed herself a crooked smile.
“Aul’Domn’s fools have not learned their lesson yet! Let us remind them!”
As soon as they had arrived, the group from Aul’Domn veered towards that of the Kerawegh—leader of Uosiega’s chosen force—wedging themselves between her and the strange construct. Weapons raised and gaining momentum for a charge, the Kerawegh’s step slackened as she now caught a better glance of the construct—now closer. Atop the towering stone-hewn automaton was a figure, a Dweghom, and it was staring right at them.
Two Dweghom forces now clash. Which one will emerge victorious?
Vote in the Living World!
Prelude
She was almost there. She could feel it.
Onynkha smiled widely, wiping the sweat from her brow. If that wasn’t an indication of how far deep, how close she was, then the blood in her veins, pulsing, reacting, calling, was. She was reaching the end of her journey, she would achieve what no one else in her group had. She would reach her destination. She would finish her journey.
She would complete the Dheukhorro.
Untelos, Migkhas and Anadhali had given up so early, she thought, almost with scorn. They had hardly reached the first Delves, before they returned. Nekklash, Pendegha and Orobhos had gone on with her, before Nekklash turned heel after the cave with the fire leeches. It was just three since, for a long time, fighting anything the Delves threw at them, before they decided to split and wished each other well. From then on, she had been alone. As alone as any person had ever been. She had heard the roaring fires of the Delves around her, ever remaining blind to their light in her dark solitude. She had felt the weight of the world above her, even as she could not even see the ceiling of the impossible caverns she traversed. She had crawled into holes that should not have air for her to breathe or space for her to be. Deeper and deeper into the Delves she had ventured, fighting things, fighting thoughts, fighting madness; but still she had gone deeper still. Until, at last, she could feel the end being here.
For a moment, she doubted, and her doubt – she felt – made the walls around her close in, eager to swallow her. She fought the panic that threatened to kill her. No. She would not fall, not now, not so close to the end. She walked on.
Then she heard the steps.
Her first thought was to ignore them. She was imagining it, she was sure. The Delves were fighting her with all the one desperate tool they had left at their disposal: her own sanity. But she knew better. She had gone deeper than any she had ever spoken to. There was no one here. Only the Dheukorro, only the pilgrim and the path. For a moment, she wondered if it could be Pendegha or Orobhos, if they had made it too. But no. It was just her mind, she was sure.
Then, she saw the light and the hair at the back of her head rose. For the first time in her life she knew fear – true, unfiltered, uncontrollable fear. This was no trick. She could see the shape of a Dweghom figure, even as her eyes were blinded by the light – a torch which burned brighter than the sun. It was no one she knew. This she realized when the Dweghom simply passed her by. But even as her hair moved from the air of his walk, she thought that it was no one that could be, for the weight of each step was nothing like anything she had ever imagined could be. And yet, it was as true, she felt, as the fact that she knew, without a doubt, what the figure was. And, more frighteningly, where it was going.
It was going up.
The Shrine of The Memory of Three,
on the shores of the Jaw of Ghisghigamosh
The Watchtower of Hold of Uosiega
“I am telling you, its naught but water and air in her head.”
Fledgis slapped the back of his head hard enough for the helm to make a CLANG sound.
“You watch your words, Mantagh,” she said, half-angry, half-concerned. “Anyone hear you call the Kerawegh an airhead, and we’ll both be put under the water; you for speaking, me for listening.”
“Proving my point of just how crazy she is,” Mantagh went on, but his voice no louder than a whisper this time.
“Call her what you will,” Fledgis retorted, “but she has them by the throats now, our lady, she does. While the idiots of the other holds were fighting over the crumbs of Aghm the northern warriors offered, she fell upon them both like a mountain. On the field just the day before, she almost downed Aul’Domn’s Raegh, or so Azhignas Remembers.”
“Don’t get me started on Azhi-“
Another slap stopped him, as she went on, uninterrupted. “I heard him Remember before the Mnemancers. This isn’t boasting. Not even… wait, do you hear that?”
Fledgis frowned, then peaked from the embrasure of the watchtower’s battlement, scanning the darkness towards the Shrine and the known paths and routes from the other camps to theirs.
I don’t see anything, Mantagh motioned, peaking from the next embrasure himself, then moved on to check on the other side and signal the second post to be alert. Fledgis kept looking where she stood and, not seeing anything, she tilted her head, then even removed her helmet and listened. She could almost see something and almost hear something but…
“Yes, yes, yes..!” she heard from behind her and her blood cooled in her veins, before she snapped her helmet back and turned to salute. Without the huge symbol of the Prison on her back, she was almost hard to recognize, but her tight plaits and her grey, dancing eyes were unmistakable.
“Kerawegh…” Fledgis muttered, as she caught her breath, when the woman waved dismissively.
“You have good instinct, Fledgis,” Astagha said. There is something out there. It walks around the Shrine and examines the Memory there. It is something… old. Something heavy. I’d say it is so full of Aghm that the air bends around it and the world sighs with every step it takes. You have good instinct indeed.”
“But, if it had Aghm…?”
“HA! Hahahahaha!” the Kerawegh laughed, excited. “Good brains too, good brains! Yes, it would be Dweghom, no? I say Aghm but I sense no Dweghom. Not exactly. So… We are blind, we are deaf, but we know it is there. It can’t be big, we would see and hear it, and it can’t be small, for how could it have such weight? And it can’t be Dweghom for no Dweghom here could stir us so. So! What do we do?”
“You… ask me?” the warrior asked, her cheeks flushed.
“Why not you? You are Dweghom, are you not? You are as qualified as I am to think – if not to decide. So. What do we do? Do we try to secure it by force? Do we try to talk to it? Do we wait and see what our enemies will do?”
“Why would we-“
“Drip drip, little Fledgis. The waterglass trickles fast…”
Choice
- Attack the thing, whatever it is, and secure it before the enemies.
- Wait to see what the other Holds do first.
- Attempt to communicate with the thing, whatever it is.