Chapter 2: Down Below
The last rat didn't die quietly.
He trashed, screamed, and squealed, eyes wide in panic as they searched frantically for a way out, dripping blood staining his fur. In the end, nothing of that mattered, for Zara was far quicker than him. Her elbow came up in a vicious strike, smashing the rat's muzzle to the side as she spun around. The opening lasted for an eyeblink, but that was all Zara needed. Her knife lashed out and found its mark in the gap between the rat's collar and helmet, plunging the steel blade deep up to the hilt.
The rat let out one last strangled whimper before finally collapsing onto the muddy ground, face-first. Zara spared the fallen enemy but a brief glance before moving to retrieve her recurved knife from the body and wipe the blood off the blade on the rat's back. The fennec darted her eyes around, spotting her short spear sticking out from the chest of another slain enemy some distance away.
Zara's ears flicked as from behind came muffled footsteps, and she caught Hunter with the corner of her eye. The cheetah had his cowl up and moved quietly amidst the slain bodies to retrieve his arrows. Half of the fallen enemies within the small clearing had in fact a feathered projectile sticking out. Only one, for each.
"I think I got three," Zara commented as she wrenched her spear free of the rat's body. "A good fight, I'll say. What do you think?"
Hunter said nothing, busy as he was, trying to recover his arrows. He knelt by the body belonging to the patrol's leader. He was a big rat; he had been wearing a heavy-looking set of chain mail, together with a sturdy helmet. All in all, excellent protection. As such, the cheetah had shot him through his mouth. It did make retrieving the arrow impossible though, and eventually Hunter shook his head and stood back up.
"I think we should get moving," he said quietly as he adjusted his quiver. "Eventually someone will come and check for their missing comrades, and we don't have the time to hide the bodies." He was not looking at her, his gaze directed upward and toward the small, wooded hill towering over them. At its top stood a small stone fort, dominating its surrounding landscape, its mighty bastions just peeking over the treetops. Jachai-Kul, or at least the part that could be seen.
"Good thinking." Zara shot one last look around, her spear resting against her right shoulder. "You are quite capable with that bow of yours. How many did you got?"
"I'm not usually in the habit of taking pride on how many bodies I leave behind." His tone was quiet, barely above the whisper.
"That was a compliment, you know," the fennec shot back.
Hunter simply grunted. "We should move on."
Zara frowned, a hand planted firmly on her hip. "You really don't like me, do you?"
There was a long pause between the two, the only sounds coming from the rustling of wind between the treetops and the chirping of the fauna. Zara ignored both, waiting for an answer. Since they had set out a few days before, the two had barely exchanged words aside from a handful of occasions; every time Zara tried to lighten the mood between them, she had received either a shrug or a silent stare from the cheetah. Just like the one he was giving her now, she realized, except that this time Zara didn't back down. She narrowed her eyes and stared right back at him, daring him to break eye contact first. Was it childish? Perhaps. It did work though.
Hunter let out a tired sigh. His hands reached up and he lowered his cowl, revealing his tired face.
"I'm not angry at you. I'm merely bothered by the situation," he explained. "I've grown used to working alone over the years and during my search for Spyro. Having a companion by my side, fighting with me, it's . . ." He hesitated.
"It's a new experience. One that, if I might add, has been more or less forced upon me by you and Mojiz."
"One should never hunt alone, that's what dad always taught me," Zara said. "I thought you would have welcomed the chance for some company. Someone to have your back, at the very least."
Hunter nodded. "A good teaching, but I've stopped doing that some time ago."
Zara tilted her head to the side in curiosity. "You mean to tell me you've been doing all of this," she waved her hand, "alone? For three years?"
Hunter shrugged. "You get used to it pretty quickly. It's not as terrible as it might sound. Besides, traveling alone allows you to cover the ground more quickly and avoid unwanted attentions."
"I do not doubt it, it's just . . ." Zara paused, then shook her head. "Our clan is where our true home lies; it's where we always return after a long day, or when we draw strength during hard times. I just can't imagine living for so much time away from them, as you did."
"As I said, you get used to it pretty quickly."
"But you have a tribe, right? A home you know is always waiting for you."
"I do have one, yes. In the valley of Avalar," Hunter said. Then, he sighed. "But as I've explained to Mojiz before, it's been some time since the last time I visited. It will probably be some time until my next visit too."
Hunter rolled his right shoulder. "But enough of this. We must concentrate on the task at hand." He pulled his cowl up once more. "You said the secret entrance should be nearby. Do you want to lead the way?"
The fennec nodded as she slid her knife back in the leather sheath. "Right, this way. Try to keep up."
The suggestion turned out to be superfluous. The pair slipped silently past ancient and towering trees and through the underbrush; not one leave stirred as they moved. Zara only belatedly noticed the bright orange and brown leaves dotting their path, the trees growing barer as they moved.
Zara liked the fall. Her first travel outside the Crimson Lands had been in middle of fall; there was a certain beauty in it, as her mother had explained. One last burst of life before the cold emptiness of winter. A chilly wind had picked up, and the fennec wiped her nose, adjusting the leather bag hanging from her shoulder. Dark clouds loomed over their heads, but the downpour had ceased some time ago; whether it would resume soon or not, it was anyone's guess.
She tossed a look over her shoulder when she was sure Hunter wasn't looking, before finally shaking her head to banish the thoughts clouding her mind. They had a task at hand, and questions could wait.
"Stop," Zara hissed. Hunter came to a smooth halt by her side. Quietly, Zara gestured ahead and on the ground. At a first glance, there was nothing prominent, just a collection of dead leaves, broken sticks and freshly-churned soil. For a pair of talented trackers, however, those signs told a far sinister story. Hunter examined the tracks for a few seconds before letting out a soft hiss.
"Grublins. A lot of them."
Zara didn't doubt him for a moment, but still found herself frowning. "They don't usually come all the way here."
"They do now. This might complicate matters. Let's move quickly." He glanced up, signalling Zara to do the same.
Past the brushes and trees, something else caught their attention; a small cave, barely a crack in the ground hidden by a rocky formation surrounding it. Then came muffled laughter and the crackling of a fireplace. There was a group of rats around it, four in total, eating their breakfast and chittering among themselves in the small clearing. A boiling pot stood over smouldering-hot embers.
"Is this the secret entryway you were talking about?" Hunter whispered.
Zara gave him a nod. "The fortress you saw up there? That's just the main entrance. Most of Jachai-Kul is actually underground. Much easier to defend and hide."
"I see. So, why having a secondary entrance then?"
Zara shrugged. "Not just one. The entire hill is dotted with secret passages and tunnels. It makes it easier to resupply and, should anyone be stupid enough to lay siege to it, you can use them to escape or launch a surprise attack."
"If it is so important, then why there are only a handful of guards stationed near this one?"
"It wouldn't be much of a secret path otherwise."
Hunter nodded. "A fair point. How do you want to approach it?"
Zara didn't have the time to speak. There was a commotion near the fireplace. A fifth rat had just emerged into view some distance away, running towards his companions. There was shouting, and the rats scrambled to their feet, picking up their weapons in a hurry.
Hunter sighed. "Seems like they found the patrol." He reached back with a hand for his quiver and nocked an arrow on the bowstring. By his side, Zara covered her muzzle with a scarf, eyes narrowed as she hefted her spear.
"We will have to fight our way in, it seems," Hunter muttered. Zara nodded in response; the cheetah couldn't see the wide, predatory grin hidden behind the fennec's scarf. She made to rise from her crouch, but Hunter stopped her midway.
"Wait," he whispered. "Not yet."
Zara shot him a quizzical glance, then her ears perked up as she heard the loud rustling of leaves all around her. With shrill, ear-piercing cries of bloodlust, the Grublins emerged from the ticket, streaming by the dozens in the small clearing; weapons raised above their heads and donning crude armours of leather and haphazard plates. The fight was short and brutal, the rat sentinels standing their ground only to be overwhelmed and cut to pieces by superior numbers. The Grublins wasted no time; the moment the last rat body hit the ground, they were already charging through the hidden entrance and down the tunnels.
Hunter frowned, eyes narrowing. Some of the Grublins had remained behind the main group, busy chewing on the bodies.
"That will be a problem," he hissed under his breath. Zara simply shrugged. It appeared as if their infiltration mission had just gotten a little more complicated.
Remy was a lucky thief. It couldn't have been otherwise; every thief was lucky. Every thief recognized the importance of luck and chance in their line of work, even if in small doses. Those that did not could be easily found hanging from a gibbet.
Remy was a good thief though, and as such he respected Lady Luck. His old mentor had taught him to perform regular offerings to her, despite her being quite the capricious goddess. One time she would allow him to swipe away the purse of some fat merchant and blend into a crowd long before they realized something was amiss; the next, the guard that had been dozing off in the corner would suddenly wake up just as the safe's last cylinder snapped open. Capricious indeed.
The otter's back struck the bars of his cell, violent and sudden pain exploding as a stab. He wanted to breath, but a pair of clawed hands squeezed his throat tight, and no air came in. As he fought and squirmed, gasping for breath, Remy caught a glimpse of the malicious eyes staring him down, just as a foul stench invaded his nose.
His luck had just run out.
"The fuck you think you're doing, uh?" Zrich rasped. "How did you even open the lock?"
Remy said nothing; therefore, he was rewarded with a vicious blow to his stomach. He would have doubled over in pain if the rat had not been holding him pressed against the iron bars. The otter blinked, fighting back against the tears of pain swelling in his eyes.
"Hey!" a second voice joined in. "Look here what I have found!"
Remy glanced over his captor's shoulder and swore internally. The other rat guard, the younger one, was there as well. Even worse, he was holding up Remy's lockpick. Zrich looked back at his colleague just for a moment before turning his attention back to the otter, a vicious sneer taking form on his muzzle.
"Well, well. Would you look at that. Someone here is good with tools, isn't he?"
Pain exploded in the side of Remy's head. His surroundings, still but a moment before, swung violently around. Something cold and dirty pressed against his face, his fur damp. His mind only belatedly came to the realization he was laying on the ground. At least he could breathe now.
"How did he even manage to keep it on himself?" the second rat questioned. Zrich shrugged.
"Somebody else probably messed up the screening process. I don't really care right now. We'll report it later."
"Sounds good. What do you want to do with him in the meantime? Some lashing?"
Zrich let out an amused cackling but said nothing more. Or maybe he did; Remy couldn't really be sure. He was too busy curling himself into a tight ball on the ground and trying to appear as small as possible. The pain flashing into his side warned him that the rat might have broken something inside. He nearly missed the soft scraping of iron on stone some distance away.
"Lokt, hand me your knife. I'm taking both his indexes."
"Wait, what?"
"You heard me. A few lashes will do nothing if he tries doing that again. Let's see how he breaks out a second time when he can't even hold anything in his paws."
"You sure? I thought the Elder wanted healthy specimens." Zrich scoffed.
"He just wants fresh bodies. He doesn't care in what conditions they are."
Remy's eyes slowly blinked open, his mind coming finally to grips with what he had just heard. No index fingers was a death sentence either way; he would either die of blood loss or, if he survived and managed in fact to escape, would be reduced to beg by the side of the road.
Remy's was a thief; as countless before him, he had found pride in his dishonest profession. He would die before becoming a beggar. With one last surge of terror and adrenaline, he lashed out as the rat went to grab him. Zrich howled in pain as the otter's teeth sunk in his clawed hand; then in fury as fresh pain exploded on Remy's face, and he went down once more.
"You bastard!" Zrich hissed, his right hand trembling in pain. Bloody teeth marks were visible. "Lokt, give me that fucking knife! I'm gutting him like the pig he is!"
There was no answer.
"Lokt? You heard me? I said, give me that f-"
Something bumped against his shoulder, slid off, and hit the pavement. Zrich glanced to the side. It was Lokt, chocking on his blood as the younger rat clawed at his slit throat.
By the time Zrich had realized what was happening, a shadow had already fallen over him. His strangled screaming was cut off the next moment, and then there was only silence.
Cynder's tail flicked to the side, wiping away the blood staining her tail-blade. Much to her chagrin, she only had moderate success on that front. However, the dragoness could do little for the dense, dark spurts clinging to her scales as a frail-looking, russet crust. She would have to find something to wipe herself down, preferably a bath.
"Are you alright?" she said.
Back pressed against the grill of his own cell, Remy was not looking at her. Rather, his gaze was glued to the bodies laying before him. They had finally stopped twitching a few moments before. There was a tremble in his shoulders, and the otter refused to meet her eyes.
Idly, Cynder wondered what kind of sight she was right there, a black dragoness covered in the blood of her enemies as they laid slain before her. Certainly, not a heroic sight. She nearly scoffed when that thought entered her mind.
'You are no hero. You are a murderer, and a very good one at that.'
"Remy?" Cynder repeated, more forcefully this time.
The otter blinked. He looked up, then eventually shook his head. "Sorry, I was . . . never mind. Yeah, I'm ok. Thanks for the save." He climbed up to his feet, rear legs still shaking. With a grimace, he massaged his head, wincing in pain as he felt the bump.
"We should get moving," Cynder stated.
"Right. Wait a moment, though," Remy said. He began patting down the two dead rat for anything that could be used. He picked up a sharp knife and a ring of keys, holding them up for Cynder to see.
"I bet they'll come in handy."
Cynder nodded. "Ready to go now?"
Remy made to nod, only to stop. He turned around and scooped up his picklock from the ground. "Right, now I am. Let's go."
"Why do you need that? We have the keys now." Remy shrugged.
"It's mine. I've kept it with me all these years. I ain't leaving it here for the rats." Without another word, the two set out down the corridor. The stone slabs beneath their feet felt cold to the touch; there were cells on either side, empty, all of them. They walked mostly in darkness, only occasionally broken by a lamp or two, hanging from a wooden beam in the ceiling. Cynder moved slowly, carefully, almost stalking as she kept herself low. She knew Remy to be behind her, yet she couldn't hear him. The thief's steps were tremendously quiet; a testament to his abilities if nothing else.
"Why are they all empty?" Cynder asked, her voice low.
"Not sure. There weren't many prisoners down here when they locked me up. I heard the screaming when those rats came to drag some to the lower levels."
"Why? What do they need them for?" Once more, Remy shrugged.
"Their Elder told them to. He's a sick bastard. I would have probably found myself on his operating table in a day or two." He shot her a glance. "You too, probably. You don't won't to know what they do to the dragons they find."
Cynder narrowed her eyes but said nothing. She decided to focus herself on the task at hand. They silently crept past a rat sentinel snoring in a chair.
The corridor opened up in a larger circular room, with burning lanterns casting their light about, causing the few weapons resting on racks by the wall to shimmer softly. Cynder looked briefly around; a dining area of sorts, judging by the table and the cold remains of a dinner on it. There was a single guard inside, the rat busy sharpening a blade on a wet stone, looking away from them.
He did not notice them entering. He never heard Cynder slithering behind him, her footsteps coming muffled as she carefully avoided letting her claws scratch the stone beneath. He realized something was wrong only when the dragoness wrapped her forelegs around his muzzle from behind, sealing it shut. He tried to scream, but a slash from Cynder's claws across his throat brought that to a quick and unceremonious end. Cynder's tightened her grip on him as the rat thrashed and choked. Then, hissing with exertion, she slowly deposited him back down, limp.
"Ancestors almighty," Remy breathed by her side. Once again, Cynder didn't reply. She simply took a moment to regard her kill with cold detachment. A bit messy perhaps, but there was no such thing as a 'clean kill'. She wiped away the blood on her claws with the rat's own robes.
'You are quite good at it, aren't you?'
She grinded her teeth, to the point that the next words came out as a mere whisper.
"What?"
"The door," Cynder repeated, jerking her head at the only exit on the other side of the room.
"Ah, yeah. Right. The door. Got it." The otter tossed one last, nervous glance at the dead rat before hurrying, Cynder moving close behind him. She left the dead guard there; there was no time to hide the body. The dragoness took a moment to draw a deep breath as she let Remy handle the door. They had a bundle of keys with them, true, but they didn't know which one opened which door; as such they had no other choice but to brute force it and try each one.
Cynder's gaze fell for a moment on the pot of cold soup on the table. Her ears caught a soft groan, her own body giving her an obvious reminder. She chose to ignore it; she didn't know how much time she had been in that cell but eating would have to wait.
Cynder could already feel the mounting exhaustion though, and her own elemental reserves were low. Dragons often used their Elemental powers in battle, wielding Fire, Ice, Lighting, and Earth. Cynder might have been a Wind Dragon, but her experience with Gaul and his Apes had taught her to never count on her powers alone. Claws, teeth, and tail-blade could be quite effective, especially when combined with her own affinity to Wind.
For a brief moment, a snarl took shape on her muzzle. Cynder barred her teeth, her claws tightening and scraping against the pavement. She didn't need to think about Gaul. She didn't want to think about Gaul. The violence; the abuse; their filthy claws as they . . . as they . . .
Cynder stopped. She realized she was breathing hard. Quickly, she shot a look behind. Remy didn't seem to have noticed anything, busy searching for the right key. The keyring had a lot of them.
"Where are you from?" Cynder asked. She needed a distraction, right now.
"What?"
"I asked where you are from. You know, before getting locked up here," Cynder said.
"A bit everywhere," Remy said with a shrug. "I am a thief, remember? I go where there's money to take and purses to relieve."
"Yeah, but you were born somewhere, right? A place that you can call home, or something."
"Maybe," Remy shot a glance over his shoulder. "Do you have one?"
Cynder raised an eyebrow. "I asked first, you know." Remy shrugged, then went back to work. The otter hissed under his breath as another key failed to open the lock.
"Hostk," the otter said after a several moments of silence, Cynder snapping her head in his direction.
"That's where I was born. It was nothing more than a small village to be honest; the view on the river was nice but it was pretty boring. I left it as soon as I was old enough to do so. I wanted to explore the world, you see; find my calling." He let out a soft, and bitter, chuckle.
Cynder tilted her head to the side. The name did not resonate with her at all. "Did you ever thought about returning there? To leave this whole thieving thing behind?"
Remy shook his head. "As I said, I'm good at it. And besides, I can't go back even if I wanted to." He looked back. "Hostk is gone. Burned to the ground."
Cynder blinked. A cold-freezing claw tightened itself around her stomach, causing her to swallow. "I . . . I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."
The otter shrugged once more.
"Do you -" Cynder began, despite her hesitation. "Do you know who . . . well-"
"Who did it?" Remy cut in. Cynder gave a timid nod. "I don't know and don't really care. It was years ago anyway. Maybe it was the Apes, making an example out of them for aiding the Alliance. Maybe it was the Alliance, because they had aided the Dark Master and his Apes."
Then, he stopped. He looked again over his shoulder, and Cynder noticed the wide grin on Remy's muzzle.
"Who knows, maybe you did it."
The dragoness went rigid. She opened her mouth, but words failed to come out. At first, she wanted to apologize, only to realize that she didn't know what to apologize for. Cynder simply could not remember those years, all the time she had spent leading the Dark Master's Armies as the Terror of the Skies.
How many had she killed? How many villages had she decimated and burned? She didn't know. She could not remember and, deep down, she did not want to remember. Maybe that was her own mind's way of keeping her sane.
There was a click as Remy finally found the right key. In silence, the dragoness and the otter pressed on down well-lit tunnels.
The little thing squealed and chittered as she tried to bite his finger off. As he looked down on the small, furless creature cradled in his arms, Elder Agzot Ashrunner couldn't help himself from letting out a soft, amused chuckle. The youngling kept on reaching out with her tiny paws to his index finger, seemingly determined to grasp it for good and chew on it. The fact that she still had no teeth didn't seem to bother her.
Elder Agzot nodded approvingly. She was barely a few weeks old, yet there was already much strength in her paws, and she possessed a curious mind. In due time, she would make a fine addition to the ranks of either the scribes or engineers within this Warren.
"Forgive me, your Excellency, but it's almost feeding time. May I?"
Agzot shot a brief glare over his shoulder and behind. The caretaker of that youngling's batch had been following him for most of the day, always at a respectable distance and in silence, her paws folded patiently before her. Despite her serene expression, she had done a poor job at masking her constant apprehension.
She had previously voiced her dissent at the Elder's idea; their laboratories were no place for a pup. She could not refuse however a direct command from her Elder, and so had resigned herself to quietly follow Agzot around as he gave the whelp in his arms a guided tour of the vast laboratories of Jachai-Kul.
Agzot frowned for a moment, but eventually nodded. He had tortured the caretaker for long enough. The rat felt a sudden stab of pain on his long finger; the whelp had seized upon his distraction and delivered him a solid bite. Agzot grinned as he retracted his index out of her reach; she was quick too, and her teeth were already starting to poke out. The biologist in him nodded approvingly. She would turn out to be an excellent specimen indeed, though that was a matter for the future. For now, Agzot simply returned the small creature back to her caretaker. She gave him an obsequious bow before making her way out of Agzot's laboratory, the whelp's hungry squealing fading away.
Elder Agzot took his time adjusting his long green robe, before folding his paws behind his back and striding leisurely back towards his study. He passed by rows of working stations on the way there, rat engineers hunched over their creations and oblivious to their surroundings, either alone or in groups. Agzot didn't feel the need to disturb them; he hated pointless flattery directed his way and, if indeed they wished to honour him and gain his favour, they would do better to bring him tangible results instead.
Today, that part of the workshop was rather quiet, few of his assistants being at work. Agzot had after all given them the day off. He smiled to himself, nearly missing the pair of guards saluting him as they opened the door of his study. Today, he really was in a good mood.
After all, the Purple Dragon had been secured after much trouble, and his underlings would conclude the procedure any moment now. Agzot giggled as he plopped down on his chair, rubbing his paws together. Oh, how much time he had waited for that moment to finally come. Soon, his power and mastery of the elements would be his to command, with all the limitless applications that would bring.
The Elder leaned back, savouring the moment to its fullest. It had taken years to finally track him down in the Well of Souls, and careful manoeuvring to make sure the Dark Master could not detect his plan, busy as he was with directing the current struggle. The war against the Alliance and the dragons of Warfang proceeded well, even if operations would surely slow down due to the coming winter.
For a brief moment, his grin faltered, and Agzot found himself scowling. To think the Dark Master had given Grublins the honour of watching over the Purple Dragon.
Grublins!
Those pathetic, brainless pawns would have probably feasted on his flesh given the chance, blinded by their pitiless stupidity of his true identity. What an absolute waste.
"You are in a good mood today, my Elder," a voice rasped, jerking Agzot away from his trail of thoughts. In one corner of his room, the light from the burning candles failing to reach it, the shadows twirled and twisted. Then, a rat stepped out of them and into view.
Most of his features hidden by a cowl, the rat wore a set of long, dusty russet robes; there was a shimmer around them as the magic of the spell dissipated. Ancient runes and seals ornated his cloths, glowing and pulsating with mysterious energy. He wielded a staff as he shuffled closer to Agzot's desk, the Soul Gem perched on top of it nearly impossible to miss. Its once sparkling surface was dull, yet there was a sinister magic lingering about it. The candles' light flickered and trembled; the temperature had dropped significantly within the small confines of the room.
"Baos," Agzot commented sourly, "you are aware my study has a functioning door, yes?"
The sorcerer stopped, then tilted his head to one side. "Aye, your Excellency. There is indeed one."
"And yet you insist on not using it."
Baos nodded, leaning against his staff. "Indeed, your Excellency." From beneath the cowl, a pair of red eyes, burning with ambition, stared right back at him.
Eventually, Agzot shook his head. "Well, no matter. It is good that you are here. I was about to send for you anyway."
It was a lie, of course. They were both aware of it and, as always, they decided to play along.
"Indeed? May I ask why?"
"To celebrate our recent success, of course!" Agzot announced. He opened one of the drawers in his desk, pulling out a pair of glasses and a bottle of fine brew. Under normal circumstances, he would have never thought about sharing his own office, much less a drink, with Baos. The sorcerer was repulsive, and Agzot only kept him around due to his knowledge of the arcane. However, today Elder Agzot was in a very good mood.
"Mind to join me for a toast?" he asked him. Baos shot him a curious glance before shaking his head.
"I must respectfully decline, my Elder. My abilities, you see, tend to become rather . . . unpredictable under the influence of alcohol."
Agzot absentmindedly nodded but decided to pour one glass for himself anyway. It was, after all, one of his best brews. "I presume that the procedure on the Purple Dragon is concluded, yes?" Agzot inquired with a wide grin. He did not wait for an answer before raising his glass high.
"A toast is in order, then! This is a glorious day for us, the Warren, and all rat-kind!"
Baos made a show of nodding along. "Indeed, my Elder. Although, I am afraid I will need to cool your enthusiasm for the time being. The draining procedure is in fact not finished. It won't be for some time.
The rat Elder glanced up, but only briefly. He gave a nonchalant shrug. "I see. Well, it was to be expected. The whole process takes time on a normal dragon, but this is the Purple Dragon we're talking about, a creature of fables and legends. His power and affinity towards magic is unprecedented, so it is only natural for our machines to take their time. Still, this is still something worth celebrating, yes? It means the amount of power we'll be able to squeeze out of him shall be even greater!"
Once again, the rat sorcerer nodded. "Indeed, my Elder. Now that the Purple Dragon is in our custody, time is on our side."
"Very well. Just to be sure, though," Agzot said, leaning forward. "You can confirm me Malefor is none the wiser of any of this, yes?"
"The Dark Master is powerful, but his sight remains imperfect," Baos reassured him. He grinned savagely. "We have all the time to present him with fact accompli."
Then, the sorcerer cleared his throat. "Now, I believe it is time to discuss my payment, my Elder."
Agzot took a sip from his glass, savouring the warm and burning liquid rushing down his throat, as well as the fizzy sensation leaving behind in his tongue.
"Of course, it's only natural. The Warren recognizes your efforts over the past three years and your fundamental contribution to our endeavours. I'm sure a more solemn and public ceremony can be arranged to-"
"You honour me, my Elder," Baos drawled, bowing slightly. As he lifted his head however, Agzot noticed the hungry glint in his eyes. "However, if possible, I would prefer something more concrete, so to speak."
Agzot raised an eyebrow, just as a sly grin crossed his features. "I didn't think a sorcerer like you would be that greedy." Seeing as the only response he got from the sorcerer was a curious glance, he shrugged, raising his glass to take another sip.
"Very well, then. Name your price."
"The black dragoness. I want her."
Agzot didn't hear the rest, whether there was in fact a rest to hear or not. He was too busy exploding into a fit of coughs, nearly chocking out of sheer surprise with his own drink. When he finally managed to recover, he shot an astonished stare at the sorcerer.
"I . . . ah . . . y-you . . . what?"
Baos tilted his head to the side once more. "I said that I want the b-"
"Yes, I've heard that part!" Agzot blurted out. "It's just . . . why?"
The sorcerer shrugged. "You wanted the Purple Dragon for your own reasons. I want his companion for mine. What else is there to explain?"
Agzot blinked his eyes repeatedly, hesitating. It was true that Baos's knowledge of the arcane was unparalleled; the rat was a powerful mage by himself, far above the magic casters the Warrens could usually musters. Hell, Agzot was pretty confident Baos could have gone toe-to-toe with some of the mightiest casters within the Alliance, if he ever decided to take the field. For the time being, however, the Elder preferred to avoid that unless absolutely necessary; Baos was his ace in the hole.
Agzot's long and clawed fingers drummed against the surface of his desk. "I'm confident a random dragoness wouldn't be enough to draw your attention. So, enlighten me. Why her?"
Baos gave him a chuckle. "You tell me you don't recognize her, my Elder?"
"Should I?" The sorcerer shook his head, a wide grin splitting his muzzle.
"She's Cynder, my Elder. The Terror of the Skies in the flesh."
Agzot's eyebrows furrowed, unconvinced. He gave a snort. "She's much shorter than I remember, then."
"Indeed. Isn't that curious? After all, she was touched once already by the magic within the Well of Souls. The process shouldn't have been possible to reverse." Baos's eyes glinted briefly as he caressed his staff. "I wonder if some traces of the Dark Master's own magic remain within her still."
"Alright," Agzot said. "And just out of personal curiosity, what exactly are you planning on doing with her?"
Baos said nothing as he looked up. His grin, however, had grown uncomfortably wide, to the point Agzot was confident he would have burst into laughter any moment now. His claws tightened around the staff.
"My Elder," he finally said at length, his voice barely above the whisper. "Are you sure you want to know?"
Despite himself, Elder Agzot Ashrunner struggled to suppress the shiver running down his spine. The rat felt his throat suddenly parched. It was a reminder that, even if deeply loyal to his own Warren, the rat before him had his own personal goals. And whenever magic was involved, Agzot was always careful to keep himself as far away as possible. He decided it was better to keep the sorcerer busy, at least for the time being.
"Very well, then. You may have her. You have my permission and support to conduct whatever experiment you may consider necessary." Slowly, Elder Agzot rose from his chair, taking a moment to adjust his robes. "Is this measure satisfactory?"
Baos gave a nod before dipping his head, far more obsequiously than it needed to be. "Your generosity and wisdom know no bound, my Elder," he said, his tone sweet as honey. "I can assure you this is not a decision you will ever regret, for I will . . . I-"
A sudden chill run through Baos's body, the rat jerking his head up. His tail thrashed violently behind. The sorcerer frowned as he sniffed the air, tilting his head one way and the other. He fidgeted with his claws at his staff.
Then, he grinned. "Well, now. This is interesting."
Agzot raised an eyebrow.
"It appears someone has triggered my warding enchantments. Multiple of them, in fact." He gave a sinister chuckle. "Seems like we have some guests on the way."
The Elder blinked, but he never got a chance to speak further. The doors burst open in that very moment, an armoured rat of Agzot's own retinue stumbling through in a hurry, eyes wide.
"Apologies for my sudden entrance, my Elder, but the outer galleries have been breached! It's a Grublin incursion!"
To his credit, the surprise on Agzot's face lasted only for a moment, being replaced immediately by hot, boiling rage. He snarled. The Grublins dared to invade his Warren, to soil his precious home with their own cursed presence? Those pathetic creatures were probably out for blood after their raid against their own detachment in the Well of Souls. It did not matter; the only thing they would find within Jachai-Kul was death, and plenty of it.
"My Elder, if we are quick enough, we should be able to move you to-"
"No," Agzot hissed. The guard blinked, aghast. "This is our Warren. Our home! I will not be hiding while my brethren fight and die." His eyes had hardened by now, claws clutching tightly his robes.
"Have the inner galleries closed off and muster everyone for battle. We will hold them off at the upper levels before they have the chance to penetrate further. Do not bother with taking prisoners; Grublins are not even worthy test subjects. I want them all exterminated."
The guard nodded. "It will be done, my Elder."
"Good. Baos, in the meantime, I want you to-" Agzot stopped as he turned around and realized the sorcerer was nowhere to be seen. There was a tinkling in the air before him, as the residual magic from the spell dissipated.
Agzot scowled. He had not heard him muttering, nor casting, the spell.
"I hate when he does that," he growled, then shook his head. Dealing with Baos would have to wait. Now, he had a Warren to defend.
The deeper they pushed on into the tunnels, the more the environment changed around them. The cold, damp galleries acting as dungeons for the prisoners had given way to wider, sturdily-built passageways, their earth walls decorated with brightly coloured draperies and tick vines. There were a series of stone alcoves at regular intervals and in the walls on either side, each hosting a curious, amber-coloured rock placed on impromptu pedestals. They glowed, acting as the only source of light. Cynder raised her head, giving the air a tentative sniff. There was a faint smell of cinnamon in the air.
All in all, these new tunnels looked cozier; a shame she and Remy couldn't remain there for long. Those were after all the main arteries of the Warren, the subterranean roads connecting the various underground complexes, and as such they were much more crowded. Cynder and Remy had been quickly forced away and into one of the many maintenance corridors running parallel to the main throughfares; these ones, on the other hand, were much tighter, barely large enough to allow a single rat through at a time, and with long copper tubes running along the walls. Still, Cynder had easily spotted the increase in activity throughout the Warren; peeping occasionally out of the small passageways connecting the service tunnels with the main ones, she saw groups of rats racing one way or the other, many armed and armoured. The chittering in the background had meanwhile grown incessant.
The dragoness had let Remy take the lead this time; the otter's smaller profile allowed him to move quicker, and as such he now scouted ahead. Cynder kept her reservations to herself; in truth, she welcomed the momentary solitude. It allowed her to think.
Ever the practical dragoness, she kept her focus on the task at hand; find Spyro, Sparx too if they so happen to do so, and then make their way out. Cynder had hoped for a quiet and silent getaway, but as time passed, she realized how foolish that hope had been. She had left bodies behind; someone would eventually report their disappearance and find the lifeless rats. She frowned; maybe they had done that already.
'What then? What happens after you and Spyro are out of here?'
Cynder paused for just a moment, then shook her head. She had not thought that far ahead. She had little to return to; in fact, she had nothing. No home; no friends; not even something to call a family. The Apes had been the closest thing to that; if there was any justice in that world, they were all burning into the deepest pits of hell.
The sight of Remy racing back towards her broke her trail of thought.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck-" the otter swore under his breath. "Someone is coming! Quick, out of here!" Cynder's eyes flicked up and ahead; she spotted the orange glow of a lantern moving their way within the dark confines of the maintenance tunnel. It was either a routine control, or the rats were actively scouring every inch of the Warren for them. It made sense for them to check these tunnels as well.
"Out!" Remy hissed again. "Back to the last passageway, we're moving back!"
"Where, then?" Cynder inquired. "Back on the main tunnel? We'll be found out in no time!"
"Well, we don't have much choice, do we?"
Cynder raised an eyebrow, then cast another glance ahead. The light was growing closer with each moment. Her jaw set in determination.
"Yes, we have. Stay here," she said. Without another word, she slipped pass him and moved ahead, leaving a confused otter no choice but launching himself into a soft yet long rant of profanities.
Closing her eyes, Cynder drew on those scarce reserves of power still within her, willing them together, and pointed them towards one single goal. Dragons usually only had one elemental power to draw upon; Cynder had long since discovered that she was no normal dragon.
Her eyes blinked open, irises growing pitch-black just as the shadows churned and turned, wrapping themselves around her body as thick cloth. Some distance away, a lantern-carrying rat made her appearance as she trudged through the tunnel.
Cynder pounced. One moment, she was still; the next, her body shifted through the air, the shadows propelling her forward like an invisible black shape, a winged shadow. The rat never saw her coming. In fact, she only realized something was amiss when she found herself laying on the ground, a black silhouette towering over her and on her chest. The rat blinked in surprise, opened her mouth to scream, and found a tail-blade at her throat.
"Not a word," Cynder whispered. The shadows receded, and her eyes returned at their natural colour. "A single sound, and you die. Do you understand?"
The rat swallowed hard but nodded.
"Good. Then tell me, where's Spyro? What are you doing to him?"
The rat blinked. "S-Spyro? What's a Spyro?"
"The Purple Dragon," Cynder helpfully provided. She pushed her tail-blade against the rat's throat just a little bit, making her squirm.
"Oh . . . Oh, y-you mean him. Yes, I-I know where he is, just please, don't-"
"Shut up!" Cynder hissed. "You want to live? Start talking then."
Another moment of hesitation, then the rat nodded, quickly. "T-They moved him in the . . . in the laboratories. T-They're just ahead, it's where we keep all the other d-dragons while we . . . well, w-we . . ."
Cynder's eyes narrowed to slits, burning hot as a pair of glowing embers. Her tail-blade drew just a flicker of blood. The rat broke down into whimpers.
"Speak."
"I-It's where we keep them before they are . . . y-you know, processed."
'Processed.'
The coldness emanating from that word slapped Cynder across the face.
"P-Please . . . Please, I-I just joined the engineer caste last week, I was just here to check on the g-gas pressure." She was openly crying now. "I . . . I know nothing else, I swear, p-please-"
"It's okay," Cynder said. "I believe you."
The lantern's flame died, and the crying stopped.
The Grublins descended upon Jachai-Kul as a swarm of hungry locusts. Growling and hissing, weapons and armour clinging and clattering, their charge down its vast tunnels was not so different from a stampede, their warriors' mass carried forward by its irresistible momentum. The outer galleries were lost in a matter of minutes, and any rat failing to evacuate back into the main complex was summarily put to the sword and claw. It mattered little whether they were mere inhabitants, or part of one of the main castes; it did not matter whether young or old. The outer galleries soon became slick with blood-dripping gore and piled bodies.
After the initial shock, however, the thousands upon thousands of rats inhabiting Jachai-Kul quickly regained their nerve, and thus resistance quickly stiffened. Side-tunnels were either sealed shut or voluntarily caved in, forcing the invading Grublins down predictable paths of advance. Those parties and warbands that decided to split off from the main group and ventured into different tunnels, either in search of more victims or loot to take for themselves, were set upon by rat defenders and slaughtered wholesale.
Snalk hissed as he drove his halberd through the chest of a Grublin warrior; the thing let out a shrill of pain before collapsing to the ground, wailing and crying. Without missing a beat, Snalk raised his weapon and brought it down on its head with a savage two-handed swing. His ears caught the unmistakable snap of a crossbow; some distance away, another Grumblin stumbled back, a steel crossbow embedded into his chest.
Snalk sneered in contempt; the last time he had fought Grublins, back in the Well of Souls, he had felt elation. It had been his first proper fight, after all; a chance to finally prove his worth to the rest of his comrades in arms. But now? The only thing burning through his heart was pure, unadulterated hatred. Those things dared to come here? To invade the Warren he had grown up since childhood, to threaten the lives of tens of thousands, of his kindred?
As any rat worthy of such name, Snalk loved his Warren; every burrow, tunnel and hidden passageway, each one of its mighty common halls carved out from stone and earth. That was his home, and the Grublins would die there.
A blade came for him. Snalk did not flinch nor cower; he simply shifted his shoulder to intercept the blow, letting the crude blade impact against his pauldron and slid off. The Grublin warrior, a stout, nasty-looking thing, never got the chance to try again. A spear shot up and smashed through his eye-socket, the blade jutting out from the back of its ugly head.
Grublins were dangerous in great numbers, but they fought mostly alone, unable to coordinate their efforts past simple ambushes and traps. Snalk and the other rats, on the other hand, inched forward step by step, fighting and moving like an unbreakable phalanx down the tunnel, each warrior supporting the companions at either side. Snalk lunged again, driving another Grublin back.
This Grublin group in particular had been luckier than most, almost managing to stumble its way into one of Jachai-Kul's many workshops. They had found them trying to breach the massive set of doors with axes and hammers. Judging by the mass of smouldering green goo by the door, the alchemists and engineers within had at least managed to lob an alchemical bomb at the invaders before sealing themselves inside. The other rats had been careful to step around the burning pool.
And yet, they were persistent. Snalk spotted ahead the towering figure of the Grubling warchief, hollering and howling as it drove its warriors forward, occasionally taking a swing with its massive club and forcing the phalanx back a few steps. Crossbow bolts stuck out from his left shoulder and chest, with a couple of more embedded into the wooden shield on its left arm. Its skin was thick though; unless some rat arbalist managed to put a dart right through his head, they would have to cut him down the old-fashioned way.
The warchief raised its club once more, maws open to let out another blood-curling shriek. There was a bright flash and, for a single moment, a green lighting illuminated the gallery as it split the warchief's head in two. Snalk's mind registered only barely the shouts of surprise by his side, as the Grublin's cranium burst open like a watermelon. For a moment, there was only silence. The headless body stood upright, frozen in its last pose, before keeling back and crushing one of its Grublin underlings.
And then it was over. Snalk's mind took its time to actually process what had just happened; one moment he was trading blows with Grublin warriors, forcing them back step by step, the next the Grublins simply broke and run the way they came, leaving behind the bodies of the fallen and injured, their leader amongst them.
There was a moment of stunned silence, not one rat daring to break formation and pursue just yet. There was some chittering, some curious glances exchanged, and then, by his side, Snalk heard Chuch gave a nervous chuckle.
"Well, I reckon that's that." He was holding his right arm, oozing blood staining his fur. Snalk blinked, opening his mouth to say something. It was then he noticed the white cloud forming around his muzzle with each breath. The temperature within the tunnel had dropped considerably.
There was a commotion in the back of the formation and, as the rows of rat warriors parted ways, a figure stood at its centre, clutching his still-glowing staff with both claws. Inscriptions and complicated emblems in a language Snalk couldn't hope to understand stood out from his russet robes, glowing brightly and pulsating with flowing power.
The rat sorcerer looked up, a wide grin splitting his lips, and Snalk had to fight the urge to take a step back. Some of those by his side did so anyway.
"Well, now. That was truly enjoyable, wasn't it?" Baos drawled. The sorcerer was amused. "After all, it's not every day I get to stretch my muscle with a proper fight, so to speak."
Snalk could feel the sorcerer's eyes boring deep into his. There was something disturbing in it; his gaze was detached, as if he wasn't really looking at him, but past him, at something only he could see. Snalk swallowed, but remained silent, limiting himself to a simple nod of acknowledgement. Eventually, the sorcerer snapped out of his trance, shaking his head.
"Never mind. The Grublins are dealt with for now, and we have greater things to address." Without another word, Baos turned around and stalked down the way he came. He paused only for a moment, as if sensing that nobody else was following him.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" he said, not even bothering to look their direction.
The immediate answer was silence, not one rat daring to speak first. They knew the Warren's resident sorcerer mostly by reputation, but little else. They cast wary glances amongst themselves. Then, Snalk gathered some of his courage.
"Shouldn't we . . . I mean, there are still Grublins in these galleries. Shouldn't we deal with them first, my Lord?" He didn't know how a sorcerer was supposed to be addressed. Who knows, maybe he liked to be addressed that way.
If he did though, Baos didn't show it. He merely waved a hand.
"There is no need," he said, still not looking at them. "The enemy assault is broken here, and our brethren will deal swiftly with any stragglers. Steel yourself now, my kin, for an even greater threat stalks these tunnels as we speak. Let us not waste any time now; we must deal with her swiftly."
Snalk was about to ask what he meant with her, but he never got the chance. The sorcerer set off once more down the tunnel. By his side, he heard Chuch hissing under his breath.
"I fucking hate sorcerers."
Snalk couldn't help but break down into a fit of snickers, and he probably wasn't the only one at that. Eventually, they all decided to follow the sorcerer; after all, they were not in the habit of discussing with a rat capable of frying their brains with a single thought.
Consciousness did not return to him easily. In fact, had Spyro been able to voice his opinion on the matter, he would have gladly gone back to sleep. Unfortunately, that proved to be not the case, and eventually he was forced to slowly open his eyelids. It turned out to be a very poor decision; he winced back as a painful glare stabbed at his retina. He let out an irritated growl and shut his eyes closed once more.
"S-Sparx?" he croaked, his throat parched. "Do you mind closing the curtains, buddy? I'm trying to sleep here."
There was no answer. Furthermore, there was something wrong, Spyro decided. He tried to roll to the side so to sleep in peace, only to find that his body would not move. His back and neck were stiff and sore.
'I don't remember my bed ever be this uncomfortable.'
Carefully, Spyro opened one single eyelid. The glare was still there, right over him. It took his brain several moments to finally realize that it wasn't the morning sun.
'What the . . .'
The second eye blinked open. The brightness was still there but now Spyro could make out his surroundings, or a general outline of them anyway; they were shrouded in a deep penumbra. He was in a large circular room made of stone, and he could make out a series of tall cabinets lining the walls. There seemed to be something else though; shadows shifted around him, but Spyro couldn't make them out. He tried to shield his eyes from the unrelenting glare, but he failed once more. A quick glance to the side explained why.
Spyro was laying against the hard surface of a wooden table; both his forelegs had been chained at the corners right above him. He shifted around, only to realize that the same had been done with his hindlegs and tail. At the same time, thick leather straps pinned his wings to his body.
And, of course, there was the chittering. Spyro didn't hear it at first, thinking it as nothing more than a product of his imagination, but now, as he strained his ears and slowly craned his head to both sides, he could hear it all around him, a soft cacophony of sharp and sudden clicking sounds.
The young dragon blinked again, managing to better make out the figures in the room with him. A chill run down his spine, eyes widening.
The occupants wore heavy-looking suits of metal and cloth, their heads completely encased by elongated masks that gave them an almost elephantine appearance. Copper tubes jutted out by either side of the mask and reached back to strange-looking, weighty backpacks. The strangers, six of them, were gathered around a weird-looking machine, chittering and hissing about themselves. They seemed to be in the process of dismantling with the aid of various wrenches and tools.
The machine itself was weird, a cubic mass of pipes, pressure valves, ticking gauges and what not. Spyro gave it a curious glance, trying and failing to understand what the hell that was. He had half a mind of just asking them, but a more rational part of his mind pointed out that maybe disturbing them wasn't really a smart choice.
His eyes flicked upward, and he finally spotted something particular about the machine. Secured to a claw-like pedestal, there was a Soul Gem. Unlike many others Spyro had seen over the years, however, that one was purple in colour, its surface dull. There seemed to be smoke, curling and swirling inside it.
The pedestal itself was of darkened, wrought iron, rubber tubes coiled tight around it, before snaking their way down the sides of the machine. Spyro's gaze followed them, only for him to realize with horror that they were anchored to the table he was currently standing on.
"What in the . . ."
The chittering stopped. The masked figures jerked their heads back and towards him, huffing and rasping behind their masks, tail swishing behind. There was a various collection of sharp, ominous instruments in their gloved hands.
Spyro gulped, before finally letting out a nervous chuckle.
"Oh . . . uh, hi there. Don't worry about me, you guys seem mighty busy. Just . . . Just ignore me, really." One of the figures tilted their head to the side. Then, they took a step forward, a mean-looking sledgehammer in their paws. The sound coming out of the mask was muffled, a filter-distorted groan. Spyro never discovered what they were trying to say.
The door exploded, and wooden shrapnel filled the air.