Chapter 49: Two Centuries
When he came to, the first thing Renault felt was cold stone beneath him and a ringing pain in his head. The pain was dissipating rapidly, though, and that allowed him to recollect his thoughts. How'd he end up here? What had happened to him? He remembered an army of shadowy hands descending upon every inch of his body, directed by…
"NERGAL!" he yelled, hatred flowing back into his mind and spurring him to action. His eyes shot wide open and he leapt to his feet, intending to tear his betrayer to pieces, but then stopped when he noticed that something had…changed.
He was still in the summoning room. He was also still clad in his armor, with his helm lying nearby. The room itself, however, was looking much different than it had before he'd been knocked out. The altar was gone, along with the runic circle on the floor. The four torchstands were still there, but they were now dark and dead, without the slightest trace of magic clinging to them. The room wasn't entirely lightless, though. A few beams of dim sunlight filtered in from the ceiling through cracks that hadn't been there before. In fact, the floor, the torchstands, and all his surroundings seemed to be eroded and dilapidated, as if they had once been alive…and had now lost their source of sustenance, condemned to rot away.
Did that mean his foe had disappeared as well? "Nergal?! Nergal, where are you!" Renault screamed, but his voice only echoed across an empty room. This seemed to confirm his suspicions, but Renault wasn't certain, yet. He reached down and picked up his helmet, equipping it and allowing its enchantment to make it easier for him to see. The summoning room was indeed entirely abandoned, silent and still as a tomb. How about the rest of the sanctuary?
He stepped into the central throne room, once again lit only barely by new cracks in the walls and ceiling. The first thing that drew his attention was his friend. Braddock's body remained on the altar in the center of the room, quiet and unmoving, but this time there was no blue glow over him. Renault immediately rushed over, leaning over his corpse. A strangled cry escaped from his lips when he saw the condition of the body. It was beginning to bloat and its color was starting to change.
"Braddock…Braddock…" He collapsed to his knees in front of the altar, mouthing his friend's name. Tears again welled up in his eyes, but a waft of fetid air floated up from below him, snapping him out of what would have been a despair-induced reverie.
"No…" Renault growled, "NO!" He got up with another vicious snarl. "I'm not gonna stop. Not gonna give up…Nergal used me…used me! And he used you too, bud. Defiled your body…your image…just to manipulate me. I'm not gonna let him get away with that. I'm gonna avenge you, Braddock! Gonna make him pay for using you! And…wait…" He remembered something else Nergal had said:
I could easily create a morph with emotions. To call me a mere puppet-maker proves only your own ignorance…
Now Renault began to laugh.
It started off low, then ascended into a wild, keening crescendo that was as deeply malevolent as Nergal's own, but much less controlled. It lasted for almost a full minute before Renault finally managed to stop himself.
"N-no, I was wrong," he giggled madly to himself, "I was wrong! I should've known! I won't get revenge, Braddock. We will. We will! Nergal said he could bring you back if he wanted to—he just didn't want to. Yeah, well, why can't I do the same? The morphs…I can learn how to create them, and surpass Nergal, and do what he wouldn't. Or…or…who knows? There are stories…maybe there's another way to bring you back. Maybe another way to revive you…maybe I don't even have to deal with all this Morph garbage at all!" He let out another hysterical giggle and lovingly stroked Braddock's decaying hair. "D-don't worry, bud. Th-this is no big deal. I wasted a year…a year…but that's all! I have a lot of years ahead of me…a lot. This is just a minor setback…minor! I'll figure out a way to bring you back, and then we can hunt down Nergal! Together!"
His mind was made up. This sanctuary would serve as Braddock's tomb, then, isolated on the mountaintop as it was, until he figured out a means of resurrection. In the meantime, he had to get started on finding a way to do what Nergal wouldn't. First, Renault hurried over to the entrance to the odd dragon-fountain room he'd sometimes used. It was still there, but in unfathomable disrepair. The fountain was dry and cracked, and the dragon's head was broken off. It seemed to have been abandoned for years—how long had he been out? Braddock's body hadn't skeletonized or mummified, so someone must have been keeping the enchantment running until somewhat recently…right?
"Doesn't matter," Renault muttered to himself. Regardless of whether he'd been somehow thrown through time (either forwards or backwards) it wouldn't change his single-minded determination to get Braddock back. He turned away from the broken fountain and headed to his next destination. There, unfortunately, he found something a bit more discouraging.
Entering Nergal's library, Renault grimaced when he saw it was as deserted as the rest of the sanctuary. The bookshelves were completely empty, their knowledge lost to him. The "Ascended" weapons were gone, taken by Nergal. Even the supplies he'd brought up here, along with those he'd bought or pilfered over the course of his time with Nergal, were absent. There was absolutely nothing for him to use.
He let out a frustrated growl, but that was all. Renault had no idea how Nergal had not only managed to escape but take an entire library and a small armory with him. Then again, dark magic could do all kinds of strange things. No matter how much Nergal could teleport with him, and no matter how far he could take himself, Renault would find him eventually. Renault and Braddock.
"No point hanging around here, then," Renault muttered to himself. The less time he wasted in an empty, abandoned sanctuary, the more time he had to resurrect his friend.
He gave an affectionate pat to his Brave Sword, secure in its sheath at his side. Then he strode out the library, up the cracked, crumbling steps that led to the hermitage, and out into the afternoon sun of Bern's most forbidding mountains.
Renault left the darkness of Nergal's abode behind him. But it would yet remain with him for the rest of his life.
-x-
If there were any soldiers, or even travelers, left around this part of the mountain, Renault would have been in very deep trouble. As it was, however, it seemed the mountain trail was as deserted as the hermitage it led to. Once again, this made Renault somewhat curious as to how long he'd been incapacitated. Was it 704? 777? 2777? Or had he somehow been returned to a time before the Scouring? He had no idea what Nergal's dark magic could do, but figured he might be able to find out at his destination.
Trying to keep a low profile, as he descended he saw the great walls of Par Massino looming over him. The gates were open, and he hoped the complex wasn't inhabited. Nergal had told him the soldiers had given up their investigation some time ago, but since the sorcerer had lied to him about so much, Renault wasn't about to take his word without reservations. Still, at the moment there wasn't really much he could do.
He sneaked up to one gate, pressed his body against it, and peered around it, trying to sneak a look at the monastery's interior. Indeed, there was nothing there—it seemed to be as silent and empty as the rest of the area. Feeling more confident, he slipped inside and began an examination of the grounds.
About two hours later, he had a few answers, along with a good amount of useful supplies. The monastery had indeed been inhabited fairly recently, but not anymore. He'd found fire pits, privies, garbage pits, and worn-out/cast away equipment which were the tell-tale signs of a detachment of soldiers making camp. The fire pits seemed to be about a month old, though. This indicated to Renault that he had indeed been knocked unconscious for only a few hours, and Nergal had spirited away all his equipment in an astonishingly short amount of time. The decay of the sanctuary itself also must have happened at a greatly accelerated rate. And as fortune would have it, scrounging around the barracks provided him with a few spare hardtack rations (still good), a tattered traveling cloak, a total of five hundred gold pieces scattered, dropped, or hidden around the monastery, a usable burlap sack, and an equally usable Steel Sword. The library was even better—he couldn't carry everything, but the soldiers had apparently left the books alone (they probably weren't educated enough to realize their true value), allowing Renault to come away with a handful of useful Draconic tomes on Dark magic. It was nothing compared to what he could have found in Nergal's library, but it was a start.
As he exited the monastery and prepared to descend the rest of the mountain—alone—he stopped as he took a step outside its gates. Something had just occurred to him.
He wasn't hungry.
He'd taken a few of the rations he'd found, of course, but he wasn't in the mood to eat them. He wasn't hungry at all. Given how long he'd been knocked out, that was somewhat strange.
Still, he didn't much care. Perhaps he simply didn't have much of an appetite after all he'd been through. Renault simply shrugged and continued on his journey.
-x-
Renault was standing alone on the deck of a small schooner heading from Grimley to Lycia, pondering the stars in the night sky above him. It had taken him about three weeks to get on this boat, and according to the captain, it was the 18th Sword, providing absolute confirmation that he'd indeed spent only a few hours unconscious in Nergal's sanctuary. The real trouble had been getting back to civilization from Par Massino. The mountain trail leading up to it was even more battered and dilapidated, since no visitors had come to it for some time. Additionally, the lack of a guide meant he'd had to navigate it without any knowledge at all of which areas were crumbling and unstable, where to best take refuge against snowfalls and avalanches, and so on.
Still, Renault had been living in these mountains for so long that he had very much become acclimated to them. Treacherous as the trail was, by moving slowly and methodically he'd been able to leave the mountains behind him after about a week. The fact that the great winter snowstorms hadn't hit yet made it much easier. From there, it wasn't difficult to simply follow the road leading to Grimley. The name 'Renault' was still suspicious in these parts; the memory of what had happened to Par Massino had not faded entirely. Still, so long as he hid himself under his pilfered cloak, no-one would ask questions, and the captain of the dingy little schooner taking him out of the country wouldn't either so long as he had the money to pay for his passage. A few years in foreign lands—Lycia, Sacae, wherever—would probably be enough for the people of Bern to forget the name of the man who had supposedly wiped out Par Massino.
And, in all likelihood, a few years was nothing compared to how many he had ahead of him. Renault turned his eyes from the sky above him to peer down on his reflection below. He looked exactly the same…but he certainly didn't feel the same.
In all of the almost-month it had taken him to get to Grimley, he hadn't eaten once.
His stomach didn't rumble. He felt no pangs of hunger. And he felt absolutely none of the other tiny indications of humanity, or even life. No clouds wafted from his mouth when he exerted himself—his breath was as cold as the air around him. He didn't sweat. And he hadn't felt the need to relieve himself once in all the time he'd been traveling. The only thing he really felt was tiredness—every day, at about the same time, he would catch himself yawning, and then lay himself down to sleep in his cloak next to the fire he'd built, waking up again at the exact same time next morning, every morning.
He spat into the water below. At least his mouth still seemed to be working. "Nergal," he muttered, watching his reflection shimmer, "what have you done to me?"
But as the tiny ship continued to drift across the River Hartmar, he simply shrugged once again.
It really didn't matter.
-X- Bluemoon Tower -X-
Renault stood in front of the small puddle, again watching his reflection within its depths. He'd been doing that less and less often these days, but since tonight was also a clear, moonlit night, he couldn't resist the temptation this time.
"Quite some magic, Nergal," he mumbled. The anger he'd initially felt at his betrayal had subsided, though a deep, burning resentment and loathing remained. But it had been so long since Nergal had cast him into this form, and Renault had to give the sorcerer credit—he meant every word of what he had said 10 years ago.
For it had indeed been 10 years, yet Renault still looked exactly the same, as if he hadn't aged at all.
"Oi! Mercenary! You comin', or 'ave ye lost y'r guts?"
"Yeah, I'm coming," growled Renault, turning away from the small puddle and putting on his helmet. He tramped across the wet grass to join the man who'd called for him, and the two of them marched off to rejoin the larger troupe they were a part of—a small, scraggly band of knights in the employ of Marquess Katz of Santaruz.
It was 714 years after the Scouring. Renault had spent the last decade taking on odd jobs for all sorts of employers in the country of Lycia, where Braddock had been born. Why had he chosen Lycia? It was a small nation concerned with its own affairs, not given to the imperial games of Bern and Etruria, which meant he'd be able to lay low and let his reputation—as a hero of the Etrurian Civil War, but also as the thief of the Excalibur tome and the murderer of Par Massino—slide into irrelevance and gradual oblivion. Lycia was also relatively civilized and urbane compared to Sacae, Ilia, or the Western Isles, so he hoped to find at least some scholar or repository of information which could teach him more about morphs, the unification of a body and mind, or, of course, any other method of resurrection, no matter how far-fetched.
Thus, he had been wandering the country, taking odd jobs wherever he could find them, particularly seeking out magicians, to either work for or against. He had little trouble finding employment, for virtually no mercenary in Lycia—or, indeed, most places in Elibe—could beat his prices. He asked for no more than necessary to repair his arms and armor. Money held little appeal to him, now. He cared about resurrecting Braddock, and absolutely nothing else. He didn't even have any use for food. He still hadn't felt hungry—or sweaty, or itchy, or anything, really—even once after his final departure from Nergal's mountain sanctuary. Though he never stayed in one place long enough for his employers or his allies to question why he didn't seem to need any of the normal forms of sustenance living creatures required, all of them grew somewhat suspicious of a mercenary who seemed to be working for so little reward. But as long as he fought well, they didn't ask any questions.
Such was the case with his present mission. Over the past month there had been a rash of strange disappearances among the cantons in the southern part of Lycia, particularly Badon, Caelin, and Santaruz. All of them involved young girls from 10 to 16 years of age vanishing at night. Several witnesses had reported sinister men in black robes adorned with strange purple runes skulking around the villages and towns reporting these disappearances. Ostian spies subsequently strange activity around an abandoned edifice called Bluemoon Tower nestled at the southern coast of Lycia. The local nobility, thinking they were dealing with nothing more than an annoying band of slavers, called upon the closest canton (which was Santaruz) to investigate. The investigation team thus consisted of ten professional knights and mercenaries, of which Renault was one.
The band tramped up the trail leading to the ancient tower, supposedly the abode of a great magician who had died during the Scouring. It had been thus abandoned, and suspected to be cursed, ever since then. If any band of thieves or manstealers had really made refuge here, they could only be up to no good.
That conviction was confirmed when they reached the tower's entrance.
Passing through an ancient cobbled road that seemed to be composed of more dirt and grass than stone, Renault and his comrades knew they were nearing their destination when they began to notice large chunks of rock and rubble strewn around the area that looked as if they had once been part of great arches, columns, or statues. Pushing forwards, they arrived at an ancient—but still standing—barbican or gatehouse guarding a long bridge over the waters of the Gulf of Lycia, out of which protruded the massive tower. Looking at how it was highlighted behind the light of the full moon—the very top of the cylindrical structure seemed to have four points arching upwards that made it seem almost like a claw grabbing the moon—Renault figured the "Bluemoon" moniker was quite accurate.
The tower, however, was supposed to have been abandoned since the Scouring. Why, then, were there a trio of men holding torches in front of the barbican?
"Oi," called one of them, "Who's there?"
"Loyal knights of the rightful lord of Sataruz," replied the leader of the expedition. "What business have you here?"
"Damnation," yelled one of them, "They're onto us! Call the boss!"
One of the trio dashed back through the gates, onto the bridge, and into the tower, while the other two drew their weapons—an axe and sword—and prepared to attack. Before they could even advance, though, they were already dead. Renault had dashed past his comrades, unsheathed a Silver Sword (even his Brave Sword and Runesword had worn out several years ago) and cut them both down before they could react.
"Damn, man! It's like you're not wearing any armor at all," whistled the leader. "Glad you're on our side!"
"Yeah," Renault grunted in response. He looked down at the bodies—these two seemed to be nothing more than bandits or ordinary hired thugs one could see anywhere on Elibe. These weren't the black-robed men supposedly responsible for the abductions. However, the one that had got away mentioned something about a "boss." Perhaps their quarry lay inside? "Look, one of 'em got away, and I think more're waiting in the tower. We've got a fight ahead of us, it seems. No point letting them get their defenses ready. Let's move in and see what's in there!"
The leader agreed, as did the other soldiers—they all raised their weapons in the air, and with a resounding cheer, charged forwards, across the bridge, and into the tower.
There was indeed a welcoming party waiting for them. Beyond the bridge and up a small set of crumbling stone stairs lay the first floor main chamber of the tower, a large room broken by columns which helped to hold the rest of the structure up, around which twisted a stairwell leading to the upper levels. Another half-dozen bandits were waiting for them, armed with bows, swords and axes. They were cheap and ill-trained, and even without Renault's help the knights of Santaruz could have exterminated them easily, but it didn't even take half a minute for the Mercenary Lord and his friends to slaughter them all. No more compliments were forthcoming, though—all of them were beginning to sense that they needed to get to the top as quickly as possible.
On to the second level they advanced, where this time a few magicians stood in their way. The Bluemoon Tower was not the simplest affair but not the most complex either; while there were many side rooms and passages around the circumference of each floor, the stairs themselves wrapped around the height of the tower. Each floor, however, was well defended-the knights and mercenaries had to fight through spearmen and Fighters on each flight of stairs. Fortunately, they had a pair of archers in their entourage, who picked off the annoying cultists from a safe distance. On to the next levels.
Now it seemed the true masters of this tower were beginning to show themselves. As the team rounded another set of stairs, they caught sight of a pair of menacing goons wearing thick black robes which would have concealed them from sight within the shadows if not for the glowing purple runes all over them. "C…Curses," one of them hissed, "The hired help was too weak! I'll inform the master!" He immediately ran away, while his friend took out a small black tome which Renault recognized was a dangerous book of Fenrir spells. He opened it and began to chant, but was promptly stopped by a chain-dagger embedding itself into his eye; a moment later Renault had rushed up to him and put him out of his misery.
"What manner of…" one of the Knights gasped, "By the Saint! Dark Magic?!"
"And a pretty advanced tome, too," Renault concurred. "I don't think these guys are just ordinary slavers. What the hell are they after?"
"Let's not give them enough time to show us! Onwards!"
Renault and his comrades couldn't argue with that. They continued to push upwards through the tower, slaughtering anyone they came across, which now included a few Shamans along with the bandits.
They advanced up the final spiral staircase to the second-highest floor of the tower. This was similar in architecture to the top of Zodian's rest, actually. Renault found his head popping out of the staircase into open air—there were no walls, the roof and last floor of the tower was held up by four columns on the penultimate floor. Unlike Zodian's Rest, however, the roof was an open space of its own rather than being occupied by an icon of Saint Elimine, and rather than church bells hanging from its ceiling, there were two awnings on the east and west sides of it, both forming staircases without rails spiraling perilously in the air (Renault couldn't understand how they'd been built, save through sorcery) leading up to the roof, where the four curved spires pierced the night sky.
There was only one person guarding this floor-a young-looking Shaman, who provided them a small tidbit of information about what was going on.
"The summoning ritual will be completed," he crowed. "The full moon and the blood of a maiden will call back the demons! You can't stop it now! Hee hee h—" He was promptly cut off by a Knight's spear through the head.
When they ran past him, up the stairs (being very careful not to fall) and onto the very top of Bluemoon Tower, it seemed as if he was right.
The tower's pinnacle was a large, flat, unenclosed circle, completely open to the night sky around it except for the four claws curving around and above it. From the center of that circle arose an altar—a strange one, unlike any that Renault had ever seen. Carved out of the same stone as comprised the rest of the tower, it was covered in grotesque reliefs depicting dragons, of all things, as if it was intended for their worship. On top of that altar lay a young girl covered with nothing more than a white cloth—one of the unfortunate abductees, Renault surmised. She was breathing, but her eyes were closed; apparently they'd put her into some kind of magic-induced coma or trance. Around her was a circle of twelve black-robed miscreants, all holding their hands in the air and chanting, while over her loomed another, taller man in the same black garb, clutching a knife over her chest as he chanted in a language Renault recognized as the human approximation of Draconic.
"What in God's name are you doing?!" yelled the lead knight. "Stop!"
The worshippers, however, were too engrossed in their ritual for anything to stop them now. The lead sorcerer, the one holding the knife, raised his Draconic chant to a crescendo, and then, in the common language, shouted at the top of his lungs,
"O Great Lords of the Dark! Heed my call! Under thy holy moon, I render unto thee this sacrifice! Let this maiden's blood bridge the gap between our worlds!"
With those words, he plunged the knife straight into the girl's chest.
Her eyes shot wide open, the magical sleep cast upon her dispelled, just long enough to let out a single, heartrending cry that seemed to echo all across the coast.
Then, as her bright red blood spread across the cloth covering her and began to drip down across the altar, she fell silent.
And after that…
Nothing happened.
Both the cultists conducting this vile ceremony and the knights who had failed to stop it stood frozen, waiting breathlessly for what was coming next…
Nothing did.
"T…Typhus," stammered one of the shamans in the circle, addressing the man holding the knife, "What the hell? Another failure?"
"I-I don't know what happened!" he replied frantically. "The texts say that if we sacrifice a pure maiden on a moonlit night on top of this tower, demons will descend and grant us their power!"
"This is the third girl we've killed in the past two months, and we haven't seen anything happen at all!" groaned another. "We're just wasting time and blood here!"
"W-well, it's not my fault! Maybe the conditions aren't right!"
"It's a completely full moon, Typhus, just like it was the past two times. We won't get any better than this."
"Maybe the girl wasn't pure! You're the one in charge of collecting them! Why didn't you check to make sure she hadn't been—"
"Check?! If I did, she certainly wouldn't be pure anymore, you idiot!"
The head cultist—"Typhus"—was just about to deliver a scathing retort when the lead knight decided he'd heard more than enough. "You vile curs!" he screamed. "Kill them all!"
The ten soldiers descended upon the demoralized, disoriented cultists and showed them all the mercy they deserved—that is to say, absolutely none. Renault, however, wasn't as filled with righteous anger as his fellows. While the rest of them were hacking apart Typhus' underlings, Renault dashed right up to the man and knocked him out with a heavy punch to the head. When the battle was finished, he handed the unconscious Druid over to the knights.
"You didn't kill him? Good work!" smiled the leader. "After what happened to that poor girl, the rest of us would've torn him apart if we got our hands on him. Thanks to your cool head, though, we'll be able to interrogate him!"
"Damn cold-blooded, that one is," muttered one of the archers quietly. Renault heard, but paid no attention. He simply nodded, then turned to head back down the tower.
"Ay! Wait," called the Knight, "Where're you going? You haven't even been paid yet!"
"My job here is done," Renault called back, and continued his descent into the shadows, leaving the confused warriors behind him.
It was well and truly done, indeed. When the knights brought Typhus to the dungeons of Santaruz, a few moments on the torturer's rack were enough to make him confess everything. He was nothing but a lowly wizard's apprentice from Etruria who had managed to steal a rare, ancient tome of obscure black magic from his master's library, one which supposedly contained the secrets of summoning creatures from other worlds. He fled to Lycia and began a cult of sorts, promising his adherents unlimited power if they helped him break the walls between dimensions and summon monsters to serve him. However, as it turned out, he could only understand parts of the book which were written in Draconic. Much of the rest of it was written in a language he had no understanding of, most notably the summoning ritual. Having attained a small following, he didn't want to lose face, so he invented a ritual involving the sacrifice of "pure maidens" he thought would work, based off what he'd heard in various fairy tales and bard's songs back in Etruria. Of course, the fake ritual didn't work at all, meaning he'd utterly wasted the lives of all the young girls his stooges had abducted.
Before he was hanged, the interrogators asked him where that tome went. He had no idea—they didn't believe him, but even after having all his fingernails removed he continued to maintain that he didn't have the tiniest inkling of what had happened to it.
Of course he wouldn't know. Renault had removed it from the folds of his robes right when he'd been knocked out. And the Mercenary Lord could make much, much better use of it.
-X- The Wisdom of the Plains –X-
"I've completed your test. Now let me see the elder."
Renault tossed the bloody head of the wolf unceremoniously onto the prayer mat before him, drawing gasps from the Sacaen tribesmen gathered in a circle around him.
"C…chief," stammered one, whispering into the ear of the largest man of the gathering, "It can't be—"
The older, bearded man simply shook his head. "The law of the plains is what it is, and we must obey it. Those who have a Sacaen's bravery are Sacaens. He has proven himself so, and so he shall pass."
The chief waved a hand and stepped to the side, and the crowd around Renault dispersed in the same way, leaving the way open to the small, unassuming ger in front of him.
With great satisfaction, Renault stepped inside. He'd definitely earned the privilege, after all. Not because killing the so-called "Great Wolf" was any real challenge for him. Sacaens, with their silly superstitions and focus on honor, would never think of luring their prey with poisoned meat set out in the middle of the forest; even a wolf larger than Renault was easy to kill when it was paralyzed and wracked with pain. No, he earned it because he had spent twenty years in this barren land of savages and barbarians.
After the incident at the Bluemoon Tower, it occurred to him that he probably wouldn't gain much by staying in Lycia. The tome of summoning he'd acquired was interesting, but didn't contain much information directly relevant to the process of revivification. And he wouldn't be able to find much more in Lycia; though that country had a few decent magic schools, such as in Ostia, it had none of the great libraries of Etruria and Bern. Sacae, however…strange as it sounded, such an uncivilized land would actually not be a bad place to study. Renault had heard many stories of Sacaen Druids and shadow-masters of terrifying power—even the strongest tribes bowed before their wisdom and desperately avoided their wrath.
Going off everything he had learned from Nergal, this actually made sense, and for fairly mundane reasons. Of the three great schools of magic, "Elder" was the most dangerous, not only to its wielders but to those around them. A failed incantation from a Dark mage could spell death (or worse) for many people if he lived in a city or any kind of densely populated urban area, which is why the civilized (and therefore urbanized) nations distrusted Dark magicians at best and drove them out at worst. On the wide-open plains of Sacae or deep forests of Ilia, however, the sparse, thinly-spread population meant that Dark magic did not spell quite as much of a risk, and was therefore somewhat more tolerated.
For that reason, Renault had spent many years among the plainsmen, though this time far away from Bulgar. His first few years had been…troublesome. His loathing of Dark magicians was very deep-set, and only after nearly being killed by a mob of them after threatening their chief's advisor did he accept the fact that he'd have to treat both the shadow-lords and the beliefs they represented with a degree of deference, if not genuine respect, if he wanted to get what he needed from them.
He could live with that. He wasn't dumb enough to trust any of them, not after how Nergal had betrayed him, but he only had to exploit their knowledge to help him resurrect Braddock.
And that knowledge, gleaned painstakingly for so long, had led him to some rather interesting conclusions. The Dark of the Shamans and Druids of Sacae was a distinctly different art than Nergal's. While he sought to simply dominate the world around him, particularly through the manipulation of quintessence, these savages took a distinctly different approach. They seemed to almost revere the power of the Dark rather than seeing it as something to be twisted and broken to their will, and more importantly, they saw it as only one part of a greater magical whole. In their view, there were sources of power in the world that Nergal was either unaware of or had completely overlooked. For instance, they claimed many of Elibe's non-human residents (legendary or not) possessed strange powers. The Pegasi of Ilia were reputed to serve a goddess who could grant wishes. There was also the legendary Phoenix of the Western Isles, who (Renault was very interested to hear) supposedly revived itself after death.
The most potent source of power, however, was held to be that of creation, and unfortunately, it was the one which the druids seemed to know the least about. They all believed in "Father Sky" and "Mother Earth" (and seemed to be alternately amused and annoyed by Eliminean monotheism, which Renault heartily agreed with) from which everything else, including magic, originated. Humans were incapable, by themselves, of wielding this power, but the gods—held to be the firstborn children of the Sky and Earth, and intercessionaries between the Great Parents and their distant descendants, mankind—had put some of this power into the Divine Weapons which had destroyed the dragons.
If anything could resurrect Braddock, that sort of power was a good way to start.
That was what brought him to this elder of Kutolah today. He stepped into the small dwelling and immediately started coughing. It was thick with the smell of incense, and looking around he could see why. Six strange candles giving off weird multi-colored smoke were arranged at the points of a hexagram on the floor, in the center of which sat a funny old man in dirty black robes. He looked rather pathetic, and it would have been surprising to hear he was a man of any influence, much less power, were it not for the intimidating magical aura emanating from him.
Renault was not impressed, though. This man's power was nothing compared to the terrors Nergal had shown him.
Even so, however, he would not be able to escape the wrath of a tribe as strong as the Kutolah when he was right in the middle of them. Even now he could hear them tittering outside: "Who is this stranger? Who does he think he is? Such disrespect he has shown to our Elder!" In response, Renault immediately bowed his head, and biting back his hatred for the Dark magician in front of him, mouthed the Sacaen words of apology he had learned a long time ago:
"Forgive this young one's impertinence, Grandfather. Politeness is one of the many things I wish to learn from you."
This seemed to satisfy the audience outside, and brought what seemed to be a genuine smile out of the old man's wizened face. "He is more than happy to teach, youngling. Come, sit, fear not. You have brought with you the head of the Great Wolf, who has terrorized my people for many moons. You have earned my respect."
Renault nodded and kneeled before him, folding his knees as the tribesmen did. "Grandfather, I seek knowledge."
The seer quirked an eyebrow. "Of what kind? I already have an apprentice. The secrets of the Dark are not meant to be given away promiscuously, you know…"
"Yea—I, I mean, yes, Grandfather. But it is not magic itself I seek, but knowledge of it."
He quirked his other eyebrow, inviting Renault to go on.
"I require…power. I must grow stronger," and Renault said these words with genuine determination, for they were in fact true.
"Why?"
"My friend…I lost a friend."
"Mmm." Thought Renault didn't provide any details, the Druid knew what he was talking about. "Many have lost loved ones, youngling. Those important to you…they cannot be replaced or brought back. The holes they leave in your heart…you will simply have to bear them for as long as you live."
Renault's mouth twitched. "Maybe. But I've heard tales from the other wise men…Grandfather Olom of the Djute, Grandfather Ysilna of the Lorca. The gods…did they not have the power of creation?"
"Indeed they did. But such power is not for either you or I to wield."
"Then, Grandfather, how did the Eight Heroes, including Hanon herself, triumph over the dragons in ages long past?"
"Those days are indeed long gone. We of Sacae have no need of such power, with the disappearance of the Dragons. A good bow and a strong horse are all we require."
Renault clenched his teeth. "So there's nothing more you can tell me?"
The elder stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Hmm…in Sacae, you may find nothing. But elsewhere…"
"Elsewhere?"
"You've heard of the Phoenix and the Pegasi, yes? Everyone has. Such creatures were supposedly imbued with Godly power…"
"So I've heard."
"Do you know where those may be found?"
"Pegasi are all over Ilia, but the Phoenix?"
"I consider myself a sage of the natural world, and I've heard many tales of these legendary creatures…be forwarned, though, you pursue them at your own peril…"
"That's fine."
"The Spring of Pyrene, in Illia…near their capital city, Edessa. The top of Mount Helius, in the Western Isles…that is where the Phoenix supposedly nests. And on a tiny island off the eastern coast of Bern…there, the Deathrose supposedly guards a treasure of great power. If you wish to regain something you have lost…those places may be as good as any to start your search."
"That's your advice, then? Thank you, Grandfather," replied Renault, resisting the urge to spit as he nodded, got up, and turned to leave.
"One more warning, though," the elder called after Renault. "Even if you find answers, they may not be what you seek."
Renault simply shrugged as he tramped out of the ger, past the curious stares of the plainsmen, and out of the Kutolah campsite.
"I'll take my chances."
With those words, he disappeared into the night.
-X- The Lady of the Black Grove –X-
"Sir, it's not too late. I can take you back now, if you wish. I won't even charge you!"
Renault didn't even bother dignifying that with a response. He simply hopped off the deck of the little dinghy moored by the beach and onto the sand. He then turned back to the vessel and tossed a pouch of gold to its proprietor, a Bernese fisherman desperately in need of money (if he wasn't, he wouldn't have agreed to what he considered a mad quest).
"S…Sir," he stammered, but Renault cut him off.
"You'll get the other half of your payment when I come back. Just stay put."
"B-but, don't you know this island's reputation? None who've ventured into the garden have ever returned!"
"Well, that's my problem. Nobody's gonna get you on this beach, are they?"
"I don't know! Nobody in Bern's ever been foolish enough to even come near this island!"
"If something comes at you, or I don't return within a day, then feel free to leave. Otherwise, if you want enough money to pay off those debt collectors, stay here!"
He was done talking. Over the fisherman's protests, Renault strode resolutely forwards, into the strange, verdant grove which looked completely out of place on such an otherwise desolate island. The place was tiny, too, not much larger than the small graveyard on which Paptimus and Braddock had their final battle, so many years ago. It didn't show up on any maps; it had taken Renault twenty years of wandering through Bern, eavesdropping on every sort of conversation in every sort of seedy tavern, to both figure out where Deathrose Isle was and find someone willing (or desperate enough) to take him there.
After all that work, he wasn't going to turn back now.
He stepped over a thick root, brushing foliage away from his head as he advanced. He'd never seen plants quite like these before. Some were taller than any tree he'd ever seen on the mainland, jutting up far into the grey sky above him, while others came just to his knees. All of them, however, had bright green leaves…with strange designs on them. The veins and creases on those leaves seemed to be arranged in patterns that looked almost like faces.
A trick of the eyes, Renault wagered. Still, as he passed them by, when they swayed in the gentle sea breeze, he could have sworn it looked like those faces were screaming. And if he were more superstitious, he might have said he heard a faint sound beneath the wind—something like a thousand tiny voices, screaming in unison.
Unnerving as all this was, he pressed on, towards what he knew must be waiting at the center of the grove.
Even tripping on a human skull—and noticing dozens more lying on the ground around it—wasn't enough to break his resolve. He simply unsheathed his sword and continued onwards.
Soon enough, then, the line of trees suddenly stopped, as if some unearthly force had arrested their growth, and Renault stepped into the clearing which served as the abode of the master of Deathrose Isle.
Or mistress, as it turned out.
In the center of the clearing, surrounded by a pile of what seemed to be enough human skulls to fill an entire catacomb, was a flower. A gigantic flower, larger than Renault himself. It was shaped as a rose, but its titanic petals were pitch-black rather than red, and at its center, rather than a stamen and pistil, there protruded the upper torso of a human being.
A lovely human woman, at that. Her skin was brown, darker than any Bernite or Nabatan he'd ever seen. Her hands were modestly crossed over her naked chest, her eyes closed in deep sleep, and she was crowned by a shock of long white hair.
Other men might have been entranced by her beauty, but not Renault.
It didn't do him much good, though. He took one more step forwards, and then found himself hanging in the air.
"W-what the—"
Faster than the eyes could see, green vines as thick as his legs burst from the ground and wrapped themselves around his body. They rose, taking him with them, and Renault felt a surge of dark magic emanating from them, similar (though not entirely the same) to energy produced by a Nosferatu spell. That explained where all those skulls came from.
Oddly enough, however, it didn't seem like Renault would be joining them.
The energy from the vines crested for a moment, but Renault didn't feel his life draining away. He got the feeling they couldn't, for some reason. Their owner wasn't expecting this. The sleeping woman at the center of the black rose began to stir. Her brows furrowed, as if she was having a bad dream, and then she opened her eyes. Bizarre, they were—yellow with vertical pupils, like a cat's. She peered at Renault with an expression that looked like she'd tasted something unpalatable.
"You"…she hissed in a strange, sibilant voice. "What are you?"
Renault didn't respond. He simply thrashed around, trying in vain to free himself.
"A tough little morsssel, you are," she smiled, revealing a mouth full of sharp fangs. "You interest me, yess…your life-force is…odd, sssooo very odd. I sense it, I do, yet I cannot take it. Let me get a better look at you…"
The vines lifted Renault closer to her, where she reached out and undid his helmet with delicate, dexterous fingers. She peered at the Mercenary Lord, drawing her face up to his and sniffing at it as if she were a cat. "Interesting…what is this? Let's see…" A smaller vine rose from the ground and wormed its way into Renault's armor, much to his discomfort—which rapidly turned to panic when he felt it sneak up his chest and yank away the phylactery which contained his essence.
"Ah-hah! So that is your trick," she grinned, eyes wide with delight. "My, how inventive! Truly inventive indeed!" She laughed, loudly and freely, and to his surprise, Renault found the vines loosening from him and lowering him to the ground. He didn't know why this woman—the Deathrose—had shown him such mercy, and he planned to make her regret it, but was immediately stopped by a vine leveling itself at his throat, razor-sharp thorns all across its surface threatening to behead him if he made any threatening moves.
"Now, now," she pouted. "Don't do anything foolish, especially after I've been sssooo very nice to you. Stupid men are the least interesting of all."
"A-alright, fine," Renault stammered, lowering his weapons. The vines, in return, drew back, but not far enough to make him feel comfortable. He glared at the plant-woman, not knowing what she was playing at. "What the hell's up with you, lady?"
"I like you, I do," she smiled. "For ten thousand years I have rested here, watching the foolishness of both man and dragon. Most visitors are ssssoooo terribly boring…the only fun I get out of them is hearing their screams. But you…what is your name?"
"Renault."
"You, Renault, are interesting. Never before have I seen a manling who bound his soul to a soul-stealer's crystal. How delightfully droll! Mmm-hmm…'twould be a pity to gobble up someone as interesting as you. For the first time in a century, then, I think I'll entertain a visitor. What, pray tell, brings you to my humble garden?"
"I want to bring someone back," Renault stated resolutely. "My best friend died in battle, many years ago. The Deathrose can take life, so I've heard. Can't she return it?"
"Alasssss…" came the reply, and Renault was somewhat surprised to see his hostess looked somewhat sympathetic. "The first is true, but the second…not quite. I grow fruit in my garden that can extend a manling's life for many years, but to bring him back from the dead? Hmm…how long ago was he lost?"
"'bout 50 years ago."
"Alas! Truly, I can do nothing for you, my interesting little visitor. I can reanimate corpses, but…" Renault heard a series of rustling, scraping sounds behind him and turned to look at bones lifting themselves into the air and forming a small band of skeletal warriors. "I presume this is not the ssssort of resurrection you would like?"
"Not at all," growled Renault. "Damnation…even you can't do anything for me?"
"Oh, don't be ssssad," she purred. "I can give you some advice…"
"Like what?"
"Tee hee…have you ever heard of something called a Gate?"
"Gate?"
"Not a mundane gate, I mean. A Gate!"
"Are you still playing with me?"
"No, no, dearie. Weren't you people fighting with the Dragons a little while ago?"
"A long time ago, but yeah."
"Where did they go after you defeated them?"
"I…I dunno. I don't think we managed to exterminate all of them…I heard they just went 'elsewhere.'"
Her eyes glowed. "Yes, manling, 'elsewhere' is where you need to look. The Dragons disappeared to a land called Archanea."
"Is that another continent?"
"Not just another continent, another world entirely. That's why it can only be reached with a Gate."
"Okay. So what's there?"
"In that land, so I hear, there are staves which can revive the dead. The Ohm staff, held at the Fane of Raman…Oh, and across the sea, in the continent of Jugdral, the Valkyrie Staff, resting at the Tower of Blaggi.
"If you can find a Gate, and pass through it, you may be able to find the power to bring back the dead. However, keep in mind that such a task is much easier said than done…"
"That's all you have for me? Pfeh." Renault shrugged. "Well, better than nothing, I guess." He looked at the vines around him, noticing they'd receded further. "So you're telling me to look for a Gate to Archanea, or Jugdral?"
"Indeed."
"And you're just gonna let me go?"
"Indeed," she giggled. "I like you, Renault. I've never seen a body like yours before. Sssuch a shame to destroy it here… Still, you'd best not stay too long. I might get hungry, you know."
Renault took the hint, and after picking up his helmet and weapons, promptly turned and began jogging out of the clearing and back into the surrounding grove.
"Oh, one last question."
He stopped for a moment, hearing the woman's sultry voice in his head. "Huh?"
"What year is it?"
Renault thought for a moment. "It's 754 A.S."
"A.S?"
"After the Scouring."
She let out another peal of laughter. "My, such a long time to sleep! Ahh, I must thank you for awakening me with such a fun conversation. Dear Renault, if you should ever revive your friend, please pay me another visit. I would so like to meet him…"
Renault laughed, shook his head, and strode out of the trees, where he could see the fisherman waiting for him with an astonished look on his face.
"I'll see what I can do," he called back.
And those were the last words the Lady of the Grove would hear for a long time.
-X- From Beyond –X-
"You almost done, Professor?"
"Yes, yes, be patient, boy! Just let me get a better look at these…"
"Make it fast, 'sir.' I'm getting a bad feeling about this, and I don't think I'm the only one."
The other four members of Renault's entourage nodded in agreement. Kelden the General, Gaminar the Sniper, Trent the Priest, and Zenith the Hero all clutched their equipment nervously, glancing around the dank, slimy sewers as if they expected an army of the dead to burst out and attack them at any moment.
It wasn't an unreasonable suspicion. The sewers below Aquleia had acquired an extremely nasty reputation over the years, which was precisely why Professor Tillinghast, a scholar of ancient history at one of the city's largest universities, had hired a quintet of mercenaries to accompany him on his latest expedition. Etruria was the most advanced country on Elibe in terms of both magic and technology, as its intricate canal system and magically-purified seawater used for drinking proved. However, its achievements in civilization lay below the surface as well, specifically in its sewage system. Eliminean precepts placed an extremely high importance on physical cleanliness as well as ritual purity, and the Archbishops of the church had placed pressure on Etruria's government to maintain high standards of public hygiene for centuries. Consequently, Aquleia possessed an expansive system of large, well-maintained sewer pipes, storm drains, and even several "Purity Shrines," where specialized mages called Hydromancers separated waste from water to be used as fertilizer on the farms which fed the great city. It worked extremely well—there had not been a significant outbreak of cholera, typhus, or similar epidemic diseases for a very long time.
The sewers, however, consisted of more than pipes and tunnels. Aquleia, much like Thagaste and other large cities in Etruria (and Bern) was built over the ruins of an even larger settlement which had been destroyed during the Scouring. In those days, Aquleia had been a sprawling metropolis, one of the centers of human industry, and had been sunk below the earth by the dragons. The new settlement had been built over it, but its sewer pipes often ran into the ancient ruins. Many thought the ruins were haunted (at least), and it was possible that experiments escaped from the labs of Aquleia's less principled magicians and sorcerers found their way down here as well. People who spent too long in the sewers tended to disappear, which did nothing to combat those sorts of rumors.
On the other hand, anyone brave enough could reach the dead, buried city of Old Aquleia if they were willing to venture through New Aquleia's septic system.
It was slow, smelly going, but an inconvenience Renault was happy to deal with. Taking the Deathrose's advice, for half a century he had sought out a Gate—a connection between Elibe and other worlds, not just other continents but other worlds. Bluemoon Tower was supposed to be one, but the book of summoning he'd taken from Typhus gave no clues on how to activate it—the parts he couldn't read, in Shadetongue, described the denizens of other worlds, but not how to bring them here. Thus, Renault had searched long and hard for someone with the sufficient expertise, and he found such a man in the person of Professor Crawford Tillinghast. A brusque, short-tempered man with a passion for archaeology, he had a fascination for dragons and had spent most of his adult life trying to find out where they'd gone after the Scouring. He'd recently put out a call for brave bodyguards to escort him down through the sewers and into the ruins, where he hoped to find an artifact which might lead "Elsewhere." Most mercenaries had ignored his job offer…except for Renault. If anyone knew how to operate a Gate, Tillinghast certainly would.
Still, it wasn't as if he enjoyed waiting around in a stinking sewer. Renault and his companions stood behind the professor, keeping an eye out for trouble as he peered at some strange inscriptions carved into an equally strange door which seemed to be built into the wall of one of the sewer pipes. "I've got it!" he exclaimed, causing everyone to start (and Gaminar to jump straight into the air). Heedless of how much he'd surprised his men, he put a hand to the slime-covered door and quietly intoned an incantation in High Imperial. Everyone (except for Renault) received another surprise as the door swung open. With a whoop of joy, the Professor hopped into its shadowy depths, greatly displeasing the men who he'd hired to protect him.
The mercenaries chased after him, torches in hand, and luckily they caught up quickly—he was old and not too fast. It wouldn't have been easy to get lost, for they were going down what seemed to be a straight and narrow corridor. The Priest asked, "Professor, do you know where we're going?"
"Hm? Yes, yes," came the disinterested reply. "I got a map from the leaders of the last expedition that came down here a few years back. We shouldn't have any problems getting to the Gate."
"Last expedition? What happened to 'em?"
"One of them came back alive. Great success!"
This did not make anyone feel better.
Professor Tillinghast, of course, didn't notice. He continued to press onward, mumbling to himself about "The Beyond" until they finally came to another stone door that seemed to be sealed by the same incantation. It opened up to reveal another batch of corridors, but the Professor's map was apparently accurate, and he led them through the twisting passages to one more ornate door which led to their destination…or, at least, which they hoped led to their destination.
There was a depression at its center, which seemed as if it were waiting to be filled by a sphere or ovoid object. The Professor had just the thing, apparently—he reached into a pocket, plucked out a perfect ruby orb, and fit it into the socket. It glowed bright red for a moment, and then the entire door slid down into the ground. An impressive little feat of engineering, but not as interesting as what lay behind it.
At first glance, Renault was struck by the similarity between this room and the pinnacle of Bluemoon Tower, which he'd visited almost 90 years ago. It was circular, with the ceiling held up by several pillars, and held an altar at its very center. And just like the one at Bluemoon Tower, this altar was decorated with busts and depictions of Dragons.
Professor Tillinghast seemed to like them quite a bit. "Yes, yes!" he exclaimed, rushing over to it for an examination, running his hands all over its surface and mumbling to himself excitedly. His mercenaries watched this display for about a minute, before one of them finally broke his reverie.
"Professor," said Renault, loudly and harshly enough that he finally gained the obsessive academic's attention.
"Eh? What is it?"
"What is this place?"
"Didn't you pay attention to the job posting? It's a Gate!"
Renault looked around. "I've seen one of these places before, and it didn't look like a gate of any kind." Or act like one, he thought, stifling a chuckle when he remembered Typhus' failure.
"Well, looks can be deceiving. With the right sacrifice on one of these altars, and with sufficient power, you should be able to open up a portal to another world."
"Is it possible to pass through one of those portals?"
"I…well, I don't know. What kind of question is that?"
"What the hell do you mean, you don't know?"
"As far as I know, most Gates can only be opened by Dragons. They set it up that way after the Scouring so humans wouldn't be able to chase them down. But I've heard of a few Gates created by human magicians. I've only ever heard of them, though…now it's finally time to see how they work!"
"So you have no idea what you're doing," Renault grumbled under his breath. "Great." Still, it couldn't hurt to stick around and see what this professor came up with. The man was genuinely intelligent, even if he didn't act like it. If anybody could figure out how these things worked, Tillinghast could.
And it seemed like he definitely had some good ideas.
"Alright, everyone, stand back," said the Professor resolutely. "I'm going to try something."
"Like what?" asked Renault, as he and his fellow mercenaries heeded the order.
"You wouldn't under—"
"Try me."
"From everything I've read, a Gate requires tremendous amounts of energy to open—another reason only Dragons were able to do so. Never underestimate the power of human ingenuity, though! A few scholars thought of ways to create smaller portals using less energy. Still, even these require a great deal of power. The altar you see here is supposed to be able to absorb that power, and create a vortex which represents the intersection of two worlds."
"What kind of power does it need?" asked Zenith.
"Quintessence. That—"
"Is life force," Renault finished for him. "Humans, animals, even Dragons…we all possess that life force. It's possible to use it for fodder in spells and enchantments." Maybe that's why the Bluemoon Tower didn't activate, Renault thought to himself as he said this. It'd take a lot of quintessence to open even a small Gate, and civilians have barely any. Typhus would've been better off sacrificing soldiers or mercenaries.
"Y-yes…that's right," stammered Tillinghast, somewhat surprised. "How did you know that?"
Renault shrugged. "I get around. So, if you're talking so much about quintessence, I take it you've already got some ready for use? Or did you bring us all down here for nothing?"
"Oh, ye of little faith! Take a look at this!" Reaching into another pocket, Tillinghast took out a little artifact which Renault noticed was familiar…very familiar.
It was, without a doubt, a phylactery. Somewhat larger than the one hanging from Renault's necklace, and in the shape of a small cube, but the distinctive greenish glass and the odd glow from within confirmed beyond any doubt that it was a phylactery.
"By the Saint…what is that thing?" asked Trent.
"A phylactery," Renault answered for him. He turned back to his employer. "I'm not even gonna ask where you got it, but I can tell you're storing energy inside it. Where the hell did you find quintessence for it?"
Tillinghast clutched it to his chest, eyes darting back and forth among the mercenaries in front of him. "W-well, we've all got our secrets, right? Don't ask, don't tell, and so on. I trust you mercenaries know to keep your mouths shut when your swords are out, yes?"
None of them (except for Renault) felt very good about that sort of thing, especially from a "respectable" professor, but they'd all had enough experience in the business to accept his explanation. One by one, they all nodded their assent, then motioned for Tillinghast to begin his ritual.
Except for Renault, who had one more question.
"Professor," he coughed.
"What is it now?"
"Does this Gate lead to Archanea? Or Jugdral?"
Now the professor was really surprised. He was starting to suspect Renault was no ordinary mercenary. "My word, how do you know those names?"
"Just answer the question."
"I…well, it might…Archanea is where the dragons were supposed to have gone, after all. But there's no way to tell for sure without opening it."
Renault sighed. "Okay, so I guess it's time to find out. Work your magic, Professor."
Tillinghast began chanting another incantation, deeper and more guttural than the ones he'd used to open the doors, and held the phylactery above his head. It began to glow, and a golden cloud emerged from its depths and descended onto the altar in front of the caster. The altar itself began to glow, and Renault felt a surge of magic as a purple sigil similar in shape to those used in Dark magic spells appeared in the air. A white light emerged in the center of that sigil, which quickly expanded to become to become a small vortex, rotating quickly. They were all deep underground, but somehow, they felt wind rushing past them—and they all realized that wind was coming from the glowing white vortex in front of them.
"I've done it!" yelled Tillinghast. "This is indeed a portal! We can—"
He was cut off by something blowing a hole in his chest.
It happened far too quickly for any of the mercenaries to react. Out of the swirling vortex something surged forth, slamming through the professor and embedding itself into the ground behind him. As he gurgled and coughed up blood before going still, the thing in his chest began to squirm, and Renault could see clearly what it was.
A pitch-black tentacle covered in sharp spines. Renault had no idea what it was, but it was definitely not a Dragon.
Its owner began pulling itself out of the vortex to its world. It withdrew its appendage from Tillinghast's body, allowing him to drop to the floor, and sent several more writhing into the world of Elibe. Two, four, six became a dozen sable thorn-covered tentacles anchored to the floor of the room, pulling forwards something huge and black…
Wherever that thing was coming from, it wasn't Archanea or Jugdral, and even if it was, Renault knew there was no way he could survive for long in a world full of such monstrosities. "Damnation," he grunted to himself, "guess I'll have to give up on those staves." His fellow mercenaries were frozen in shock, and that would prove to be their undoing. Renault hastily hid himself behind a nearby pillar, and as the rest of them stared in horror, the creature continued to pull itself forwards. With another lightning-fast sweep of its tentacles, it reached out and grabbed the General and the Hero. They screamed as the creature's spines cut through their armor and through their flesh, and when it dragged them back to its side of the portal, their even louder and more terrified screams told Renault he didn't want to know what was happening to them.
This proved too much for the remaining two mercs—they definitely didn't think they'd been hired for this. With another pair of screams, the Sniper and Priest dropped their weapons and dashed straight out of the summoning chamber.
It was all up to Renault, now—who knew what destruction this creature could wreak if it escaped to the outside world, especially if it brought more friends with it? Granted, Renault didn't really care, but he did realize it would be harder to resurrect Braddock if the entire continent got eaten by otherworldly cosmic horrors. He'd have to work quickly, too. It seemed like the thing had almost succeeded in pulling itself out of the portal. Peering out from behind the pillar, Renault could now clearly see the dozens of black, thorn-covered tentacles were attached to a bulbous, lumpy body of the same color covered in what seemed to be a multitude of moaning, screeching mouths filled with fangs and dripping a nauseating, smelly green ichor.
He almost certainly wouldn't be able to hack it to death. However, long experience had taught Renault that there was one thing big beasties usually didn't like—fire. Thinking quickly, he reached into his traveling pack and took out a flask of oil. Then, as quickly as he could, he dashed out from behind the pillar. Before the beast noticed him, he tossed the flask at its main body, covering it in oil. Now it was angry, a loud squeal emanating from all its mouths and drew back its tentacles to tear Renault apart…
Before he tossed his torch at it.
Renault's guess had indeed been correct. Big, supernatural monsters were typically highly flammable, and this one was no exception. It screamed in agony, flailing its tentacles all around, forcing Renault to hop, dash, and roll away to avoid getting sliced apart. He wasn't entirely successful—one of the tentacles clipped his arm, its thorn cutting through the chainmail and gauntlet and leaving a very deep gash. Renault didn't feel hunger, but he still felt pain, and groaned as he felt blood streaming down his arm. He'd lost none of his composure or discipline, though, and ignored the wound as he continued to back away from the burning beast.
Backing away turned into full-on flight after what happened next. One of the creature's arms slammed into the glowing altar, blowing it into a thousand pieces. This was most fortunate for the rest of the world, for it resulted in the portal disappearing with a massive explosion, blowing Renault back and completely disintegrating the monsters who were trying to get through. On the other hand, this was a bad thing for Renault, as the blast demolished several of the pillars holding up the ceiling, meaning a collapse was imminent.
"Aw, hell!" He turned and started running as fast as he could, dashing through the door right before the summoning room imploded. His magic helmet allowed him to see in the dark, which was more than helpful when it came to navigating the corridors through which he'd entered. He needed the help, because the entire complex seemed to be coming down. Rushing through the narrow tunnels, escaping the sound of falling stone and rubble rapidly catching up to him, he could only hope he remembered the path through which his party had initially entered. He was gratified to see a small spot of dim light ahead of him—the entrance back to the sewers, where a few small rays of sunlight beamed down from a manhole overhead.
With one last burst of speed, Renault jumped through the door a moment before the tunnel collapsed behind him.
"Haah…haah…Agh! Damn!" he muttered as he was reminded of the wound on his arm. He removed his helmet a fetched a vulnerary from his belt. He quaffed it without any trouble—one thing he was very glad to learn over the course of the last century was that healing spells and potions were just as effective on this body as they'd been on his previous one, but he no longer had a sense of taste, meaning that once-vile concoctions like vulneraries and elixirs went down his throat quite easily.
He grinned when he felt the wound on his arm close and the bleeding stop. He raised it and flexed it, then put his helmet back on. Beginning his trek back to the surface world, he didn't return to the manhole through which his party had initially entered but rather passed it by, searching for another egress farther away. The collapse of the ruins had probably set off a small earthquake up above, and the King's soldiers and repairmen would be milling around the area, almost certain to ask inconvenient questions of anyone who popped out of a sewer drain.
Unpleasant as the stench of the sewers was, dealing with all that was even worse, in Renault's estimation. As he made his way through the slimy pipes, he found he wasn't actually very discouraged, even by this latest failure.
After all, he still had all the time in the world.
-X- Burning Desire –X-
How far had he traveled up the mountain? How far did he have to go? The ever-present fog made it nearly impossible to tell, but Renault pushed forwards nonetheless. He slammed his climbing pick into the sheer rock wall in front of him. The mountains of the Western Isles were almost as forbidding as those of Bern, made even more dangerous by the mists which perpetually hung over the entire region. Renault was climbing the tallest in the country—Mount Helius.
Not only was it massive, but there were supposedly immense deposits of many precious metals—iron, tin, and even gold—along its heights. One would therefore expect it to be completely covered with miners and prospectors exploiting it for everything it was worth. Mount Helius, however, was completely deserted. Not even the natives dared to approach it. It was, according to them, far too dangerous. A mighty, terrifying beast of flame inhabited it, they said, burning to cinders any man foolish enough to climb. That may or may not have been true, but the mountain itself was exceptionally treacherous, and that alone would have been enough to dissuade even the greediest gold-hunters. Only the most experienced mountaineers had even a sliver of a hope at reaching its peak.
Fortunately, Renault was very experienced. He had been wandering the Isles for another fifty years, seeking what he was always seeking—a way to bring back his friend. Always on the lookout for any "Gates" to other worlds, be they Archanea or any land of the dead, Renault had also started paying more attention to folk tales and stories of legendary creatures, such as those the Sacaens had spoken of, so long ago. He was currently in search of the legendary Phoenix, which supposedly nested at the very top of Helius. Many residents of the Isles said they saw it soaring through the sky on cloudless nights, but of course could provide no corroboration. The stories from the island natives, however, claimed that the great beast revived itself once every one hundred years, and that one of its feathers could bring back the dead. This was enough to convince Renault to give the peak a look.
The air here was thin, but happily, this caused his strange, lifeless body no problems. Of course, that body wouldn't survive a fall from these heights or a crushing from falling rocks, so Renault continued with his progress as cautiously as he possibly could. Another chop of the pick, a pause to make sure the stone was steady and no noises indicated something was falling towards him, and another small boost upwards. Now, through the fog, Renault thought he saw…something. A faint, dim orange spot in the distance, flickering weakly. Was it another mountaineer challenging these forbidding peaks? Or was it perhaps the object of his quest itself? Nothing to do except continue onwards and find out.
Up and up Renault climbed, the tiny spark in the distance growing bigger, bigger, and bigger. Renault still couldn't make out what it was, though. It didn't seem to be moving farther away, though, which meant it probably wasn't another climber. He came closer and closer, closer and closer, until his pick hit on a cliff edge beyond which the light seemed to be burning—no longer flickering, but burning very brightly.
He clambered over that edge to see what he'd come across. And in over a century of wandering, he'd never seen anything quite like this.
It seemed as if a great temple had been built into the very top of Mount Helius. It was nothing like Par Massino, however. In fact, its style of architecture was not Eliminean at all, or similar to anything Renault had ever seen anywhere on Elibe—not Sacae, not Lycia, not Etruria…nothing.
First was its massive size. Only the peak of a gigantic mountain such as Helius could have accommodated such a great edifice. About as large as his mother's cathedral complex, it rose four stories into the sky in the shape of a ziggurat—a sort of pyramid that was tiered rather than entirely triangular. It had one entrance, from which poured the orange light Renault had seen. That entrance was gigantic, more than large enough to admit a creature like Barbarossa or a swarm of the tentacled beasts Renault had seen beneath Aquleia.
The fact that Draconic letters which Renault could recognize—and read—were etched over it was enough to convince him that this temple had been wrought not by human hands but the talons of ancient dragons.
He peered at the inscription, and had learned just enough of Draconic to make it out:
Here is buried Life, here is Death birthed.
Renault paused for a moment, considering those words, then stepped through the threshold.
The first thing he noticed as he entered the temple was heat—extreme heat. It was quite cold at the top of such a tall mountain, especially on the Misty Isles, but inside the ziggurat it seemed as if it was as hot as a scorching afternoon in Nabata.
The second thing he noticed was the light—so bright he had to close his eyes. The orange glow he'd seen from afar burned as bright as the sun within this massive chamber. The heat surged, and he was afraid he might be cooked inside his armor. He heard a pained cry so loud that he covered his head with his hands to shield both his eyes and ears. It shook the ground beneath him, and sounded as if it was the death knell of a titanic beast. He blindly staggered to the side, bumped into something hard and round, which he assumed to be a massive stone pillar, and scuttled around it, feeling some relief as it seemed to shield him from the heat and noise of whatever terrible thing occupied this temple.
The cry reached a fever pitch, almost shattering Renault's ear drums despite his best efforts, along with the light and heat which scorched him even behind his bulwark. Then, however, the noise faded away, seeming to echo down the mountain and across all of Elibe. The light and heat, too, began to subside. Not immediately, but after a few minutes Renault could finally take his hands away from his head, emerge from the little ball he'd twisted himself into, and get a decent look at his surroundings.
Smoke wafted up from the stone floor, as well as from his armor and gauntlets, Renault noticed. He turned and saw he had indeed been hiding behind a great pillar, its strange shape and great size fitting for something sculpted by Dragons.
Renault peered out from behind it to see what he had been hiding from.
In front of him, dominating the room, was a gigantic brazier, large enough to accommodate easily a monster the size of Barbarossa. And lying inside of it, still glowing faintly, was a monster which very much looked like it could have been Barbarossa's match—while it was alive, anyways.
Lying within the massive brazier, still and unmoving, dense gray smoke pouring from its body, was the corpse of the largest bird Renault had ever seen. Its blackened, charred feathers were each the size of greatswords, and he saw a few flecks of red and faintly glowing orange still among them—those must have been the colors of the great beast before it had died. It was shaped roughly like an eagle, with a stout body possessing two broad, titanic wings attached to a pair of feet with four toes (three pointing forwards, one back) tipped with black talons that looked like scythe blades.
The head itself was similar to an eagle's—stout, strong, and fierce, with two golden eyes as large as Renault himself set above a curved, vicious obsidian beak. That beak was motionless and those eyes were lifeless. Thus, Renault thought it was safe to approach the brazier, cautiously, at least.
"Damn," he muttered to himself, "am I too late?" He'd heard that the Phoenix came to this temple once every few centuries—to die. From the light and noise earlier, Renault estimated he'd arrived just in time to watch the bird immolate itself in its own funeral pyre. Now it seemed as if it was entirely burned out, and whatever magic it possessed was gone. There were a few charred, giant feathers scattered around the floor, but those were just powerless debris. If this Phoenix truly did have the power to bring the dead back to life, Renault would have to wait until it revived and regained its strength to acquire that power.
How long would that take? He didn't know. In fact, he had no idea if the legendary bird actually did have the power of resurrection, or if it just died, like any other creature.
He got his answers sooner than he thought he would.
When he heard a crackling noise coming from the huge corpse, he immediately jumped back and scurried behind the pillar again, thinking he'd be in serious trouble if the beast woke up and caught sight of him.
He needn't have worried.
The crackling sound came from the corpse disintegrating. As he watched in astonishment, the black body of the Phoenix began to crumble. It started at the wingtips, the feathers there falling into flecks of grey ash and flying away, carried by the cold mountain wind. It spread to the rest of the body, which imploded into a pile of black and grey cinders right before Renault's eyes.
The wind, too, blew these away. The breeze carried them upwards in a spiral, spinning straight into the misty skies of Fibernia through a large opening in the center of the temple's ceiling. The huge pile grew smaller and smaller, and when it finally disappeared entirely, Renault noticed something else.
There was still something inside the brazier—or at least, so it seemed. There was once again an orange glow coming from inside it, though much, much fainter than it had been at first. Indeed, it was barely noticeable. It was still enough to pique Renault's interest, though. With the help of his climbing equipment, he managed to haul himself over to the lip of the brazier and tumble in. Getting to his feet and shaking off some of the dust, ash, and cinder which now covered him, Renault advanced towards the source of the glow.
It was indeed tiny—much smaller than he was, nothing more than a speck at the center of the fire-holder. And as he got closer, he noticed it was making a sound. A small, tiny, barely audible sound, but a sound nonetheless:
"Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!"
Staring up at him from the bottom of the brazier, giving him the most puzzled gaze it could muster, was what struck Renault as perhaps the cutest thing he'd yet encountered during his century-long sojourn across Elibe.
He was standing in front of what could only be a Phoenix chick. Small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, and covered in soft, fuzzy down that glowed faintly orange, the pint-sized creature looked absolutely nothing like the legendary monster which had died to give birth to it. Its little fluffy, stumpy wings looked vaguely like those of a young chicken, its golden eyes seemed more designed for searching for food than the content of a man's soul, and from its stubby little beak emanated cries which seemed plaintive, not terrifying or majestic.
Renault couldn't help himself. This was what he'd spent fifty years searching for? This was the legend which so terrified the people of the Western Isles? As the chick stared at him in utter confusion (and if he didn't know better, he would have said it looked somewhat insulted) Renault began to laugh. It was long, loud, and very genuine, echoing all throughout the great temple. For the very first time since Braddock had died, a hundred and fifty years ago, a true smile spread across Renault's face and sincere mirth echoed through his voice.
"Braddock," he chuckled, "Oh, man, Braddock, you gotta see this—"
That was enough to still his laughter and quench his joy. Braddock was still dead, after all, and he could feel no true happiness until his friend was back at his side.
"Alright, little guy," Renault said harshly, his former good cheer having completely disappeared, "You're comin' with me. I have a job for you."
"Cheep?"
He reached out for the little ball of glowing fuzz, cupping it with his hands and raising it to his face to get a better look at it. He intended to take it back with him to Bern and show it Braddock's remains—though his friend was now nothing more than a skeleton, he hoped the power of the Phoenix, even if it was just a baby, could do something for him.
Unfortunately, the bird had other plans.
"Cheep! Cheep! Cheep!"
"What the—OW!"
The dim glow from within Renault's fingers intensified for a moment, accompanied by a burst of heat so great that he had to let go of his prize. The Phoenix chick dropped to the floor, now glowing as brightly as the sun, while Renault noticed his gauntlets were glowing red hot—he immediately stripped them off before they scorched his hands.
Apparently, even baby Phoenixes didn't enjoy being held.
Now, Renault was angry. "You little—" he grunted, but his quarry cut him off with another series of angry cheeps. The tiny bird, still glowing brightly, turned and scampered away, beating its little wings as quickly as it could. To Renault's surprise and fury, it actually succeeded in lifting off. Perhaps aided by magic (sparks flew as it left the ground), the Phoenix floated into the air, its glow intensifying further into a tiny flame which enveloped its entire body, but didn't burn it.
"Wait! No!" Renault shouted. "Come back!" The firebird, of course, did not heed its order. With a final, mocking, "cheep cheep!" the burning baby shot upwards, turning into a tiny red meteor soaring up into the sky through the opening at the top of the temple through which its ashes had escaped. After a moment, it was gone, and there was no way Renault could track it down.
"Damn it," he grunted, and then slammed his bare hands into each other. "DAMN IT!"
After that little outburst, however, he took a deep breath, and then shrugged. He then picked up his gauntlets, which had cooled down, and then exited the temple and began heading back down.
What was the point of getting angry? It was just a minor setback, wasn't it? He knew where the Phoenix lived, now, and when it returned to die again in one hundred years, he'd be waiting for it. Until then, he could try to see if there were any other ways to bring Braddock back, or any other legends which might prove useful to him.
After all, he still had all the time in the world.
-X- The Spring of Dreams –X-
"You know, Renault, you're pretty strange for a foreigner."
"I get that a lot."
The Mercenary Lord said this on the 14th Sun, 927 A.S. as he was led through the trail leading to a landmark that almost no man, much less a non-Ilian, had ever seen. Pegasi were a national symbol for Ilia as well as the country's main source of income (its Pegasus Knights were the only thing keeping its citizens from starving), and they gathered at the Spring of Pyrene. Every year, full-fledged Pegasus Knights would bring their mounts to the spring to recuperate, and young cadets would find themselves a foal to train with at the same time. Since the beasts weren't fond of men, it therefore made sense to keep men as far away from the area as possible.
Sometimes, though, the Union was willing to make exceptions.
There was one thing the Ilian government prized above all, and that was money. If one brought them enough money, one could convince them to do very nearly anything. For the past eighty years Renault had been amassing more and more gold from mercenary work, along with acquiring all manner of magical artifacts in pursuit of his ultimate goal. When those artifacts turned out to be useless to him, as they always did, he sold them for even more money. Decades of this had made him into a millionaire, and when he offered up all that cash to the Union for the low price of being allowed to see the legendary Spring of Pyrene, they were not inclined to turn him down.
Renault and his guide (a perky, purple-haired woman named Maryline) crunched up the snow-covered steps which led up to a great walled enclosure on the outskirts of the city of Edessa, capital of Ilia.
The wall was set in the shape of a great circle, seeming to enclose an area about twice as large as the Holy Royal Palace of Aquleia. The surface of the wall was grey, and absolutely smooth. It was also made out of more than mere stone—Renault wasn't certain what materials had been used in its construction, save that it had stood there since the Scouring, and that it was quite literally impregnable—no known force, magical or physical, could even scratch them. The walls stood twenty stories high, meaning they were impossible to breach with siege towers or any other land-based equipment. Only those who owned the sky would be able to clear them—which made sense, given what was apparently their primary group of occupants.
Pegasi flitted through the air over the walls, an entire flock of them, more than Renault had ever seen in his life. Some descended down towards whatever the walls concealed, while others floated up and away, high in the sky, whatever business they had there finished. This was indeed the gathering place of the winged horses.
What so attracted them? Renault would soon find out. He and his guide approached the only door leading through the walls. It was a massive affair of gold and bronze, entirely covered in statuettes of winged horses flying about beautiful women with spears and armor. At the very top of the door was an icon that looked somewhat similar to that of Saint Elimine, except the woman had even longer hair, was dressed in a loose, flowing tunic rather than sacred robes, and had a pair of wings not unlike those of the Pegasi sprouting from her back.
"Stand back, please," said the guide. Renault nodded and she stepped towards the gate, holding a pair of large golden keys in both hands. Long, heavy, and covered with sparkling jewels of every color, they were no mere Door keys or even Master keys—Renault wagered there were none in the world quite like them. She inserted those keys into twin sockets at the base of the titanic gate…and then it began to move.
It had to be magic. Renault could not figure out how those doors could possibly move otherwise. No mechanism could possibly shift them even an inch. Yet the power of those keys energized the golden gate somehow, and with an ear-splitting creaking of stone and metal, a thin line appeared in the center of the door, growing larger and larger as the double doors opened inwards. After almost a full minute of laborious motion, the gate was fully opened, and the guide motioned for Renault to follow her.
Their way was blocked by a herd of Pegasi—even more were milling about the interior than were floating overhead. Yet as Renault and his guide approached, the beasts took to flight, lifting off with a thousand puffs of snow and gusts of wind and floating upwards in a great white fluttering cloud. Renault wasn't sure if they were fleeing one of the men they supposedly so despised or if they were heeding the commands of a countrywoman who wanted to see the spring.
It wasn't important. Renault didn't care. All that mattered was that the way to his destination was clear.
The Spring of Pyrene itself didn't appear to be much, at first glance. It was, of course, quite large, occupying enough space that it seemed to be almost a decently-sized lake: The Holy Royal Castle of Aquleia could have been submerged in its depths quite comfortably. At the center of the pool was a grand, bubbling gush of water, discharging what had to be hundreds upon hundreds of gallons of water every moment into the air and ensuring that small waves rippled forth constantly across the spring. The strangest thing was the mist it gave out. It was cold in Ilia, ice-cold. Renault and his guide were both wrapped in the thickest furs they could find and still felt the chill in their bones; any sort of water should have been frozen entirely solid. Yet these springs gave off mist—perhaps steam—as if they were hot springs, or "onsen" as the Sacaens called them. They gave off no heat, however, and Renault felt not the slightest bit of warmth as the "steam" rolled over him. This was a place of great magic indeed.
"Isn't it wonderful? Maryline laughed. "You, Renault, are one of the luckiest men in the history of Elibe. A man and a foreigner…almost no-one else like that in the whole world has been allowed to see our nation's greatest treasure with his own eyes!"
"I'm very grateful," said Renault perfunctorily and insincerely. "Maryline, can you tell me the legend of the Spring again?"
"The legend? Hmm…oh, yes, I know what you're referring to.
"We in Ilia have many gods, you see. Not quite like those of the Sacaens, and certainly not like the one God of the Elimineans. There's Carlsbrant, the Laughing Herald, Byelsert, the Lady of Ice…they all live in different places, you see. But here, at the Spring of Pyrene, rests one of the very greatest. Pyrene, the Queen of the Northern Winds!
"She was living here since the world was made, she has seen the rise of both men and Dragons, and will live here long after the world has turned to dust. To keep her company, and to spread beauty across the world, she created the Pegasi, who to this day serve their sisters of Ilia. However, the Scouring hurt her deeply…she was filled with love for all of Elibe's creatures, man and Dragon alike, though of course her Pegasi were her most favorite. She never, ever wanted war between us to break out, and indeed, we Ilians were the last to join the fight. Great Barrigan only took up his lance when he saw there was no other choice.
"Lady Pyrene saw that war could not be avoided, and she gave Barrigan her blessing before he set out. The Dragons were driven from Elibe, however, and that broke her heart. She cried and cried, and her tears penetrated the earth and gave rise to this great spring. Pyrene then locked herself away from Barrigan's eyes and sealed off the spring where she resided with great magical walls. From that point on, she declared that she would never again show herself to human eyes until man and Dragon had learned to live in peace. She sank under the waves of her spring, to rest until that day came. She instructed her Pegasi to watch over and guide Barrigan's children. He had no sons, only daughters—thus, for that reason, the Pegasi have taken their lady's last command to mean they should serve the women of Ilia, not the men. This is why they will accept only females as riders."
"Interesting," said Renault. "So this Pyrene…she liked Dragons, eh?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Hmm…let's see how she likes this, then."
"Eh?!"
Casually, Renault reached into his thick fur cloak to pull out strange object. He held it in the air, and it glowed under Ilia's cold afternoon sun. Maryline looked at him curiously. "What is that? I've…never seen anything quite like it before."
"This is a Dragonstone."
"A dragon…WHAT?!" She nearly fell over. "A Dragonstone?!"
"Uh-huh."
"Where in the world did you get such a thing?"
"There's a funny Sage down in Lycia. Green hair, blue eyes, sort of a weird expression…his family was close to the dragons, I guess. Been close for literally generations. They learned a lot of their secrets, and gained some of their artifacts for themselves. I helped him out with a little…issue a few years ago." Twenty years ago, Renault thought. "He was so happy that he gave me this stone in return. I thought about selling it, but I had a hunch it might come in handy. Guess we'll see if I'm right."
As if he was tossing an ordinary pebble, Renault drew his arm back and threw the Dragonstone right into the spring.
Maryline could only gape at him in astonishment. Then she really did fall over as the ground started to quake.
It came from the spring. The waters of the Spring churned and roiled, as if it was boiling, and out of those waters arose a form—massive yet graceful, and radiating an aura of immense, unearthly power.
It was a woman—a huge woman, thrice as tall as Renault. She was very beautiful, with a perfect, porcelain-skinned face accompanied by a pair of ears which tapered off into delicate points and framed by an incredibly long wave of hair the same color as the spring water which hung down, down, and down, falling the full length of her body down into the pool itself, which it seemed to be joined to. She was clad in a flowing gold-colored tunic, and it was obvious she was the woman represented by the icon. Her lips were ice-blue, and when she opened her eyes to look at the man who had given her this gift, she gazed down at him with irises of the same color set in sclera as white and pure as snow. She rose until her toes touched the water, as if she was standing on it, at which point the churning ceased and the spring resumed its normal bubbling.
"Who are you," she whispered in a voice as cold—and commanding—as the air around her. "What is this you have given me? Is it true? Have dragons returned to this world?"
Maryline was too astonished—and terrified—to give any response other than panicked babble. It would take more than the appearance of a 'goddess' to surprise Renault, though, and he knew very well what he wanted to say to Pyrene.
"I'm sorry," he began, "The Dragons are still absent from Elibe. I gave you that offering because I thought you would like a keepsake from your long-lost friends."
She raised her right hand and opened it—Renault could see the Dragonstone he'd thrown lying in her palm. "You would be correct, manling," she said, sounding quite sad. "Ah, how this stone reminds me of better days. The Dragons did not need them. Only after the Ending Winter did they find it necessary to conceal their power in these stones. I had hoped that the Winter would be enough, and that both man and Dragon would finally see the lunacy of their war, and return to living in peace and happiness with each other. Alas, it was not to be…" She clenched her hand around the stone, and then looked down on Renault again, the softness and sympathy gone from her cold gaze. "Your gift is thoughtful, human, but millennia of experience with your kind tells me that no gift from you is free. For what reason would you seek my gratitude?"
"I've given you a great treasure, haven't I? There are very, very few stones like that left in this world. In return, I want you to grant me a wish."
"A wish? And what does this little bag of flesh desire?"
"I want you to bring back a friend of mine."
"Bring back a friend?"
"Braddock…Braddock was my best friend. But he died in battle…died for me." Renault knelt, bowing his head before Pyrene. "Please! Please, Spring Goddess! Braddock was everything to me! He was all I had! I don't care what I have to do! I'll find a hundred more Dragonstones if you want! I…please, just give him back to me!"
The goddess stared at him a moment, and then shook her head.
"To take life is easy. Man, Dragon, and spirit of nature such as I…all are capable of killing. To return it, though? 'Tis not in my power. Even the other great spirits…the Phoenix and the Deathrose, the Basilisk and the White Whale…none can restore the dead."
"No…" Renault slammed his fists into the ground, once, twice, thrice. "No! NO! NO! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I WON'T! THERE HAS TO BE A WAY TO BRING HIM BACK! THERE HAS TO BE!"
"The powers of Elibe cannot return life, for we have not created it. What you seek lies beyond…"
"Beyond?" Renault spat. "Elsewhere? I tried that. It didn't work!"
"Not beyond this world, manling. All worlds."
"W…what do you mean?"
"The power given to man to destroy the Dragons…"
"The power…you mean the Divine Weapons? You mean power given from God…or the gods, or whatever?"
She nodded.
"But those have been asleep since the Scouring! Nobody knows where they are, or even if they have their power anymore!"
"There are those who know…"
"Then where are they? Tell me!"
"Go to the desert, manling. Many secrets are buried within the swirling sands. Even I do not know of all it contains. There, you may find what you seek…or you may find your own death. I know not…I only know it is your risk to take." She closed her eyes. "I have nothing more to tell you. I have repaid your generosity as best as I am able. Continue with your quest, or abandon it. It is no concern of mine."
The waters of her Spring began to roil and churn once again as she lowered herself beneath them. They only quieted when she had sunk herself out of view entirely, and once she did, and once the waters returned to their usual state, it was as if she had never appeared at all.
"W…whaa…" stammered Maryline, lying in a shocked heap on the ground and still unable to move.
Renault didn't even give her a parting glance as turned his back to the spring and began to march away. He passed through the great golden gate, which closed behind him, and stepped onto the trail leading to Edessa.
He needed to go back to the city, but he didn't intend to stay long. Renault only needed to buy a few supplies, and then he'd return to his journey. He would head west, and south.
To Nabata.
-X- Sea of Sand –X-
"Haah…Hhhahhh…"
Renault staggered through the endless sea of sand underneath the burning afternoon sun of Nabata, one arm hanging limp and bloody at his side, the other cradling the giant, bloodstained hole which had been punched through his stomach. His armor was covered in pits and scratches, and another hole had been bored through his right pauldron—the mechanism within was destroyed and he wasn't able to use the chain-dagger attached to it.
He had managed to punish the ones who'd done this to him. The corpses of twenty bandits were strewn about the bloody sand around him, axes, swords, and magic tomes scattered on the ground like discarded children's toys. For Renault, however, revenge was a cold comfort. Their ambush may have cost them much more than they'd thought, but they had succeeded in injuring Renault quite badly. Indeed, he would likely die from his wounds. His body may not have needed food, and its breath may have been cold, but it still required blood pumping from its heart. That lifeblood was steadily spilling onto the ground from the wounds in his shoulder and stomach.
"D…Dammit," he gasped, collapsing to his knees. He reached to his belt to clutch at a Vulnerary—then tossed it away in disgust when he saw it was empty. "Damn it…it…it can't end like this…I've lived for over two hundred years…and this is how I die?"
He fell forward, the green glow of his helmet's visor flickering out as his head hit the sand. "Braddock…I wanted to bring you back…so…so much. I'm…"
As his vision dimmed, he thought he saw a shadow fall across the ground in front of him. He managed enough energy to raise his head one last time, and thought he could make out a black shape which looked like it might have been a man standing over him.
Then his strength ran out, his world turned black, and he knew no more.
-x-
"Mmm…"
Renault felt no pain. Oddly enough, he was comfortable; the most comfortable he'd been in years, centuries even. He felt like he was lying on a very soft bed. He didn't feel any pain at all—it was as if all his life-threatening wounds had been completely healed. For a moment, he wondered if he had been wrong about the nonexistence of an afterlife, and that he'd finally gone on to the beyond.
If he had, he'd start his search for Braddock again.
Still, he had to test that hypothesis. With another groan, he opened his eyes—and then shut them again to protect them from the bright light streaming into them. After a few moments, they'd adjusted, and as he sat up he could now get a decent view of his surroundings.
He was indeed occupying a bed with soft, pure white sheets, pillows, and mattress. He looked down to see he was naked—and quite healthy, there wasn't a scratch on his body. He then looked around to see he was in what appeared to be a small, cozy, one-room cottage made out of a pleasant-looking reddish material; Renault thought it might have been clay or adobe. The bed was snuggled away in a corner; in the center of the dwelling was a hearth, a few chairs, and another chair and table nearby. From the open windows on each side of the house filtered a cheerful afternoon sun, which was hot, but not nearly as hot as the tyrant of the desert usually was. He could hear snatches of conversations and laughter outside, which told him he was in a town, and a seemingly peaceful one at that.
In that chair sat an old man who seemed to be sleeping. A very old man. He didn't appear to be extraordinarily wizened or decrepit, but his gray hair and beard were the longest Renault had ever seen on a man, falling to the front of his chest and far down his back, respectively. He was fair-skinned, the same shade as Renault, and was clad in modest brown sandals, a dark blue robe and a sort of golden pendant hanging 'round his forehead.
He also seemed to be radiating an aura of immense magical power. Renault shivered the moment he laid eyes on the snoozing fellow. He'd never felt anything like it since…since he'd faced off against Nergal. This aura, however, seemed to be benign rather than malignant. Then again, Nergal had seemed to be well-meaning before he'd shown his true colors.
Renault came to the conclusion that he probably wasn't dead, and had been rescued by the man sitting in front of him, or at least the man's allies, if he had any. Was this magician—Renault knew for sure he was a magician—planning to betray him or use him like Nergal was? The Mercenary Lord's fists tightened, and he prepared to launch an assault on the sleeper; even naked he could do a lot of damage against an entirely unprepared opponent with his bare hands. He immediately thought better of it, though. He had no idea of where he was, and attacking a town resident would likely result in him being skewered by the guards before he could get a chance to put on his equipment. Additionally, he remembered how miserably he'd failed to even scratch Nergal, two hundred years ago. If this man, whoever he was, possessed similar power, Renault could do absolutely nothing to him.
Thus, he tried a more diplomatic tack. Coughing audibly, he called, "Hey, old man. Wake up."
The elder opened one eye, and it seemed Renault's suspicions were correct—he actually hadn't been sleeping. "Ah, you're awake. I'm quite glad to see you're well…you lost a great deal of blood. You're lucky to be alive, you know. If I hadn't found you when I did, you would have never woken up at all."
"So, you're the one who brought me here?"
"Indeed I am."
"I guess I owe you my thanks. What's your name? And where am I? How'd you get me here?"
"I…" He furrowed his brow. "Let's talk about that later. First, how are you feeling?"
"Fine, geez—uh, I mean, sir. Better than I've ever felt. The last thing I remember was being cut up real badly by nearly two dozen bandits. Who patched me up?"
The old man smiled, and his dark brown eyes glowed with genuine good cheer. "I did. Though I am known for my mastery of Anima magic, it's good to see these long years haven't dulled my skill with a staff!" The cheer disappeared in lieu of a more serious expression. "Now then, traveler, I must let you know that I am the elder of this village, and am responsible for its safety. What were you doing out in the desert?"
"Um…" Renault thought carefully. If he gave the wrong answers he might end up dead, or at least thrown back into the hostile desert. On the other hand, it probably wasn't a good idea to let this man know too much about him, where he came from, or what his goals were. "My name's Renault. I…I'm an adventurer. I've heard stories about magic treasure hiding in the ruins and under the sands of Nabata, so I came here to see for myself."
"An adventurer? That makes sense…your arms and armor are certainly well-suited for dangerous business."
"Y-Yeah. I've been traveling around the desert for…a few years, visiting the little oasis towns and the wandering nomadic tribes to see if they've got any information on buried treasure here. At my last stop, they told me of some ruins buried to the west, and I was headed there when I got ambushed by some bandits. I got careless and let my guard down…I really would have died if it weren't for you. I guess you were in the area?"
"Yes. I actually wanted to pay those ruins a visit myself, for research purposes. I suppose it's fortunate I happened upon you, eh?"
"Yeah, exactly. Look, sir, trust me, I'm not a threat." This was true, for the most part—as long as they didn't get in his way, Renault wouldn't do anything to this strange old man and his villagers. Indeed, most of Renault's story was true. He had indeed been wandering around Nabata, looking for relics or artifacts which might aid him in his quest for Braddock, and he had indeed been ambushed by an unexpectedly large and tough band of desert bandits. The only thing he didn't mention was that he'd been wandering through the desert for over a decade, ever since he'd got here from Ilia after listening to the goddess Pyrene's advice. "Now, can you tell me where I am and who you are?"
The old man stared at him for another long moment, as if he was looking at Renault's mind, rather than his face. At last he nodded. "Very well. I do not believe you mean us harm.
"You are in the village of Arcadia. We are a tiny, peace-loving settlement within the most inaccessible region of the desert. The people here are kind, hardworking, and friendly, and they are all protected by my magic. For the most part, outsiders cannot find their way here, especially those with ill intentions. However, lost wanderers…travelers gone astray, or unfortunates waylaid by villains, as you were…those often manage to stumble upon our community. For those people, Arcadia is a paradise, a refuge of perfect peace for them to rest and recuperate from their struggles.
"As for me? I am, as I said, the elder of this village. You may call me Athos."
Athos? Renault thought. He remembered the name from Nergal's journals, but knew it would be a bad idea to mention the evil sorcerer at the moment. Instead, he tried a different tack. "Athos? So you're named after one of the Eight Legends?"
Athos chuckled again. "Yes, you could say I'm named after him…though it's more accurate to say I am him."
"What the hell? Look, I'm grateful you saved me, but don't play games with me. If you really were Athos, you'd have to be over nine hundred…" Renault trailed off as he realized how strange such words were coming from his mouth. He himself was over two hundred years old. He had no idea how old Nergal was. The wielder of the ultimate Infernal Element, Forblaze, would almost certainly have the ability to extend his life as well.
"The Divine Weapons affect their wielders in different ways," said the master mage, a hint of sadness in his voice. "An irony, I suppose. They were created to save mankind, but those who used them became distant from their fellow men. In my case, it seems that time simply passed me by. One century, two, then three…it has all become the same for me. My hunger for knowledge knows no bounds, and until it is sated, the magic I possess will not let me die."
Or you use quintessence to extend your life, Renault thought cynically. However, he remembered that Athos was Nergal's adversary. That alone meant that he could possibly be a worthy ally. On the other hand, if he found out Renault had once served Nergal, he could turn into an enemy as well. Best to treat him as a neutral party, then. "Alright, I can believe you're a living legend. But what would someone like you be doing all the way out here?"
"That…how to answer that…" Athos stroked his beard. "First, Renault, let me ask you a question. What do you know about dragons? How do you feel about them?"
"What kind of a question is that? Dragons are humanity's enemies. I've never seen one, but I know they're fearsome monsters. If you really were Athos, you'd know better than anyone! You fought them!"
"Yes, I did. But what if I were to tell you that it was possible for dragons and men to live in peace?"
"I…well, that'd be hard to believe." Renault thought again of what Nergal had written in his journals and logbooks. Where had he learned to speak Draconic? And what did the Ilians always say about having a close relationship with dragons? "Still, I've heard of stranger things."
Athos beamed. "Good, Renault. I'm glad to hear that. I think you can take a look outside, now." He motioned to a pile of clothes lying at the foot of Renault's bed. "Get dressed and I'll show you around."
Renault did as he was told, dressing himself in a pair of comfortable, loose brown pants and an equally comfortable, soft white tunic. He followed Athos out of the cottage's single door…
And stopped in his tracks when he saw what was before him.
Arcadia didn't look much different than an ordinary desert town—small, humble homes surrounding a clear and clean oasis, though the architecture looked much more advanced than the huts and tents one saw in most Nabatan settlements. Rather, the truly amazing thing was the town's populace.
Mingling in with regular people, as if there was no difference between them, were men and women with wings—batlike appendages sprouting from their backs, in red, green, blue, purple, and all sorts of other colors. Renault knew those were Manaketes, or Dragons in human form. And even more astonishing, there were plenty of Dragons in Dragon form. Another difference between Arcadia and other desert settlements was that the streets were very wide, and it was to accommodate the town's largest denizens. A huge red beast as large as Barbarossa tramped through one road, taking care not to step on the humans who walked underneath it as if they saw this creature every day—which, judging by the way some of them talked to it, they probably did. On another street sat a plump white dragon with a long, sinewy neck, similar to the statue in Nergal's bathing chamber. It puffed and growled in a language Renault surmised was Draconic, and it seemed the young couple standing beneath it could understand and converse in their own language.
"What…" Renault stammered, "How…"
"Following the Scouring," Athos began, "The world was devastated. I thought it had no need of a warrior like me, and that its reconstruction should be passed to the hands of the next generation. For centuries I wandered the continent, content only to slake my own thirst for knowledge, until I entered Nabata.
"Five hundred years ago, I…met a friend." His voice grew very sad. "Together, we combed the wastelands, searching for knowledge…and discovered something…extraordinary.
"It was a village, but not like any other we had ever seen. There, man and dragon lived together in peace. It turned out that this village had been founded by refugees from both the Human Empire and the various dragon tribes. They had not wanted to fight in the Scouring, and retreated to the most isolated spot in Nabata they could find.
"My friend and I joined them. We created an oasis for them and a magical barrier to shield this town from the outside world, and called it Arcadia. Together, we created a paradise, where the wisdom of both man and dragon was contained in our great libraries to be used for the benefit of all. And here we are today."
"You mentioned a friend," replied Renault. He had a good idea of who that friend was. "What happened to him?"
The expression on Athos' face indicated he did not want to talk about it. "He is no longer here."
It must have something to do with the wound on Nergal's eye, Renault thought to himself. He could find out the specifics later, it wouldn't do to give too much of himself away right now.
"Athos," said Renault. "You also mentioned the libraries of the Dragons…I take it this village is a repository for their knowledge?"
"Indeed it is."
"Are they open to humans as well?"
"Indeed they are."
"Athos…I want to stay here for…for a while. I…I'll find myself a job or something, if you want, but I want to study the knowledge of the Dragons. I want to learn about their magic, and I want to learn more about the Scouring you and your friends fought in. Would you allow me?"
The Archsage nodded. "I would never hamper another's quest for enlightenment. Consider yourself one of us, Renault, for as long as you wish."
The mercenary smiled.
-x-
10 years went by surprisingly quickly.
Renault sat in his favorite chair in the corner of Arcadia's great library. It actually wasn't very big—not even a fraction of the size of Aquleia's Royal Archive—but its librarian seemed to own just as many books. The shelves of the average sized and otherwise nondescript stone building seemed to lead into a tiny "void space," or pocket dimension—stick your hand into one of them and it would disappear rather than hitting the back of the shelf. In that space one could store almost an unlimited number of goods, and it was in this way the librarian—a Manakete, or Dragon, named Dukat—kept an immense catalogue. Renault had thus spent almost every day in here, studying book after book possessed by the Dragons. Next to the tome he was currently studying was a scroll upon which he had inscribed everything he'd learned over the past decade. The scroll was quite long, but could be roughly summarized as this:
The Divine Weapons were bestowed upon humanity following the destruction of the Empire's 8 Superweapons. Not even the Heroes themselves understood the true nature of the Powers which had given them their salvation. Athos spent his entire life trying to figure out what, Elimine thought she had the answer in the form of a singular God, while Bramimond was convinced the answer didn't matter and hid himself in seclusion. In any case, though, what they all agreed on was the power of the Weapons was far too great for human hands to wield. The Weapons were scattered all over Elibe, and their power was sealed away by Bramimond. Only he is capable of releasing them, and he rests beneath the Shrine of Seals. No-one except Athos and the King of Bern knows where it is located.
If Athos was willing only to tell him the location of the Shrine of Seals—or even the Holy Weapons, at least—his job would be much easier. And, ironically enough, it meant he might be able to spend more time in Arcadia. The Archsage, however, was keeping his lips shut. And his reactions to Renault's questions convinced the Mercenary Lord that he'd learned all he could in this desert. It was time to go.
Arcadia truly was a paradise, and if his heart had not been rendered barren by his friend's death, Renault thought he might have been happy here. The people—man and Dragon alike—had accepted him unquestioningly, and with open arms. It took him some time to get used to the Dragons, granted, but after a year or so he came to regard them as not at all different from the town's human inhabitants. To be fair, it wasn't as if he had inserted himself heavily in community life—he rarely talked to anyone aside from Dukat and Athos, and only left the library to fetch his armor and weapons from where they'd been stored (the blacksmith had been happy to repair that rare, expensive armor, and was one of the few on Elibe who could work with equipment from the Scouring) to train occasionally. Still, he had managed to strike up a friendship with a couple of people, most notably the wise old Wind Dragon Dukat, in whose library he spent most of his time. Athos also often visited him to see how he was doing, and the Archsage was a friendly and interesting conversationalist. Spending his days reading history and literature of the sort he'd loved ever since he was a child, chatting with people who had more than expert knowledge on the subjects…if Braddock were here, they both would have been having a wonderful time.
But all good things had to come to an end, and Renault had gotten the impression that he would not be welcome in this paradise for much longer.
First was the matter of his physical appearance. He knew his face hadn't changed a bit in the ten years he'd been here, and no-one had ever seen him shave, eat, drink, or relieve himself. All of these were explainable—Dragons and half-Dragons aged very slowly in human form, and many people in Arcadia prized their privacy. Still, he could tell Athos, at least, was beginning to suspect something was not quite right about him.
More recently, the questions he'd began to ask had also served to alienate him from his newfound 'friends.' He'd had a few close calls before that—his blood had run cold when Dukat had asked him if he'd ever seen a young man named Dougram, but believed him when he lied and said he'd never even heard the name (though Dukat looked very sad about that). However, a few weeks ago, Renault had asked Dukat if he had any books written in Shadetongue. The librarian had reacted in horror and made it clear he did not. Renault was almost sure he was lying, but didn't press the issue. After that, during one of his conversations with Athos about the Holy Weapons, he'd finally asked where the Shrine of Seals was located.
The legendary hero had stared at Renault for a long time, and asked, "Why do you want to know?"
"Curiosity," Renault had replied. "Didn't you tell me that you'd never stand in the way of someone's quest for enlightenment?"
"That is true, but the power of the Holy Weapons is too much for an individual to bear, at least in this day and age. A reckless quest for self-destruction is a very different beast than the search for knowledge. I can offer you no assistance with the latter."
"What if I told you I wanted to use that power for good?"
"What sort of good, Renault?"
"I…I want to save someone."
"If they need the power of a Divine Weapon to save them, they are likely beyond salvation, friend," came the Archsage's sad reply. "Eight heroes we were, but even with our weapons, not a single human being could we save."
"Is that really true? Aren't there stories of the dead things being brought back to life with these weapons? There's a legend that states that Roland turned the burned wastelands of Lycia to verdant fields with the power of Durandal. Can't Bramimond undo the seal and use the Durandal's power to bring back one person?"
Renault had raised his voice and lost control of his emotions, for just a moment—but it still doomed his attempt. Athos sat back in his chair, brow furrowed. "So, you wish to bring back a dead friend, yes?"
"Yeah, there's no point in denying it now. That's exactly what I want."
"I won't lie to you. I am not entirely certain, but…it may be that the Divine Weapons, in the right hands, can bring back the dead."
This was exactly what Renault wanted to hear—he began to grow giddy. "Yes, yes, yes! Alright, Athos, let's go find Bramimond and undo that seal! I've been waiting long enough! Come on, let's—"
"Let's not," he said sternly. "The power of the Divine Weapons was not meant for such purpose."
"What?! Why the hell not?"
Athos sighed. "As powerful as they are, their power is not limitless. If it was, if the divine power really could fulfill any wish, we eight heroes could have just wished for everyone who died in the Scouring to come back and for civilization to be restored in an instant. But it's not that simple.
"The weapons have a limited store of power, and every time they're used, that power is weakened. It has weakened, bit by bit, ever since the Scouring…even now, the Weapons are nowhere near as strong as they once were. To use their power indiscriminately would be to cripple them. And who knows when we may need them again? Restoring a single life, whether it is a man's or a dragon's, costs an incredible amount of energy. If we were to squander that energy on an ordinary man, the weapons would be that much weaker when we might need them again to save mankind. It is a waste I cannot allow."
"Squander?! Waste?!" Renault grew angry. "Braddock wasn't an ordinary man! He was my best friend! And you're telling me that bringing him back would be a waste?!"
"It is the truth," replied Athos calmly. "I do not wish to belittle your feelings for your friend. But the Divine Weapons are tied to the fate of the entire world. Bramimond may use them to revive someone on whom the fate of Elibe hinges. But neither you nor your friend are so important."
Those words enraged Renault. He grew angry, as angry as he ever had. He balled his fists, prepared to lash out…
Then remembered how ineffective that had been against Nergal, and that Athos could likely defeat him just as easily.
Instead, he took a deep breath, unclenched his hands…and then stood up.
"I see. Thank you." He turned to leave. "You're right. Sorry for wasting your time."
It was obvious, of course, that he hadn't learned anything from what Athos had said. So the Archsage had left him with these parting words:
"There was one before you who wished desperately to bring back someone he had lost," said Athos ominously, and though his voice was still kind, there was a note of suspicion in it. "He fell to the darkness…and to his own doom. I will say this only once, friend. This obsession with undoing death…it will bring you only ruin, and I want no part of it. You will find no answers from me, or anyone else in this village."
Renault had simply ignored him. Instead, he'd concluded that his time in Arcadia was over.
It had been three days since he'd had that conversation with Athos, and they hadn't spoken since. He hadn't talked much with anyone else, either. He'd simply bought some supplies, began to pack up what little gear he had, and spent his remaining few hours here doing a last-minute review of what he'd learned in Dukat's library. As expected, he didn't find anything new—it only reinforced his belief that he needed to find Bramimond. Renault sighed and put the scroll away, back into the void space it came from—he knew there was no point in stealing anything here. He got up and prepared to leave.
"Heading to bed, Renault?" Dukat gave him a kindly smile.
"Y…yeah." Renault felt a bit guilty about his lie, and a bit bad that he wouldn't see Dukat again, most likely. He'd grown somewhat fond of the Dragon…
But not as fond as he was of Braddock. He exited the library, entered the dark, moonlit streets, and made his way back to the small house he'd been living in for the past 10 years. He'd miss it too, somewhat—not that it mattered now. Quietly, he put on his armor (the desert was always dangerous at night), checked his weapons (A Brave Sword and Lightbrand, purchased from one of Arcadia's vendors) strapped his traveling pack to his back, and made his exit.
Thankfully, nobody was around at the moment—Dragons needed their sleep too. The roads of Arcadia were completely clear. There was no-one blocking his way to the small village's main gate…
And thus, no one to watch him begin his trek east.
::Linear Notes::
A few things I should mention about this chapter. First off, the "From Beyond" section is a reference to Lovecraft's short story, and the Bluemoon Tower a reference to Dragon's Dogma. However, I'll warn you, this won't be the last time you see 'em. ;) Secondly, make note about what they say concerning Bramimond and the Shrine of Seals. This is to keep compliant with canon, where Ninian is revived at the end of FE7, and it will also be a significant plot point later…VERY significant. But I won't give too much away. Just keep readin ;)
