Artorian's Archives Omnibus

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  Other light flickered in his vicinity. “Nnngg!”

  It hurt to move. Immensely so. Cracked ribs reminded him of their presence. In fact, several pressing injuries were all blaring their pained signals of attention now that he was conscious enough to receive them. Artorian attempted to move some Essence, but he found… nothing. His Aura was bone dry, and his body craved the malleable energy.

  Frowning at the odd thought that he didn’t have any when his Aura should have been abundantly full, he managed to turn his head enough to see a ring of fat candles surrounding his resting form. Easily a hundred odd-shaped flame sources flickered and burned in his vicinity. The smells of a forest—already heavily present due to being in one—were released by these candles. How strangely pleasant.

  “Does our little starlight awake?” The old man was startled at the multitude of voices speaking in the harmony of a Gregorian chant. Each word was spoken melodiously and slowly. A natural unity was present in the pitch and tone that only a set of seasoned bards might hope to match. Artorian could swear he had heard this kind of speech before, and recently. His head blurred too much; he couldn’t place it.

  “Art… orian. I am Artorian.” The injuries wrecked him, but the longbeard did his abyss-blasted best to introduce himself. Broken ribs and being old only let you do so much. Still, a response seemed to be enough for the combined voices to continue the conversation.

  “We are Birch.” That was an odd naming convention, but sure. “Birch hears your chosen name, Starlight Spirit. We will remember this, but must continue to call you what you are. We sense your pain, but cannot do more than dull the experience.”

  Their voices twisted from their calm melody, and for a moment sounded pained. “Deep confusion, we feel from you. Answers, Birch shall give.”

  Several footsteps approached. While he heard the marching steps, he did not feel a vibration on the ground. They must have been moving with the lightest of step not to cause a disturbance. Stuck looking up, Artorian managed to tilt his field of vision enough to see who—or what—was coming toward him.

  Around him stood stark, long-eared, near identical figures. All had alabaster skin, and were sporting organic black lines that etched in unique patterns. Dark wounds were carved across the entirety of their features. This was all he had to tell the five otherwise mirror-similar Elves apart. Based on the locale, he knew these must be Wood Elves.

  “I need… sunlight.” The five Elves all closed their pewter eyes and faintly dipped their heads in unison. Above Artorian, the birch tree canopy spread and parted with buckling, wooden croaks. Sunlight rippled over him, and relief spread through his fingertips. The prickling waves of comfort soothed his aching frame, and the old man swiftly drifted back to half-sleep.

  “Rest well upon our roots, Starlight Spirit. Birch shall remain, and relay the will of the forest when your star burns bright.” They went still after that, kneeling in a circle on the outside of the candle ring. Thanks to their stillness and alien features, they appeared as trees in their own right. Fading to slumber, the old man could swear their ‘hair’ resembled moss, and skin that of a birch’s bark. An academic topic to pursue… another time. His heavy eyes fell to a full close.

  Artorian’s consciousness ripped inwards, and the cultivator made himself fully present in his Center. Body and Essence required immediate tending. Ring after cultivation ring stirred into motion with the grinding efficiency of a rusty clock. A few scraped against one another as the system began to turn; that required mending. Rings of corruption were woven as the technique began to twirl and spin, drawing in trickles of Essence from the sunlight bathing him. It was a weak seep at first… then a dripping line.

  When finally the Essence influx churned into a solid stream and struck his refinement Core, the entire technique flickered before flaring to life! This development significantly relaxed the Wood Elves that surrounded him. Relieved, they looked at one another and spoke without words as they descended a layer deeper into their communal mindspace. When speaking within their own network, their voices had distinct individualism. A collected feminine tone opened the conversation. “Spirit Hawthorn spoke true. The starlight surges strong in this one.”

  “You are being too sappy.” A deeper, male tone questioned what he was seeing, a touch impatient. “The host spirit is weak and brittle. I am uncertain if he would survive. This one is but a sapling, when we need a grove of oak.”

  The third voice didn’t like what the second one said, and snapped a rebuttal. “It is by the grace of the Fire Soul that we can have this conversation, and cease providing Oak credit for that which it does not do. This spirit is not theirs to claim; many blossoms accomplish more than that self-entitled piece of bark.”

  “Oak is acorn-y group, but does stand steadfast.” The fourth voice—feminine and sweet—chuckled in amusement, agreeing with the statement. “Weak or no, young or not, the spirit surges to life and clings to it. Even now the bones within its being are mended by its own will. Question not the life of a creature before one has seen it live.”

  A feeling of assent emanated from the consciousness of those who were one within the birch. The fourth spoke once more. “Agreement is reached. We are blessed by the grove to have such a spirit stumble upon our roots. May its light relieve us of our curse.”

  The communal conversation ended, and the Wood Elves were of singular mind once more. In unison, they raised their left palms. Several variants of titmouse fluttered down from the canopy above, perching on their extended palm branches. Resting there a moment, the flyers shimmered with a runic glow, and were imbued with the message they were to deliver to the rest of the grove.

  The Starlight Spirit lived, and would be guided to the Eldest Mahogany when able. Their mutual problems were dire, and needed to be addressed. As the birds fluttered to fulfill their tasks, a shadowy presence could be felt sludging against the edge of their joint consciousness. With vast concern, the five Wood Elves leered in unison at the edge of their mutual vision. Given they could see as if the trees were their eyes, this covered a sizable distance. They found the disturbance easily enough. Today, the dark did not hide.

  Caliginous smoky fog roiled. The sapient mass was a thick paste; it shimmied as a slug afflicted with geriatric churn. Noticing a consciousness nearby, the blight ceased roiling, and certain murky blobs turned to regard the observing mind.

  It could tell. The shadowy phantoms could always tell. Intimidated, the birch consciousness shuddered as a whole, deeply uncomfortable by how its main predator was endlessly able to do that. Trees in the immediate vicinity of their distanced consciousness experienced a visible trembling that ran up the trunk. Bark split, suffering a wound when the blighted mass lurched at their location. The disquiet was palpable as they mentally broke away from the assailed trees. The Wood Elves hastily retreated their strained senses into their physical bodies as that part of the woods became… obscured.

  Their pewter eyes snapped open at the same time, relieved to be back in the safe Center of their Birch grove. ‘Safe’ was a double-edged sword; in reality they felt trapped within their own home. A careful observer would note that their Elven bodies were now marred with an additional black carving.

  An unexpected feeling of warmth and comfort washed across them. Uncertain of the source, they looked at one another, eventually settling on the thin and frail body of the old man Hawthorn had picked up. That prickly hick practically had trouble making skills in place of roots, but they had to admit that Haw’s ‘hunch’ had been spot on.

  Refined Essence filled the Starlight Spirit’s Aura, and the passive effect it had soothed them. Shadows in the immediate vicinity fled in response. Each tiny additional trickle that filled Artorian’s Aura pushed the dark backward an extra inch. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Birch to come to terms with the decisions that had left this broken soul on their doorstep.

  At first, they had been as thorny as Hawthorn himself at the idea of accepting a non-Elven into thei
r forest, much less their private grove and fold. They’d fought Hawthorn branch and bark on the idea, telling him to leaf and take the meat with him, but that sharp-spined willow hadn’t relented.

  Haw had seen and spoken the truth. It was necessary. Birch knew the spirits inhabiting the forest could not keep the phantoms at bay forever. Yet, if they nurtured this sapling properly… instead of fended off, the phantoms might be defeated.

  Chapter Two

  *Crunch*.

  Hadurin tugged his bloodied weapon up. Freeing his hammer from the flesh-sheath it was lodged in with a Dwarven grunt. Today was a great day! Barely a cloud in the sky, soft salty-smooth breeze on the air, the wailing of broken and battered foes underfoot. Truly, this was the life!

  His hammer swung and flew once more, en-route to a new target. A flash caught his eye as it spun in an arc, launched directly into a fleeing remnant’s poorly timed pause. Hadurin had to wait only a moment before he enjoyed another audible *crunch.* One less foe from what had once been a respectably-sized raider strike force.

  The Choir hymn still hung in the air, and a celestial sheen of power lingered on his form as he trudged through the field. Weapon stabilized on his shoulder, Hadurin took in his surroundings. Pressing a stubby hand above his blood-soaked brows, the Head Healer squinted as he saw a rider in flapping blue approach. It had been a few days, and the hit-and-run tactics adopted by the raiders had been treated as sport rather than the nuisance they’d expected. Under Jiivra’s guidance, the Acolytes had made a game out of it. ‘To teach them tactics’, she’d wistfully explained.

  It was effective.

  The raiders had nowhere to go after their attack force had been crushed to bits, and their base of operations in the grove captured. Expunging remnants was just part of the joy. He waved a hand at the incoming riders, and greeted Tarrean with a smile. “Ya made it! Missed mosta’ the fun, but ya made it.”

  Tarrean dismounted, sour as a freshly-squeezed lemon. His ornate helmet was pulled from his head, and the man looked around with distaste. He was looking for a target. “Did you find the old man? I want to wring his wily little neck.”

  Hadurin doubled over in laughter, needing to hit his knee a few times before catching his breath, then wiping a tear away. “Yer gold, Tarry. Comedic gold. Finally figured it out, did ye?”

  The cloisterhead threw his helmet to the ground, where it got stuck with a wet *fplut* in the mud. “He lied to me! That daft old man lied to me! I was supposed to get the village, something to make a home for my boy. Then those two younglings arrive at camp on their oversized goat, and… ow!”

  The horse Tarrean rode in on bit him. “Daft beast!”

  The armored man nudged the animal away with his elbow, and Hadurin did his true, absolute best not to keep giggling. “I can guess the rest. The girl is head o’ the village now, and while it ain’t yers, she’s lettin’ ya live in it. Ya ain’t happy with that, and want a wee bit more. Ya done went and also found out that what ye want can’t be taken. It hastae be given.”

  The healer’s calm recollection just set Tarrean further on edge. He had not gone so far down the path for this result. “Where. Is. He?”

  The cloister head did his best to control his weary rage, but it was a poor show. With a wave, Hadurin called some Acolytes over. After a few words, they returned with a wooden crate. “Here’s everythin’ we found. Have at it.”

  Tarrean hurriedly took the crate, and his frown caved into his bottom lip. “Broken sandals, a snapped bow, and some dirt?”

  The last bit made the healer peek over and check the box. “Oh, look at that. Aye. Looks like some dirt.”

  Before Tarrean could decide whether the twitch in his left eye was grounds for him to put hands on his supposed healer, Jiivra hurried up to join the huddle. She saluted and turned to address Tarrean, but the man deflated. His irritation bled away to resignation, and he addressed the issue of rank, making the wrist-flop motion to indicate that she should address Fellhammer first. Jiivra lost some of her balance from the motion, but continued like the trained warrior she was, saluting Hadurin first. “Sir.”

  He waved it off. “Aye lass. At ease.”

  Jiivra didn’t budge an eyelash, and revealed a familiar, squirming bag. “A few initiates found… this.”

  The bags Jiivra still held looked similar enough to Choir standard fare. Some items Hadurin recognized the smells of. Honey vials. Fruits. Minor potions. Things he’d given his carefully groomed distraction. The old man had been an excellent addition to their little game. At times he hadn’t even been able to tell who was playing who.

  Unfurling a satchel, Jiivra tenderly pulled a sleeping white puffball from it. The napping bleach-white Sugar Glider stirred, and further curled up in her hand. “A spot Acolytes passed by before, which previously had nothing, had all these supplies present when they did a recent perimeter round. They’re Artorian’s goods, Sir. Though I don’t know what to do about the critter. I’ve never seen one like this. It’s harmless, and adorable.”

  She flushed when she realized her non-detached statement had been said out loud. “We believe the old man was swallowed up by the woods. He was not inside the building, though we found the handiwork he left behind.”

  Hadurin was all smiles as he peered off in the castle’s direction. “What a beauty. Wish I had a hundred of ‘em.”

  Tarrean cut in to clear away his confusion. “The critter, or the castle?”

  “Nay lad. The old man.” With a grumble, Tarrean threw his blue cape over his shoulder just so he could hide his face in it. “Ah ain't jokin’. Tell me how many of yer lads can pick up cultivation that quick, and get summat done with such single-minded devotion, maintaining the effectiveness that little project o’ mine managed? We gave ‘em some food, some guidance, and just let ‘em loose.”

  Hadurin walked a few paces with his arms out to either sides, motioning at the bodies they’d collected. “I want a hundred o’ him. I knew lettin’ him in that raider’s tent was the right call. Just look at this conquest. Judged and executed. As I wanted it. I couldn’t have planned it this well!”

  The Dwarven-raised man was chipper as a chipmunk. Jiivra shuffled over to Tarrean, a finger rubbing over the little fluff’s head. She was clearly keeping it. “Sir, I’m confused. Weren’t you in charge?”

  Tarrean dropped his cape, and recalled she didn’t know. “Did you never question why the Church did not send anyone after receiving years of letters on Corruption research? It’s because they quietly did. Paladin-aspirant Jiivra, allow me to introduce to you one of the ten most frightening men in the Choir.”

  Hadurin turned while keeping his hands behind his back, a smile gleaming in the rising sunlight. He did love a well-wrapped ending, and remained silent as the cloister-head introduced him properly.

  “Grand-Inquisitor Fellhammer. Executor of the Inquisition, Lord of the Azure Jade mountain, and slayer of a thousand traitors. It was he who authorized the great plan, and has allowed events to come to pass as they have. Apparently, including keeping me in the dark that I was never going to get my own patch of land. Currently incognito as an expedition healer.”

  Fellhammer felt such mirth as he was addressed. “Aye lad. Ye’d have been in great trouble with the Choir otherwise, especially thinking ya got away with it. Granted, I love what ya did in building the place up. The few structures the region has ain’t gonna cut it anymore. I went through the records, and agree with yer Lady that it’s time fer a change. We’re finally gonna put a proper Cathedral in the Fringe. Lun’s gonna let us! Once we’ve got the scar secured, a plan several hundred years in the makin’ sees fruition.”

  He playfully nudged Tarrean in the ribs, causing him to drop his arm and get bit by his horse once again. The man yowled from the bite, then grumbled, “How did you even find all of this out?”

  Hadurin shook his head at how flustered the Head Cleric turned proper father had become. “Who was handlin’ the old man’s paperwork all this time?”


  He slapped the dejected cleric on the shoulder, still in a great mood. “Ya did good! Was a wee bit suspicious when a request for a cultivation technique came in those few years ago. An’ when the intelligence started comin’, I just had to see it for myself. I’m saddened at the loss of mah wee project, but the old fox did what we groomed ‘em for.”

  His attention turned as he caught a glint from the corner of his eye, gazing at some swaying trees while thick digits sunk into his pocket; thumbing a rolled-up piece of paper. “I hope he’s well, and knows that his sacrifice let two of his children safely make it home and didn’t go wasted. May he dream of the meals they eat, the laughter they have, and the life they’ll build in a little corner o’ the Fringe, safe an’ away from the miseries of the world.”

  The tiny scroll was freed from his pocket, and the Inquisitor glanced at the five names scribed upon it. Two of them now had check marks. He hushed his breath, and mumbled to himself. “Three ta go. Get ‘em home, Arty.”

  Chapter Three

  “That looks much better.” Artorian mentally wiped his forehead while floating inside his Center. Had he been able, very satisfied hands would be pushing into his hips. Not having a physical body here did come with limitations. One of these years he was going to get used to being a disembodied persona. Pushing up his sleeves to get to the next part— right, he’d forgotten again that he didn’t have any sleeves.

  The old man had gotten hours—or what he’d thought were hours—of clean, crisp, stable cultivation time. The healthy influx of starlight had dimmed and strengthened about three or four times while he was working, but that was a minor detail. The Essence flow was steady, strong, and bountiful. It was everything he needed to repair the internal train wreck he’d caused in his struggle to escape Duskgrove castle.