Chapter 41: Celbedeil
Tarnag's walls weren't high, but they were thick and sturdy. Formidable - to dwarves. Perhaps baseline humans and Urgals too. But to Eliksni, Risen, and elves? Completely ineffective. Not that they needed to worry about that, Ikharos reflected. The only Eliksni, Risen, and elves present were entering at the invitation of the dwarves within.
In contrast to Tarnag's thickly built ramparts, the buildings inside, though of stone, were shaped with such skill as to give the impression of grace and lightness. Strong, bold carvings, usually of animals, adorned the houses and shops. But even more striking was the stone itself: vibrant hues, from bright scarlet to the subtlest of greens, glazed the rock in translucent layers. The masonry was art. Dwarves had truly mastered the skill of shaping rock.
Unlike Tronjheim, Tarnag had been constructed in proportion to the dwarves, with no concession for human, elf, or dragon visitors. At the most, doorways were five feet high, and they were often only four and a half. It posed a problem for much of their group if every building was shaped like that, particularly Kiphoris and Saphira.
Arke took off from Kiphoris' shoulder and cawed loudly. She beat her wings again and again until she was a distant shadow under the sun. Ikharos wasn't worried about her flying off - she would be too fascinated with feeding from their desires to leave them in peace.
The streets were wide and crammed. Dwarves of various clans hurried about their business or stood haggling in and around shops. Many were garbed in strange, exotic costumes, such as a block of fierce black-haired dwarves who wore silver helmets forged in the likeness of wolf heads. Kiphoris studied them, head tilted at a curious angle.
"Yeah, wolves," Ikharos muttered.
The Captain nodded. "Those representations are intriguing. They must be fearsome beasts."
Ikharos hesitated. "They're... not quite as dangerous as the stories make them out to be. But they're complex animals. And they used to be widespread all across Earth. That's where the fascination comes from."
At the Feldûnost's piercing footsteps, the dwarves turned to look at the new arrivals. They did not cheer, but some bowed their heads. Others stared at the Eliksni and Obleker with open wonder and unease. Javek and Melkris followed Kiphoris's lead and didn't utter a word. Their hands never strayed far from their weapons, but they didn't act rashly, which was all Ikharos could ask for. Obleker, for its part, hummed uncertainly. It was not a large Servitor, though its appearance alone was still enough cause for fear among those unfamiliar with the Eliksni machines. Ikharos placed his hand against the robot's shell and tenderly nudged his Light against the Servitor's Void. Obleker pressed into his touch, seeking comfort.
Eragon's reforged helmet turned heads. And not in a good way. As they saw the hammer and stars upon the helm, wonder was replaced by shock and, in many cases, outrage. A number of the angrier dwarves contracted around the Feldûnost, glaring between the animals at Eragon and shouting imprecations in their native tongue.
Thorv and the other dwarven guards rode forward as if the crowd was nonexistent, clearing the way through seven additional tiers until only a single gate separated them from the mass of Celbedeil. Then Thorv turned left, toward a great hall pressed against the side of the mountain and protected in fore by a barbican with two watchtowers.
As they neared the hall, a group of armed dwarves streamed out from between the houses and formed a thick line, blocking the street. Long purple veils covered their faces and draped over their shoulders, like mail coifs. Ikharos grasped his Lumina's holster and prepared to draw it. Beside him, Kiphoris bristled and growled lowly. Formora was silent and still, but she was armed with a language as dangerous as any blade.
Their guards immediately reined in their Feldûnost, faces hard. "What is it?" Eragon asked Orik, but the dwarf only shook his head and strode forward, a hand on his axe.
"Etzil nithgech!" A veiled dwarf cried, raising his fist. "Formv Jurgencarmeitder nos eta goroth bahst Tarnag, dûr encesti rak kythn! Jok is warrev az barzûlegûr dûr dûrgrimst, Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, môgh tor rak Jurgenvren? Né ûdim etal os rast knurlag. Knurlag ana-"
"Vrron!" Thorv barked, cutting him off, then the two dwarves began arguing. Then Eragon shifted to look past Kiphoris and the veiled dwarf abruptly fell silent, pointing at Eragon's helm with an expression of horror.
"Knurlag qana qirânû Dûrgrimst Ingeitum!" He screamed. "Qarzûl ana Hrothgar oen volfild-"
"I tire of this chatter," Kiphoris said. His sonorous voice easily overpowered that of the dwarf. The Scar Captain stepped forward, hard eyes narrowed to slits. "Make your intentions known or remove yourselves."
The veiled dwarf glared at him, red-faced and seething.
"Jok is frekk dûrgrimstvren?"Orik quietly added, drawing his axe.
The strange dwarf stared hard at Orik, then removed an iron ring from his pocket, plucked three hairs from his beard, twined them around the ring, and threw it onto the street with an impervious clink, spitting after it. Without a word, the purple-shrouded dwarves filed away.
Thorv, Orik, and the other dwarven warriors flinched as the ring bounced across the granite pavement. Even the elves seemed taken aback. Two of the younger dwarves blanched and reached for their blades, then dropped their hands as Thorv barked, "Eta!"
"What does that mean?" Ikharos asked. He kept watch on the direction the veiled dwarves had gone. They looked angry; he wouldn't have put it past them to turn back around and attempt something bold.
"It means," Thorv said carefully, "that Eragon has enemies."
Kiphoris twirled about and snapped, in Eliksni, "Melkris! Watch over the Beast-Rider. Do not let him come to harm!"
The shockshooter saluted. "As you wish, Kiphoris-Veskirisk." He stepped to Eragon's side and cast a suspicious look around the near-empty street.
They moved on, quickly, and watched that they were not followed. They hurried through the barbican to a wide courtyard arrayed with three banquet tables, decorated with lanterns and banners. Before the tables stood a group of dwarves, foremost among them a gray-bearded dwarf swathed in wolfskin. He spread his arms and said, "Welcome to Tarnag, home of Dûrgrimst Ragni Hefthyn. We have heard much praise of you, Eragon Dragon Rider and Ikharos Shadeslayer. I am Ûndin, son of Derûnd and clan chief."
Another dwarf stepped forward. He had the muscled shoulders and chest of a warrior, topped with hooded black eyes that never left Ikharos. "And I, Gannel, son of Orm Blood-Axe and clan chief of Dûrgrimst Quan."
"It is an honor." Ikharos inclined his head.
"And you must be Kiphoris, Captain of the Eliksni," Ûndin turned to face the Captain.
Kiphoris grunted. "I am. Many thanks for allowing us within your city, Ûndin-Mrelliks. You have already greeted Ikharos, but the rest of mine-crew are Javeks the Technician, Melkris the Sharp-Eyed, Obleker-17, and Zeshus."
"Your people are welcome here," Ûndin announced. He and Gannel went on to greet Arya and Orik, but the latter responded only by holding out the iron ring.
Ûndin's eyes widened, and he gingerly lifted the ring, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a venomous snake. "Who gave this to you?"
"It was Az Sweldn rak Anhûin. And not to me, but to Eragon."
Alarm spread across their faces. Kiphoris stepped forward and asked, "Will this mean trouble? I have an interest in delivering Eragon safely to the elves. I would not see him come to harm."
Ûndin frowned. "We must consult on this issue." He exhaled and looked up. "Shadeslayer, a feast is prepared in your honor. If you would allow my servants to guide you to your quarters, you can refresh yourself, and then we might begin."
Ikharos nodded stiffly. "That would be welcome. Thank you." He allowed himself to be guided into the dwarven halls. The room they gave him was, fortunately, spacious enough that he wasn't in danger of banging his head against the ceiling. A marble basin was set into the floor, filled with scalding hot water. The heat permeated through the material of his glove. Ikharos groaned - this was a luxury he had been without for far too long.
Xiān transmatted his armour away. Ikharos peeled off the underlying biosuit and sank into the basin. The heat suffused his muscles, releasing a nearly a year's worth of pent-up tension. He laid his head against the edge of the pool and allowed his mind to float into the tranquility of the nullscape.
Perhaps only ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. With immense reluctance, Ikharos pulled himself out, dried himself with a brief usage of Solar, and allowed Xiān to drop him more casual clothes. The garb she chose were of Awoken make, the kind they would wear when attending the Queen's court. He wore a magenta shirt with grey sleeves, grey leggings, faded red gloves, ivory-white boots, and a black shoulder-cloak fitted with a clasp showing not the locked-fangs symbol of the Reef but a drawn hunting bow. He slipped his knife into a hidden sheath on one of the boots and tied the Lumina's holster to his hip. Being without armour was one thing, but without weapons was quite another. He didn't dare go anywhere unarmed.
Ikharos did his best to comb back his hair and beard - turned wild from lack of attention - but he sensed it was a losing battle. The person outside knocked again. Ikharos gave up and opened the door. Kida stood just beyond. The Frame presented him with a salute. A terribly confused dwarf stood beside the robot, gawking up at it.
"Sir," Kida greeted. "Dinner is almost ready. Extrasolar entity 493402, designation: Kiphoris, sent me to retrieve you."
Ikharos gestured down the hallway. "Lead on."
Ûndin and the other dwarves were gathered in the courtyard, along with Saphira, who had situated herself at the head of a table. Kiphoris stood off to the side, upper arms crossed. Melkris was nowhere in sight - so likely still with Eragon - but Javek was seated at one of the tables, attempting to speak with Arya. The language-barrier was a heavy obstacle, but the young Eliksni was trying his best.
Ikharos joined Kiphoris. The Captain looked him over and said, "You dress well. Like an off-duty Corsair."
"And you haven't dressed appropriately at all."
Kiphoris narrowed his inner eyes. "I am. You know this as well as I do that armour is formal dress among mine-people."
"Just having a poke." Ikharos looked around. "Where's Arke?"
"Hunting. Animals, not people. I made her promise."
"Fine. And Mora?"
"She has... extricated herself. If asked, we must excuse her by saying she is guarding Obleker as he feeds. Which is... not untrue. And, I hope, it will distract our hosts with a new topic."
"Suave," Ikharos commented. He paused. "Thank you. You didn't have to do this for her, so... thank you."
Kiphoris closed his outer eyes. "Whether we hold bad blood or a close friendship between us, we are a crew. And a crew must cooperate, or the Skiff will not fly."
Ikharos smiled. "That's a nice analogy. It might have worked better if you hadn't split the crew up."
"You understand mine-meaning."
"I do." Another pause. Ikharos sighed. "What is this?"
Kiphoris tilted his head. "Hm?"
"This. Us. Our... partnership. What the hell is this?"
The Wolf hesitated. "Ah. I... do not know."
"You want to kill me, I'm not so keen on the idea, and yet we have to-"
"No, that is not it."
Ikharos frowned. "What?"
Kiphoris pointed at him with a single, accusatory claw. "Do I wish for your death? It is not mine-aim. I seek only to return unto you a fraction what you visited to me. Realize, Ikha Riis, the fate you handed over. You did not kill me. No, you banished me to the machines. To the Vex. I suffered forever within their time-lost nation. Forever. I have suffered, I do suffer, and I will suffer. I suffer always. There will be a Kiphoris within the Network at all times, scraping out a survival in a place not meant for beings of flesh and blood."
Ikharos felt his anger rise up as a sharp retort... but it died away into a pained wince. "I'm sorry," he muttered. He averted his gaze and found a spot on the stone floor to focus on.
"I want this feud balanced, but it never will be. There is no punishment terrible enough to match. Anything else would be... petty. Childish, as you would say. Unequal and thus not worth the effort. But I want our duel to come so that you understand not my pain, but mine-fury. I need you to understand it." Kiphoris quietened. "I have grown, Ikha Riis. The Vex were a teacher to me. Not a kind teacher, not a caring one, but they taught me all the same. Just as, I suspect, Oryx did for you."
Ikharos's breath caught in his throat.
The demon's wings shadowed everything. His three eyes glowed like sadistic, hungry stars. His sword was His word, His mind, His power, and Ikharos could feel its creation-old razor edge in every bitter bark of the colossal god. Every moment was a battle. Simply being alive was a struggle. The God-King's very presence exuded death. Every exhalation threatened to smother them with Darkness. Every inhalation pulled at his soul, as if to devour it.
"They taught me to grow and think as I never did before. And I grew past their lessons. I grew and I climbed. I climbed and climbed forever until I pierced the crust of a cold, lifeless world. Then I began to starve. I pieced together a weak signal emitter out of a shock pistol and a dead Vex head. It was nothing short of a miracle that the Scars found me still clinging to life. A blessing of the Great Machine. Still I seek to grow further. Beyond the scope of mine-anger so that I might expend myself fully into my duty for mine-people. But I cannot until I cut away that which keeps it alive. You keep it alive."
"So one of us has to die?"
Kiphoris grunted. "I would be foolish to call you worthy of killing. We both have bloodied hands. You have done good by killing, but also evil. Your intentions are pure, but your methods are questionable. You place value on innocent life, but if something is opposed to you it loses all right to innocence."
"Everything I've done has been-"
"In defense of your people, I know. I will not begrudge you that. Mine-people are not clean of terrible deeds, I will admit, but neither are yours."
"It would be easier if we could all forget. Start anew."
Kiphoris eyed him critically. "You would want that for our peoples? Or us?"
Ikharos shrugged. "Both would be preferable. I'm not going to say you're perfect-"
The Captain snorted.
"-but you saved three humans you didn't know. You saved Tellesa. You've been nothing short of civil with everyone we meet. I'm... grateful for that. I'm grateful to have allies. Fighting alone is... not ideal. If you want a fight to the death when all this is over, fine. But until then, can we go without all the veiled threats and insults? Please? Can we just... I don't know, pretend to be allies?"
Kiphoris stayed silent for a while. Ikharos started to believe he wasn't going to say anything. Then the Captain whispered, "So be it. Your demand is acceptable." He clasped Ikharos's forearm and sent him a searching look. "I ask that we be honest with one another. I have no wish to see the humans suffer, and I hope you hold to the same opinion towards mine-Eliksni. I am gifting you my trust, Ikha Riis. Do not squander it."
Ikharos inclined his head. "Thanks."
Ûndin seated himself at the other end of Saphira's table. "Would you join me, Ikharos?" He asked, gesturing to the seat to his right. Ikharos complied. Eragon sat opposite the Warlock and beside Orik. Kiphoris took the place to Ikharos's left, but he had to move the small dwarven stool out of the way and kneel. The vast difference in size between the dwarves and the Eliksni was almost comical.
When everyone had their place, Ûndin slapped the table and roared, "Ignh az voth!"
Servants streamed out of the hall, bearing platters of beaten gold piled high with meats, pies, and fruit. They divided into three columns - one for each table - and deposited the dishes with a flourish. Kiphoris had to bark at Melkris to hold back so as to not risk insulting their host.
Before them were soups and stews filled with various tubers, roasted venison, long hot loaves of sourdough bread, and rows of honeycakes dripped with raspberry preserve. In a bed of greens lay filleted trout garnished with parsley, and on the side, pickled eel stared forlornly at an urn of cheese, as if hoping to somehow escape back into a river. A swan sat on each table, surrounded by a flock of stuffed partridges, geese, and ducks.
Then the centerpiece of the feast was revealed: a gigantic roasted boar, glistening with sauce. The beast was larger than a horse. The tusks were longer than most swords, the snout as wide as a barrel. It smelled delicious.
"Nagra," Ûndin announced. "Only the bravest dwarves dare hunt Nagran. We wish to honour you, Shadeslayer! We, the Ragni Hefthyn, give thanks for destroying that Shade monster! And to you, Kiphoris, for shattering the resolve of the Urgal savages!"
Ikharos dipped his head as graciously as he could. "Thank you."
Kiphoris echoed the statement.
"Smer voth," commanded Ûndin, smiling at his guests. The servants immediately drew small curved knives and cut portions of the Nagra, which they set on everyone's plates - except for Arya's. They included a weighty piece for Saphira. Ûndin smiled again, took a dagger, and sliced off a sliver of meat and ate it. He chewed slowly, rolling his eyes and nodding in an exaggerated fashion, then swallowed and proclaimed, "Ilf gauhnith!"
Conversation erupted along each table. Melkris practically tore off his helmet and attacked his platter with starving savagery. Alternatively, Kiphoris carefully laid his grand helmet beside him, revealing his plumage of dark blue setae, and partook of his meal with careful, polite consideration. Nonetheless, all the Eliksni quickly went through their own portions with startling speed.
Ikharos found himself enjoying the meal more than he anticipated. It was immensely flavoursome and he savoured every bite.
"This is luxurious," Kiphoris commented. "Food is in plenty here. Even if given a choice, mine-people may prefer to remain."
"And what of you?" Ikharos asked curiously.
"I think I would agree with them. Sol is torn by war and nightmares. This place is not. I want to keep mine-people safe above all else. This might be the sanctuary we seek."
Ikharos nodded thoughtfully. "Then I guess you're going with the right way of things, what with all the alliances you're building up."
"Ah, but there is still much work to be done before that decision arrives, true?"
"True."
Ûndin cleared his throat. Those nearest lowered their voices or stopped talking altogether. "Tell me, Kiphoris," he began, "where do your people hail from? I have neither seen or heard of anything like your people."
The Captain considered the question. More than a few listened in. "Mine-people hail from the cold lands of Riis. It... was a place of art and wealth. Or so I am told. I have only heard stories of mine-ancestral homeland."
Ûndin frowned. "You do not come from there?"
"No. Riis was laid to waste by the Demon King, Oryx, long ago. Mine-people have been wandering ever since. I was hatched upon one of mine-people's ships, like many of my brethren. I never knew the comforts of Riis."
"Hatched?" Eragon asked. "Eliksni come from eggs?"
Kiphoris clicked his mandibles with amusement. "I do. Is this truly odd? Saphira was born of an egg, yes?"
The dragon snorted. Smoke trailed from her nostrils. "I was," she said, sending her voice out across the table.
"Who is Oryx?" Arya asked suddenly
Kiphoris gestured to Ikharos. "He would answer it better than I."
Ikharos grimaced. "Hell," he muttered. The Captain chuckled. Ikharos raised his voice. "Oryx was the God-King of the Hive, a particularly brutish and sadistic people. They're wanderers too, but they wander out of ambition. They look for opponents to kill, civilizations to destroy, legacies to break."
"That's... horrible," Eragon said. He looked troubled.
Ikharos nodded. "It is. They're a bunch of vile nihilists. But their fangs have been blunted as of recently. Oryx died a few years back. From then on it's been defeat after defeat for the Hive. They've lost their edge."
"How did he die?" Arya questioned.
Ikharos hesitated. "I killed him. In his throne room. He came for my people, so I was one of those sent to break the Hive host. Toughest fight I've ever fought."
"With luck, you might do the same for Galbatorix," Gannel proclaimed.
A brief silence reigned for a short while, but the conversations gradually picked back up again. Soon, the topic came back to Ikharos. "Where are you from, Shadeslayer?" Ûndin inquired. "I have heard that you do not call Alagaësia home."
Ikharos smiled lightly. "No, I do not. But I don't really call anywhere home. Like the Eliksni, I'm a bit nomadic. Most recently I found myself briefly staying in the Reef, among the Awoken peoples, but beyond that I don't call anywhere a home."
"Awoken?"
"Former humans. They ventured out to a place that changed them. Their skin dances with starlight and their eyes glow. And they often have really colourful hair. But yeah, I lived with them for a short while, and... well, I came here."
Ûndin nodded thoughtfully. "So you hail from across the seas?"
Ikharos hesitated for a split-second. Only Arya seemed to pick up on it. "Yes," he answered.
The elf narrowed her eyes suspiciously. Ikharos studiously ignored her. Alternatively, their host accepted it with a smile. "Ah, it is good to know we are not alone in this war. You must tell me, how did your alliance with the Eliksni come to be?"
Ikharos glanced at Kiphoris. "Their people and mine have had a... complicated history. I've known of Eliksni all my life. I've learned their language and their culture. I only met the House of Scar a little ways back, near Ceunon, but previous experiences with other houses paved the way for our partnership."
Kiphoris dipped his head: a show of concurrence. He evidently found no issue with the explanation.
The conversation carried on and the hours soon whipped by. The feast was so large that it was late afternoon before the last course had been served. As servants removed the tableware, Ûndin turned to Eragon and said, "The meal pleased you, yes?"
"It was delicious."
Ûndin nodded. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I had the tables moved outside yesterday so the dragon might dine with us."
"Saphira and I thank you," Eragon said. "Sir, why was the ring thrown at us?"
Ikharos glanced around the table. A painful silence crept over the courtyard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Orik wince. Arya, however, smiled. It wasn't a pleasant.
Ûndin put down his dagger, scowling thickly. "The knurlagn you met are of a tragic clan. Before the Riders' fall, they were among the oldest, richest families of our kingdom. Their doom was sealed, though, by two mistakes: they lived on the western edge of the Beor Mountains, and they volunteered their greatest warriors in Vrael's service. Galbatorix and his ever-cursed Forsworn slaughtered them in your city of Urû'baen. Then they flew on us, killing many. Of that clan, only Grimstcarvlorss Anhûin and her guards survived. Anhûin soon died of grief, and her men took the name Az Sweldn rak Anhûin, The Tears of Anhûin, covering their faces to remind themselves of their loss and their desire for revenge.
"So," Ûndin continued, glowering at a pastry, "they rebuilt the clan over the decades, waiting and hunting for recompense. And now you come, bearing Hrothgar's mark. It is the ultimate insult to them, no matter your service in Farthen Dûr. Thus the ring, the ultimate challenge. It means Dûrgrimst Az Sweldn rak Anhûin will oppose you with all their resources, in every matter, big or small. They have set themselves against you utterly, declared themselves blood enemies."
"Do they mean me bodily harm?" Eragon asked stiffly.
Ûndin's gaze faltered for a moment as he cast a look at Gannel, then he shook his head and uttered a gruff laugh that was, perhaps, louder than the occasion warranted. "No, Dragon Rider! Not even they would dare hurt a guest. It is forbidden. They only want you gone, gone, gone. Please, let us talk no more of these unpleasant matters. Gannel and I have offered our food and mead in friendship; is that not what matters?"
The priest murmured in concordance.
"It is appreciated," Eragon replied.
When the feast was over and their hosts retired for the night, Ikharos quietly left the keep and the city. The act of leaving was easy. The gates and walls presented no barrier to him. Not while he could Blink past every barricade. He didn't want to alarm the dwarves, so he told no one but Kiphoris and Javek. Melkris had been nigh on unconscious at that point - he'd eaten far too much.
Ikharos brought a veil of Void over him, masking him from sight. It was needless; few people were around to see him. The city had fallen into a deep slumber. The only issue he had with the place was the glare of the magical lanterns the dwarves employed. They lit up the entire river valley. It was irksome.
Tarnag was evidently not a place he'd settle down in.
Extricating himself from the confines of the dwarven city was simple, but the difficult part lay ahead. He let go of the Void and opened up his bare Light, trying to find a trace of paracausal energies. He caught a faint whiff of it and zoned in, slipping into the forest surrounding Tarnag. He found them in a small clearing, by a clear peaceful pool. Formora was sitting on a rock, helmetless and marveling at the moon high above. Obleker was freely feeding from a mineral deposit by the water's edge.
"Hey," Ikharos called out softly. Formora turned to him.
"Hello," she smiled. "How was the feast?"
"It was pretty good. Heard some stories. Told some in return."
"Did anything noteworthy happen?"
Ikharos explained all he knew of the Az Sweldn rak Anhûin clan, and their reason for spiting Eragon.
Formora's gaze dropped back to the pool. "I remember. Those were unpleasant times."
Ikharos sat down beside her. "Have you eaten? I could get Xiān to fetch some food."
"Fetch it yourself," his Ghost hissed.
"It's your turn to be nice."
"I hate being nice. No."
"You are... so, so very difficult."
"No," Formora said, "but thank you." She glanced at him. "What are you wearing?"
Ikharos looked down at himself. "Reefborn regalia."
"It looks impressive." She smiled. "You almost seem like a true lord."
Ikharos raised an eyebrow. "Almost?"
"You're too ragged for an aristocrat." Her smile fell. "Do ever look at your reflection and think 'I've done enough for them'?"
The question caught him off guard. Ikharos hesitated. "That's... I don't know."
"You push yourself again and again for others. You exert every effort to help those in need. To help everyone in need. You ask for no reward. Why?"
"Because it's the right thing to do?"
"Ikharos, this war is not yours. This world is not yours. Why?"
He shrugged helplessly. "Because it's what I'm meant to do. I'm only alive because I'm designed to fight on behalf of humanity."
"No."
"No?"
"No. I can't speak for your Traveler, and that may very well have been it's initial intent, but you're a being with free will. You can choose your own future."
Ikharos solemnly met her gaze and tried to convey what he felt. "I have. I've chosen to follow the path laid out for me. I help people. It's the right thing to do. And I will continue to fight until my final death."
"That's... a noble purpose to hold to."
"It's the only purpose I have. I'm Risen. I don't have family. I don't have a home. I don't have anything but all these lives. I might as well use them for good."
"How do you know you fight for good? What if Nezarec is sacrificing us to save an even greater amount of people?"
"Because killing a world can never be justified. Because the Dark warps its practitioners into monsters. Because I don't want the people here to die."
Formora nodded like something had been confirmed. "Good."
"Was this some form of a test?"
"Perhaps."
"Surely by killing Durza, by killing the Aphelion, and by bringing the fight to the Cabal I've already proven myself."
"True."
Ikharos groaned. "I swear, you're being vague just to irritate me."
Formora smiled softly. "Is it working?"
"Yes. Too well."
They fell quiet, happily so. The night was serene and peaceful. It almost convinced him that everything was going to be alright.
Then, "I'm terrified."
Ikharos waited a moment. "About going back to your people?"
Formora nodded ever so slightly. "Yes. I don't want to die."
"You won't."
"That doesn't reassure me. As powerful as you may be, my people are numerous. They are clever. And many hold grudges."
"We only have to explain it to them."
"You and Kiphoris are too optimistic," Formora said bitterly. "My people hate me. And I truly don't want to die. Not before Galbatorix falls. Not before Nezarec is destroyed. Maybe not even afterwards. My eyes have been opened up to a horizon beyond my world. I can't not learn about it. But... that scares me too."
"It does?"
"My world is changing. Rapidly so. Or maybe the illusion is just being pulled away. You were the start: an immortal spellcaster with command over a force more potent than simple magic. Now warriors and conquerors from the stars are arriving in force, with weapons and machines capable of smashing any resistance before them." She sighed. "We can't go back now. I can't. This is my reality, and the uncertainty of it frightens me."
Silence fell over them once more. Ikharos felt out of place. He was going blind. People weren't his forte.
"I'm going to investigate Celbedeil tomorrow," he announced. "I think it's the temple by the river. The place the message in the Blasted Mountains told me to go to."
Formora frowned. "It does fit the description. It could be a trap, just like Du Fells Nángoröth. Bring someone with you."
"Kiphoris," he said instantly. "He can hold his own and help me figure out any further riddles."
"Promise me you two won't kill each other."
"We're not children," Ikharos defended. "We're responsible adults."
"From the way you act, I've yet to be convinced."
000
The dawnless morning found Eragon in Ûndin's main hall, listening as the clan chief spoke to Orik in Dwarvish. Ûndin broke off as Eragon approached, then said, "Ah, Dragon Rider. You slept well?"
"Yes."
"Good." He gestured at Orik. "We have been considering your departure. I had hoped you'd be able to spend some time with us. But under the circumstances, it seems best if you resume your journey early tomorrow morning, when few are in the streets who might trouble you. Supplies and transportation are being readied even as I speak. It was Hrothgar's orders that guards should accompany you as far as Ceris. I have increased their numbers from three to seven."
"And in the meantime?"
Ûndin shrugged his fur-bound shoulders. "I had intended to show you the wonders of Tarnag, but it would be foolish now for you to wander mine city. However, Grimstborith Gannel has invited you to Celbedeil for the day. Accept if you wish. You'll be safe with him." The clan chief seemed to have forgotten his earlier assertion that Az Sweldn rak Anhûin would not harm a guest.
"Thank you, I might do that." As Eragon left the hall, he pulled Orik aside and asked, "How serious is this feud, really? I need to know the truth."
Orik answered with obvious reluctance: "In the past, it was not uncommon for blood feuds to endure for generations. Entire families were driven extinct because of them. It was rash of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin to invoke the old ways; such a thing has not been done since the last of the clan wars... Until they rescind their oath, you must guard against their treachery, whether it be for a year or a century. I'm sorry that your friendship with Hrothgar has brought this upon you, Eragon. But you are not alone. Dûrgrimst Ingeitum stands with you in this."
Once outside, Eragon hurried to Saphira, who had spent the night coiled in the courtyard. "Do you mind if I visit Celbedeil?"
"Go if you must. But take Zar'roc." He followed her advice, also tucking Nasuada's scroll into his tunic. Melkris, the strange Eliksni who Kiphoris had placed as Eragon's guard, shadowed him all the way.
When Eragon approached the gates to the hall's enclosure, five dwarves pushed the rough-hewn timbers aside, then closed in around him, hands on their axes and swords as they inspected the street. The guards remained as Eragon retraced the previous day's path to the barred entrance of Tarnag's uppermost tier. Melkris stayed at the rear of the group, his glowing eyes piercing the hazy veil of morning.
Eragon shivered. The city seemed unnaturally empty. Doors were closed, windows were shuttered, and the few pedestrians in evidence averted their faces and turned down alleys to avoid walking past him. They're scared to be seen near me, he realized. Perhaps because they know Az Sweldn rak Anhûin will retaliate against anyone who helps me. Eager to escape the open streets, Eragon found the gates at the front of the temple's compound and raised his hand to knock, but before he could, one door grated outward, and a black-robed dwarf beckoned from within. Tightening his sword belt, Eragon entered, leaving his guards outside. Melkris waited by the entrance, clicking his teeth.
His first impression was of color. A burning-green sward splayed around the pillared mass of Celbedeil, like a mantle dropped over the symmetrical hill that upheld the temple. Ivy strangled the building's ancient walls in foot after foot of hairy ropes, dew still glittering on the pointed leaves. And curving above all but the mountains was the great white cupola ribbed with chiseled gold.
His next impression was of smell. Flowers and incense mixed their perfumes into an aroma so ethereal, Eragon felt as if he could live on the scent alone. Last was sound, for despite clumps of priests strolling along mosaic pathways and spacious grounds, the only noise Eragon could discern was the soft thump of a crow's muffled wingbeats overhead.
The dwarf beckoned again and strode down the main avenue toward Celbedeil. As they passed under its eaves, Eragon could only marvel at the wealth and craftsmanship displayed around him. The walls were spotted with gems of every color and cut - though all flawless - and red gold had been hammered into the veins lacing the stone ceilings, walls, and floor. Pearls and silver provided accents. Occasionally, they passed a screen partition carved entirely of jade.
The temple was devoid of cloth decorations. In their absence, the dwarves had carved a profusion of statues, many depicting monsters and deities locked in epic battles. After climbing several floors, they passed through a copper door waxy with verdigris and embossed with intricate, patterned knots into a bare room floored with wood. Armor hung thickly on the walls, along with racks of staff-swords identical to the one Angela had fought with in Farthen Dûr.
Gannel was there, sparring with three younger dwarves. The clan chief's robe was rucked up over his thighs so he could move freely, his face a fierce scowl as the wood shaft spun in his hands, unsharpened blades darting like riled hornets. Two dwarves lunged at him, only to be stymied in a clatter of wood and metal as he spun past them, rapping their knees and heads and sending them to the floor. Eragon grinned as he watched Gannel disarm his last opponent in a brilliant flurry of blows.
At last the clan chief noticed Eragon and dismissed the other dwarves. As Gannel set his weapon on a rack, Eragon said, "Are all Quan so proficient with the blade? It seems an odd skill for priests."
Gannel faced him. "We must be able to defend ourselves, no? Many enemies stalk this land."
Eragon nodded. "Those are unique swords. I've never seen their like, except for one an herbalist used in the battle of Farthen Dûr."
The dwarf sucked in his breath, then let it hiss out between his teeth. "Angela." His expression soured. "She won her staff from a priest in a game of riddles. It was a nasty trick, as we are the only ones allowed to use hûthvírn. She and Arya..." He shrugged and went to a small table, where he filled two mugs with ale. Handing one to Eragon, he said, "I invited you here today at Hrothgar's request. He told me that if you accepted his offer to become Ingeitum, I was to acquaint you with dwarf traditions."
Eragon sipped the ale and kept silent, eyeing how Gannel's thick brow caught the light, shadows dripping down his cheeks from the bony ridge. The clan chief continued: "Never before has an outsider been taught our secret beliefs, nor may you speak of them to human or elf. Yet without this knowledge, you cannot uphold what it means to be knurla. You are Ingeitum now: our blood, our flesh, our honor. You understand?"
"I do."
"Come." Keeping his ale in hand, Gannel took Eragon from the sparring room and conveyed him through five grand corridors, stopping in the archway to a dim chamber hazy with incense. Facing them, the outline of a statue standing from floor to ceiling, a faint light cast across the brooding figure face hacked with uncharacteristic crudeness from brown granite.
"Who is he?" Eragon asked, intimidated.
"Gûntera, King of the Gods. He is a warrior and a scholar, though fickle in his moods, so we burn offerings to assure his affection at the solstices, before sowing, and at deaths and births." Gannel twisted his hand in a strange gesture and bowed to the statue. "It is to him we pray before battles, for he molded this land from the bones of a giant and gives the world its order. All realms are Gûntera's."
Then Gannel instructed Eragon how to properly venerate the god, explaining the signs and words that were used for homage. He elucidated the meaning of the incense - how it symbolized life and happiness - and spent long minutes recounting legends about Gûntera, how the god was born fully formed to a she-wolf at the dawn of stars, how he had battled monsters and giants to win a place for his kin in Alagaësia, and how he had taken Kílf, the goddess of rivers and the sea, as his wife.
Next they went to Kílf's statue, which was carved with exquisite delicacy out of pale blue stone. Her hair flew back in liquid ripples, rolling down her neck and framing merry amethyst eyes. In her hands, she cupped a water lily and a chunk of porous red rock that Eragon did not recognize.
"What is that?" he asked, pointing.
"Coral taken from deep within the sea that borders the Beors."
"Coral?"
Gannel took a draught of ale, then said, "Our divers found it while searching for pearls. It seems that, in brine, certain stones grow like plants."
Eragon stared with wonder. He had never thought of pebbles or boulders as alive, yet here was proof that all they needed was water and salt to flourish. It finally explained how rocks had continued to appear in their fields in Palancar Valley, even after the soil had been combed clean each spring. They grew!
They proceeded to Urûr, master of the air and heavens, and his brother Morgothal, god of fire. At the carmine statue of Morgothal, the priest told how the brothers loved each other so much, neither could exist independently. Thus, Morgothal's burning palace appeared in the sky during the day and the sparks from his forge that flew overhead every night. And also thus, how Urûr constantly fed his sibling's fires with air so he would not die.
Only two more gods were left after that: Sindri - mother of the earth - and Helzvog.
Helzvog's statue was different from the rest. The god was bowed in half over a dwarf-sized lump of gray flint, caressing it with the tip of his forefinger. The muscles of his back bunched and knotted with inhuman strain, yet his expression was incredibly tender, as if a newborn child lay before him.
Gannel's voice dropped to a low rasp: "Gûntera may be King of the Gods, but it is Helzvog who holds our hearts. It was he who felt that the land should be peopled after the giants were vanquished. The other gods disagreed, but Helzvog ignored them and, in secret, formed the first dwarf from the roots of a mountain.
"When his deed was discovered, jealousy swept the gods and Gûntera created elves to control Alagaësia for himself. Then Sindri brought forth humans from the soil, and Urûr and Morgothal combined their knowledge and released dragons into the land. Only Kílf restrained herself. So the first races entered this world."
Eragon absorbed Gannel's words, accepting the clan chief's sincerity but unable to quell a simple question: How does he know? Eragon sensed that it would be an awkward query, however, and merely nodded as he listened.
"This," said Gannel, finishing the last of his ale, "leads to our most important rite, which I know Orik has discussed with you... All dwarves must be buried in stone, else our spirits will never join Helzvog in his hall. We are not of earth, air, or fire, but of stone. And as Ingeitum, it is your responsibility to assure a proper resting place for any dwarf who may die in your company. If you fail - in the absence of injury or enemies - Hrothgar will exile you, and no dwarf will acknowledge your presence until after your death." He straightened his shoulders, staring hard at Eragon. "You have much more to learn, yet uphold the customs I outlined today and you will do well."
"I won't forget," said Eragon. Satisfied, Gannel led him away from the statues and up a winding staircase. As they climbed, the clan chief dipped a hand into his robe and withdrew a simple necklace, a chain threaded through the pommel of a miniature silver hammer. He gave it to Eragon.
"This is another favor Hrothgar asked of me," Gannel explained. "He worries that Galbatorix may have gleaned an image of you from the minds of Durza, the Ra'zac, or any number of soldiers who saw you throughout the Empire."
"Why should I fear that?"
"Because then Galbatorix could scry you. Perhaps he already has."
A shiver of apprehension wormed down Eragon's side, like an ice-riddled snake. I should have thought of that, he berated himself.
"The necklace will prevent anyone from scrying you or your dragon, as long as you wear it. I placed the spell myself, so it should hold before even the strongest mind. But be forewarned, when activated, the necklace will draw upon your strength until you either take it off or the danger has passed."
"What if I'm asleep? Could the necklace consume all my energy before I was aware of it?"
"Nay. It will wake you."
Stopping at a door, Gannel ushered Eragon through to a curved gallery located directly below the cupola. The passageway banded Celbedeil, providing a view through the open archways of the mountains behind Tarnag, as well as the terraced city far below.
Eragon barely glanced at the landscape, for the gallery's inner wall was covered with a single continuous painting, a gigantic narrative band that began with a depiction of the dwarves' creation under Helzvog's hand. The figures and objects stood in relief from the surface, giving the panorama a feeling of hyperrealism with its saturated, glowing colors and minute detail.
Captivated, Eragon asked, "How was this made?"
"Each scene is carved out of small plates of marble, which are fired with enamel, then fitted into a single piece."
"Wouldn't it be easier to use regular paint?"
"It would," Gannel said, "but not if we wanted it to endure centuries - millennia - without change. Enamel never fades or loses its brilliancy, unlike oil paint. This first section was carved only a decade after the discovery of Farthen Dûr, well before elves set foot on Alagaësia."
The priest took Eragon by the arm and guided him along the tableau. Each step carried them through uncounted years of history. Eragon saw how the dwarves were once nomads on a seemingly endless plain, until the land grew so hot and desolate they were forced to migrate south to the Beor Mountains. That was how the Hadarac Desert was formed, he realized, amazed.
As they proceeded down the mural, heading toward the back of Celbedeil, Eragon witnessed everything from the domestication of Feldûnost, to the carving of Isidar Mithrim, the first meeting between dwarves and elves, and the coronation of each new dwarf king. Dragons frequently appeared, burning and slaughtering. Eragon had difficulty restraining comment during those sections.
His steps slowed as the painting shifted to the event he had hoped to find: the war between elves and dragons. Here the dwarves had devoted a vast amount of space to the destruction wreaked upon Alagaësia by the two races. Eragon shuddered with horror at the sight of elves and dragons killing each other. The battles continued for yards, each image more bloody than the last, until the darkness lifted and a young elf was shown kneeling on the edge of a cliff, holding a white dragon egg. "Is that... ?" Eragon whispered.
"Aye, that's Eragon, the First Rider. It's a good likeness too, as he agreed to sit for our artisans."
Drawn forward by his fascination, Eragon studied the face of his namesake. I always imagined him older. The elf had angled eyes that peered down a hooked nose and narrow chin, giving him a fierce appearance. It was an alien face, completely different from his own... and yet the set of his shoulders, high and tense, reminded Eragon of how he had felt upon finding Saphira's egg. We're not so different, you and I, he thought, touching the cool enamel. And once my ears match yours, we shall truly be brothers through time... I wonder, would you approve of my actions? He knew they had made at least one identical choice; they had both kept the egg.
He heard a door open and close and turned to see Arya approaching from the far end of the gallery. She scanned the wall with the same blank expression Eragon had seen her use when confronting the Council of Elders. Whatever her specific emotions, he sensed that she found the situation distasteful. Arya inclined her head. "Grimstborith."
"Arya."
"You have been educating Eragon in your mythology?"
Gannel smiled flatly. "One should always understand the faith of the society that one belongs to."
"Yet comprehension does not imply belief." She fingered the pillar of an archway. "Nor does it mean that those who purvey such beliefs do so for more than... material gain."
"You would deny the sacrifices my clan makes to bring comfort to our brethren?"
"I deny nothing, only ask what good might be accomplished if your wealth were spread among the needy, the starving, the homeless, or even to buy supplies for the Varden. Instead, you've piled it into a monument to your own wishful thinking."
"Enough!" The dwarf clenched his fists, his face mottled. "Without us, the crops would wither in drought. Rivers and lakes would flood. Our flocks would-"
A shadow fell over them, broken only by four glowing needle-thin spots. Eragon smiled weakly; it was Kiphoris. And Ikharos, too. The Shadeslayer stepped around the Eliksni Captain, studying the wall with broad fascination. "Is this your history?"
Gannel nodded quickly, smiling thinly. "It is, indeed." He shot Arya an irritated look. "From our creation to the present."
Ikharos stilled before the image of the war between elves and dragons. Then, slowly, he turned to face Gannel and said, "My name is Gvîsthrun."
Eragon frowned and was about to ask if he heard correctly, but then he caught a glance of the priest. Gannel paled considerably. His mouth fell open in an 'O' of surprise. He uttered no word as he fell to his knees. Not a sound came from him.
Eragon didn't dare speak. Something was happening, but he didn't know what. All he knew was that it was important. Arya must have shared the same sentiment, for she kept her silence as well. She only watched, like he.
"Oh psekisk," Ikharos muttered. He frowned. "I've broken him."
Kiphoris swatted his arm. "You fool."
"What?" Ikharos turned on him, his voice coloured with exasperation. "Don't tell me this is my fault! How was I to know it breaks minds?"
Eragon inhaled quickly. He looked at Gannel worriedly. Breaks minds?!
"You..." The priest whispered. "You... are here!"
Kiphoris and Ikharos dropped their budding argument. "Yeah," the latter said. His eyes briefly met Eragon's. They were not filled with malice, but sincere confusion. "Did I say it wrong? I'm supposed to say my name. And that my name is, apparently, Gvîsthrun."
"You!" Gannel surged upwards and grabbed Ikharos's hand. The Shadeslayer stiffened and his free hand shot to an ivory object attached to his waist. Beside him, Kiphoris growled warningly, but it fell on deaf ears. Another pair of priests, armed with weapons, had appeared at the other end of the gallery. They peered at Ikharos suspiciously.
"He is Gvîsthrun!" Gannel called to them.
The priests dropped their weapons and knelt reverently.
Gannel tugged Ikharos forward, but the wizard didn't budge. "Come, noble Gvîsthrun!" The priest urged him. "We must present to you your birthright!" Ikharos allowed himself to be dragged on. Kiphoris followed close behind. "No!" Gannel's face changed from one of sheer bliss to affronted anger. "Outsiders cannot-"
"He's with me," Ikharos interjected. Gannel bowed his head and offered not further resistance. The wizard and Captain were guided down the gallery at startling speed. Arya followed some ways behind. Eragon almost called her out, but curiosity quickly overrode his concern, so he did the same.
Gannel led them down a winding staircase to a chamber located beneath the temple. The huge smooth metal doors were barred and four priests stood guard, but a mention of that word, "Gvîsthrun", had them scurrying out of the way. Gannel and his clansmen strained to unlock and push the door open, but they managed it in the end. The room beyond was cast in darkness. A dwarf was sent to fetch lanterns and returned moments later.
Ikharos hadn't waited. He lifted a hand full of bright, crackling flames and went right in, Kiphoris with him. Gannel trailed behind, head lowered. Eragon heard the clan chief muttering prayers.
What is happening? He thought worriedly. Arya, stern-faced, went after the wizard with a werelight in hand. Eragon opted to go with her.
The inside was unlike anything he'd ever seen. The walls, ceiling, and floor were of bare steel, but forged and fitted with such skill that he could not find a fault in any of the surfaces. The room was wide and tall enough that Saphira could have stood within at full height, stretched out her wings, and still have room. It was, however, completely empty. Nothing waited within besides dust and cobwebs.
The chamber ended at a massive chasm. Eragon could only scarcely make out the other side, where more metal floor continued onwards into darkness. Below, the abyss went on and on forever with no bottom in sight. The total silence of the place was chilling. Eragon felt out of place. He was treading somewhere mortals were not supposed to go.
A walkway extended a few metres out over the chasm. It too was made of steel. When Ikharos approached it, the walkway began to crackle with static, much like an Eliksni blade. Lightning, bright and quick, fizzled along the walkway.
Ikharos turned about. "What is this place?!" He demanded, barely audibly over the roar of thunder.
Gannel prostrated himself before the wizard. "The Forge of Helzvog!"
Kiphoris pulled something from his bandolier and tossed it across the chasm. Lightning suddenly raced from the walkway and destroyed it in a pulse of blinding light.
"Barrier!" The Eliksni called out. He sent Ikharos a pointed look. "Can you cross?!"
"Maybe!" Ikharos boldly stepped onto the thin walkway and strolled to the end. Lightning pulsed and ran up his legs, but he didn't outwardly react. Eragon watched, disbelieving; the man had to be in immense pain. Ikharos reached the end, where the lightning was most powerful. His entire body was alight with static. He looked across, raised his hands... and he was gone. The lightning destroyed him. An electrified cloud lifted from where he had been standing.
Eragon gasped. The Shadeslayer was annihilated. Nothing remained of him.
Then, inexplicably, the energy within the walkway shattered and dissipated. The lightning arced from the conductive metal and reached to the other side of the chasm. It stopped in midair, filling the air with roaring static, and gave shape to the form of a man. The being was soon materialized in flesh, cloth, and metal.
It was Ikharos. His very form pulsed with bluish-white power.
The air stilled. The sound of the condensed storm faded away. The burning smell remained, but it lessened in strength. Eragon gawked at the wizard on the other side. How is he alive?!
Ikharos walked on, heedless of the shock he'd instilled in everyone present. He disappeared into the darkness waiting beyond and left Eragon's sight altogether.
000
The mass influx of Arc energy was rejuvenating. Ikharos's exhaustion faded away as the lightning imbued him with recharged Light.
"I'm saying it now," he muttered, "this is a Stormcaller's laboratory."
"Probably," Xiān agreed. "Let's just hope this doesn't turn out like the tomb."
The second half of the Forge was more rewarding than the first. Ikharos reckoned the place they'd left behind was just the welcoming mat - and the Arc barrier was the front door, locked up tight to keep out the woodland pests. What he found filled him with confidence and a hunger for learning: storage lockers, crates, terminals, bookshelves, a glass dome casing with a shard of black metal within, a broken 55-30 janitorial Frame, and a clean desk upon which rested a single lonely datapad.
"You know the drill."
Xiān grumbled, phased into existence, and powered the long-dead datapad up. "Have at it," she said.
Day 753: The war will result in a definitive loss for the Strife Cult. Despite the ontological nature of the Wish-Wyrms, their infected status seemingly nullifies, or at least hampers, their pets' offensive capabilities. We have been dismantling the Cult's forces with startling efficiency. The single-minded drive and resilience of our Labourer allies has allowed us to shake off whatever ploys the Wish-Wyrms have set and slay them in scores. Considering our current progress, I estimate the conflict will end within three native stellar years.
Dutifully,
Hezran-4, Monochromatic Initiate #112
Day 772: Gunther found the Origin Vector. Alone. He proceeded to engage it in combat, against my clear instructions. I should reprimand him, but I'm just glad he's alive. My running hypothesis was that the Origin Vector infects through close proximity, but biological scans and spectral analysis of Gunther prove that to be false. I must exchange notes with AI/COM/SCIPIO. He may have the answers I seek.
Dutifully,
Hezran-4, Monochromatic Initiate #112
Day 773: Revised hypothesis remains much the same, but [O] energy is incompatible with type(i)-infection. [O] energy is Light. More specifically, the Light of the Traveler. Type(i)-infection is an opposing force to Light. The nature of the infection is not to warp Light, but to destroy it. They are incompatible on a base level. I theorize that this may be the objective of the Strife Cult. They unwittingly follow the nature of type(i)-infection in attempting to destroy all objects bearing the mark of [O] energy.
Our Light is an immune system. Gunther is uninfected. This is good news. We may be able to destroy the Strife Cult more quickly than I envisioned.
Unfortunately, Origin Vector escaped Gunther. But he brought me something. He says he took a notch out of Origin Vector's primary weapon - a spear of all things. The resulting shard possesses numerous unconventional properties. I cannot identify the material. It's not on the periodic table, leading me to assume paracausal properties are inherent in its construction. I will begin spectral analysis immediately.
Dutifully,
Hezran-4, Monochromatic Initiate #112
Day 775: The shard - which will be henceforth referred to as Artefact-OV1S - is intrinsically linked to a variety of type(i)-infection with incredible potential. It exudes a force capable of causing the slowing or even a complete cessation of movement on a microscopic and atomic level. In short: it exudes control over the passing of time. I now firmly believe that Origin Vector's weapon is the cause for the temporal anomaly encapsulating Kepler-186f.
We always drew a connection between the anomaly and the Strife Cult, considering it only commenced upon their arrival, but this exceeds my expectations. And it bodes poorly for our efforts. Looking at what I've discovered, I conclude we are not winning the war. They are merely biding their time. I won't let this happen. I shall inform my compatriots immediately.
We will break them.
Dutifully,
Hezran-4, Monochromatic Initiate #112
Day 791: Calamity struck, but we have prepared accordingly for such an occurrence.
The Labourers, our ever helpful assistants, have been supportive in our war against the Strife Cult. The Harmony have given up their claim on the Labourers - not that they had much left. I suspect they are attempting to save face and please us. It will not work. Regardless, we cannot commit to brash action where the Harmony are concerned. They still retain control over the Warriors and the Enhancers, whom we still need. Neither can we underestimate their alliance with Scipio. The Warmind remains the most powerful force on the planet, despite his causal limitations. He is the god to which we all offer our prayers.
Back to the a more pressing matter: the calamity. Three Labourers, soldiers on the forefront of our territory, were subjected to type(i)-infection. Considering Origin Vector was last seen to the south of our current position, we assume this to be the work of Vector Two - designation: Ezyrax. She has thus far escaped capture and evaded all further engagement.
We were fortunate in that Uren and Kelf were nearby to apprehend the infected Labourers before they could cause further harm. Fifteen Labourer lives were lost and many more severely injured. The infected have been given over to me for study. Kelf's staying. I suspect Gunther wants to know how to kill these entities, should further infected present a new threat.
I love him. He gives me all the best toys.
My first examinations were overly hasty, but I have learned much. Type(i)-infection results in a change of pigment of the skin, irises, and hair of victims. Skin turns pale as to resemble a recently-deceased corpse, hair turns the exact colour of blood correlating to that of homo sapien sapiens, and eyes go a slightly different shade of red. Hair samples reveal traces of haemoglobin. Irises convert to a similar shade, though this is a result of a lack of pigmentation, allowing the colour of red blood cells within to stand out and thus leading to the red appearance. The cause behind the skin pigment is beyond my understanding - illness perhaps? Does the body know its been compromised? Or is the type(i)-infection eating all the vitality of these former Labourers.
I have decided to go forth with the dissection of an infected individual. I have three of them; what does it matter if one dies prematurely? I placed II-1 on the laboratory table and began immediately. I did not administer anesthesia, as I wanted to see how resilient these infected truly are.
Note: II-1 was formerly a Labourer male, approximately thirty-seven years of age.
My first cuts resulted in a spill of both blood that is identical to that of Labourers and a gaseous substance that I have identified as the material form of type(i)-infection. It is, however, harmless to even the most causal of beings. Its malevolent charge has been used up on the infected individual.
Imagine my surprise when the wounds I inflicted rapidly recovered at an inhuman rate. This has excited me. In a fit of unprofessional giddiness, I tested II-1's capacity for healing and, in the heat of the moment, I prematurely killed him by causing irreparable damage to the cervical spine. II-1 instantaneously disintegrated by means unknown. Seven minutes and thirty-three seconds later, my ever-vigilant assistants warned me of II-1's resurrection and materialization in the neighbouring chamber. II-1 attempted to inflict further casualties, but Kelf disabled and apprehended him. I suspect she is not pleased. Her words to me when returning the creature were not kind.
In efforts to discontinue such troublesome events, my Ghost and I set in place an Arc barrier around my laboratory. I have instructed my assistants to leave for fear of their safety should my infected attempt to escape once more. If they ressurect again, then they won't be able to leave. My barrier will shock them into unconsciousness. The only way to disable it would be to destroy me. And if that is their aim, I will be ready for them.
Dutifully,
Hezran-4, Monochromatic Initiate #112
Day 792: My first discovery: the initial consciousness of the infected Labourer was destroyed upon contracting the type(i)-infection. The current entity, whose sole aim appears to be the killing of other sentient organisms, is not of those Labourer. It is type(i)-infection given the capacity to think. If it can be considered thinking. They are cunning creatures, that I will admit, but their cunning is short-sighted.
My second discovery: destruction of the heart, either through impalement or crushing, results in complete and total death of the infected individual. I have attempted this on both II-1 and II-2 with resounding success. Gunther will be pleased to know that these mockeries can be destroyed.
I suspect that the similar capabilities of these entities to our kind is not coincidence. I theorize that something, perhaps even Origin Vector, sought to imitate us.
II-3 is just like her brethren: stronger and faster than the average Labourer and capable of self-resurrection. I believe I have learned all I could. As much as I want to test infected individuals whenever a new hypothesis strikes me, Kelf has reminded me of the security risk. Thus I shall terminate II-3 too.
Dutifully,
Hezran-4, Monochromatic Initiate #112
Day 814: The Harmony have reached out to us. While they still refuse to allow us command over the Warriors and Enhancers, they have allowed us use of their Bishops. These Wish-Wyrms are yet uninfected, or so they claim. Sindral has spoken out against their presence within our militia, but I have devised an initiation programme that should single out any who seek to hide their infected status. I have also prepared a tutorial for my fellows and the Labourers on avoiding the bite of these Bishops. We will see how effective this proves.
Dutifully,
Hezran-4, Monochromatic Initiate #112
Day 815: Success, once again. The Wish-Wyrms are ours. They will prove a significant advantage in our war with the Strife Cult. Our opposition uses their Wyrms only for their physical abilities. We will do better - we will take advantage of the paracausal potential these Bishops promise.
Dutifully,
Hezran-4, Monochromatic Initiate #112
Day 817: An infected Wyrm was exposed. It was quickly terminated by both Morgan and another Wyrm named Merenos. Immediately after we cleared Merenos. He was not infected. He has since refused to leave Morgan's side. My erstwhile friend does not mind; I think he enjoys having a pet Bishop.
Dutifully,
Hezran-4, Monochromatic Initiate #112
Day 834: The war progresses. Origin Vector is finally committing to fully-fledged battles. We have taken the lead in the war, but my comrades and I are forced to spread out to defend our territory. I do not like this. The Labourers have split their forces to accommodate this. I have taken sanctuary in my old laboratory. It is a good place to fight, I think.
Dutifully,
Hezran-4, Monochromatic Initiate #112
Day 837: Morgan and Uren need my help. They are almost overrun.
Dutifully,
Hezran-4, Monochromatic Initiate #112
Day 838: Morgan is dead. My friend is dead. I am going to kill them all.
Day 839: The Harmony are in retreat. The Strife Cult has them scurrying back to Scipio's protection.
Day 841: The storm has agreed to support us. I will hold them to their word.
Day 844: I own the skies. The storm and I have combined our might. Dead Wyrms fall from the sky like rain. It is beautiful. But it is not enough. The Strife Cult must suffer.
Day 871: Kelf and Gunther have taken sanctuary within the southern mountains. The war has turned. Military Exos hunt us in the night. We have to send away our Labourer allies for fear that they might be infected and turned against us.
Day 873: Gunther is dead. Origin Vector ripped through the mountain to reach him. Kelf is beside herself with anger. She's hurting. There is a reason our kind should avoid relationships of an amorous nature.
Day 875: Uren is up north. He's tracking Vector Two. He told us with a coded message. I think he is going to die. I cannot lose another friend.
We don't know where Sindral is.
Day 890: Sindral was with Scipio and the Harmony. The latter are almost entirely gone. Scipio is diminished. He's enacting last-ditch defensive protocols. The colonists have been released, but most of them are dead now.
Sindral's going west with the Enhancers and Warriors and the treasures of the Exodus Prime. Humanity will survive. It must.
Day 896: I'm here again. My old laboratory. I still have the Artefact-OV1S. I cannot allow the Strife Cult to reclaim it. I suspect it may be the key to our victory. To salvation from this terrible mess. I will leave it here, along with all my personal effects. Kelf and I are planning to go north. We need to find Uren.
This may be my last entry. The Wyrms tell me that the war will not be so simply lost. I hope they're right, yet I can't find it in myself to believe them. I have discussed contingency plans with them, but all they tell me is to wait.
I cannot wait. I must go. I am certain it will mean my death. This is not what I wanted, but I see no other choice. We came here to escape the four-armed beasts and our own kind. We came as refugees - and still we became soldiers. This was not what we wanted.
I miss home.
Dutifully,
Hezran-4, Monochromatic Initiate #112
Day 2,347,639: To the far north, where little life prevails, is the fortress of Albazad. She is there. Ezyrax, Consort of Nezarec. She is his physical representative in the material plane. Her glaive is stained with this world's blood.
Hezran is gone.
Kelf is compromised.
Sindral is lost.
I have attached to this a copy of the Strife Cult's holy scripture, translated and uploaded. This is who we fight. This is who we must defeat.
In the heart of the Enhancer forest I have buried a material cache. Either I will reclaim it or another, one capable of making it through Hezran's lingering Light, will.
I put my trust in Dr Halleen. She will know what to do. If you oppose the Cult, trust her.
Dutifully,
U.
(Warning: Contents may contain sensitive information)
(Access: Granted)
Sing of Horror.
Sing, o Harmonic kin mine, of the great war we waged against that-we-could-not-emulate, could not understand, could not treat with under terms of peace in any manner. Sing of their violent refusals of our offerings, the beautiful incantras encased in sleek formless diamonds they scoffed so derisively at. Sing of the dragons who roared and bellowed with rage, the grand bishops of the beautiful Wish, who died in chitin-barred cells, food for Worms.
Sing of Sorrow.
Sing, o Melodious egg-mates mine, of the friends we lost atop the great Flotilla, those captured by cold metal or terrible claws. Sing of how they sought to defend our Gift-Mast, working alongside the polar jets upon which we lanced many a Witch. Sing of their failure to hold back the great waves from Deep. Sing of the doomed legacy left by a cruel god who damned us to this fate, who abandoned us to hold firm in the face of an unstoppable tide. All will crash upon the rocks that are their swords, he said to we.
Sing of Loss.
Sing, o Haunting choir mine, of Ana-Harmony, lost to those converted to the wills of the invaders, to the victors who see what path MUST be walked. Sing of those who joined me in leaking canoes across the whirlpool of war, we who paddled to the edge as submarines and battleships swirled and traded blows all around us. Sing of the great golden admiral, an Emperor who drinks from a star-wrought goblet, who pointed to us the way forward.
"Go, my directionless friends!" He bade us in his chuckling voice. "Find the end-of-all-things and grow fat upon truth!"
Sing of Pain.
Sing, o Faithful family mine, to our salvation. Sing of me as you pass into the Black Edge. Sing as your skin of silvered steel becomes my spear, my harpoon by which I will lead this orchestra of agony. Sing as my horns grow and my body strengthens. Sing as the reality upon which we crawl, we displaced songbirds of the Garden, is revealed to my sight. Sing as your suffering becomes your salvation.
Sing of Sacrifice.
Sing, o Neophytes mine, of me as your very beings are torn asunder. Sing of Nezarec, hated by all, cherished by none, tasked with the Silencing of Song. The Deep demands it. The King demands it. The War demands it. The Witch demands it. I must carry out this noble purpose and bring this din of mismatched noise to an end.
Ikharos put the datapad down and stared at it for a solid minute. His thoughts were in disarray. Whatever faint glimmer of hope he'd held onto was gone.
"Damn," he said eventually, voice blank with numb realization. He said it again, if only because he didn't have anything else to say. "Damn."
000
Tarrhis awoke with a snarl on his tongue, but he kept it at bay upon seeing Raksil's visage. He reached out and grasped his son's shoulder gently. "What is it?"
"Etiiris has cracked them open!" Raksil blurted.
It took Tarrhis a moment to understand what was being said. He pushed away from the tree he had been resting against and blinked rapidly at the glare of the evening light. "He has?"
"Eia, father. He is prepared to open them on your word."
Tarrhis chuckled darkly. "Then I bid him to do so. These cowardly metal-kin will hold no sanctuary from us. Not even their minds will be safe. Bring me to him."
Raksil led him through the temporary camp to where the Splicers had set up their makeshift workshop. He encountered his Captains on the way. Sundrass was quiet, but Palkra was full of smiles and laughs. He was excited. The Pikeman looked forward to his next posting. He was a creature who desired nothing more than the freedom to ride, and leaving Tarrhis's shadow would allow him to do just that. Tarrhis knew all about his subordinate's urgings, but he did not care. It was not his responsibility anymore. This was Kiphoris's ploy. And if the Dreamer had planned poorly, it would mean his arms.
"Come with me," Tarrhis ordered of them. They arrived at the workshop, where Etiiris beamed up at Tarrhis. The splicer held up one of the metal discs up high.
"Mine-Baron!" He cried. "I have done it!"
"Show me their secrets," Tarrhis ordered. "Show me their knowledge."
Etiiris beckoned forth a Sentry Servitor. The automaton opened up a side panel and allowed the Splicer to insert the disc into a dataport. Then, they waited.
The Servitor cast a hologram before it. It was weak and distorted, but the shapes of more mechanical humans were clear to see. They spoke in the human tongue. Tarrhis gritted his fangs; they would need to either contact Kiphoris for a translation or make use of the glossator technology he'd left behind. Both would take time.
"Ah," Etiiris' smile fell. "Their secrets will have to wait a little longer. My apologies, Tarrhis-Mrelliks. I had presumed that-"
The purple Void glow of the Servitor's eye inexplicably turned red. The hologram deactivated as it swiveled about, and Tarrhis had no time to shout a warning before it blasted a pulse of energy. Etiiris was destroyed, left as little more than ash and smoking exoskeleton.
With a roar, Tarrhis drew his polished blade and ran the deranged machine through. The Servitor let out a shrill digital scream as it died, and the red glow in its eye faded away. It slammed onto the forest floor with a resounding bang.
The shocked silence was soon broken by panicked chatter.
"CEASE!" Sundrass bellowed. Quiet flooded back in. "Stall all efforts! Those discs are cursed!"
Tarrhis stared at the downed Servitor. A cold feeling snuck into his heart. It was a trap. The assassins had laid traps in their own minds.
"Father?" Raksil asked worriedly.
With a shudder, Tarrhis shoved the Servitor off his sword and faced his people. "Discontinue any and all attempts to break their minds. They are too dangerous." His voice was slow with shock and hoarse with underlying exhaustion. "Gather Etiiris's remains. Alert Drotos. Burn the Servitor."
AN: Thanks to Nomad Blue for editing!