Artorian's Archives Omnibus

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  *Caw*! The oversized infernal corvid impatiently made its presence known. Its beak flicked left and right as it hopped about on a gnarled messenger post, eager to see who would come today. The sharp sound of glass clicking against marble caused it to flutter its wings, and the raven once more screeched into the room as the *tick-tack-tick* of high heels approached ever closer.

  The bird stilled when the sound stopped, cowering as the tall, slender, pointy-eared figure halted before its outstretched leg. Manicured fingers slid the missive from the corvid’s foot. With a puff of icy breath from the attendant, the bird was blown from its perch. An upset *Caw*! screeched back at the creature that took its delivered message. So rude! At least when it got home it would receive shiny trinkets.

  The faux High Elf clicked her heels back into the glittering hallway, holding the diminutive furled message with both her spotless hands. The pristine structure she traversed was vast and lavish. Luxurious paintings and ostentatious drapery lined alabaster walls. Numerous beast furs laid underfoot, helping to mute her rapid motion. She turned into a corridor where suits of polished and posed armor lined the walls, her destination at the end of this nearly endless hall.

  Guards adorned in full plate mail barred double-set elephant-tall doors, their grip tight on crossed halberds. As the attendant approached, they pulled the weapons apart and cleared the path with a *shink*. Upon hammering a fist against the reflective bronze doors, tightening chains started sounding as the grunts of a dozen men pulled the links taut on the other end. Mechanisms in the wall creaked to life as the pathway opened inwards to the buckling of metal, the snapping crack of a whip forcing the ‘servants’ to keep the path opened.

  A heady scent of lavender burst from the throne room as animal-skin flooring was replaced by a padding of fresh violet petals. Lit braziers filled the room, heating the area while illuminating the expansive space. The faux Elf bowed without stepping further onto the carpet of flowers. Harp plinks droned in the background as uncountable, scantily-dressed bodies made themselves comfortable near the centralized elevated seat.

  Some carried urns filled with wine; others held bound sets of peacock-tail feathers repurposed as cooling fans. The fanning servants did their work methodically, not making a sound as other servants drew intricate patterns of charcoal across their mostly exposed bodies. With the agility of a boa constrictor, a tall and lanky man adorned in rings and bracelets of refined gold slid his way forward to the awaiting attendant. His hands steepled, and his hovering steps disturbed not a single petal on his passing.

  The Elf bowed to the approaching Vizier, lifting the furled message in offering. The slithering man broke his steeple and pressed his palms together, accepting the writ before dismissing the servant. The messenger vanished as swiftly as she’d come. With their task seen to, the halberd-armed guards knocked once more on the elephant doors. A dozen shackled men on either side of the mechanism ceased their activity keeping that monstrously heavy contraption open. The doors shut with a hefty *clung*.

  Men groaned from the exertion, but weren’t afforded the liberty to complain. Heads had rolled for far less. Returning to his assigned post, the Vizier took a seat on the stairway one step below the throne, and unfurled the text that was at an appropriate size for ants. It soured his face to read the message, but he wouldn’t let the Royal on the throne see such distasteful expressions.

  When he spoke, his voice rang as deeply and spacious as the void. It carried an unnatural depth, as if his throat ran the space of the mansion’s halls. “An update from conquests, your Majesty.”

  The barest motion of a gold-painted hand upon the armrest of its cathedra: a signal to relay the report. The Vizier did as commanded. “A Daughter of Wrath has fallen. The western front has collapsed, and the outpost has been eradicated.”

  He paused as a frigid glare forced his gaze over to his opposite, the Royal Advisor. Like him, she was clad in thin silken fabrics and rich elegant finery. Golden accessories littered her body, and her diamond-studded succubus tongue berated the Vizier. “You dare give such slanderous news to our Mistress? You shame your position, Vizier.”

  The tall man lifted his significantly-sized nose up at the Royal Advisor. “Perhaps if the lady would find the stones to deliver such news herself, one would indeed find the position of the Vizier unneeded. A curiosity then, that my station has existed longer than yours.”

  The silent electricity between their eyes was palpable, but without further retort coming, the humanoid continued his report. “Duskgrove suffered utter defeat. The blasphemers are responsible, and it appears…”

  The Vizier sneered at the mention in the tiny report. “Cultivators are heavily involved. The region is a total loss, and operations cannot continue.”

  He crumpled the note in his hand, and threw it at a servant, who promptly cleaned it up. How irritating this news was. Meanwhile, the Royal Advisor snootily beamed at him. “Oh, how cruel the world must be. What a shame that my ventures see such success. Perhaps it is your devotion to the Mistress that is lacking, Vizier?”

  She received only a sharp inhale in return. His hand only barely needed to extend for a rolled-up vellum to be placed into it by a waiting servant. Unfurling the document, he used sharpened nails to cross the Fringe operation from his ‘books’. Other ventures in service to their divine would need to see greater success to amend for this setback. The Royal Advisor’s snide voice clicked in bemusement.

  “That’s what you get for believing ventures can be completed with but hundreds of the flock. The Reaper faction? More of a sheep-shearing collection with how they’ve been snipped from their purpose. Didn’t your groups in that region fight each other previously? A power grab?”

  *Tsk, tsk*

  “Now, the wishes the Mistress bestowed upon me are going to be a delectable pursuit.” Her eyes hungered, daring him to attempt a clever response. She had the upper hand here. Steepling his fingers once more, the Vizier craned his neck with sickening flexibility as he looked directly behind him, leering through the ostentatious windows. Behind the repurposed mansion, leagues of land had been tilled and converted to ‘training camps’. The area collected the unceasing flow of refugees, lost warriors, survivors of calamity, and individuals merely seeking to escape other plans that ‘the Mistress’ had set in motion.

  Through some deal with another being, the influx of raider-recruits had flooded their lands. The war-forces the Royal Advisor could now field—given appropriate leadership—was sizable indeed, whereas he himself had hundreds of the older, patiently built forces to place on the game board of conquest.

  The Vizier preferred to grow their forces from within; to bui
ld power and efficiency through sustained fear and lessons of pain. The salacious Advisor opted for quick-gathered troops that hadn’t grown up with the ingrained fear and understanding of their hierarchy. She instead claimed that stacking enough grief, coupled with the chance for hope, would turn scores of men into willing sacrifices for their cause. Once outcasts, the lost and abandoned could easily be convinced to cast others out as well, for misery loves company.

  Where he sought quality, the Advisor sought quantity. Distressed, his steepled fingers twisted once more to trace along the flesh-altered pointy-edged ears he now sported. A minor sacrifice for the will of the Mistress. His views had come into question, and he could not chance showing weakness while before their divine. “I do have three positives to present to my Queen… but perhaps I should learn from victory rather than simply working smarter and harder like I have been. Tell me then, Royal Advisor, of your successes.”

  It wasn’t the concession she was hoping for, but the pleased Advisor would certainly take the win. Her words flirtatiously traveled the distance between them. “While you trudged in the salty muck at the edge of the map, I have laid the cobblestone path for a great conquest. A conquest designed and crafted by our blessed Mistress.”

  The golden figure on the throne stirred, clearly pleased with the interactions of her two most trusted and faithful servants. One of her legs shifted across the other, and the entire servant group surrounding the throne swiftly re-adjusted. Dozens of people moved in order to prevent a stray ray of sunshine from stabbing the divine in her eyes. Her silky voice was a mixture of wine and oil, sultry and self-assured. “I desire the tallest mountain.”

  The Vizier and Advisor stood, only to turn and take a knee before the throne. In unison and without missing a beat, they both replied, “A mountain the Mistress shall have.”

  The throne’s occupant extended her hand, and a multitude of servants set forth their offerings even as their heads remained bowed, vision downcast. One held a fine crystal flute filled with sparkling wine; another held a bowl with the most exotic of finely cut fruits. A third offered exquisite paper, while a fourth held a pure silver-wrought cup in her hands, filled with water. Her actions minor and deft, the Mistress accepted only the flute. Servants stepped back, as their task had been fulfilled. A replacement flute was prepared, as the Queen may want another after this one was dirtied.

  Regal words were spoken with narcissism that could curdle milk. “You speak of gifts, my Vizier. Lay them before your divine.”

  The Vizier remained prostrated, and motioned out an arm below to signal obedience. “Your will be done, my Queen.”

  He stood and turned, clapping his hands and motioning for some of his own personal attendants to bring out what had been prepared beforehand. It was wise to cover one’s scaly rear in the event of foul developments. In fact, today had been the second time he had read this news. Upon receiving it the first time a full day before, hasty measures had been taken.

  Bound in weighted shackles, three stumbling figures were pulled forth. They were dragged up to the bottom of the throne and kicked to their knees. They hit the marble ground hard, but otherwise didn’t falter. With a tug, the Vizier's personal servants removed all three hoods at once. The young figures winced from the combination of heat, harsh smells, and flickering light as they squinted around to take stock of where they were.

  Grimaldus, Tychus, and Astrea each took a breath at the sights they took in. The trio forcibly hissed in the next second as gruff servants grasped the back of their heads. Unwelcome hands pulled on chestnut hair, forcing them all to regard the near flawless golden figure resting upon an equally lavish throne. They hurt from long journeys, but remained steadfast. Their bodies ached from being tossed around like expendable goods, more bruised and battered than bananas that had tumbled down a hundred steps. The children of the Fringe had seen and survived many an encampment while kept prisoner.

  Even though each was a few years older, the lessons of their youth were firmly ingrained in their hearts. Unlike the haze of broken cattle, a true fire burned in their bright gazes. The Vizier swaggered down to them with peacock-like flare. Swaying his arms, he flourished and introduced his ‘gifts’. The interest of the golden lady on the throne immediately piqued. Her practiced skills saw the absolute rarity within the offerings laid before her, discerning the traits unseen in her lands. She sensed natural strength of character found in none apart from the most gifted of individuals.

  The Queen’s immaculate smile betrayed how roaringly pleased she was, something the Advisor silently caught. The prostrated woman held her disdain, as she too could not find a fault in the truly unique gift the Vizier had just planted down.

  Abyss. She’d better hope her thousands of raiders got the job done. Speaking with all the pride of a political victor, the Vizier rubbed salt in the Advisor’s fresh wounds, lauding his win. “I present to my Queen three flawless sets of Emerald Eyes.”

  Chapter One

  Artorian woke to the taste of deep smog and burnt soot as he stole a hasty gasp of air. A crackle of fire snapped in the background, burning somewhere out of sight between the banks of fog that rolled through the shady, incomplete landscape of the Salt Village. Clangs of metal and the falling homes stabbed at his senses. His shaking hand reflexively clenched around his sternum while his soul twisted within.

  “You let us all die.” The words had no discernible point of origin until the billowing mass of smoke parted. Hibiscus and For stood there, hand in hand. The duo faced him as standing grey corpses. Their wasted, smoky bodies only served to further confuse his mind. Trying to focus, he noticed pinpricks of ashen light fill the vacant void where their eyes should have been. Attempting to speak, Artorian found he had no voice; the pasty smear of mist in the village stifled his breath.

  The awful reckoning made his head throb, and the forms approached as he collapsed further into himself. The old man did not notice that the surroundings darkened as they moved. Silently he wept, holding his head as the recollections taxed and drained him. He felt cold. Oppressively cold.

  “You didn’t come for me.”

  Caught between a cough and frozen sniffle, Artorian frowned. He recognized the tone, and felt a lurch of love tug his soul as he heard it. The Elder found his voice, since this one was out of place. This voice did not belong in the mixture of people he’d not been able to do anything for. “Ch… Choppy?”

  His words were brittle, but the swarms of villagers ceased their approach as he managed to speak. All were a dull grey, forms wavy and incomplete at the edges. Trails of smoke flaked from their outlines and extremities. Their details were strangely obscured, as if the figures themselves didn’t know who they were supposed to be. Artorian could only place a face if he focused on a particular form, then realized that he was the one giving very vague bodies the faces he tortured himself with.

  “You weren’t there.” The smoky bodies spoke in staggered disharmony. Repeating the phrase, they surrounded him, ready to reach out and pull him into their grasp. Artorian turned too quickly and nearly fell over himself as he tried to keep track of what voice was speaking. It was a cacophony until his eyes met with the woodcutter’s.

  He stilled, and so did his panic. “No. I wasn’t.” The reply had energy restored to it, even if the dread in his undertone allowed the entire shadowy congregation to move a full step closer. The correlation did not escape Artorian’s notice, and he straightened himself. This was all too hazy… too incomplete. “And for that, I am dreadfully sorry.”

  Artorian could feel a pressure buildup in his surroundings, as if the shadows in the smog took a breath preceding their speech. The old man didn’t give them a chance. He had internalized and accepted this blame. He was aware that something was off, and this wasn’t merely his personal ghosts at play. “I wasn’t there, but I did come for you.”

  The smog-forms staggered. This was not the response they had expected. It was too firm, and spoken with a distinct lack of trembling
fear. The previously collapsed man wiped his face with the sleeve that simply appeared over his arm, because he believed it should be there.

  “It is my people that I let down, but not you, my boy. Not you.” The smog shapes disincorporated and took uncertain steps back, some receding fully into the shadows as their forms collapsed into indistinct clouds, unable to keep their shapes as the free access to fear, dread — their nourishment — diminished by the moment. “This loss plagues me, and it is mine to bear. Mine alone. It is not yours to exploit. Whatever you are.”

  Artorian was in no mood for this grievous transgression, even if he didn’t understand it. His body flickered, and for a moment he radiated a consistent, resplendent starlight. “Be. Gone.”

  The smell of soot vanished as if it had never been present. The macabre, ghostly landscape of his village retreated into the dusk. Masses of smoke and shadow hastily whisked back into the edges of obscurity as the whole… constructed… scene was erased. Only the cracks and spitting *pops* of fire remained.

  What a terrible dream. Artorian wished to live it no further.

  Awake enough to realize he was asleep, the old man opened his tired eyes and found an unknown ceiling. One made of crisp leaves and traces of thin light that bounced and broke through numerous layers of thick canopy. The combined smells of cashew and acorn punched his large nose, his fingers experiencing the padded grass that lay in packed clumps beneath him.