Shadow Rogue Ascendant

by Mike Truk

  Still, the sight of the rising sun over the swamps was sufficiently stunning that I slowed to a stop as the curvature of the hill gave way to the vast spread of hinterlands. The sky above the flat horizon had lightened to a soft gray that gradated to the darkness of night in the west, and the high cirrus clouds were teased into view by the nascent light which painted their undersides a soft white that even as I watched was shading toward yellow.

  The swamp itself was staggeringly vast. It literally spread as far as I could see in every direction, a great and nearly perfectly flat expanse of rumpled darkness whose highest hillocks and rare twisted tree were just now catching the sparse light from the horizon.

  “To think,” said Pogo, adjusting his spectacles as he stepped up alongside me, “that here was birthed the first of my kind, and that I am physiologically no different - personal idiosyncrasies aside - from the first goblins who hunted amidst the mire hundreds of thousands of years ago.”

  “Hundreds of thousands?” I asked. “How do you know that?”

  He shrugged. “I prefer specific numbers to such grandiose terms as ‘time immemorial.’ But regardless. Here my people grew and formed tribes and lived and died for millennia. Until the svartens arrived from the south, driven in turn by some greater calamity that forced them north in the tens of thousands. My people fought, adapted, but also finally were pushed out of the swamps to the far north, and there began our great diaspora that seeded my kind across all of Khansalon.” He shook his head in wonder. “Incredible.”

  “Huh,” I said, sounding very erudite and sophisticated in the process. “I thought goblins had always just kind of been there. You know. Lurking and doing goblinish things.”

  “Not so. At least, not according to certain diviner wizards who have plumbed the depths of time and sought to learn the mysteries of civilization. I spoke to one such in Olandipolis once, oh, a decade past. Paid him thirty crowns to view my ancient cousins step forth from the swamps oh so long ago, the very first tribes to tread on firm ground and head north. What a remarkable experience. The memory still gives me chills.”

  The rays of the sun were now picking out more details. Entire swathes of the swamp appeared to be little more than an endless plain of knee-high grass, all of it a uniform yellow hue. Here and there hillocks or humps arose, sporting riotous growths of bushes and wizened trees. Amongst all this spread the waterways like the spaces between a shattered sheet of glass, an endless maze of dully gleaming streams and canals that seemed to spread toward the horizon without rhyme or reason, without current or any sense of movement.

  “Doesn’t look so bad,” I said.

  “From here?” Pogo snorted. “It looks pleasant. But there’s a reason my kind has such thick skin and the ability to close our nostrils and ears as well as our mouths and eyes.”

  “I… don’t actually want to know what that reason is,” I said, sensing the impatience of my friends behind us. “C’mon. Sun’s arising.”

  We followed the path around the hill and saw a great porch as Elsa had called it spread before a flat cliff carved into the hillside. A good couple of hundred people were gathered, most of whom sat on raised amphitheater seating along the closest two sides to the cliff, while a great mass of people stood in a semicircle along the back.

  All of them were gazing at the assembled teams who stood in the center of the porch, but my eyes were drawn to the cliff face itself, which exuded a sense of antiquity to match Pogo’s tales of his people’s past. The rock had once been dressed and carefully carved, such that great columns and caryatids emerged from its surface around the massive gate. Time had not been kind, however; the details were worn away, the gray rock covered in black lichen which someone had made an attempt to scrape off before clearly giving up after removing only about a quarter of it.

  The gate itself was huge. It rose to a height of some ten yards, flanked by two statues of what might once have been war trolls like Pony, though these were kings to Pony’s rough layman’s self. Did they wear crowns about their heads? It was all so worn I couldn’t tell. Were they depictions of king trolls? The gate itself was new, a mighty construction of iron that was bolted into the rock and which gleamed in the dawn’s rays.

  Before this was a raised stage of raw wood, a podium erected at its front behind which stood Beauhammer. He was conversing genially with a handful of other officials, and wore what was probably his finest suit of clothing. A thick chain of office hung around his neck, and despite what had to be a raging hangover he looked quite jovial.

  Our path dipped at the last to descend in a shallow ramp toward the porch, and as we made our way down I saw the other four teams sizing us up in turn.

  They all looked formidable.

  The Port Gloom crew was gathered at the back, massed behind Baleric who wore the same cloak and breastplate as the night before. A massive blade hung from each hip, the onyx hilts and guards carved like living flames. The city troll was a small mountain behind him, the pale sister, the impudent rogue whose hair seemed to burn even in this dull morning light, the muscled warrior with her brawny shoulders and wild hair. All of them quiet, watchful, as if restrained by Baleric’s own dignity and reserve.

  The Ellosaint knights were their opposite; they stood in the center of the stone clearing in resplendent full plate armor, each set no doubt costing more than I could even begin to imagine. Lined with gold, decorated with fantastic beasts across their breastplates, shining with such an intense polish that the men seemed to glow. They looked as if they had stepped out of legend, their kite shields bearing their personal emblems, their visors raised to reveal their handsome faces. They were talking loudly amongst themselves, boasting and laughing, obviously eager to begin.

  I was most curious about the other two groups, both of which I’d not seen before. The closest was the band of elves, and these drew the eye with their grace and severe beauty, and then held it. I’d never seen real elves before, the mysterious denizens of fabled Celendruin, and saw at once how they were similar to Netherys and yet completely unalike.

  All wore the exact same full-body suits of chainmail armor, but to call what they wore ‘chainmail’ was like describing a war troll as ‘problematic.’ The weave was so fine I could only discern the mesh on the raised surfaces, while all of it hugged their forms like a second skin, at once revealing much of their feminine beauty while adding to their imperious dignity and martial nature. Metallic green leaves seemed to grow from their armor to form pauldrons over their shoulders, a small chest plate over their sternum between their breasts, and down the length of their thighs. Even their boots were of metal, though they appeared strangely supple, and the whole effect was wondrous, fey, and eerily beautiful.

  Each held a helm beneath their arm, so that as we approached I could study their faces. Gold hair was tightly braided and pulled back into a central bun at the crown of their heads, and oh, the sudden longing I felt to see them with their hair down, to see them at ease and smiling. Their ears were backswept like Netherys, their jaws long, their eyebrows haughty, their noses aquiline and their eyes expressing what seemed to be a universal displeasure with all they saw, as if nothing could please them so far from their mythical home.

  I have to admit they stole something of my heart as I passed them by. They were alien and wondrous, lethal and gorgeous, each at least six feet tall and exuding such a casual refinement and disdain that I knew they’d never see me as more than common human street trash.

  Unless, of course, they learned my true nature.

  Right at the front stood the final group. The barrow-sorceress, called Lady Haverwort, with her massive barrow golems and four crypt apostles. I’d not been able to put images to those titles until now, and half wished I’d remained ignorant. Lady Haverwort was a bent-over crone, her spine as twisted as Pogo’s and her long-nailed hands little more than liver-spotted claws of tendon and bone. She leaned on a staff of eerie beauty, a tall, verdigrised rod that culminated in a golden orb in whose depths
I thought I saw a frantically shuttling pupil, darting back and forth as it looked out upon the world. Her lips were pursed but toothless, resulting in a soft, squished look, and time had carved deep ravines across her face, but her eyes gleamed with sharp intelligence and a murderous will, so that I avoided her gaze when she looked at me.

  Her barrow golems were huge. Each stood easily as tall as Pony, but seemed to be built from a mad agglomeration of stone coffins, thick loamy earth, bones, skulls, shards of stone and other graveyard detritus. They were vaguely humanoid, and their heads reminded me of the snapping turtles I’d seen swimming in the bay, all savage stone beaks and tiny, vicious black eyes.

  The crypt apostles were no less reassuring; they were the size of children, clad in voluminous dark-brown cloaks, and with cowls pulled low that didn’t completely hide their cadaverous faces. Their features were desiccated, their noses reduced to slits, their lips having melted away to reveal grimacing yellowed teeth, but it was their eyes that startled: each as big as my fist and with the same metallic sheen of a bluebottle fly’s back.

  Our arrival was greeted with much curiosity; we were clearly the last team, and as wondrous as the others were they couldn’t compete with novelty. Pony alone drew shocked breaths and exclamations; we’d not seen a reason to hide him any longer once we’d drawn close, so he stood in only his customary loin cloth, huge sledgehammer over one blue shoulder, blinking owlishly and peering around at the crowd with mild curiosity. Tamara lay cupped in one massive arm, wrapped in a blanket and still asleep; after much deliberation we’d decided to bring her with us. Perilous as our delving was going to prove, we’d decided it was still safer than simply leaving her alone.

  Iris and Netherys had opted to hide their identities completely, so that they both wore hoods over their veils, leaving only Cerys, Pogo, and I to stand with our faces uncovered.

  Other than Pony, I realized, we were a bizarrely normal-looking team. Iris had brought four of her relatives along, all of them clad in somber blacks and grays, looking for all the world like an incongruous group of aristocratic hangers-on, and they stood at the rear, hands behind their backs, gazing out at nothing. They looked alive… just strangely distracted.

  The barrow-sorcereress, I noticed, was staring at them with great suspicion and interest.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” Beauhammer had moved to the podium and now stared out at the audience, arms outstretched. “Welcome to the fourth annual Beauhammer Dungeon Delve, an event as rife with danger as it is the potential for heroism! We stand here today with five teams of stout, intrepid beings who will risk life and limb to claim ancient treasure from the dark depths of the Beauhammer Dungeon, risking all for untold riches and glory! Gaze upon them, and mark their faces; some shall perish in the depths below, and never again shall they see the light of the sun! Which shall it be? In the past, entire teams have failed to surface. Perhaps they wander below in the lightless halls still, seeking a way out, or perhaps the flesh has already been cleaned from their bones, leaving them to join the endless legions of the dead that slumber below…?”

  The elves glanced in obvious irritation at each other. The Ellosaint knights blew out their mustaches. Baleric, I noted, didn’t even seem to be listening.

  “Yet each year a few make it back up, arms laden with jewels and gold, riches from a bygone era, when Port Lusander was ruled by a different manner of being, the cruelest of all tyrants, the dreaded king trolls! Those epochs are long gone, thankfully, and now you must toil and labor under my own heavy hand, though I trust it is a fair one.”

  Beauhammer leaned forward, blinking and smiling, clearly expecting applause. A few in the crowd obliged him, but not, it was clear, sufficient numbers.

  Beauhammer fought to hide his disappointment and annoyance and plunged on. “All the teams are licensed as per the law, and all shall be submitting a twenty percent tax on all riches acquired to the city treasury, so that I may better execute my role as magistrate. Yes, this event shall result in the recobbling of Frigate Avenue and the Old Dun Road. I’ve a mind to fix the piping beneath the Sprawl at long last, and perhaps, if the yield be bounteous, explore the possibility of acquiring more lamp posts in the manner of Carneheim and Port Gloom! What many at first saw as a frivolous endeavor on my part, this Beauhammer Dungeon Delve, shall over the long term prove the engine that fuels progress and change for Port Lusander. So gaze upon these heroes, and wish them well, wish them luck, for tied with their own success is that of our very own city!”

  The cheers this time were more heartfelt, though not overwhelmingly so. Perhaps it was the early hour. Perhaps requiring nobles to attend a dawn ceremony after an all-night party was asking a little too much.

  “Now,” continued Beauhammer, “for the first time the betting pools are sanctioned by my office, so you can engage in the wagering that has been endemic since the start of this operation without fear of reprisal. Make sure your bid taker is licensed before placing your bet, as it’s both illegal to work with an unlicensed person and you won’t get to enjoy the surety of knowing all bids are backed by the magistrate’s office. Your chance to place bets shall end as soon as the first team enters the ruins, so hurry up and place those wagers!”

  Elsa materialized by my side. She wore a sensible and very fine assemblage of matte black chainmail over supple leather armor, with a small heater shield on her left arm, a short sword at her hip, and a bandolier of throwing knives across her chest. A large empty pack hung from both shoulders, and a satchel lay over her right hip. “Can’t say my father doesn’t have a nose for business,” she said, smiling nervously at me. “His attempts to ban the wagering failed, so now he’s licensed it and is taking a twenty-five percent cut.”

  “I was wondering when you’d show,” I said. “Did you talk with Gremond? Is Yashara alive?”

  She frowned. “I did. He was - how shall I put it - skeptical of your promised show of force. But he was courteous, at any rate, and Yashara lives. She’s being held prisoner and well treated, he said. I believe he plans to use her as a bargaining chip to exact further revenge.” Elsa gave me an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get better results.”

  “No, that’s fine. The rest is up to us.”

  A balding man stepped up to our group, a large ledger chained to his belt, a quill over his ear an open ink pot in one hand. “Wagers, good sirs?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “The teams themselves wager?”

  “Assuredly,” said the man with a quick smile. “The going philosophy is: bet everything on yourself. If you die, you lose nothing, and if you emerge, you can win a sizable sum.”

  Cerys leaned in. “What are the going odds?”

  The man inclined his head, as if appreciating the savviness of the question, and opened his ledger. “As of the last communal reckoning, which took place twenty minutes ago, Lady Haverwort’s team was at 6 to 1, the Ellosaint knights at 12 to 1, the Port Gloom group at 4 to 1 - people are really impressed with Baleric being an exemplar, you see - and the elves at 9 to 1.”

  “And us?” I asked.

  The man smiled apologetically. “You are bringing up the rear, I’m afraid. The odds are set at 20 to 1. You do have a war troll, which is impressive, but the rest of you…?” He winced. “It’s nothing personal. It’s even good news for you. Twenty times return on anything you bet could make you a fortune. Reaping the full return, however, is dependent on everyone emerging; you get consecutively fewer returns as more of your members die.”

  “That’s wickedly gruesome,” I said. “No, I mean it. Well done. A scheme like this would have done the boys back in Port Gloom proud.”

  “Ah, you’re a Port Gloom man, then? The rumors hinted as much. And thank you. Now, we’re running out of time. Any bets?”

  I looked to the others. “I think we’ll pass.”

  “You sure? You can think of us as a bank, keeping what gold you currently have on you safe while you venture below. You’ll collect it and twenty times a
s much if you wager it upon yourself when you exit the ruins.”

  “Thanks all the same.”

  The man gave us an exaggerated frown, as if I’d insisted on eating dog shit for lunch despite his offering me a sausage on a stick, and left.

  “20 to 1, hey?” I gave a tight smile at my friends. “We’d have made a killing if we were playing this straight.”

  “No,” said Pogo with a sniff. “We have between us less than thirty gold. Given the peril, six hundred as a return is insignificant in the grand scheme of things.”

  “Well, true,” I said, “but think about it: in another world we could work this as a scam. Pop inside for ten minutes, stay in the antechamber, then come right back out and get our hundreds.”

  “You forget,” said Pogo, “that most licenses cost thousands to acquire. We’d need to put down hundreds just to make back our license expense.”

  “And… my father’s just seen me,” said Elsa, voice quiet and very tense.

  I looked up at the stage. Beauhammer was leaning over his podium, wide-eyed, jaw working. “You didn’t tell him.”

  “Best to ask for forgiveness than permission,” said Elsa, though she didn’t sound convinced.

  Beauhammer leaped down from the stage and hurried over, scowling and huffing with indignation. “Elsa! What are you playing at? Why by the White Sun are you dressed like a fool? Get back up to the castle immediately and change into appropriate clothing before you turn our house into an object of ridicule!”

  “Father,” said Elsa, “you should be able to figure this one out already.”

  His face darkened. “There is nothing for me to figure out. Leave, now, or suffer the consequences.”

  I coughed into my fist. “Apologies, magistrate. I thought Elsa had already told you. She’s officially part of my team. She’s going with us if she wants to.”