Chapter 4: First Impressions I
"Who are you?"
The question was valid. He had come barreling in out of nowhere. It gave the Warlock pause. The fear-straught inquiry was in English, surprisingly. The speaker, the child's father, was the lone farmer brave enough to come near him, and only then just to desperately retrieve his son.
People didn't ask for a name, most of the time. They'd know exactly what he was and that was enough. But these people, strange as they were, didn't know of Guardians. Their ancestors had never known Guardians. To them, it wasn't even a foreign concept. It just... wasn't anything. It caught him off-guard.
"A Guardian," the Warlock answered anyways. They didn't know anything about his kind yet, but they would if he had anything to say about it.
The fire still raged behind him, engulfing the wood and thatch cottage. The Warlock swept around and killed it with a gesture. His audience nearly scattered like frightened children at the display. The fear was something he understood, or at least remembered being met with before. The Warlock sheathed his blade and clasped his hands behind his back.
"I mean you no harm," he told them, voice soft. Their terror was palpable
"Yer a wizard!" Someone called out.
The Warlock hesitated. "I suppose I am, in a way."
"Do ye work fer the king?"
A king. The Warlock never had anything pleasant to say about kings, be they a Fallen House, self-proclaimed rulers of personal fiefdoms, or Hive gods. He opposed kings. But maybe not this one. Hopefully.
"Thank ye!" The child's father exclaimed, near sobbing with relief. "By the gods, bless yer kind heart!"
The Guardian just inclined his head.
That broke the dam. It was as if a light had been switched on. The terror melted away into euphoria. The villagers began to shower him in praise and gratitude. The Warlock just stood there, rather bewildered by the state of the village, the humans, as well as the bandit creatures. It was all so... primitive.
He wanted to drill the villagers for information or study the remains of the creatures, but he felt that anything overly direct would frighten these skittish people. He stepped aside as they began salvaging what could be save in the burnt cottage. Some started dragging away the bodies, and they were none too kind to the dead beasts. For now, he reckoned he would just play along, see where this situation would lead him. As an old friend might have said, go with the flow.
By evening, a handful of villagers had led him to a larger-than-most building and offered him the choicest drinks within the establishment, as well as a hot dinner.
The Warlock unclasped his helmet - revealing a pale face with narrow features, steely eyes and short matted auburn hair - and laid it beside him on the tavern's table, sipping the drink cautiously. It... wasn't bad. It had some way to go if it was to outmatch the sweet wine from the vineyards of Pallas, but he didn't actively dislike it.
The food consisted of some dried meats in a stew of carrots and onion. Nothing special. Not even a touch of spices to give it some flair. It only furthered his budding theory. The place was not just primitive technology-wise; it was dirt-poor. And they've just offered him the cream of the crop.
What had happened to the colonists to drive them back to this?
The child he had saved stared at him with wide eyes, even as the others began to settle their nerves with strong drinks. The Warlock smiled and waved the boy over. The youngster nervously walked over, sitting opposite the Warlock, and looked away shyly. The Guardian pushed the bowl of stew over to the lad. The boy gave it a moment's hesitation before he began digging in, wolfing down the still steaming meal.
The Guardian leaned back and tasted his mead once more. The boy finished it all within two minutes. Being held hostage was hungry work.
"Wh-what's yer... name, sir?" The lad asked.
The Warlock smiled reassuringly. "I am Ikharos. What's yours?"
"Uh... Rirmand, sir. T-tank you."
"It was nothing, Rirmand."
"Is it true?" The boy blurted.
"Is what true?"
"Are ye a wizard?"
The Guardian laughed quietly. "That is both a frightening and an amusing prospect. Not exactly. I prefer the term Warlock."
"What's dat mean?"
"It means I am as much a scholar as I am a warrior."
"Can ye teach it? Magic, I mean."
Ikharos shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Rirmand. Light is not so easily grasped."
"Ach, lad, don't be bothering the man!" Rirmand's father stepped over, shooting the Warlock a worried look. "I hope 'e's not been troubling ye, good sir."
"Is it quite alright. This bright young man has been the height of mannerly."
"That's, ah, good to hear, sir."
"Please, call me Ikaros."
"Ah, thanks, Ikharos. This here's Rirmand. M' name is Alosk." The farmer hesitantly sat on the bench beside his son. "Do ye mind if I ask ye a question, sir?"
"Not at all."
"Yer a kingsman, are you?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Yer... yer not?"
Ikharos leaned forward. "I must admit I'm unfamiliar with these parts, so you'll have to educate me on a few matters. Who is this king you speak of?"
The farmer blinked in surprise. "Oh... Oh, I see. Yer not... I see. Uh, Galbatorix is our king. 'E rules the Empire."
"And what empire is that?"
"The empire of... of Alagaësia, sir."
"Oh? What is this Alagaësia?"
"Ye must be from very far away, laddie." Another man joined them. He resembled Rirmand's father almost identically but for greying hair and a stooped gait. The Warlock had to suppress a grin. No one had called him laddie in a long time.
Ikharos nodded. "That is one way to put it."
"Alagaësia is all the land here. Everything ye see and far more besides is part o' it. Where'd ye come from, if ye never heard of it?"
"Father," Alosk warned, but the old man wasn't deterred in the slightest.
"Where do ye hail from that ye don't know about Alagaësia?"
Ikharos gave it some thought. "I was raised up in London, but I spent much of my life calling the Last City of Earth my home."
"But... there's most cities built on top o' earth. Maybe not those dwarves, but them're just tales."
"I meant planet Earth."
"Father, leave 'im be, 'e obviously don't want to say nothin'."
"Bah!" The old man hobbled off. "Feckin' wizards..."
Alosk sighed. "Sorry about 'im, 'e's gotten nosy in 'is old age."
Ikharos waved the apology aside. "I've had far worse interrogations before. Now, to the matter at hand." The Warlock leaned forward. "Is there a map I could borrow for a moment? I'd like to commit it to memory."
"I, uh, of course. I'll go fetch it now." Alosk scrambled to meet his request, leaving a wide-eyed Rirmand to once more drill the Guardian on the matter of magic. Ikharos took to it gladly. It was pleasant, to relive his experiences as a teacher, even if he was only speaking of the most rudimentary of subjects.
"What's da ting ye got der?"
"Hm? Oh, this?" The Warlock laid his cannon on the table. Its ivory frame and golden thorns gleamed in the candlelight. "This is the Lumina - my Lumina. It's very special to me. I forged it myself."
"How does it work?"
"See this?" Ikharos held up a bullet. "This is what it fires. Normally the gun has no power at all, just a hammer and pin, but this cannon is special. However, I'll run over the basics. The pin strikes the primer on the cartridge. The cartridge is a self contained round of ammunition that has a primer, gunpowder, and a projectile bullet all enclosed in a brass or steel case. When the firing pin hits the primer with enough force, it detonates and lights the powder. The powder burn creates a pressure spike that propels the bullet forward. Bullets and guns can differ in design and function. A hand-cannon like this is meant for power and easy handling, you see?"
Rirmand didn't see, and Ikharos was reminded that the boy was only six-years old. The inner workings of a firearm were a touch beyond a child of that age. Or so the case was usually; when the Warlock was six, he was already cutting down Devils by the dozen with a half-loaded auto rifle and whatever Light he had to spare.
The reminder gave rise to new concern. "Rirmand, are you alright?"
"Yes sir."
"Are you sure? Didn't those creatures scare you?"
The boy's wonder instantly died away, replaced with a fraction of the terror he had displayed earlier. "Are dey gone?"
"They're gone. Don't worry. They won't come back."
The child looked up at the Warlock with eyes so trusting, so faithful that the Guardian would protect him. "Yer a good man."
Then the boy raced off.
Ikharos sighed deeply. "I try to be."
"'Ere ye go," Alosk smoothed out the ragged vellum sheet. Features were scrawled in with a semi-skilled hand, so the accuracy was debatable. Still, better a faulty map than none sense of direction at all.
"Thank you," Ikharos nodded.
But the farmer wasn't finished. "Sir, I wanted to... thank ye for saving my boy. I, uh... if you need a roof over y-yer head, it would be my... my honour."
The Warlock paused. "I do not want to impose on you and your family."
"Please, sir, let me repay this debt."
A pulse of warmth spread out across his hand. "In that case, I will. Thank you, Alosk. Would it be any trouble if I asked a few more questions? I'm afraid my curiosity has been piqued."
"Uh... not at all, sir!"
"Does the word Warmind ring any bells?"
"Warmind? Can't say it does."
Ikharos hummed. He had a new hypothesis in the works. "Young Rirmand and I talked. It appears to me that firearms, just like this," he held up his Lumina, "are not common here?"
Alosk stared at it and shivered. "Bein' dead honest, sir, I've never seen the likes o' them."
"Alright. Now, this king of yours... what's he like?"
Alosk paused. It worried Ikharos. "He's... I wouldn't know what to say, sir. We don't get many o' the king's men here, not even the tax collectors. I've never seen the man, but then not many have, I thinks."
"Is he a good king?"
"Again, sir, I don't know. We here in Doramb don't get many strangers, 'cept for Urgals down from the mountains."
"Urgals?"
"You don't know? Them beasts with the horns ye slew. Big and strong as ox, with a temper besides. Monsters, the lot of them. That bunch 'ad been at our stock for some weeks now. I thinks they figured we wouldn't fight so good."
"Do they attack often?"
"Not usually, sir. I thinks something has 'em riled up."
"Interesting," the Warlock turned his gaze back to the map. "Where did they come from, do you know?"
"Up in the Spine," Alosk pointed to a nearby mountain range.
Ikaros leaned back. "Alright. I think I'll investigate this further, tomorrow."
"I don't know if that's wise, sir."
"Oh?"
"They say Galbatorix lost half 'is army in there. The Spine is no place for men."
"All the more reason for me to investigate. I'll ensure these Urgals do not bother your people again."
It was the dead of night when Ikharos decided to bring out his Ghost. Her eye shone a faint blue light around the guestroom, before settling on him.
"It's like the Dark Age. But worse," she grumbled.
"And yet an improvement. No Fallen. No Warlords. No Iron Lords. Just normal people."
"And horned monsters."
"Some sort of mutants. Though whether the change was intentional or not, I'm not sure. Regardless, they are clearly hominids. Neohumans. It warrants looking into."
"The old man said something about dwarves. What's your take on that?"
"As likely as the Rat-King. Technology-deprived eras are commonly fraught with the strangest of folktales. Like the Dark Age. Those were superstitious times."
"Agreed," she grumbled. "The most advanced piece of equipment I've seen yet is a horse-drawn plough. These people are... well, I don't know."
The Warlock grunted and focused on sculpting the piece of plasteel. He didn't need sleep as urgently as most others did. An advantage to being reforged in the Light, he reckoned.
"Something did this to them," Ikharos said after some length. "Something strong. We know they had a Warmind with them, so whatever it was could get past that."
"Vex?"
"No. They'd have turned this place into a machine-world long ago."
"Hive?"
"They would have turned everything into a wasteland."
"Then... what?"
"I don't know. A temporal anomaly, complete lack of all forms of technology the colonists arrived with, a new race of neohumans and a trigger-happy Warmind."
"It's a puzzle."
"Yes." Ikharos held up the finished product in the Ghost's glow. "Maybe we'll find a clue tomorrow."
The Warlock left the village the moment dawn broke through the night. He left a small metal figurine of a Sunbreaker Titan on the bed. He hoped it would be received well.
His Ghost found the tracks left by the raiders and highlighted them on the Guardian's HUD. Ikharos entered the forest and moved swiftly. He would follow it to the source.
A solid twenty miles of hiking later, Ikharos found the small military-style camp from which the Urgals came from. There were scores of them. Some stood sentry, while most gathered around fires for their supper. Ikharos gathered the Void around him to cloak his presence and circled around, attempting to find a weakness in the perimeter of barricades and stakes.
The Urgals were armed with basic weapons of crude iron and rusty steel, wearing animal pelts and old leather for armour. Their legs were bowed and arms corded with muscle, but that didn't worry the Warlock. The sight of swords made him hesitate, but a brief investigation found they were little more than basic metal and nothing else. He had read the papers published by both Toland and Shaxx, and knew from experience how powerful a blade forged from hadium could be. The tools he saw before him, on the other hand, were little better than kitchenware, lacking in any shred of Light or Dark.
What truly caught him off guard were the larger Urgal specimens. The greatest of warrior morphs stood as tall as a Fallen Captain or a Cabal Legionary, but lacking in the sturdy armour or terrible power the Warlock's old foes possessed. The creatures appeared mighty, but they were... lesser, too.
The Warlock slipped into the camp through a small gap and walked among them, unseen and unheard. He followed their conversations, he watched as they tending to the fires over which they roasted meats and he studied their belongings. They were barbaric, but slips of culture slipped through the cracks in their façade. Ikharos positioned himself in the centre of their encampment and focused on whom he believed to be the leader of this band, then tore away his cloak. The nearest Urgals scrambled to their feet as the Guardian appeared suddenly amongst them, and that alerted the others. There was a strangled pause as the horned beasts stared at the sudden newcomer with a mix of shock and outrage.
Their leader, the largest of those abnormally huge Urgals, roared something in its own guttural language. Ikaros locked eyes with the beast.
"You will leave the people of Doramb be," he instructed them. If they understood, they didn't show any sign of it.
The lead Urgal glanced around. "Otrag bagh. Kaz jtierl trazhid."
The creatures brought their weapons to bear and arrayed themselves around the Warlock in a disorderly circle. One in particular, wearing robes of animal skins and ornaments of bones, stepped forward, holding nothing but a ceremonial staff in its hands, growling like a basic beast
Ikharos sighed. "Suit yourself."
He held out his empty hands and Void spilled in immense quantity, engulfing the Guardian in a shielding violet aura and wreathing him in flames of black-indigo. The ground below him burned and rotted away, melted to slag and solidifying into a dark crystalline material. The loose Urgal formation broke and they scattered like panicking cattle. Ikaros strode forward. The robed Urgal hesitated, then snapped out a myriad of words that did not fit its guttural voice. Something twinged, like static electricity dancing over his skin. He paused and identified it as a weak paracausal force seeking to change him physically. His will and Light lashed at it immediately, shattering the spell into oblivion. He tilted his head, his march pausing.
The robed Urgal's eyes widened and it bellowed. Another attack was sentthe Guardian's way, but this came in the form of a method he knew well. It infuriated him to no end.
"I have faced the Witches of the Hive," he snarled. "Their will was eons old, sharpened upon the graves of a thousand dead worlds. I have battled with the telepathic waves of Psion Flayers, who were trained since birth in mental combat. Do you truly think you can succeed where they failed?"
The Void around him struck like a serpent, killing the Urgal shaman instantly. Its body disintegrated, its atoms degraded to complete null, every particle annihilated utterly, every physical trace eliminated from the universe.
The Urgal's leader stepped back as the Warlock approached, fell to its knees and clasped its meaty hands together as if to beg. The flames and tendrils receded. Ikharos pressed a glowing palm against its neck. "You will not trouble the people of Doramb any further. If you do, I will come for you."
He left the oversized Urgal screaming. The Void branded it with a mark of the Warlock's hand.
"Think they learned their lesson?"
"Only time will tell. I imagine, however, they will steer clear of the village in future if only to avoid crossing me."
"You made quite the impression. That might come back to bite us."
"What was that Variks always said?"
"Ha. They will try to kill you. Kill them back."