The Calamitous Bob

Chapter 51: Tales from the Dark

The group plus the two owl-like Yries trudged even deeper into the heart of the mountain. It had been a full day since Viv had last seen the sky above her head. She had never been in a similar situation before and found it taxing. The unyielding walls of deep stone pressed all around her, both intractable and too fragile for her tastes. Only her magically-enhanced intellect brought her a measure of calm as she knew the way back with certainty.

Barring any collapse.

The passage they followed was more circular than square, and it only seldom crossed the odd, empty cavern. They were walking in a straight line. Sometimes, the younger Yries in front of them would turn to steal a glance in their direction.

Viv touched the comforting edge of her light stone, stuck snugly in one of her front pouches. All those other dumbasses could call light from their fingertips like a bunch of human firebugs, but she did not need them with that little trinket, even if things went to shit. The only thing she needed right now was answers to her questions. She angled towards Farren and whispered in his ear.

Are you sure its a good idea to go with them? What if the main group is not as friendly as you hoped?

Farren stared with some surprise, before shaking his head.

Ah, you are right to be cautious, of course, but Yries are not war-like people. They will only fight when backed into a corner.

The older one is wounded. You dont send the wounded on errands unless you are desperate.

And so they need our help. You are giving the Yries human traits, lady Vvvvviviane.

Not bad.

Thank you. And as I said, Yries are not human. They will always try to negotiate for things first.

Alright, alright.

Viv fell back and they kept going for only half an hour before their surroundings changed yet again. The tunnel widened, leading to a fortified wall manned by smaller Yries equipped with crossbows, all of them much more rudimentary than the one Viv had been shot with. They squawked when they spotted the group, but the old guy squawked louder and the bolt tips were thankfully aimed elsewhere. The humans and their guide navigated their way through stone spikes meant to slow larger creatures, and then through a magically-activated slab of stone. They entered a guard post. Viv noticed that the building itself was a simple wall raised from around by sorcerous means. Everything was rough-hewn. The guards looked nervous and wore the same thick leather armor as the guides. They had a talk with the old one.

Viv found the exchange quite interesting. The language of the Yries was made of short syllables spoken one by one, with a lot of guttural consonants. The word for greetings was probably Ook Nog Mok Yet. Unless that was a password or something. Another detail that she noticed was that the creatures moved their long, thin ears a lot when they talked. It was kind of amusing.

The exchange ended when the head guard blurted a few angry sentences and mimed raising his weapon in Lorns direction. Lorn slowly pivoted on his feet until his large chest faced the Yries, and Koro stepped up by his side. There was a very brief, very one-sided moment of intimidation until the expedition was wordlessly let through.

Viv passed a second door out of the outpost and whistled. The Yries were building a city.

In a large natural cavern, houses and buildings had been raised along the sheer walls in twisted and bulbous patterns. The stone was clearly the same, but it had been organically weaved or melded as if it were a plant. Mushrooms in warm shades provided the illumination, hanging in vases from everywhere and casting the entire city in a warm glow. Artificial columns peppered with windows rose in regular intervals with stairs climbing their side like spines from a shrub. The cavern centered on a small pond of deep blue water. The ground had an abundance of flower beds, but they were currently lying empty.

It was clear that something terrible and unexpected had happened. Somewhere to the left, a secluded place had crying people coming and going. As she watched, a shroud-covered body was dragged there followed by a wailing youngling. There were female Yries as well who were surprisingly much larger than their male counterparts. They led flocks of children, while men moved supplies and machine parts around with alacrity. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood.

The humans did not stop and nobody spared them more than a long glance, a testament to how exhausted those people were. Their guide led them through the entire city from end to end. On the way, they came across scenes of desolation. A hospital overflowing with patients, wounded stretched on the very ground. Wrecked equipment, including an impressive drill as large as a bus. There were even strange vehicles on wheels that looked like first generation tanks but had a drill in front. Viv marvelled at the sight of honest-to-god machinery but she could only regret the state they were in. Something with claws had peeled the plating like paper.

By Neriad, what is going on here? one of the guards whispered around them.

They found their answer when the land sloped up to a path to the surface. Viv had found the guard house decent, but this was on another level. Yries both young and old cluttered around a wall that blocked off the entire path, only a few rays of late afternoon light drifting through murder holes. There were enough crossbows here to stop a cavalry charge, and a few siege weapons as well. Viv recognized ballistae, though they looked cobbled together. Viv estimated that about two hundred armed Yries manned those defenses, and yet it clearly wasnt enough. Parts of the walls had been breached and were even now being repaired by drained Yries in flowing brown robes. As she watched, one of them collapsed and was carried inward to a first aid station.

Standing in the middle of the squawking troop was the tallest Yries around. Most of the males she had seen were slightly smaller than humans, but this lad approached two meters, and he was covered by a squad of warriors wearing heavy-looking full plates. They were the only fighters using close-quarter weapons. The armor looked extremely heavy, except for their thin arms which were covered in shiny mail. The head Yries dark eyes narrowed when he spotted the humans, and he made an annoyed come closer gesture. Farren and Lorn took the head of the formation and both armed groups stopped close to each other, not exactly lowering their guard.

The Yries addressed them in Baranese.

Farren took the lead in the conversation and Viv discovered that she could not follow. While Baranese was also heavily influenced by Harrakan, it was originally a separate culture and there were enough differences to confuse her. Instead, she inspected the fighters and realized that they looked hopeful.

It could only mean that they believed themselves utterly fucked before.

Lady Bob?

Lorn gestured for her to join the discussion and she obliged. The Yries inspected her and his ears quivered with something. It was hard reading emotions just from those.

This person is Gar-Gar, warchief of this Yries tribe, Farren said.

Yries have warchiefs?

Only during conflict, the rest of the time, they are ruled by look, this isnt the time for a lesson on Yries social hierarchies. Hes in charge. They were trying their luck in the mountains in search of a new settlement. It went pretty well for a while, but a week ago they pierced into a lonely valley to plant crops. That was a mistake. There are plenty of revenants making their slow way to the deadlands and some aberrants as well, and that much vitality in such a desolate place is a prize that attracts attention. An unknown creature has gathered every dead thing in a twenty-leagues radius and attacked them relentlessly ever since. They lost their previous leader and stone-weaver in the initial assault. She sacrificed herself to hold the entrance long enough for her people to get to safety.

And you want me to help with the defense? Viv asked.

Farren smiled brightly

I knew that I could count on you to at least entertain the idea. We are discussing options at the moment, I just wanted to know if you were up for it before mentioning you. I still want to find out exactly why they are here and what they intend to do.

Viv turned again as the conversation continued. The guards had settled around and Arthur was clearly considering flying, but Viv could feel her distrust of the newcomers and she was smart enough to identify the crossbows as dangerous. Marruk was now the minority inside of the minority, and she could see Solfis calculating gaze taking in his surroundings. It was not long before Farren asked for her again.

I have learnt more, he whispered, they were chased from Enoria. These are refugees.

Hold on, did you not say that they spoke Baranese.

Farren growled with frustration.

Listen, the Yries do not see borders as we do. For them we are, hmm, strange and unfamiliar. And warlike. And dishonest. Only those in positions of leadership make the effort to learn our tongue.

She couldnt really blame them.

In any case, he continued, they were attacked by the Enorian Kings faction. One of his sons apparently wrecked their city to find valuables and tried to enslave them. Thats why they are here. They are also aware of iron deposits in the vicinity. I may be overstepping my bounds here by making an agreement, but I would not want to risk our lives without some guarantees. Neriad knows that we have already risked and sacrificed much.

Well, one of them certainly had. Viv had gotten rich instead. Richer, in any case.

What agreement did you have in mind?

We will help them hold the tide. They are doing their best but, well. Have you seen their arms? Yries are physically weaker than humans in this regard. Thats why they fight with machines. Do you want me to explain how efficient crossbows are when fighting a revenant tide?

Pretty fucking useless?

Quite so. We can make a significant difference, if we choose to do so. And we probably will have to. Not you specifically. Us.

Viv suddenly remembered that she was hanging out with a religious order of holy knights.

You are honor-bond to save them?

Neriad holds every race in equal esteem and demands the same things from them, regardless of what some of those northern pricks insinuate. We cannot run while children die by the hundreds. There are almost three thousand Yries here, and only a tenth of that number are fighters.

Yries dont have militia?

Apparently not, Lorn said with a scowl of disapproval.

Yes, well, it doesnt matter now, Farren argued, what matters is that we will assist as part of an arrangement.

What arrangement?

The thing, Farren said, positively giddy, is that Yries are really good at metalworking.

Viv tried to reconcile her idea of the brawny man with corded muscles she expected a smith to be with the barrel-chested thin-limbed creatures bumbling about. She failed.

They use magic, Farren added, seeing her disbelief.

Right. I saw the foreuses they had.

Their what?

Drill constructs.

Right. They will use those strange things and help us exploit the mine in return for food and sundries. We help them get back on their feet, they help us catapult this operation off the ground. We keep the rights to the mine. Everyone is a winner.

Sounds good, provided that you manage to convince them.

Come on, Farren said shrewdly, have a little faith, hmm?

And he was right. It only took ten minutes for Gar-Gar and Farren to shake hands. After they were done, one of the Yries escorted the group to an empty house right by the entrance. Viv found that she liked the circular, vertical design, though the lack of sky frustrated her. Someone had left a few personal effects and the guards gathered them before crashing on an assortment of stone seats and couches. Someone knocked on their door.

Viv turned and took in another Yries, a female one in flowing robes colored white this time. Viv was not sure, but she thought the species might have more than a few pairs of breasts under all that cloth if the bulges were any indication. The large woman, lets go with woman, wringed her thin hands as she addressed them in Enorian this time.

I am Lak-Tak, daughter of our previous stone weaver.

She spoke laboriously, syllable by syllable, each one articulated with great care. The result was slow but extremely clear, though it did feel like being considered as very slow children.

The revenant will return after dusk. We bid you rest till then. We have little food. But we have much water. We will bring you water.

Appreciated, thanks. Dont worry about the food.

They still had plenty of dry travel rations, and Viv was glad because most of it contained bits of black mana, so she felt refreshed every time.

The expedition settled and someone found bricks of dried plant matter to start a soup. Farren sat next to Viv.

I believe that I still owe you a tale or two about artefacts, yes?

You did say that.

I could tell you, then you should probably take a short nap. The night will be long.

Alright. Go ahead.

Viv sat down more comfortably in an adjacent bedroom, with Marruk plopping down by her side with an eye on the entrance. The temperature here was pleasantly fresh and the air felt clean. There was even a bit of wind coming from somewhere. Farren smiled and settled himself in a lotus position, back straight as a rod.

Ahem. Let me start with the story of the Sword of Baran, the Sword of the Dragonslayer.

A hundred years ago, in the eastern march of Baran, where mountains and deep vales hide the light, there was a small village, and in that small village, a boy was born. That boy was bright and strong and his skin was sun-kissed, for he spent every waking hour playing outside. As soon as he could participate, he picked a piece of wood and won the yearly blade tournament. No care for bow or staff he had, only for the sword of the nobles. His dedication and skill attracted the favor of merchants and pretty girls, but he had set his eyes on a bigger prize.

When the boy reached sixteen, a traveling master passed by a nearby town and the boy challenged him to a duel. For the first time in years, the boy lost. The old master had not used strength or speed to beat him. Instead, he always knew what the boy would do. It had been a contest of skill and finally, the boy was happy, for he had found a challenge to overcome.

Who are you? Said the old master. My name is Eron, he replied, and the master took an apprentice that day. The pair traveled to the city of Baran, with its white walls and majestic columns, where his training began in earnest.

For two years, the boy practiced until his fingers bled. No other student was his match, and still he persevered, for his true target was the old man. And then, the old man died.

The school closed and its students dispersed, and Eron realized that old age had robbed him of his target, so he did the only thing he could think of. He enrolled in the Baran arena.

Now, at that time, the arena was an even more bloodthirsty affair than it is now. Eron faced foes with strange weapons, bows, and claws. He faced monsters. He did not win all his matches, but he won so many that there was always coin and favor to help him recover. At the ripe age of twenty-one, Eron had become unbeatable.

There are many who came to rob him of his title, and he answered every challenge. He outwitted the Swordbreaker through careful feints. He read through the mesmerizing motion of The Lilys whips. The axe of Gromel found only air while he found flesh. Even the Southern Stinger was deflected and broken by his expert blows. Eron was only one step away from greatness, and that step was offered to him.

The Kings Champion, Urden, proposed a duel for his own position and for a day, they fought. Urden was older and his power and finesse were legendary. It took Eron everything he knew to keep the Champion at bay. But eventually, Urden tired. Every day he had spent by the kings side, Eron had spent in the training fields. Urdens feet were too used to the creamy tiles of the palace while Eron knew the harsh grit of the bloody sand like his own skin. Urden faltered, and Eron won. The Champion gracefully admitted defeat and Eron became Champion of Baran at twenty-three. No one ever approached that achievement since then, and perhaps no one ever will. The King made a magical sword for Eron and the newest Champion asked for no fire or ice, only that it could contain his incredible drive. The result was an unadorned tool of death that could endure anything.

But then, at the top of the world, Eron heard that his native region had been beset by a dragon.

Squee!

Ah, errr, hm, it was a stupid and weak dragon, not like the magnificent Arthur. That dragon was burning villages and eating cattle for no other reason that it could. The king forbade him to go, but Eron went anyway.

Despite so many years of success, despite his fame and wealth, Eron did not forget that it was his village that had started him on the path he now tread. It had been his elders who had seen the talent in him, and pushed him to leave farmwork. It was his family that had fed him while he practiced, and so Eron discarded everything but his blade and set out. He left behind the white walls and silk sheets, the welcoming thighs of Baranese countesses, his money and his title and returned to his home. There, he found the dragon killing people indiscriminately.

Eron fought him alone.

For three hours, they dueled under the gaze of the mountains and the forgotten vales. For three hours, fire scathed the earth while blade cut the sky. The combat was cataclysmic, and the villagers froze instead of fleeing, for no one had ever faced a dragon in single combat and lasted more than a few seconds.

Squee.

Ah, hm, indeed. And after three hours of combat, silence fell upon the land. The most daring of villagers went up but they found only the corpse of the mighty creature, the sword embedded deeply in its eye and brain. Erons hand was still attached, but the rest of the body had been reduced to ash.

And so the villagers brought the sword to the king. Eron was forgiven for his disobedience and given the funeral of a hero. It is said that, even to this day, whoever holds the blade can feel the determination of Eron at the moment he died, and reproduce the impossible strike he made to end his foe forever. That is how the Dragonslayer Sword came to be.

Squeeeee.

Its fine, little one, Viv said while stifling a yawn, Ill never let some big human dummy annoy you for three hours. You are safe.

Squee.

Arthur coiled tightly around her, and she felt the creatures intense warmth seep through her sleepy body.

Another tale, then, a darker one.

Sure.

Ahem. Half a millennium ago, when the Old Empire still ruled over most of Param, there was a land deep to the south where men settled. They built a cold, half-buried city, huddling close to the bitter sea, where summer was but a fleeting dream. For all its harshness, it was beautiful and affluent, for the waters were teeming with bounty and the earth hid much gold. Imperial fleets would come and bring riches from the north, sweet wines and fruits and other things that could not grow there. It was on one of those ships that the clerk Nazear arrived. He joined the office of the governor and did what he did best, counting and measuring for days.

It did not take long for Nazear to realize that his superior was a crook. The arrogant man spent fortunes courting the favors of the high quarters most expensive prostitutes. The clerk saw that, and saw the money taken from the hands of the workers. One night, Nazear gathered his evidence and went to the governor. The imperial guard found the chief clerk in the arms of a honey-skinned beauty. In his anger, the governor had them slain, as well as all the other courtesans who had benefited from the arrangement. Nazear found the action excessive, but he saw the joy in the eyes of the workers when food and money was returned to them. When the governor asked what recompenses he sought, Nazear asked for the position of the dead one, and his wish was granted.

For years, Nazear kept a vigil over the finances of the kingdom. Many corrupt officials did he reveal, and they died to the governors fury as imperial law allowed. Rooms were filled with records until Nazear ran out of space, so he used the rewards he had gained to have a magical book made. It was a work of art, capable of adding or removing content from its countless pages. Nazear was happy. With the more dishonest people dealt with, Nazear turned his sharp intellect to solving the inefficiencies in the local administration.

For decades, he labored to improve the world, marveling at how every flaw was painstakingly recorded in the book and disappeared from the world. Every piece of chaos became but a corrected number in his colorful tome, a perfect history of Nazears own success.

But it was not enough.

Nazear saw how the anger of the governor and the jealousy of his wife affected the day-to-day affairs. He recorded every occurrence in the book as well as ways to stop them, and the book listened. Anger left the king, and jealousy, the queen. Lust left the cook. Gossip fled from the lips of the servants. Nazear was ecstatic. His land, his work, a perfect clockwork arrangement.

But soon, the murders started. Families inexplicably turned on themselves. Nazear felt frustrated and fed more into the book. Every night the tome grew more vibrant and the world more dull until, one day, the imperial fleet returned to find streets awash with blood and apathy. The drab victims of the book had taken arms to feel something, anything, no matter how cruel. They searched for their lost souls.

The imperial guard culled the entire city. They found Nazear, gibbering and delirious in the darkest chamber of the palace where he kept recording the dark deeds he had witnessed.

I will record you too, soon, he told the soldiers. An inquisitor was called and found the book bloated with mankinds drive and dreams. He failed to destroy it.

So the inquisitor left the book and cut off Nazears hands. They broke his teeth and pierced his eyes, then collapsed the passage behind them so that he would die there, unable to read the records he had so patiently taken, unable to add to them. Some say that he still waits there, sustained by the cursed artefact.

Wow. Creepy, Viv said. She yawned deeply and rolled into a ball with Arthur nestled close. Marruk placed Solfis nearby then she and Farren left the room. It was dark and comfortable.

//You should rest, Your Grace.

Viv closed her eyes.

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