As he slowly dissolved into the slime creature’s
sweet smelling jelly Yenovin had time to consider how life led him to such an
end. At first the creature’s touch had
been the most painful frost, but gradually a cool anesthesia enveloped his
body. A state perfect for calm
reflection.
Old
days came back with a child’s tint. The
light in the Badlands of Nysul was different then, thinner, the shade of
memory, the sky a paler shade of blue.
Only the rocks were the same red color and through the canyons of the
stuff varied regal keeps popped out vivid and magical, full of feudal pomp and
artistry.
Yenovin
was born a vassal of Queen Ensere. At
five he remembered a change taking place. Laslal, the court magician, vanished after the
coming of the red demon. Without her
thaumaturgist the monarch dwindled and when the looters grew bold enough they
found a sack of bones upon her golden throne.
After
the Uplifting life entered a play of predation and survival. Yenovin hunted the wild creatures of the
badlands for food and scuffled with others over the remaining supplies pillaged
from various royal storehouses. Most of
the kingdoms lingered on as crumbling eggshells full of bitter humanity. Now they all led savage lives, raiding each
other for resources, nobles no better than commoners.
It
had always been that way, he realized under the conductive effects of the slime
creature’s jelly. Just that before
society wore a mask of jewels and knights and princesses. Now the raw brutality shone through in honest
drab colors.
This
was why the Children of Nysul formed.
They gave a new life to the young man of barely twenty seasons, a way to
fight against both the tyranny of the lingering regimes and claw back the treasures
of the elder days.
A
fire guided his heart to this tomb where the outsiders ventured. That same fire burned even as he slid into
the cool matrix of the thing which caught him in the lower halls. Achievement and victory lingered in his brain. As his mind merged with the strange
intelligence within the ooze he took with him the knowledge that the old seals
could be broken and that magic would play free and vivid in the badlands once
more.
The world had no end of blue. Even the clouds hinted at expanses far beyond
the pale skies. Hnah led the way as if
the other two weren’t there. The Fencer
kept up but the Trumpeter lagged, taking in the red badlands by day, trying to
piece together a mind broken by the hypnotic effects of a magic crown.
“Why
the hurry?” asked the Fencer, who kept trying to meet the princess’s eyes.
“Oh!” She jumped nearly a foot in the air,
surprised as if she had no clue who they were.
“Do not sneak up on me like that.”
“Such
hurry. Is there a race?” he asked.
“Yes,”
she said tersely, annoyed that she had to pay attention to the world around
her. “The sooner we are done then the
sooner I can be back in Arandlia.”
“Where
is that?” Strange names always gained
the Trumpeter’s attention.
“It
is a place which exists in my head,” she said with a wicked grin.
“I
see,” said the musician slowly before changing the topic. “You’re like a jewel, you know, all those
gems and metal bits. Like some women I
once knew. Sisters really, to make it
less confusing for you to understand me. There were two of them. One had the beauty horribly tortured into her
by a madman after the image of the first, who was a kind of animate statue.”
Hnah
stopped as if she had spotted some sort of trouble. The men looked all about for signs of ambush
or beasts but found only cold light drifting through the barren rocks.
“That
is most fantastic,” she said, a smile
thawing her otherwise pinched and cold face.
“I am a creature of fantasy too.”
“How
is that?” asked the Trumpeter, much to the exasperation of his companion. The Fencer tromped ahead to scout, leaving
the two mad birds to warble at each other.
“I
have discovered that I am an Aranite. My
golden lines and gemstone skin to prove it.
It is from my kind that humanity sprung.
We are magical things, but our powers are slow to emerge, springing up
over centuries.”
The
names she used seemed mystic enough and the Trumpeter’s wildly inclusive mind
was eager to accept the strangest of notions.
Though, at the edges of thought, he felt certain he had heard the words
before. His mind wasn’t working
properly.
“How
is it that Arandlia exists within the lovely but relatively small confines of
your skull?” Innocently he tested her,
because the Fencer always called him a fool for believing. The Trumpeter was inclined to believe in the
most unlikely truths.
“The
mind contains vast spaces, land which exists in a different mode than this
harsh and savage realm,” explained the princess. “As Winter cooled the Aranites translated
their island continent into a shared dream, one which only they could enter. Some live there always, dreamers within a
dream, while others venture outside, into cold wakefulness, and must find their
way back. Doing so takes practice and
concentration, which I have yet to master.
My visits home are precious few.”
“I
love this notion,” exclaimed the musician.
“Yet, how did you get to be marooned on the rough side of dreams?”
“Don’t
you see?” she grinned. “It’s obviously a
mystery posed by some drama due to the circumstances of my birth. My father probably keeps a great secret from
me or the red demon himself cursed me out of jealousy. So much lies within Arandlia it is difficult
to pin down the exact excitement.”
The
Trumpeter was happy to continue this line of madness but the Fencer intruded. He had found some tracks up ahead, the likes
of which he had never seen before.
Following
him they saw as well, hoof marks of some kind.
Their span was quite large, some thirty centimeters across, forming a u-shape,
the prongs ending in deep toe depressions.
By the look a half dozen beasts had come this way.
“Carnivorous
giraffes,” said Hnah with a tired sigh.
“I was hoping for something new, something exciting.”
A new scent, strange and awful, clung to the
ravines and canyons of Nysul. Though
humanity was unable to smell such reek with their inferior noses there were
those things which could. Even this
alchemy on the air wasn’t enough to dissuade the predators in their hunt. In Winter’s harsh realm it was often necessary
to put aside criticism and merely accept phenomena as they presented
themselves, as entertainment or food or warning.
In
elder times giraffes were grazers, adapted to nibble upon the choicest tree
tops and hanging plants. But with the
cold they changed and in the snow blood was more common than leaf. Flesh had a winnowing aspect. Where there were once great herds of the
beast roaming the lost savannah there was now only the few which survived by
chance along the grooves and canyons of Nysul.
Now they hungered after the hunt, excitement coursing through their
powerful limbs, their necks now suited to plucking off heads.
They
knew the canyons well and various members split from the pack in order to cut off
any chance of escape. Long tongues they
lolled in the air hoping for blood.
The
main group of beasts rounded the far corner of the ravine in which the
travelers strode, wary, having already noticed the prints. Besides the far entrance and this one there
was only a small offshoot canyon, a dead end.
Three bipeds in curious garb; easy pickings.
Now
the outlanders saw the beasts whose marks they had noted for some time
now. The tallest of the giraffes stood
almost six meters high, the vast majority of that being neck. Their fur was ruddy and long, with remnants
of savannah patterns to remind them of an elder world. Atop the long, powerful neck was a narrow,
tapering jaw full of vicious teeth.
Heads braying with delight the beast savaged the air with the short
horns which protruded from atop their skulls.
“Oh,”
sighed Hnah as she notched a missile and with a bored expression sent a lazy
arrow towards the oncoming hunters. It
fell short, throwing up a plume of dust and dry snow.
“Pull
as if your life depends on it,” spat the Fencer, “because it does.”
“She’ll
just end up in her fairy world after death,” noted the Trumpeter as he raised
his instrument to collapse the canyon down on the onrushing things.
“Don’t,”
said the Fencer. “You’ll bring a red
tomb down on us all.”
He
was right. The stones were blasted by
ice and wind, ready for a tumble.
Against the beasts they had a chance, while there was no way to fight an
avalanche; they had tried before.
“Don’t
yell at me,” said the sullen girl of gems and gold as she readied another
half-hearted arrow.
But
this time she did pull harder and set her eyes to the fletching. Loosed, the missile found the broad chest of
one creature. It faltered in blood but
kept coming. Sight of the red, steaming
fluid excited Hnah and by the time the band hit them one had fallen, full of
arrows.
The
Fencer split the first one’s head from snout to neck as it leaned into the
kill. More thundered past, rearing up to
strike at the Trumpeter with powerful forelimbs and force the giggling Hnah
creature back as she tried to gain enough room for another shot.
Covered
in frost the first attacker’s body fell to the stones as the swordsman spun to
face another. This one had more cunning
and whipped its head about in feints, looming over the little man who struck
out again and again but met only air.
Then a sudden charge caught the man’s arm with the giraffe’s horn and a
long line of blood erupted.
Banging
on his instrument the Trumpeter kept a pair at bay, the sounds ringing in their
ears funny and strange. The girl slunk
behind him, thinking of her fantasies and staring at the Fencer’s bloody
arm. That swordsman felled his second
attacker, cleaving its triumphant neck from its body, as he staggered back in
pain.
There
was no escape in that direction. Behind
them another band of carnivorous giraffes kicked up dust as they charged. With no other course available the trio
backed into the box canyon opening at their side.
Regrouping
with their fellows the giraffes stalked slowly after their prey. With no escape available to the prey the
hunters had all the time they wished.
The swordsman would tire, the archer would run out of arrows and the man
with silver would hurt his hand before long.
They ran long tongues over jagged teeth in anticipation.
From
desperate confinement the travelers wandered backwards into beauty. One moment they were surrounded by the
uncaring red rocks of the badlands, the next these very surfaces opened up to
them a whole new possibility.
Cunningly
hidden, a vast carven structure loomed out from the rock. Set at an angle so that only those who happened
this way saw its face the structure watched the canyon with finely etched
baroque features, cold windows and darkened portals staring out from time.
Sensing
some change in tone the giraffes started into a gallop, kicking up plums of
dust and snow. With no other course
available to them the travelers raced into the lowest opening, a great
arch. Here was another palace of Nysul,
cold and abandoned.
Into
the darkness they stumbled as the crash of hooves echoed behind. This lower level was vast and open, an
enclosed courtyard of fantastic dimensions barely shown in the gloom. Stairs and columns rose into the dark
above. From here they saw no rooms, only
areas which were once gardens, pools and lounges.
The
sounds behind grew louder and the three noted their mistake. The portal they had taken was quite large,
two stories tall at the least, and the beasts followed with ease into the ruin,
eager to finish the hunt.
Far
off in the dark a stairway glimmered.
Two of them made for that strongpoint but across open ground they had no
hope of outrunning the powerful quadrupeds.
Perhaps sensing this idiocy the Trumpeter stayed behind to catch his
breath.
“Why
have we stopped?” complained Hnah who found running for her life great
fun.
The
Fencer hesitated as soon as he noted the lack of madman. Very little could be seen of the musician as
he heaved in great lungfuls of air, but behind him the light from the door
showed several carnivorous giraffes stalking in, eyes gleaming cold.
“Don’t
you dare try to make a deal with those things!” the swordsman screamed,
unbelieving that the man might be staying behind in order to buy them
time.
Proving
such sentiments wrong the Trumpeter raised his instrument towards the way they
had come. This was clear, the sterling
instrument gleaming bright even in this dark place.
Sound
erupted and the ceiling applauded. Cold
tons of extravagant masonry tumbled from above, starting with the arch they had
come through, then ripping across the arches.
The whole roof rippled and caved.
In
clouds of dust they heard the hideous screams of the predators as they were
crushed by the falling palace. The
Fencer took Hnah’s hand so he wouldn’t lose track of her in the cloud. The girl stood gaping, her gemstone features
already caked in dust.
The
interior world of the forgotten palace became both brighter and less
clear. With a portion of the roof gone
light streamed in from outside, but the particles of destruction shrouded the
scene like a fog. Here they wandered
towards the light.
Above
them came ominous sounds, a groaning, cracking, stone buckling noise. The palace cried out for an encore from the
Trumpeter. At any moment the roof might
collapse from the song.
“Shouldn’t
we be making for the darkness?” she said, showing a vestige of
self-preservation.
“Most
reasonable, of a sort,” noted the Fencer as he plowed on. “But my demon is provoked and if this is the
end of the Trumpeter I need to note his passing.”
“He
surely died in all that rock,” she exclaimed.
This was no reason not to search though, she was encouraged at the thought
of blood.
Soon
they stumbled across ruined stones and shattered beams. Glimpses of ancient grandeur peeked out from
the rubble. Blood was there too. Half-buried hulks of giraffe flesh loomed
out, the dead already entombed in spattered cairns. None of the creatures moved and this was some
relief.
Cracked
open, the palace took in the Winter wind and soon the fog of dust became
dwindling curtains. Pure sun peeked
through the clouds above, warming the cold ever so slightly.
Amongst
the devastation they found no sign of the Trumpeter, not blood or scarf or
instrument. About to give up they moved
across a flat panel of fallen stone which survived mostly intact. As they walked a whimper came from one
end. It was propped up by some other bit
of debris and the Fencer marched across the surface to the growing worry of
whatever lay beneath. At the edge he
crouched down and leaned over to see.
“Oh
good,” said a wavering voice. “You
aren’t a giraffe.
Through
some bit of insane luck the Trumpeter lived, untouched beneath the rock. No debris held this sheet up. Instead it was the musician’s instrument,
which pushed back the massive tons without notice or complaint.
“A
particularly troublesome spirit must be watching out for him,” noted Hnah. It was a blasphemy to invoke the
superstitions from before the Uplifting but this royal seemed to relish
breaking such taboo.
“Would
it disturb you more to consider that he managed it all by himself?” asked the
Fencer.
With
the Trumpeter freed they rested atop the wreckage while the Fencer wrapped up
his wounded arm. From time to time more
of the upper works fell, punctuating their conversation.
“A
forgotten palace,” mused the musician.
“Orlac
Pale Dragon,” muttered Hnah automatically.
She was elsewhere.
Curiosity
aroused the Trumpeter scrambled over to the girl.
“I
heard that,” he said.
“Oh.” She wheeled a guilty eye on the too-close
outlander. “He was the last ruler
here. This is, this was, the Faint
Castle. There, you can see the inner
works a bit now, all of white marble within.
He was a small noble, but made himself larger through mystery. When Sol came to Nysul he simply vanished.”
“The
Uplifting,” nodded the Fencer.
“The Boredom would be a more proper
label,” sighed the girl. “These ravines
used to be full of ambition, war and intrigue.
Now it’s just a few pale shades scratching themselves in dark ruins,
remembering elder days.”
Hnah
drifted then and the two travelers thought they might lose her to that other
world she spoke of. So the Trumpeter
gave her a blast of Winter.
“Why
did you have to do that?” she complained beautifully.
“I
have some questions concerning Arandlia,” began the Fencer.
Shocked
that the swordsman would take an interest in the girl’s mind the Trumpeter
began to pace. Things were to go
contentious very soon, and angry.
“I
will explain.” She said this with the
arrogance of a storyteller.
“An
excellent start,” smiled the Fencer wryly.
“How is it that another world exists outside of Winter when the
Uplifting surely destroyed all our heavens and hells?”
“Sol
had no power over the misty realm,” replied the girl confidently glittering.
The
Fencer stared at her for a few heartbeats.
“You
said before that Arandlia once existed on Winter, where?”
“I
don’t think that’s very important,” smirked the girl.
“Why’s
that?”
“What
does it matter where it’s from?”
Again
the swordsman considered her response.
He didn’t wear a kind manner, or play along with her whimsy.
“Fencer,”
interjected the musician, “We are wasting daylight and I’m not crushed. No need to make trouble.”
Except
the swordsman kept gnawing on problems presented, so he pressed Hnah again.
“I
think you’re lying.”
“I’m
fine with that,” she chirped.
At
this the Fencer grew concerned. He stood
up greatly offended, trying to fit the notion of happy unreliability into his
icebound head. There was no profit to
the girl’s imaginary world, as he saw it, only pointless escape and self-delusion.
“Fencer,”
said the Trumpeter again, a man well acquainted with delusion, “shall we?”
An
unsatisfied nod sent them on their way.
Behind them the ruins still cascaded, the last noise of silent
ambition. With afternoon burning away
they moved quickly, hoping not to meet any more of the badland’s predatory
fauna.
Hnah
guiding them, occasionally talking about coming this way as a child for a grand
ball, they quickly reached their destination.
Moor was its name, the kingdom rock containing Glor and his remnants of
ambition.
The
travelers held only confused memories of their repeated visits to this
place. Such was the nature of the
Regalom, the crown which commands. There
were hints of other worries, of something other than men which prowled those
halls. The fact that there were no
guards at the entrance should probably have been a warning.
“Obviously,
with us at our task there would be no need for a pair of swords here,” said the
Trumpeter with more hope than reason.
Saying
nothing, sensing danger, the Fencer entered, blade drawn. Within the air was only slightly less
cold.
A
pair of bodies lay savaged in the guard room, smelling of frozen blood. They had been torn apart by some kind of
beast. Strangely they wore balmy looks
upon their faces and neither had a weapon drawn. It was as if they had simply allowed
themselves to be slain.
Venturing
into the further halls they accepted Hnah to guide them, for their memories
were no help here, each door and passage being vaguely familiar.
She
took them through the most ostentatious path, through the agora, along the
royal causeway, towards the estate of stairs.
Quiet ruled the passages, though on occasion a very human noise, distant
and muttering, drifted towards them like a phantom. This ruin was haunted by the living.
More
signs of violence claimed their attention.
There was some sort of gathering in the great hall, then sudden
panic. Individual tracks separated off
from the group and these were pounced upon, kills punctuated with red. From the stains the victims were then dragged
elsewhere.
“Look
at this,” said the Trumpeter, gesturing to some marks in the lose sand which
often covered the floors. “A large beast
did this, some kind of hunting cat.”
Such
a creature hunted their minds as they moved further into the palace. First they trudged through the lower warrens
where survivors huddled behind barred doors, then to the marble of the royal
works where blood trailed upwards to the lair of violence. Upon their first footstep they felt the
presence of something listening to them.
Gone
were the pompous guards and lingering nobility.
A wafting smell of death greeted
their every step.
“I
do not like this place,” whimpered Hnah, who was instantly silenced by the
Fencer. In response a laugh echoed from
above, the seat of power here in Moor.
Knowing
no good sense they ascended. The
pleasure chambers had been transformed into a charnel house for those slain
below, dragged here as if to a lair.
At
last they found the throne room. Glor
waited for them, glassy-eyed, missing a hand.
On the throne sat the new ruler, a familiar creature, the hunting thing,
and on its head sat a crown fit to obey.
