Part 11: Chapter Nine: In the Court

Chapter Nine: In the Court



Limelin is truly the brightest gem in Celtland's crown. I walk down the streets, the buildings towering above me like giants waking with the sun.



But even here there is a growing sense of disaster. "Heard the rumor about Fargo?" a man says. "He's the villain wha tried to take over our town. He made a threat to burn the homes of anyone who dared to stand against him. Our great Lord Shriker captured him and put him in the tower. But after Lord Shriker's mysterious death, Fargo made good his escape. And it's only a matter of time before he returns to threaten us again."



I reserve a room at the inn. Like clockwork, Shannon is there. I speak with her. "This is a grand city, don't you think?" she said. "But isn't it strange? People build a metropolis to last 1,000 years, but a human lifetime is just a passing thought."

It is a noble goal, I say, to have one's works linger on long past death.

Shannon kneels, seeing me eye-to-eye. She... pets me. Stroking back my hair. Winding my most errant lock of hair around her finger. "Everything dies," she says. "Even this world will die someday, disappearing into the void. Every life, every thing, lives in spite of the encroaching tide of nothing that will swallow up the very universe, leaving not even memories behind. It is the most beautiful kind of madness, Brian."



That was an excellent time to make myself be not anywhere near the inn. I take a walk though the flower fields in the east side of the town.

Again... why do I feel so--lessened?

The spirit in the field fills me with more confidence, though, and a walk through a field of blooming flowers refreshed my tiring body.



There's another spirit tucked near the docks, bursting from a shipment of fresh fruit.



I decide to investigate the tower the passerby told me of. From the outside, it seems intact (and, in inspecting the tower, I find a spirit behind it). But inside it has been burnt clean of any life. The sole room untouched by fire is the highest. Its cell's door has been warped by fire. Spiraling here is another spirit; I draw it and catch a faint whiff of magic fire.



After asking for directions, I find the home of Lord Shriker. His house is regal, and would be magnificent had it not been consumed by a creeping, otherworldly blight--as if the very stone had rusted. Yes. Rusted. What power in all the earth could do that?



I approach the castle at last. A knock from my staff opens the gate; striding through is like stepping into a fairy-tale castle.



Each step beyond the gate has some marvelous new work of beauty to see, and that's just in the gardens. I find a spirit behind the statue at the center of the garden.



The foyer of the castle sports a great tableaux of the aftermath of the Day of Grief, as the strongest of the surviving spirit tamers--one representing each of the elements--capture what energies of the Grief they can and binding them into the elemental gems. Behind the tableaux are two stray spirits, waiting for me as if they were playing hide-and-seek.

I work my way through the many floors of the castle, exploring whatever I can.



In the library I come across a man by the name of Damon. I strike up a conversation; it eventually comes to the mighty beasts in the plains. "My grandfather oversaw the mines," he said. "He found the ruins at the end of Baragoon Tunnel. But I'm afraid that when he disturbed the ruins, it released the monsters that plague us today. We tried to seal the mine shaft, but it didn't have much effect. You better keep away."

The Wyverns have plagued Limelin for a while--I chide myself for forgetting. Most trade is carried out by sea, and teleportation eases the inconvenience, but accidents still happen. The queen of Dondoran's death in the maw of a Wyvern some years ago still lingers in many peoples' minds.



I browse Limelin's volumes of arcana in the library, admiring their rarer volumes and making light of their poorer choices. A spirit flickers between a pair of books like the world's most valuable bookend.



Before entering the throne room, I detour into one of the side rooms and find a little red-headed boy hiding in his room. He is the little Prince William, not a day over eight years old. "You're not much older than I am," he said. I agree. "My mother was expecting a great warrior. I bet I'm a better sword fighter. I can protect the castle." I agree again. I tell him I am a spirit tamer, and that my power is not vested in steel. He still thinks I should carry a sword.



I step into the throne room. I offer quiet praise to the spirits for my fortune in meeting women. Queen Deanna has the beauty and power of a lioness; I feel safe and strong in her presence. "Welcome to the land of Carmagh, master apprentice. Princess Flora of Dondoran sent a letter singing the praises of your magical talents." Truly? Deanna nods; it seems Princess Flora has been following my progress through Celtland with some interest. I am... unsure how to feel. "Have you really come to save us all from the Fire Starter Fargo, or are you more interested in finding your father? No matter. Fargo stands between you and your quest and he cannot be avoided!" I tell the Queen that I would have helped defeat Fargo even if I had found my father.

"Not defeat," she says, grim. "Kill." She explains that all of Limelin's spirit tamers are tied in defending the castle and any travelers from Wyverns, and there is never enough time or spare magicians to properly incarcerate the strongest of criminals, and with Shriker's death, their existing problems are compounded further. My heart sinks in my chest.



She lets me take what supplies I can from the treasury before heading out to kill Fargo. I take what I feel I need and leave. No use in overtaxing her hospitality.

Afterward, I rest a while in the inn, and then head out to find Fargo in the mines.



The Wyverns are followed by Blood Jells--rather, the Blood Jells adhere to the Wyvern, sucking its hide clean of parasites and cleaning its teeth. They plop off to help the Wyvern subdue its prey, anything to ensure their next meal. They die with the Wyvern.



The orange-and-red grubs called Caterpillars are the larva of Wyverns. When something draws close, they panic and spray out a cloud of highly combustible organs; they grow back their organs in little time. It is a skill they lose as they develop their fire-breathing talents.



Decades of abandonment have treated the old worksite outside of Baragoon Tunnel surprisingly well. I plucked a spirit on the way in, and two more wait near here--one to the right of the path leading into the pit, one under the scaffolding.



Before entering Baragoon Tunnel, I enter the small and neglected cabin. It's accumulated spirits like dust. I take both.



I step into the still air of Baragoon Tunnel. I hear the echoes of scuttling monsters not far ahead...



There are no Wyverns here--they must have left the tunnel behind, too cramped for them to be comfortable--but the monsters that linger have a tactical advantage. Sprites, for instance, make use of bursts of steam to wear down their prey. Like other fairy-like monsters, they are too far off the ground for me to injure with my staff. I must use magic to put them down.



Will-o-Wisps are the ghosts of children who have died violently. They spray powerful bolts of fire; in the cramped tunnels, I can't hope to dodge their attacks and must escape.



These ghosts--more properly called tommyknockers--are the easiest enemies to handle, although when their spells connect it is sheer agony. Termants are here, too, chewing away new additions to the tunnel.



A tense, flight-filled trek through the tunnel brings me to a mine-cart track and a stray spirit.



The tracks are long and creaky, but devoid of monsters. I pass over much of Baragoon Tunnel; I peer over the rails to see monsters milling on the floor below, ghosts chattering to each other in the language of the dead, Termants listlessly gnawing to fill the needs of the insects in their veins.



The mine ends here; at the top of a pile of sediment is an entrance worked partly by human tools and finished by great leathery wings.



This is no mine shaft--the stone is worked, made of great Cyclopean brick. Turning right is a dead-end, but it yields a spirit.

The hallway is a long series of straight lines, turning in on hard right angles. They are dotted with monsters, but the way is wider, and I can offer something more than token resistance and the sight of my back.



I come across a room full of walkways. I explore a bit before continuing, finding two spirits and a few particularly-fermented healing potions.



The tunnel ahead is claustrophobically cramped; I can feel the walls scrape against my sides. They are rough almost to the point of sharpness; I cast healing spells as I walk to seal up my wounds. I have a bad feeling.



I see a woman ahead. With my luck, I doubt she'll be friendly. I step forward cautiously.



She dresses like a parody of a seductress. Her hair is filthy, as are her clothes, and she reeks with particularly strong body odor.

I ask who she is. She considers my words, utters a spell, and responds in the strange accent of someone speaking through translation magic.

"I am Shilf, a servant of Mammon."

...Who?

"I've been waiting a thousand years for him to return..."

Who is Mammon? I've never heard any legends or myths of a "Mammon." The name is unfamiliar to me.

"If I'm correct," she says, "I sense but three precious stones." And then she attacks. I wish that were surprising...



She attacks with a spray of mystical doves formed of wind energy. They move like lightning and are devilishly hard to dodge. I close in, trying to discourage her use of the spell. I pelt her with earth spells and close in, testing her close-ranged spell.



Her nearer attack is no less painful than one of her doves--but it is equal to only one of her doves. I press on, withering her blasts, and invoke the Avalanche spell, crashing magical meteors over her head. She presents a small target for the spell. It's too energy-inefficient; she'll wear me down soon. I fear I have one recourse.

I strike her--low, under the ribs. My spirit-strength has been growing exponentially; where it could once crush a man's skull with one panicked swat, it can now shatter stone. Her defensive spells reel; she keeps up her blast, pouring agony into me. Screaming in pain, I strike again, and again--enough to knock her off-balance, enough to send her back. Her spell goes skew.

She slips on the edge of the platform and falls.



I look over. The fall is long, and she breaks at the bottom. She lives, briefly. In moments, the cuneiform-emblazoned floor quakes, tiles shifting aside to let Shilf slip between them. Then the tiles close around Shilf's body, and chew until there is nothing recognizable left. Her remains pass into the darkness beneath the first few layers of tiles, and again they are still.

I don't feel a thing. She tried to kill me in the name of something called Mammon. I don't know who she was, what she was doing here. In all likelihood she was after the gems; I couldn't let her take them. A simple reaction. Pragmatic. I don't even feel queasy at how easily most of me takes the killing of a woman.

What is wrong with me?



Now I know where I am--Dindom Dries. Dindom was the sight of several ancient cultures, one being the Uteri-Zeun. They built massive, living temples and fed them sacrifices to appease obscure gods of the city. They were enemies of the Vikari--who later became the people of Shamwood. We know about Shamwood, of course.



The tunnel leads out into a brilliant ocean of sand. The Dries--as I live and breathe. The sweltering heat is a welcome break from the cold that's been pursuing me all through my journey.



I find a tent not far away. Inside is a man--an archaeologist. He offers me a place to stay for a while and rest; I take his offer.



He permits me to take the spirit dwelling near the back of his tent. I thank him deeply.



Perhaps Fargo is hiding in the desert? He is a fire magician, after all--he is more than equipped for surviving the desert.



Well... there's only so many places he could hide...

Next: We must have died alone.



Chapter Nine Point Five: A House of Leads

My Lady of Mercy,

Bartholomoy is on our side. Fargo must be somewhere in the Dries or the Boil Hole, the best places in Celtland to bond with an elemental gem. Given the fire element has yet to complain, we can further guess either he has not yet begun to bind with it, or he has indeed fallen for our misinformation. In either case, he is likely to pass through Greenoch, either to the Boil Hole or to rest after combat, and see the pitiable state of Beigis's people. He is certain to sympathize with their plight and take his stave to Beigis's throat. In the worst case, should he return to one of the towns he's passed through, we can quickly locate him and convince him through diplomacy. It would be foolish to assume Fargo might pose a threat, especially in light of our aura-reading from his audience in your throne.

The Water Jewel has chosen Brian, and to a lesser extent all of the gems have shown unusual favor in the light of their sibling's bond. In all our records we have only known this to happen once, at the end of the Day of Grief when the Four contained what they could of the Eltale Book in the gems. We are still sorting through the implications of a human being binding with a gem, for not even the oldest and most reliable texts are clear on what benefits the Four gained from perfect attunement to the gems. At the least he wields a portion of the Eltale Book's power as expressed through simple ownership of three elemental gems. What further favors the Water Jewel will shower upon him remain to be seen, though it is reasonable to guess they will be of the water element's nature--pertaining to life, death, and control of the rain, lakes, rivers, seas, and oceans. There has been contention among the thinkers whether Brian's well-rounded study of magic will diminish the power of his connection. The lesser gifts of the other gems were documented from the aura-reading: the wind has given fleetness to his step, and the earth resistance to natural poisons and disease. Flora will be happy to hear that; should he be invited to the Longest Night feast, he can partake of the hemlock wine and condemned flesh.

Flora has taken quite the shine to the lad, hasn't she? Dondoran's spies are top stuff; they know a great deal of practical information about Brian's whereabouts and activities, although of course their knowledge is nowhere near as intimate as ours. I'd hope for Flora's sake that Brian does not fall for any of the other beautiful women he encounters, least of all you, my Queen. (Although, given your proclivities and, I am loathe to admit, his worthiness, he may find such interest rewarded.)

In other news, Richardson's search for prophecies has yielded some fruit. There is one volume, Coil, that is widely inaccurate but sharpens quite dramatically in its last accounts, which happen to involve Brian and his exploits. They predict victory against a figure whose description closely matches that of Fargo, and further anticipate a battle against "the iron despot," whose right hand "fell from the stars." The results of that battle are sadly lost, as his poetic style quickly falls apart before he writes the last prophecy. In full, his last prophecy reads:

"Dark they were, with golden eyes
Bring golden books from darkened skies
Every word from every world within was written down
They read it all out loud to us with silver tongues of fire
That licked the sun and stars and then all space became a choir
Shining shining shining
Then they left without a sound
Then they left without a sound
Then they left without a sound."

The rest of the book is nothing but repetitions of the last line, and it seems the author was committed to an asylum after completing his diary. We held his hand-written copy in case his ramblings were true prophecy and not just the inane rantings of a madman. The words do seem applicable to Guilty and the Lady; perhaps they are the true source of Begis's newfound madness and power?

Tomorrow I set forth for Brannoch, leaving my fellows behind. If you should have any complaint, then speak it. My greatest joy is in carrying forth your will.

Yours always,
Leonardo Twice-Forged.