Book II, Ch. 14— "WAKE THE PORTALS"
Just wrote this.
“YYYYYOU IMBECILE!” screamed the Lich.
He launched some thing, some heavy thing, whatever was close, through the air. It struck the unlucky bad news bearer, some sweaty boy of seventeen.
The messenger held his helmet in both his trembling hands, and used it to block the heavy something out of the air.
Then there was a second thing, and a third thing. Each came with a roar.
“OUT!”
The messenger obliged, fleeing the room.
Ten soldiers, a doctor, and the Death Knight stood around, watching.
“OUT, ALL OF YOU!”
Nervous glances bounced around, none of them wanting to be the first to move.
“I SAID—!”
The Lich launched another gilded idol, then an ash tray, then he ran out of things to launch.
By then, the soldiers had caught on, and begun shuffling out of the room.
The doctor shuffled out with them, hands and robe stained with the Lich’s blood.
Lightning cracked.
Not you, the Death Knight’s unvoice said to the doctor.
His eye sockets were sewn shut, and both eyes were beady blue flames with a coursing purple center.
Thunder roiled.
The doctor froze, and looked from the Death Knight to the Lich. “Who…? But… he said to—”
“Dammit, Darr!” sneered the Lich, turning his wrath on the Death Knight. “Which one of us is King, here?!”
You, master.
“Is it?” said the Lich. Blood seeped from his severed stump of a leg, and he gripped it as he glared at his eldritch servant. “Is it me?”
The doctor turned quietly, muttering, “I-I-I’ll j-just let myself o—”
STAY, the Death Knight flared. His blue eyes pulsed bright purple, and the doctor felt his whole spine tense up. The doctor stumbled and fell to the floor.
“Because I!” the Lich continued, not even paying attention to the doctor writhing on the floor, spine clenching and spasming. “I! Was under the impression! That the person who gave the ORDERS was the one who was IN CHARGE!”
Yes, master, rumbled the Death Knight.
“Don’t YES MASTER me, you dolt! You bottom-feeder! You sorry excuse for a suckerfish pawn! I’d rather be flayed fresh than treated like a ch—”
The Lich coughed, interrupting himself. He coughed, and he coughed, and he coughed ’til he bled.
WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR, the Death Knight roared. The Death Knight’s eyes flared from purple, toward red, and the doctor writhed. The man’s mouth screamed silently.
“Can’t!” the doctor tried to say. “Can’t, I—! I—! Ah, uh…. Please…”
The Death Knight released his victim. The beady, beaming candle flames dimmed back to pale blue.
The doctor limped over to the Lich, as fast as his cramping flesh would let him. Still caught in the coughing fit, the Lich let himself be attended.
“Here, here,” muttered the doctor, as much to himself as anything. He tightened the tourniquet around the Lich’s thigh, and dabbed the gushing blood with a clean cotton towel.
When the coughing stopped, the Lich looked twice his years, and that was saying something. His skin was even paler than before, and the wisps of greasy hair and greasy beard were red with spittle.
Well? said the Death Knight. The doctor almost detected worry in the eery unvoice that scraped against his psyche.
“Well…” said the doctor. “He… This is b-b-beyond my… I… You may need to call upon a—”
I thought that there was no one better?
“No human better, my lord.” The doctor swallowed nervously. “Perhaps you… I mean, it may be w-w-w-wise to c-c-call upon an… An Orcish healer, my lord; there are none better in matters of healing; I know that they are not to my liege’s liking, but—”
The Death Knight struck the man so hard, he died on the spot.
The Lich burst out in laughter. His bloody lips parted in a giddy, almost childlike grin.
“Good form, Darr!” praised the Lich. He licked his lips. “Good form… The fool has found his fate.”
Mm, grunted Darr, staring blankly at the doctor’s corpse.
“I’ll need a new body,” the Lich said. “Call your generals, Darr. Disperse them, and have them find the girl.”
Forgive me, master, but perhaps we should find you another host. Your time is—
“There is no other,” the Lich snapped. “We both know that.”
This vessel may not make it, if we seek the girl out.
“Then let me dwindle, hostless,” the Lich said, only half joking. The eye coursed with lightning.
Never, promised Darr.
The Lich smiled sadly. “Well… we’ll see. Let me sleep now, Darr. Oh, and send one of those cowards in with some water… I grow… thirsty.”
Darr looked at the Lich.
Yes, master.
* * * * / * * * *
The Death Knight swept into the hallway, walked quickly and with a purpose. He did not stop as he gave the soldiers orders.
You, bring master a glass of water, but spike it with sleeproot. You, go to the lizard pit and fetch a healer.
The soldier was confused. “A—? Wait, an… orc, my lord?”
Yes, you fool. A healer, and a good one. Promise them freedom, pay them a death. But only after they have taken care of Master Misos.
Y-y-yes, my lord. Right away, my lord.”
The man went hastily away.
You, Darr said to another man. Send message to each fortress, post, and library.
“By bird, my lord? Or by—”
Must I tell you how to shut your eyes as well? Have it done, and quickly! NOW!
The man turned so fast, he stumbled, and his spear clattered out of his hands. The tip chipped against the wet stone floor. The man picked it up, and went whimpering hastily away, in the direction of the Lich’s rookery.
The Death Knight turned down a hall.
Somebody ready my wyverns!
“Yes, my lord!” some clumsy sword whined. “Your wyvern, right away my lord!”
Five wyverns!
“Five?”
The Death Knight spared that particular moron, simply striding away, down the hall that led into the heart of the pyramid.
The ceiling grew taller, but the walls narrowed in. Lightning flashed, but its light couldn’t reach them, and the thunder was more distant now.
He came to a chamber, dimly aware that there were other soldiers following him in. Three of them. He stopped, so they stopped. He turned, and they looked up at him.
The three soldiers looked up at him. One was brawny, brown haired, with a beard specked with red. His brown eyes went to his companions, on his right and his left.
“W-w-we were…” he began. Then he looked back up at the Death Knight. “Would you…? Would you like us to—?”
Leave.
They obliged.
Finally, Darr was alone. The hall loomed all close, closing the space in around him. He thought of Misos, face fixed in a scream, clutching the stump that once was his leg.
Foul flesh, grumbled Darr. There was no one to feel the air shake in the grip of his wrath.
He thought of the girl.
Soon, master.
Darr turned, and continued down the hall.
Soon.
Deeper.
There, in a large, round central chamber, were 10 altars. Four of the altars were full of bones, all piled up on colored robes. Each pile of bones had a weapon or wand, and three were piled up with some armor.
It’s time, the Death Knight said.
Little flecks of lightning cracked over each item.
My generals, he said.
Green shocks danced on the knotted spear of Sickness.
Gold shocks did the same around old Famine’s scythe.
A grey bolt flowed laps across Poverty’s bow,
And it robbed all the color that touched its grey light.
The fourth of the piles of lightning-touched bones
Glowed red, red as War, red as thirsty day’s touch.
Red shocks forked across the old bone armor’s surface,
And they hissed as he woke them.
It is time to arise.
In each of their skulls, where their eyes would take root,
Little candle flames woke in each color.
Green, gold, grey, and red,
As the blue of the Death Knight
Burned purple and true.
To the corners, we go. For each portal must wake.
To the slakeless and desparate. To the sand. To the lake.
Slinch— the green eyes flickered, sly. Wake the portal of Gandodjerh. Bring with you a plague.
The armor assembled itself into the shape of a Knight. It took its staff-spear in both corpsed hands, and stalked past the Death Knight.
Kugril— the gold eyes flickered, nervous. Wake the portal of Nur. Bring the fools of that jungle a famine.
The pile of golden bones rolled past, assembling itself as it went.
Omka-om— the greyscale flame flickered, lazy. Wake the portal of Zhuk. Remind them how much jewels are really worth.
The undead form of Poverty was slow to form itself, but Darr…
…waited…
…until the limping steps were well away, then gone.
The Death Knight turned his eyeless gaze to the pile of red bones.
As for you… There is another task. Will you wake?
The red shocks accelerated, though the skull’s eyes still sat flameless.
Don’t make this difficult. Another task. An important task. Don’t you want to know?
The Death Knight waited. Nothing.
Important. Truly. Another set of bones.
Two little red candleflames pulsed, as if from far away.
Another set of bones, to add to… master’s collection.
…Whhhhho? the armor asked. I must knnnnow… whhho…
I think you already do, rumbled Darr.
The armor seemed to think about it, confused at first. Then a spark flew, and it hissed…
…Hhhher?
That’s right, said Darr.
The Death Knight sent a thought. It was an image thought, a thousand images. Images of mirrors went into the armor’s smokedrift sentience— Mirrors and stars, and dreams between, an abstract quilt of desire and memory and dismay.
Hhher…
He saw her. He felt her as much as he saw her. The bone remembered the mirror goddess. Remembered her sister, the shadow. Remember how they bound him, cut him up, then sent him under the ground.
Yes, her, said Darr.
The armor hungered, waking without deciding to. Hungered for…
You’re free to feast upon her power, promised Darr, and when you bring me back her shards… I will lay them next to you.
And thhhhhen…?
The Death Knight shrugged his corpse-vessel’s shoulders. It was meant to look nonchalant, but the gesture was badly done, and the bone armor was still dreaming of mirrors.
Whhhhat thhhen? the armor asked. Its eyes were kindling awake now.
The shape of your revenge? Is yours to decide.
The room grew hot.
Now, said Darr. Will you wake?
The red lightning intensified…
Good.
…as the body of War assembled itself.
And when you get there, will you w—?
Yessss, yessss, I’ll wake the door… And whhhere will youuuu be going?
Darr’s eyes flickered. His sword dimmed with them. He turned.
Back to Master’s side.
* * * * / * * * *
Nala continued to sulk.
Though she was by far the most fit in the fellowship of night, she lagged behind, thinking of Blinker, and her family, and regretting the whole expedition.
It was on their fifth night of travel that they came upon an inn, a little tavern. It was daybreak, and they were all tired from a long night’s walk.
“Thank goodness!” Kaye cried when they saw it. He sprinted down the path, carving through the mountain trail.
“Hey, wait up!” cried Paka. Both Paka’s Neiumese and his stamina seemed to be getting worse as the nights went on. Though they hardly ate anything at all, he was still a portly orc, taller than tall, and easily winded. Rowan stayed back with him, and Nala lagged badly, sulking far behind the rest of the party.
“You coming?” Rowan asked. The human girl had learned a couple words of Orcish, with hardly any accent at all.
“You go ahead!” Nala shouted, gesturing.
Rowan and Paka frowned at each other, but still they went on.
Nala was grateful. Once again, she considered sneaking out while everyone was asleep. She knew she wouldn’t do it, but she was always considering it now. She wanted to find Blinker.
Mountains hemmed in the building on three sides. Framing the entrance, two flags were stuck into the ground. The flags were just strips of pale linen, edges burned, colors faded. An old sign swung above the door, caked and splattered in mud.
The sign said:
The GREYSIDE
Nala looked up at it, and tried to make out the letters.
“Ugru below,” she muttered allowed. “Time has not been kind to you.”
The wind gathered, and rocked the sign a little.
She looked at the door. If I’m gonna leave, she thought, then here’s my chance.
Nala stood there, looking down. Deciding. She could almost hear the ghosts. They hummed and moaned, from the other side of the singed door.
Here’s my chance, she thought. They don’t need me. They’ll be fine.
She thought of Paka, out there on the road. Helpless.
She thought of Kaye, and his temper.
She thought of Rowan, perhaps not helpless, but afraid. Always so afraid.
And not one of them with magic, about to cross through Wartribe country.
What help am I going to be? Nala asked herself.
Her little voice was not there for her. Not this time. Nothing answered. The question hung there, gaining weight, as she stood there at the door of the Greyside.
“What help am I gonna be?” she asked aloud. It was just a mutter, but some part of her wished that Paka had heard her. Then, perhaps he would ask, “What? What do you mean? Of course you’ll help!” Or maybe he would scold her and say, “Good riddance! May we never meet again!”
She stood there for a long, long time, unsure of many things. Unsure of how she to share the things she felt, or even what the feelings were. Unsure of what to do. Unsure.
* * * * / * * * *
(Art by Thomas Cargen, who I met right here on Substack.)
GIFT SHOP
1. Hats & Hoodies
2. ORC LORE— Poetry about the Gods
3. 8bit Music for Moonthread
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The way you end this, painting Nala's painful indecision, is tangible. I have felt this immobilizing indecision, and it is so anxious, so suffocating. You painted this well.