Post by dalton on Apr 10, 2009 20:26:00 GMT -5
The trade caravan wound its way along the desert on the edge of the world. The sun, high overhead, beat down on the travellers, marking the change from high-shadow to no-shadow. Looking at his watch, and comparing it to the angle of his shadow, the old master knew that the clock work was slow. It has always been easier to know the time of the day by the angle of shadow vs any gadget bought from the steam masters.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, and ignoring the rumble of hunger in his belly, the caravan master looked over the desert, trying to spy the gate to the escarpment before the sun goes completely.
The creaks and groans of the waggons and the occasional snort or snarl of the draft animals were the only sounds to be heard. All about them was silence. Not even the wind would lend it's voice along this stretch of barren rock and sand. Amongst those who travelled with the caravan, there wasn’t a sound. To one side of the track, mountain cliffs climbed off into the distance, a sheer wall of rock. While on the other side, mere miles away from the path, the world came to an end. All that was past that point was endless sky, a pale blue that seemed to go on forever, marked by the occasional cloud or passing bird. The only spot of relief in that vast emptiness was an impossibility: a floating upside-down mountain, so distant as to be almost lost in the blue haze of the sky.
“Mommy, what’s that?” The child was a Jegreh, small and bright and mischievous. Her mother tried to shush her, but the voice of the caravan-master boomed in answer.
“That, dear little one, is a shardlet. An island in the sky. Just as this,” he stomped his huge foot down, making the very ground shiver “is Shard.”
The little Jeg looked up at the enormous form of the caravan master, an old Stoma whose tusks were now mere stumps, but who still seemed as solid as the mountains they had left the week before.
“So, does that mean that Shard floats in the sky just like that shardlet?” Her eyes twinkled as she asked, like she already knew the answer. Then again, Jeg are very clever.
“Ha!” His voice boomed out so loud that the pack horses nearby shied away from this massive creature, nearly as heavy as they were, with a voice like an avalanche. “Yes, little one, that is exactly what it means.”
The Stoma squatted down as low as he could get, though still far taller than the little goblin-girl.
“Did you know that I have seen Shard from the sky?" He asked, as the little girl gaped in amazement.
"As a youth, I worked on a Khazud sky-ship, and then later a Jegreh sky-fisher." the girls mother was the one who went wide eyed at that statement, although her response was almost a whisper "Sir, you where out in the blue and black? Away from the ground?"
The old stoma paused. He looked from mother to child, seeing innocence in them both, that has long been missing in his own life.
"Yes".
In that one word, it seemed like a million stories, with all their wonder and sorrows had been packed without room for anything more.
"I have seen our world from above, like a great disk, and I have seen the world from below, where it juts down like a great blade. I have been across the known lands from the wandering mountains to the inland sea and I have even watched a great dragon land on it's perch in the under-dark. I have seen and done so much, too much.....” The old beast let his voice trail off, before realising where he was and who he was speaking to.
He once again put on his best smile and looked upon those who had stopped to listen. Though his wide grin bordered on the ghastly, the little Jeg grinned back at him before running back to her mother’s rough hewn mufti, to hide within it's long jagged furls.
“Hey Davrin, quit scaring the children and get yourself up to the front of the caravan!” This was shouted from the great waggon, from Karl, Davrin's grand-nephew.
Most would not see the family resemblance, but no-one would question the bond between the two. Karl is an average sized human, with the almond eyes and alabaster skin of those who are the descendants of Reid, one of the great heroes of myth. Beside his great uncle, the differences between the two become readily apparent, as the old caravan master was a stoma, one of those cursed to be like the ogres found in children's tales.
“Keep quiet, you are but a child yourself.” the caravan master bellowed back, smiling all the while. “I was just following the old ways, paying my debt to those that come by teaching what I know.”
Karl dropped down from the waggon, landing just 20 feet from his uncle. “I know, I know, but we don't have time, you know where we are.” he called out as he jogged toward the old stoma. Karl loved the old beast. From the earliest time he could remember, his family has been watched over and protected by this being, this man. His dad used to tell him of how beings like his uncle would be born to a family, or change when it came for them to become adults. It is rare now, but, still, no matter how different the gentle giant was, the fear of the curse and the allegiances of blood make it hard to accept that he was standing before family. Family who came not from his mothers line, nor grandmothers, but his great great grandmothers stock. Almost two hundred cycles have passed since Davrin was born, yet he still walks amongst us. He still is family. Looking up to the eyes of his uncle, he sees his own reflection in those black on black eyes. Old eyes. Sad eyes.
“I know too well” and with that, the caravan master looked away from his only living Umein kin, to face the distant point where they where headed. In his heart, he hoped that Karl could not see the worry in his face.
***************************
The caravan continued on for many miles, and Meckabner, the yellow sun, was so high in the sky that their shadows were almost directly beneath them. At that point, the old Stoma ordered his drivers and helpers to stop and set up the camp, especially to get the fires and torches going. All knew that it was when the sky was brightest and the sun was high overhead, that you prepared for the coming dark.
"Karl, can you set out the watch details for when the star-birth occurs, we need to cover for Belik and Snoorgrath" Bellowed Davrin to his always busy nephew. Karl is a good child. I can see his dad in almost everything he does, he thought to himself. Davrin was not prone to nostalgia, as he found that when you get to a point in your life, you become too mired in the past to appreciate the here and now. Still, looking at his last link to humanity, lost so long ago when he was but a child, he remembers his brother, his brothers children and their children still. "I hope to see many fine grand nephews from that one." he chuckles to himself.
Karl was already on it, as he had been back in the women's waggon, where Snoorgrath was being tended after his encounter with a pusselroot. The poison had been drained and the wound cared for, but there was no way Belik or Snoorgrath would be in any shape to take watch by the first bells of the night.
"Don'cha go frettin 'bout us, cause we is tough old orms and we will walk the night by the deaths sun." This was spoken by Belik as Karl looked in from the stoop of the waggon. Balik was the older of the two and was always covering for his younger Friend.
"I know Balik, I know. But I was more concerned that the two of you would not see tomorrows star break let alone be back on guard duty." Karl nodded to the waggons driver before turning and dropping once more to the ground so as to assign shifts for the coming night.
Within the hour, the sun had faded out high overhead, and the world plunged once more into total darkness. Only the torches spread throughout the camp gave enough light that they were able to set up camp, and gave an eerie half-light for the remainder of the night.
The animal handlers, mostly Ormeil and some younger Stoma, tended to the various pack creatures, from the great horses to the low, broad cargo lizards, while the Davrin supervised the cooking of dinner. It was often heard in markets from Gresh to Ho’leth that travellers preferred the old Stoma’s caravan over all others due the variety, quality, and yes, sheer quantity, of the food he somehow carried and served.
After the enormous meal was eaten and cleared away, the Davrin sat down on the ground in front of the fire, his head still level, or higher, than most of the other kindred who travelled with him.
No Khazud or Elorhiem “graced” the caravan with their presence, but nearly every other Kindred was present. There was even a Clinnkar, quietly chugging away to itself as it tended both the campfire and it’s internal boiler, and a Traul, who had joined up with them in the mountains. The old Traul went by the name of Garrick and spoke to no one save Davrin and a small Cair, named Llwindwill, who seemed to be its travelling companion.
Again, as he done for the past two weeks since leaving the market city of Loundoun, he sung a story. He had sung songs of pirates on dragons, of raids on the Khazud sky-ships and of travelling between the cities that hang upside down from the side of the world. Songs of love and hate. Songs of the ancient Elor citadels and their war machines. Those where the favourite of the children, who would cower by the fire listening to tales of living weapons that still lurked in the depths of what used to be the high elven kingdoms. They had heard of Realms beyond theirs, and the ancient paths that had once woven all the Realms together. He sang the songs from the time of the sundering, when the paths where closed at the end of the last great wizard war.
Tonight, he sung of the Fourth Age, the age they lived in.
“How do we know when one Age ends and another begins?’ asked a clear, high little voice.
The aged Stoma grinned and then leaned far over, his elbows resting on the ground and his eyes finally level with the little Jegreh girl.
“You are full of good questions, aren’t you?” She beamed up at him as he continued, her sharp little teeth glittering in the firelight.
“The First Age passed with the death scream of the Universe, as the GodWar shattered it into pieces. The Second Age ended with the start of the wizard wars. The Third Age, the time of the WizardWar, ended with the passage of the Reidumein city of Venkroolsen, which destroyed the Paths of Sorrow. But it needn’t always be so obvious. Even with those events, it took time for the news to filter through, for the reality to sink in.”
“So we could be in the Fifth Age now, and not know it?” the little goblin-girl persisted.
Davrin’s great brow furrowed in thought, ridged and folded like a fantastical landscape. “Yes,’ he replied, “we certainly could.”
He continued with his song, filling the night air with the beat of drums and the steady baritone of his voice. He sung of how the Races of Shard had warred continually with one another, until, exhausted, they had signed the oath of Kin-bond, of laws that made all Kindred equal. He sung the words of the oath, knowing full well that only the blood of good kin would keep the truth of those words sacred.
As he sang the words, he noted how he was no longer singing alone. From the guards who walked the line to those who tended the beasts, all joined in. He even saw his nephew silhouetted in the firelight, joining into the song. Normally such a thing would bring a tear to his eye, for the end of the kin wars meant that all could live in peace together. His own caravan was but a tiny mirror of what the known lands where like. A large complex society with kindred of all types living together. Tonight, it was different, tonight his heart was not in it, and his audience could tell.
The little Jeg’s question gnawed at him.
He had been hearing rumours of unusual events in exotic locations, always third-, fourth-, or fifth-hand. His agents, friends and allies had found nothing direct. But he was sure, as sure as 150 years of fighting and trading around the Fall and Blade could make him, that something was happening. He could feel it, like the hum in the air before the lightning strike.
Looking out over the edge, he could see the constellations of shardlets appear, like diamonds in the sky, as the red light of today's sun, reached up from the deep of the realm.
"Come all, the night is old, and we have waited the dark together, now we shall sleep so that we are ready for a long day's drive come the morning shade."
Davrin had marked another night, but sleep, like most nights, eluded him.
*****************************
The next day, was marked when the red sun rose above the edge of the world. With it's cold, dim light, the caravan came within sight of an ancient ruin, surrounded by a barren, sere landscape.
Karl, standing on the mahout of the lead cargo lizard, felt a chill in his bones, beyond any physical cold that might make it's way past his long coat. "Davrin, we should avoid the city. We should have not come this way". The edge in his voice betrayed how nervous he was in the presence of the dead city.
The Orm handlers and guards kept their spears close, while the blademaster rode ahead with his two Aerune scouts ranging in front of him. This patch of ground was always dangerous, near the ruins of what had been the great city of Der’atch, the Hatchet. It was called the Hatchet due to having part of the devastated city hanging over the edge of the world, like the head of a giant broken axe.
Shattered sky-ship docks jutted out from the axe-head, and tendrils of solid rock roads snaked back into a wall of rock and fitted stone. The cliff wall was pitted with caves that, though small from a distance, were broad enough to fit several waggons abreast, and tall enough for a Stoma to stand upon the shoulders of another.
As they drew nearer, the faint outlines of rectangles, squares, and a wide variety of other shapes could be seen in the sand, remains of buildings long-vanished. This was once a great trade city, built by the khazud long ago. The remains of metal shafts and rusted beams littered the ground, hiding the occasional bone, bleached by the sun and sand, from those who had fallen so many years ago.
The caravan plodded for hours through the dead city, drawing even with the old sky-ship docks by Mid-shadow. Normally the caravan would take a break, but the Stoma wanted to be out of this city well before No Shadow. Starbirth would bring Dareck, the Black Sun, and a dead city was no place to be with the Death Sun clawing into the heavens.
The head animal-handler, MerChaun, who was an Orm of astonishing size for one of his Kin, came up to the caravan master as they passed the old dock complex. He paused to look up at the shattered stone walls that where leering at them with hundreds of twisted faces, burned into the rock itself. This did not phase MerChaun in the least, but he shuddered as he watched as Davrin unhinged his jaw and shoved half a goat down his gullet, never pausing in his long-legged stride. Orm like to eat,but he had never seen a Stoma eat until he had joined the caravan. It always made his stomach churn a little.
“Sir, one of the cargo lizards stepped on something. The whole leg is turned black and shrivelin’ up . It ain’t gonna last no more than an hour, tops. We gotta spread its load out to the other cargo-lizzies. Me and the boys would rather not be doing that in the dark.”
“This is a really bad place to stop, you know that, right?”
“Yessir, but that lizzie, it’s gonna croak quick.”
The Davrin breathed a tremendous sigh, then replied. “How long will you need?”
“Maybe two hours. It's one of the big boys. Got maybe, three, four tons on him.”
“Go ahead, but hurry. I really want to be out of here before the sun fades. This city is no place to be on a Black Sun day.”
“Oh, me too, sir. I done heard stories.” With that, the MerChaun jogged off, intent on the task before him.
Davrin dispatched an Aerune to find the blademaster and her scouts, wanting the master swordsman back with the caravan. They may have need of her talents shortly, and especially the great sword she wore, 7 feet of rune-scribed skysteel.
Raising his voice to his full roar, he shouted out to the caravan, his words echoing back from the cliffs and the nearby ruins of the Hatchet.
“Good Kindred, we have a problem, and need to stop.”
“Here?” several voices questioned him, voices full of shock and fear.
“I’m afraid so. It won’t be for long. Please cooperate with the guards. We’re going to circle the waggons, and you will all be safe within the circle. We will be on our way again before dark.”
Grumbles followed him as he broke into a run, heading for the rear of the caravan, the ground shaking from his footfalls. He had to organise the drivers into circling the waggons. Coming across a pair of his nephews, lolling around the food waggon, he sent them to help the Ormeil unload the cargo lizard. Their help alone would cut nearly an hour off their time.
They will need it, as Davrin knew, in his heart of hearts, that they would not see morning if they spent the night in the old city. Somethings are dead, while others, just don't accept that they should stay dead.
************************************************
They were well past the city, as their shadows shrunk beneath them. Finally, hoping they were far enough away from the ruins, Davrin ordered a stop. Pausing only to eat the other half of the goat, he jogged back to his wag-on, haste making him even hungrier. Once this was over, he intended to eat an entire cow.
His waggon was large enough to carry him, pulled by a pair of the big cargo lizards, though he seldom rode in it. A couple of his more loyal Ormeil drove it for him, and were well rewarded for maintaining their silence about its contents.
Inside it was much bigger than it appeared, containing several rooms, a storehouse of his most valuable goods along with his personal larder. Pausing to shove a whole ham down his gullet, he grabbed up the Wards from the storeroom, and left the waggon.
As the guards assembled, mostly Ormeil, with the occasional Jegreh or Reidumein, he started handing out the warding staffs, which they took gingerly. Each Ward was 8 feet long, with a glowing crystal on top, wrapped in Domi-Elorheim spells.
He hated the feel of them, the slight movements with the faint pulsing of the Elorheim-spawned living magic. Once all 28 were in the ground, they would protect the caravan from the small and deadly things that only emerged during the day of the Black Sun. Against anything more powerful, all they could do was sound an alarm, which might be enough to save them.
He then brought his most trusted 12 guards with him to another waggon, this one as far as possible from his own, very magical, wain. From there, he passed out the guns and their precious loads of fireshot. For himself he took a massive weapon, with four barrels, each loaded with a fireshot ball nearly two inches in diameter. Along with the spears and knives of his guards, these would have to do.
Snoorgrath was beside Davrin, leaning on a crutch made from a gun brace. "I smell fear on you Davrin, why are you worrying yourself?"
"Too many have died on this trip Snoor, too many things have gone wrong. "
"Thas not it and you knows it. We have had worse, faced worse. You never smell of fear. I thought you too old and tough to let anything bother you".
"Any other time, you would be right, but things are changing, can't you feel it?"
"I don't feel nothin. I ain't no shaman, no wiz and if youz calls me a rogue, I will beat you with your own gun. But, I knows fear is dangerous. It makes wrong moves, takes away the winning edge. Get yourself together or I will get me boyz and hightail it out of here."
"I won't let fear stop me and I will not take kindly to any talk of broken contracts!"
"Jus so you know, cause I's not one for loosing causes." and with that, Snoorgrath led the twelve riflemen to led them on their drills.
Davrin watched their backs, and knew that they also where on edge. "I only wish I knew why." he muttered to himself.
**********************************
Davrin finally went to see the blademaster, Neairti, who was strapping on the pieces of her armour while her Aerune companions joined forces to sharpen her massive artifact sword, a relic of the vanished Medibril empire. They had know each other for years, off and on. As she looked at her massive friend, she shook her head.
"I have a bad feeling about this Davrin."
He grimaced. So did he. But he forced a grin as he replied. "You always say that. Remember that dragon-rat plague? This is nothing compared to that."
Her wan grin in response did little to lift his spirits. If that dead city awoke, this would be a very bad night.
They weren’t far enough from the ruins for his peace of mind, but he hoped that the dead would stay buried this time, and that the caravan and its myriad beacons of life would be far enough away to not arouse the undead.
If only they hadn’t had to stop to unload that damned lizard. Not for the first time, he wondered if they should have just abandoned the cargo, and suffered the loss of reputation. Money has always been the bane of him, as he cared more for people than for wealth. Unfortunately, that is not how the world works. People where measured by their geld price, how much they are worth. Many times, it is far less than what you would think. Davrin remembered all too well, how much his own hide was worth when he was auctioned away to slave traders so many years ago. It was two lifetimes ago and still the fact that he was worth less than a mule burned a hatred in him so deep that most Aerune would find his outlook on freedom to be radical. Still, money is what the world works on, and it is with money that he can take care of those he cares about. So, yes, unloading the lizard and saving the cargo was worth it, but the price of the money, the true price, may be all their lives.
"Neairti, I know. I know." There was not much more to say.
"Davrin, I owe you a life price, but, many on this trip are just that, travellers, while the ormeil you hired are little better than mercenaries. They may take your life for sport. Don't forget how precarious a position you put us in when you decided to take the Lemarkian ridge instead of the main caravan routes."
"Are you questioning my leadership Neairti? Are you questioning the fact of the taxes we saved by avoiding the route through Loridge? We both know that this caravan is barely surviving with the way the kingdoms are guarding their borders and raising the passage taxes through their lands." Although Davrin began with an agressive stance, his words soon slowed to a crawl under Neairti's gaze. All the anger drained, first from his voice, then from his body. They where both too good of friends to rehash all the worries, plans and failed attempts that have earmarked the history of the caravan.
Looking down, Davrin turned and walked away, the only sound, the whisper of his parting word, "sorry".
He never heard her response, for this warrior women, trained to face down man or monster without thought, said but one word, and it was but an echo of Davrin.
It seems the word sorry is always lost upon the wind.
****************************************
Karl double checked the camp. He was trained well by Neairti and his Uncle. With the Wards set, and the waggons drawn up in a protective circle, there was nothing to do but wait. Everyone around him was apprehensive. Though this wasn’t the first Black Sun they had endured since leaving Mar’ghen, it was the first so near a dead place with such an awful reputation. As the Red Sun slowly faded from the sky, parents pulled their children close, while the old Stoma and his guards tensed up.
Almost immediately after the Sun disappeared, little blue sparks started to erupt along the edge of the encampment. The vile creatures that lived deep in the sand of this place were trying to come up, drawn by the life and warmth of the caravans Kindred and animals. The Wards were keeping them at bay, but anything much larger than a cat wouldn’t be stopped.
While Davrin kept watch toward the city, the impossible happened. It started to grow light out. For a moment he almost thought they had the day wrong, that the Yellow Sun was rising instead of the Black.
Stoma aren’t good at colours, but even he could tell that this light was off-blue, not yellow. Beyond that, it wasn’t coming from the sky at all, but from the caves they had just passed.
A chill ran down his spine.
Although he had lived a very long life, he was not so old to remember the paths. All he had to guide him where the stories sung by the passing bards of his youth. He knows that in that old city, once, those caves had been more than holes in the rock.
Once, they had connected to dozens of Paths, the magical passageways that once joined the Realms, closed off at the end of the Third Age.
Pulling his spyglass from a belt pouch, he looked harder at the light. It was like a shimmering curtain pouring from the caves, and in its radiance he could see shapes moving about.
Tall, slender, gracefull, dressed in long green robes so deep in colour that they appear black. Elorheim. Not just any elorhiem, for the flash of crystal blade and magic so red that the cave mouth appeared purple in it's mix. That was the mark of the fallen, the Domi-Elor. They where banished so long ago, yet here again they stand in those caves. By the oath of kin, he should fell them where they stand, but, Davrin knows, the oath does not always apply, as he had learned the hard way when he lived in the walking cities of the blades edge desert.
Davrin called out "Neairti, Karl, Snoorgrath, come, bring your armsmen, strangers just beyond the line". His deep voice echoing through the encampment.
Davrin turned to see his people, rushing toward him, faning out to defencive positions on both flanks. Frowning, and quickly looking back, he sees something new.
Blocking the light of the cave, silhouetted by that beautiful curtain, was something out of a nightmare, all spikes and tentacles.
As he watched, the Elorheim started to die.
At that point, he knew. In his heart, in his sole, he knew. The Paths were open. The Fourth Age had passed. Everything has changed.
"Everyone, To me. We have Kin to save and d**n the expense"
**************************************************************
Karl did not like this, did not like this in the least. Outside of the wards, running towards what is obviously powerful magic, to save those who are, by definition, kinstrife. "..of those who hate for hates sake, we shall hate. Of those who deny that those that think are all kin, we deny. Death for death, I take this oath..." Karl quoted the oath of adulthood, whispered under his breath. This is wrong, for those elor ahead carry the markings of the banished. Domi where to be hunted, not helped.
Ahead, the strangers where fighting for their lives, trying to retreat from the creature. "What is that thing" Karl calls out.
"KARL, QUIET AND DOWN" this was neither shouted nor whispered, but Neairti's words carried with a force that made Karl cringe, but he obeyed and dropped, rolling into a depression in the dirt.
Karl was not the only one who heard Neairti's admonishment, for the elor finally noticed the caravan and the approaching fighters. With a shout, the beleaguered elor made a break from the monstrosity, retreating towards the oncoming kindred.
As two of the elor turned, the beast shot out tendrils that skewered the both of them, before wrapping them and pulling them back towards it. The rest of the elor made it out of the reach of the beasts grasp, running towards Davrin and the Neairti. That soon ended as they got close enough to get a good look at who their rescuers where.
Three of the elor raised their bows. Davrin's mixed collection of Orm and Reid guards raised their guns, staring at each other as the monstrosity at the Paths sated its hunger on the corpses of the fallen Elor.
Davrin spoke first, struggling to remember the words of the old high Elor he had once learned in a Domi-Elorheim village as it crawled across the blades edge desert. The words hurt his throat as he spoke, high-pitched and intricate, with just a touch of madness.
“While we would love to indulge your desire to fight, the Destroyer that pursues you is a far great danger to you, and to those who look to me for protection.”
The lead Elor finally seemed to notice the caravan, and it’s profusion of Kindred. Her eyes widened in surprise.
The grizzled Stoma could almost read her thoughts. “How has he not eaten all these people yet?” The ancient Elor held a very low opinion of his kind, despite having created them from Reidumein stock, twisting and shaping them into battlefield cleaners.
“You are correct carrion eater. Let us deal with the Destroyer first, and then we can sort things out here.” A quick whistled commend to her fellow Elor, too quick and high-pitched for the Stoma to catch, had them lower their bows and take up positions facing towards the caves, where even at the moment, the Destroyer lifted its shaggy and scaled head up, to sniff for more prey.
“When does the sun rise?” asked one of the Elor, an old elf with that air of carrying a burden, likely a sorcerer. “This night feels wrong.”
“There will be no light this day. This is a Death Day, the day of the Dark Sun.”
The Elor muttered something under his breath, as his breathing changed. Though Stoma are not a magical race, Davrin could feel the magic building in the old Elor. He had never been in the presence of so much power before, the energy just crackling below the skin.
The monster at the Path suddenly roared, a penetrating cry, deep and wordless, echoing with longing and hate. Suddenly it moved. Nothing so big should be able to move that fast, but it seemed to flow towards them, moving on hundreds of small feet while it’s bone-tipped tentacles prepared to slash and tear.
The sharp smell of urine filled Davrin's nostrils, and he realized that the Reidumein guard next to him had wet himself. Behind him, he could hear cries of terror from the people cowering in the caravan. All the while, the barrier crackled and popped as it drove off the fell creatures who lived under the sand, who only stirred on the days of the dead.
The beast was almost upon them. Neairti, her horse fighting under her, had her great artifact sword at the ready. One of he Elorheim stared hungrily at the great blade, perhaps sensing the power in it. He even licked his lips before he tore himself away to face the threat bearing down on him. The Elor raised their bows, the tips seeming to crackle in the darkness, while the guards aimed their guns. The Davrin set his great cannon to his shoulder, and pulled the lever that would make all for barrels fire at once.
“Fire!”
Nearly half of the guns failed to fire. Cursing his stupidity, Davrin understood his mistake. Demons are creatures of magic, and so much concentrated magic could, and did, cause his guns to fail. His cannon roared, though, and the monster surging towards them stopped, bleeding from a dozen wounds. The elf-shot of the Elor seemed to be causing it the most discomfort, but not even they could stop it.
“Right then.” Davrin dropped his cannon, and grabbed up his axe. It held no magic, but it was forged by the Khazud from sky-metal, something fallen through from another realm.
It would have to be enough.
************************
The caravan wound it’s way into the trade station, exhausted. Karl had driven them hard since the Paths had opened at the Hatchet, Davrin never left his waggon. Whispered rumors spread like wildfire amongst the survivors. Hatred, fear, doubt, a range of emotions poured out from those who understood the fact that they travelled with the banished. Domi-Elorheim are not to be accepted, they are to be killed.
Only Belik's command of the ormeil kept the others in line. Snoorgrath's death put him in charge, and Belik has always held himself loyal to Davrin since the old stoma bought his freedom from the slave pits in Highledge. Belik did not like it, but he knew that the old beast must have a good reason to let the hated Domi's live. For now, Belik only wanted peace and normalicy, after all, many orm died this trip and no songs have been sung for the dead.
Once the caravan had stopped, Davrin emerged from his waggon, looking thinner and more haggard. He did the rounds, taking inventory of the caravan. As it was it was It would take the animals at least a week, maybe more to recover, and even the hard-living Ormeil guards looked a little haggard. The little Jegreh girl regarded him solemnly, as the guards helped her mother out of the wagon and to the town’s healer.
Davrin promised himself something, he was going to find out her name. With luck he may watch her grow up and have her own children. "I got to quit adopting people" he muttered to himself.
The huge old Stoma looked out over the caravan. He had brought almost all of them in, despite the bandits and the Demon. He had lost his Neairti. That hurt him the most. She was so close to him, he wished he was still human, as he would of proposed decades ago. Not that he would have any chance. Neairti was far more than he was worth. Neairti's two Aerune followers were still lost in sorrow, but she had saved Davrins life. He disliked that, and the obligation it brought, but, he thought, with that huge, hideous grin of his, that’s better than the alternative.
Davrins brows knit as he thought of the Domi-Elorheim. He needed to have someone keep a close watch on them. Being from a different Realm, they had sworn no Kin-oath, and the dark looks they gave him, and his Ormeil staff, did not bode well. He needed to see the sheriff, and quickly.
His journey through the close streets of the trade station brought him into contact with Kindred of all shapes and sizes. Most of the races were represented in the crowds around him, from the tiny Aerune flitting over the masses, dancing in the sky as they went about their business. Stolid, dour Khazud negotiated with haughty Elorheim, while a mixed crowd of Jegreh, Blencair and Caien children tumbled past his feet, no more awed by his presence than anyone else. A trio of Felidine warriors stalked down the street, and all parted ways for them, though. They were nearly as tall as he was, and their fangs and claws commanded respect, or at least fear. He wasn’t so sure about the braids and ribbons in their manes, but to each their own. Then he had an idea.
While most got out of the way of the Felidines, Davrin planted himself firmly in their way. It didn’t hurt to be a little obvious with the giant lion-men, especially if they didn’t have a female or ten in attendance to help them tell the difference between left and right. The Felidines stopped for him, acknowledging a being even more dangerous than they, and waited.
“Master warriors,” he began, “I was hoping that you would see fit to accompany my caravan on the long, dangerous road ahead of us. We have already lost our Reidumein blademaster, and I expect the way ahead to get even more dangerous.”
“Why should we? As you say, we are master warriors, not caravan guards.” The lead Felidine seemed to speak for the trio.
“The Paths of Sorrow have opened, Masters, and things unknown are spilling out into Shard. The lights of Venkroolsen has been seen in the sky, and the dead walk the earth. With us, you will find all the challenge you need to establish your Names.”
The Felidines blinked in surprise. Not at the mention of the Paths. Felidines males didn’t really have the imagination to grasp what that meant. Rather, it was his mention of Names. Few outside the Felidine tribes and their Elorheim patrons knew of the naming ritual, where three Felidine males, two Questers and a Witness, went out into the world to face whatever it could throw at them. The greater the challenge, the better a name they could win. The Witness determined the value of the conflicts, and the length, and therefore the quality, of the name they earned. A good name would grant better opportunities for mates, land, and livestock once they returned home.
“The challenges you mention are truly worthy of a great name. Or even a second name,” mused another of the Felidines, older and battle-scarred. The Witness.
The first broke in, eager to lead. “ We will journey with you. Yours is the newly arrived caravan at the south gate?”
It was the caravan-masters turn to blink in surprise. Perhaps he had underestimated the lion-men. “Yes, ask for my second, Karl. He will provide for you.”
Precious little profit would come of this trip. At this point, fulfilling the contract was more important than the money. Money could always be made, but a reputation had to be built up over a lifetime. Thanks to the Frome, he had lived over two lifetimes already, but time for him was running out. There’s only so many elixirs one could drink before reality won over the magic, and the reality was that he should have died of old age 100 cycles ago.
One problem solved, he accosted a passerby to find directions to the sheriff’s office. Humming to himself, he took great strides down the street, following the directions given. Trusting his loud humming and pounding feet would get people to clear a way for him, he walked without giving thought to others, as his mind was taken with other worries. After the sheriff, Davrin had to find a journeyman healer willing to travel with him, or maybe a sorcerer. Some magical firepower to back up his guns would not go amiss.
With the Paths of Sorrow open, who knew what dangers they would face on the long road ahead.
