“I really don’t think you appreciate how fucking pissed I am Ernie.”
The booming voice shook the leaves on the blueberry bushes. Insects twitched and dropped dead at the infernal sound. Ernodal gave one of the remaining berries an experimental squeeze and sighed. Rising to his feet he carefully wiped the juice from his fingers before replying.
“I thought you’d be happy. When Mario destroyed him he should have been blasted straight back to the Abyss to face the music.”
“So where the fuck is he? Why am I not strumming a jaunty tune on his intestines to accompany this conversation?”
“Because Mario unmade him.”
“NO. I would know if he were dead.”
“But he didn’t die. We were both there when the Navigator killed the Usurper. You saw him die, watched him dissolve into ash and fade into nothingness. This was different. Mario erased the Navigator. He reached into him – into us – and unpicked him. Like he was never there.”
“Hmph. You survived.”
“I did what you taught me. I found a chump to stand in front and take the hits.”
The air was still for a moment. Then the earth began to buckle and crack to the sound of titanic laughter.
“Oh, that’s a good one. I like that… Just like old times eh Ernie?
Seriously thought, are you sure about this? He was wily.”
“It didn’t do him any good. All his escape routes and paths fell away in the end. He was out of options and he knew it.”
“Very well. In this matter I will defer to your specialist knowledge of that sneaky fuck and whatever that nutjob Mario did. I hope it hurt.
So that leaves me and you. I note that my favourite warlock is drawing power directly from my throne these days. Or at least he would be if he wasn’t baking muffins on a camping trip.”
Ernodal looked around the remains of his old village. Nature was already reclaiming the elegant dwellings but it would be a long time before anything grew on the scorched earth. He had thought of placing a memorial of some kind but standing here it didn’t seem necessary. Whatever was left of his campfire would mark the place for a short while until nature took it back.
“I was passing by. It seemed a shame to leave all the berries for the birds”.
“So you just go back to the food industry? Couldn’t you, I don’t know, build a temple to me or something?”
“I think that’s Clerics.”
“There’s a lot of up and coming warlocks these days smartass! I’m getting a lot of attention from Salt in Wounds. And Namburg too. There’s a big gap in the worship market.”
“You’re welcome. A fella on a street corner was shouting about you last week. How the terrible Demogorgan destroyed the victory moon and slew Kossus.
“That’s what I’m talking about! What did you say? Did you big me up?”
“I bought him a meal. He was hungry.”
“My will be done I guess”.
**************
Jhakri Hiranjan braced himself at the entrance to his cave. The tremble in his hands was not caused by the biting wind that stirred the last of the fresh snow. His quivering fingers caressed the bright prayer flags around the cavemouth and he felt his courage return. The moment he had been steeling himself for was had come and he was going to do his duty. As it drew near he closed his eyes and stepped out into the path, bellowing in the secret tongue:
“Avaunt, demon!”
He was not expecting a reply in the language of the flatland traders.
“Who, me?”
The Jhakri opened his eyes. A thin figure stepped out of the air before him.
“Demon I abjure and command you to begone! This is a holy place!”
“I think there’s been a mistake. I’m a cartographer. I draw maps.”
Hiranjan paused. The apparition was offering him a map. This wasn’t in the holy texts. Although… Recoiling he blessed himself and drew himself up to his full height.
“Foolish fiend! Do you think me so gullible? Try as you might your sort can never pass for flesh and blood! You stand in fresh snow wearing the lightest robes without shivering. You appear from thin air. I address you in the language of demons and you hear my words clearly. And finally, that “map” you claim to draw is naught but a crude sketch of triangles! Begone from my sight!
To his amazement and delight the spirit began to drift away back down the mountainside. Inside his cave the prayer bells began to slow their frenzied dance as the demonic power which had disturbed them receded.
The enemy was crafty indeed. But at the last minute he had recalled the blessed Jhakri Aanga who had rejected a cloak of snow and branches from a similar traveler. The demonic mind was crafty but could not create art as men did. The could only make crude imitations.
In an uncharacteristic bad mood Ernodal took extra time adding “crazy man cave” to his map. Squinting at the peak overhead he carefully added another triangle of the right size.
Euan was right. The art was hard and everyone was a critic.
**************
Ali Goran glared at the other three members of the Ventral regions research society.
“All right, who was it this time?”
Melcul let out a loud snort. Ali tried to catch his eye but obese orc stared down at the table and his pint of Red Setter, clearly struggling to keep a straight face.
“What do mean Ali?”
That was from Roan. He switched his attention to the halfling but the little shit was cool as a breeze. No wonder he always won when they rounded out the evening with a game of cards.
“Have you perhaps received some fresh correspond… corres… Oh twins I can’t….”
Wilhelmina’s voice cracked as she tried to keep her tone level. The witch’s giggles set Melcul off completely. The rest of the bar turned to stare as the booming laugh of the enormous orc drowned out all other conversation. Wilhelmina nearly fell off her chair. Roan drained his wineglass and watched his friends a twinkle in his eye. Ali reddened.
“I should never have told any of you irresponsible amateurs anything. I can’t think what possessed me to…”
That set them off again.
It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. As the days stretched into weeks and Ernodal failed to return Ali had been forced to conclude that the unfortunate young man was dead. Wracked with guilt, Ali resolved to continue his research in memory of the poor fellow. So he had decided to swallow his pride and reach out to others in his profession, seeking to pool their knowledge and ensure such a tragedy never reoccurred. He had hoped for insight, sympathy, maybe a little admiration. He hadn’t counted on disbelief and scorn.
In hindsight it was a little hard to believe. Ernodal shouldn’t have been able to last a day without dissolving into a puddle of spoiled meat. Centuries of research had shown that a greater fiend couldn’t be housed in a mortal body without uncontrollable and fatal mutations. His new study partners had made numerous well cited objections and concluded that Ali had been mistaken or deceived.
Which was why he was so happy to receive the letter from Ernodal. His relief had turned to horror when he read that Ernodal had sprouted wings and a tail. The horror had turned to mortification when he reached the end of the letter and read the overwrought pleas for Ali to recommend a new tailor.
Oh, they’d roared with laughter that evening. Since then he had been getting a fake letter weekly before they met in the pub.
Ernodal had grown two extra heads and needed a loan of his spare turbans. (Derivative!)
Ernodal had eaten too much and now he and his friends were haunted by a demonic pile of faeces (Infantile!)
Ernodal and his friends had been granted a Barony and he was welcome to visit (Unlikely!)
And now this week, two letters!
“You need to coordinate your pranks better. I have received two pieces of drivel at once.
In the first, Ernodal reassures me that he is doing well and has made peace with his demons! This is neither funny nor clever, and it brings dishonour to the author.
In the second…”
Ali paused for a moment, unable to keep a straight face.
“Okay, this one is actually pretty good. Ernodal writes that his demon was really three imps in a trenchcoat”.
**************
The Pramukha stared at the corpse for a long time. When he spoke his voice was calm and flat but it carried easily over the assembled crowd.
“Tell us again how it happened.”
The young woman kneeling in the snow to his right clasped her hands together. She kept her eyes fixed on the clear sky and spoke slowly as if each word was precious.
“The flock were uneasy all day. A great storm was brewing over the peaks to the east. When we had gathered half in together the rest grew wild and refused to come closer. I cursed them, but they were trying to warn us.
It had been burrowing underneath the village. It surfaced between the sheep pens, a pillar of ice, scale and teeth. It was so quick! Nothing that size should be so terribly fast.
It took the herd in the pens first. That bought us a few seconds. I screamed for the others to scatter that it might not take us all. But the children ran towards me…”
She broke her gaze from the sky and scooped closest child into her arms, partly to hold him and partly to block his ears.
“The tales don’t do it justice. To see it coming towards you, an avalanche of teeth and malice… truly the ice worm comes to feed on flesh and soul alike. The shadow fell across us. I felt the fiery breath, reeking of fresh blood from the sheep. But it was hurled away from us! See the tracks it tore in the ground!
A figure hung in the sky. In form it was like a person, but it shone like the noonday sun. A dancing aura wreathed his head and light flowed from his outstretched hands.
We have all seen the paintings of enlightened souls. I knew what he was.
The ice worm was maddened by blood. It surged towards us again but light stream forth from the ascended one. With a gesture he threw the monster back like it was made of paper.
When the ice worm was still the figure descended to the earth. We fell to our knees but he bade us to stand. He blessed the children, conjured music from the air to make them laugh. We did not have the learning to understand his speech. The only word we could share were the name of the Irlandi monks. He made the sign of the monastery grew delighted when we prayed towards it.
We bade him to stay but he seemed to have a great and urgent business with those holy ones. He ascended once again on a pillar of wind and we lost sight of him as he flew over the ridges. We sent word to the nearby villages that all may hear and see the proof before you.”
Several villagers sank to their knees and gave thanks to the Irlandi and the sky spirits. The Pramukha remained standing. He was still trying to calculate the vast fortune they could harvest from the body of fully grown Remorhaz.
Untroubled by religious fervour or dreams of wealth the children finished their blueberry muffins.
**************
The room was tiny, barely wide enough for the narrow bunk. A small slab of chipped granite was balanced on a battered crate to serve as a desk. With the floor taken up by the meagre furniture all the books, scrolls and scraps of occult paraphernalia had to be crammed into gaps between the rough stones or suspended from a network of strings and ropes. Silver bells, feathered frames and half-filled jars swayed gently in the breeze that streamed through the open door. Small trinkets from across Vaul and far beyond hung on delicate threads – nothing larger than would fit comfortably in a pocket. Swords and knives of various sizes were hung around the walls in well-oiled scabbards. There was no bare steel on display, no sign that these were there for a visitor to admire or the resident of the room to reminisce over. These were the working tools of someone who made a point of always having several weapons to hand.
The grey-haired woman at the crude desk was making notes on a battered map. Ink stains on her sleeves suggested that this was a common position, but she was dressed as if she was about to set out on a hike down the icy mountains. A battered rucksack at the foot of the bunk. Perhaps she was used to leaving with little notice.
A whisper from the darkness above caused her quill to stop scratching. One hand darted reflexively to the nearest hilt while she scanned the room. Her eyes fixed on a blue glass jar containing a cricket from the plains half a continent to the east. She frowned as the cricket twitched again. To her left the silver bells began to stir. The dreamcatcher spun in a breeze that left the other papers untouched. A jar of otherwise unremarkable sand started to glow yellow.
Without a sound the woman rose, flowed into a fighting stance. With a slight smile she slipped out of the room, prowling down the corridor to see what had triggered her alarms. A familiar figure silhouetted against an open door made her pause. Her voice was a hoarse whisper from lack of use.
“Fionnleth?”
The figure spun around, startled. As he turned she saw she was mistaken. He was slightly broader than Fionnleth, the hair was darker… and his expression was that of a frightened child.
“Ernodal?”
“H… hi Mam”.
Dropping her swords she raced towards him, nearly knocking him off his feet as her arms crushed around him. Gods, he was taller than her now. How long had it been since she saw either of them? As the years had slipped by she’d forced herself to stop counting. It just made the pain worse. When she felt she could speak again she drew back slightly to look at his face. So much like his father.
“If you are here alone then Fionnleth is…”
He nodded and pressed his forehead against hers, tears streaming from his eyes.
“Dad is gone. But it’s over Mam. Tarnik and the Navigator, Etricht and Mario and the moons… It’s all over”.
“Etricht? MOONS? What…?”
Ernodal just stared at her for a moment, trying to decide where to begin. Then his nervous smile widened into a tearstained grin.
“Well, I made some great friends…”
**************
Dreamseer Aumpata tossed another handful of Charroot onto the fire. The bitter smoke from the herb mingled with the earthy notes of the dried horse and centaur dung, swirling smoke filling her darkened tent. Closing her eyes she focused on her breathing, ignoring the aches that plagued her old joints and the usual din of the Khan’s encampment outside. As the smoke filled her lungs she began to drift into the seeing trance.
The great powers were in disorder. Namthar had died in fire, Kossus in a final bout of bloodletting. Scenes of disbelief and mourning filled her mind as the followers of the two struggled with their loss. Aumpata was unmoved by their narrow-minded wailing. She would pay her respects to the fallen powers and remember them in her songs, but there were many powers to pay homage to. Some rose, some fell. It was the way of things.
Other images filled her mind. A bloodknight called for vengeance for the great loss of his people. Grolantour gloried in the series of wars that swept the land. The goblin ancestors cried out as their people faded, disappeared forever, grew reinvigorated and stronger than ever. He stonefolk died in their thousands and their tombkeeper waxed powerful with their death song. Or did he die with them? Visions were treacherous.
She knew these contradictions meant she was straying far into undecided futures, indulging in idle fancies. Dangerous to linger too long in this part of the dreamland.
She drew her gaze backwards towards what she knew be true. Namthar and Kossus, dead in fire and blood. Fire and blood, fire in the blood. Spiderweb, branching path, family line. A warrior proudly embraced her son, grown to manhood. A constellation of nineteen iron stars orbiting a crimson moon. One by one they tumbled from the sky. The falling stars raced over the camp of the Khan, one of them shifting to become a great winged figure armed with spear and whip. He chanted as he fell to earth amidst the tents. “Khorin.” Twenty in the old tongue.
Opening her eyes the dreamseer nodded in satisfaction. Good omens for the future of the Khanate at an auspicious time. It had been many months since the great hunt. Soon the offspring of the celebrating heroes would be born.