“Crackers and toast!” Artorian made it down the stairs a second later. His loud outcry was all the sweet, sweet vindication Jiivra lived for. She’d won! The old man was equally out of breath as he carried an ecstatic, tiny girl in his arm. Mud coated her face in streaks and her hair was whisked back from the sheer speed they’d gone on this wild rollercoaster.
She didn’t care in the slightest about the potential dangers—that had been awesome! “Alright, fine. Honor’s all yours.”
Artorian made a half-moon arm motion to Jiivra, signaling that he yielded her the victory. He cleaned the excited youngling’s face as Jiivra hurriedly got the door open. The celestial instructor kept a smiling gaze on the girl as they both walked in, getting to see the exact moment. “My young dear, I welcome you. To the Library.”
He set her down on her feet, though she just stood there with sparkling eyes. She wanted to organize it all. “That reminds me! Your name!”
The loud gong had pulled the attention of all the students in the Library. Having gathered only to discover that the commotion was caused by two people they really didn’t have the authority to scold, the library residents remained all smiles when they saw the mud-wiped little girl see the universe available at her fingertips.
“Everyone. I would like you to meet the newest addition to our family! One that will likely eventually know everything in this library…” He motioned to the tiny girl, who still held her few pages of vellum to her chest. Those few numbered pages were but leaves in the forest she now occupied. They had been the seeds that brought her to this point. “Alexandria.”
Chapter Forty-One
-Temple of the Hand-
Favor’s grip on the Vizier’s collar was desperate. “Please. Please. Take them back.”
Amon didn’t care to hide his absolute delight at the suffering of what had once been a proud scheming spirit. That it had been reduced to… this? He *tu-tut-tutted* in response, his voice dragging the ‘s’ of most words. “Now, now. You know the rules, you set them! No returns on favors!”
Favor’s hood fell, revealing his porcelain skull and the weakened color living within. It was a green far dimmer than it had once been; the creature was clearly suffering. Amon took the display as another sign of victory. Favor was trying to schmooze him, and to be frank… he loved seeing the thing grovel. “Old friend. Please. They are menaces.”
The Vizier slunk past the pleading, trembling skeleton. A dismissive motion pushed away the bone grip on his flawless golden clothing. He would not have bone-dust chalk up his exquisite finery. “Menaces? Do they not succeed in missions without flaw?
Favor followed closely behind the slinking Vizier, making no mention of the additional serpentine features the man now sported. “Without flaw, yes, but…”
Amon flourished his garment, keeping it out of reach. “Did they not fulfill the cost of the three deals we made many years ago?”
The creaking skeleton wavered, catching itself to prevent a fall. Its power was waning, and the effects were becoming significant as the bad news and negative reports on its status kept mounting. “They were indeed, but…”
A single, powerful finger pressed against the porcelain white skull, preventing the previously potent creature from advancing further with barely any exertion. “Our business is therefore concluded! I require no further favors.”
Favor despised being stopped by a mere finger. “You must take them! The trio of Emerald Eyes are destroying my plans and well-being!”
Amon picked up a glass of the finest coreberry wine, swished it around, and sipped while enjoying the creature’s suffering. Sadism was a fantastic trait to cultivate. His tone was as dismissive as it was self-important; the success he'd found in these last few years had been copious. “Must I? Why must I? Because those three brats—while they complete missions and tasks without flaw—somehow manage to harm your long-term plans even as the short-term goals succeed? No, my old friend, that is no longer my concern. We made our deals, and I have upheld them.”
The lime-green glow in Favor’s throat dimmed further. He wasn’t going to be able to hold on if he didn’t get something positive out of this, and soon. His life, or continued unlife, revolved around his reputation of perfect success. Since the ‘acquisition’ of what should have been a truly spectacular deal, he’d only been consistently shafted. Those brats were a curse. “Is there nothing you want? Nothing? Take but one of those infernal beings, and I shall owe you a debt.”
*Plink*!
The Vizier finally smiled as the wine cup was placed upon a small altar. His expression was a cruel, vicious simulacrum of what it had once been. He was still getting used to this new face, yet a smile graced it nonetheless. “A debt, moth? Major words from such a minor being.”
Favor burned from within, his bony fist balling up as he shook it at this opportunistic snake. The disgrace he was suffering! “Speak not to me as such! I was mighty when we met years ago, and I shall be again!”
Amon’s sadistic glee only increased. His form slunk with inhuman agility on the lesser throne gained through wit, and most importantly of all, newfound power. “Then it is I who shall grant you a favor, at the costs that my prior, outstanding favors to you are considered paid in full. I shall grant you a favor, and take one of the Emerald Eyes to throw into the upcoming conflict.”
“I could not fully convince our dearest goosy advisor not to take her waddling rump into battle with a few thousand men. Yet a gift may soothe her wrath towards me, since our positions in favor have shifted in the eyes of the Queen.”
Favor winced as much as a skeleton could. “It is imperative that the full force of supplicants and sacrifices be delayed until the agreed upon time. The project has a very sensitive timetable.”
Amon waved it off; that was but a minor concern to him. His Vizier forces were slated to be hundreds of thousands strong. His ploys against that puffy goose had been masterful, and her suffering was a savored delicacy. “Worry not, old friend. It is but a political sacrifice I’m willing to make. Send the Emerald Eyes to meet with the troops under the flag of the double-necked goose. The rest will take care of itself as they expend themselves against the object of our mistress's desire. She wished for the tallest mountain, and she shall have it. Just not until I am the one to claim it.”
Favor’s color dimmed, and he spoke only when the green light returned. “It is done. I have sent the orders. Now, as to my favor-”
*Crack*!
Amon planted a gilded dagger deep into the unsuspecting porcelain skull.
“Here is your favor, little moth. An end to your suffering. It is not politically sound to keep you in my circle any further. Your usefulness, much like your unlife, has been all. Used. Up.”
The light winked out of the skeleton’s throat. Its bones disconnected from one another, the robe collapsing inwards as the force keeping the animation active vanished. Another fantastic day for the Vizier.
Less debts owed, more unpleasant memories ready to be swept under the rug, and debtors dead at his feet. Without any loss of power! The pleasant thought of those accursed Emerald Eyes being ended was at the forefront of his mind.
All was proceeding according to plan. The ‘Royal Advisor’ wouldn’t be long for the world. Even now, she rushed to the same fate as this bag of bones. For the same reasons, no less! His serpentine tongue flicked, and a ghostly green coin materialized in his hand. He danced the object between his digits, the coin vanishing in a green wisp once it crossed his pinky.
Infernal Essence. A marvel. It granted such power. Inhaling deeply, the bone dust from his fallen friend crumbled into shadows as infernal Essence washed out of the consumed remains. Amon relished the gain and devoured the rest of what was rightfully his. The favors in the past had given him significant might, and the deals had resulted in the giver’s downfall. As well as his own empowerment.
That was never the way it worked in cautionary tales, and he loved defeating the expectations. As for the futur
e… he’d need at least another decade to refine his bone-mold. His cultivation happened inside his marrow, and absorbing the remains of his foes brought him ever greater strength.
Amon found Favor’s punishment fitting; long in the making. He metaphorically licked his fingers clean. “Nobody tellsss a Vizier what to do! As of the last moon, that goose was beloved by the mistress no more. Oh how sweet the taste of success is.”
Lifting a vellum from the altar, he slithered about his personal temple. Amon the soon-to-be Grand Vizier studied the battle plans. In a few seasons, the expendable Goose would assault the mountain. That delusional longneck would make both excellent bait, scapegoat, and the final nail in the coffin. All in one ingenious stroke.
Being fueled by the dark made everything less demanding. As a happy result of killing Favor, Amon realized that he was gaining more power. His infernal might was borrowed from something, and the pile of bones had drained a percentage away for its own use. Amon was now getting a far bigger piece of the pie, and the lime-green glow in his throat strengthened as a physical manifestation.
He moved to strike a line from his vellum, but stopped midway. Puzzled, the Vizier observed his arm. He was willing the action, but was unable. An oath stopped him from completing the action. *Tsk*.
His direct favor-holder had not relinquished the demand to hold the majority of the force back. How inconvenient. Amon learned valuable information from this intervention; the skeletal puppet had not always been in control; meaning that another voice spoke through the servant during the making of his first two favors. Those favors had not been considered ‘fulfilled’.
Abyss. He’d have to be content with current progress. The vellum re-furled as he strolled from his temple in a slither. Braziers of azure flame licked the air at his passing, catching alight. The ‘persuaded’ forces were encamped at his front door. Before the hundred steps of his towering construction stood a force of easily a hundred thousand.
They would serve The Hand, or they would feed it. Sadism allowed a dark smile to spread on the Vizier’s lips, and his fingers adopted a serpentine steeple. He saw their numbers, and with a newfound connection to infernal power understood what they were truly for.
“Bodies for the cause.”
- Skyspear -
Alexandria was one smart cookie. She was also precious, and the visiting Inquisitors rightfully adored her.
Outside of her element, the tiny robed lady would likely not have flourished. Two years in the library, and she was unrecognizable from the girl who had entered. Alexandria was barely eight, but she ran the library. Not even in a joking manner, oh no. She had spreadsheets, ledgers, and a crisp filing method that made the previous system look like toddlers had thrown it together. Also… Woah the Wise help you if you didn’t return a book.
The Inquisitors loved it. They’d never been lambasted by an eight-year-old for leaving their documents in a messy heap on one of the library tables. Jiivra may have berated the old man for adopting the little hellion, but for all intents and purposes, she was ‘mom’ to the child. Alexandria was her little Keeper, and Blanket had never had a better snuggle buddy.
When she fell asleep between the book cases? Blanket had her covered, literally!
The Inquisitorial branch had some… concerns with a C-ranked Beast being out and about so freely. But, even the mention of separating the critter from the little girl… well, they learned quickly.
Her C-ranked ‘mother’ was even less willing to give the Inquisition slack. That woman had no chill. The D-rank nine Headmaster, in comparison, had nothing but chill. How he’d gotten all the recommendations and paperwork needed to bring the Inquisition here in the first place was a mystery they were dying to find out; but work came first.
Jiivra handed Kiwi Fellhammer the promised literary documents containing the information they had requested. After noisily leafing through them, the puffy-faced Dwarf in full regalia granted his half-Dwarven compatriot the clearance to continue.
A stocky, sturdy Inquisitor cleared her throat. O’Nalla Fellhammer placed stones on the edges of the map. The artful work neatly unfurled on the library table, ready to be discussed. Like any Fellhammer, her tone carried a quasi-Dwarven drawl and silenced those in the immediate surroundings. “Alright, now. Here’s what we know.”
Even the quiet students allowed to listen in recognized that there was an Essence signature at play. Some grinned: a new research project for later! Alexandria brought over two of the older teachers. The adults looked like bumbling children in comparison to the natural stern demeanor their head librarian embodied. She couldn’t carry a single one of the heavy chairs, much less two of them. The boys certainly could, however, so Alexandria put them to work.
Artorian and Jiivra both eased into the provided seating, and the little one climbed right onto the celestial cultivator’s lap. She wasn’t missing out on anything that happened in her own library; no matter how uncertain the Inquisitor’s gazes were. Alexandria glared them down, and Kiwi shrugged at his compatriots when they turned to look at him. “Let the wee lass stay. She’s earned it.”
O’Nalla nodded and placed a blue token on the map. “This… is Skyspear and Jian.”
The crowd pushed closer to see the details. Only the Inquisitors and top teachers of the Skyspear academy were present in the library, plus one feisty child. A small crowd’s worth. The forward leaning of so many would have made a claustrophobic person squirm.
“This is the Raider horde of The Hand as it approaches from the south-east.” A red token went down, and a smattering of different colors still remained in O’Nalla’s clasped hands. “It will take a week, mayhap two of them to be at the walls of Jian.”
Two green tokens were placed on the edges of the map, and one was placed on the already present red token. “Of the three individuals of note, one travels with The Hand. Two others are out of the reach of the Inquisition. While we could have better information, we lack the forces to breach The Hand’s main stronghold or temples.”
Alexandria’s hand shot up. “Why?”
Ah. Right. They’d forgotten to tell her this was not a classroom setting. This wasn’t the right time for queries; still, the answer was of interest to many, so nobody corrected her behavior. O’Nalla added a yellow token on the edge of the map. “The stronghold is home to ‘The Mistress’. An assumed B-ranked Flesh Mage with delusions of grandeur and more screws loose than a disciple of Xeno…”
She silenced herself, it was better not to say certain names. “The Temples are outposts for a frankly idiotic number of troops. The count was so high that our scouts could not get an adequate number. It’s entire fields worth of people. The Cultivator rule of thumb is a ten to one ratio, that rule goes out the window when you’re facing endless waves of bodies with limited supplies. Essence isn’t infinite.”
Alexandria crossed her arms and gave a sagely nod; pretending she had understood everything that had just been said. In actuality, she was just copying grandpa. ‘Grandpa’ was glued to the map; specifically, the green token moving towards them. Artorian’s question came out in an instant, “How many fighters does the token represent?”
Some papers rustled, and Kiwi looked up from the ledger after finding the answer. “Lookin’ at a few thousand souls. Makes camp between treks. Takes prisoners.”
Artorian harmlessly smiled, and Jiivra felt a cold shiver run down her spine. “Good enough.”
O’Nalla raised an eyebrow. That was the kind of thing some of her troublemaker offspring would say. However, whatever dumb thing the old man was plotting wasn’t her problem. This was an exchange of information, as odd as it may be. Why the Inquisition had been keeping whole files on the three targets was beyond her.
When the request had come in, Kiwi had laughed so hard he’d dropped his tankard. When they’d checked the records, his jaw had followed the tankard on the floor. Only targets of import had steady files. How did three random children from the ruttin’ Fringe have files? A Fellha
mmer had authorized the endeavor, and now they were going to haul home entire volumes on techniques and cultivation discoveries in trade for it.
Kiwi was going to send this ‘Hadurin’ brother a strongly-worded letter and a flagon of Dwarves’ Finest for this impossible foresight when he got back to the bowery. They’d overlooked a small mountain of protocol to facilitate this exchange, but dear heavens was this a lucrative trade.
There was even a Choir girl here that, as far as they were aware, had survived a Vicar ripping her entire cultivation out. Best not to broach that topic this visit, they needed to build positive relations first. Artorian turned to Jiivra, and gave the back of her shoulder a quick comforting pat.
She frowned at him for doing so, and he winked back as he got up. He’d heard exactly what he wanted to, and the rest was academy business. His priorities demanded his attention. “You’re in charge for a while. I’m… going out on a walk.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Gilna the Brute couldn’t believe what he was looking at. Confused, he nudged Ragna the Clever. Unfortunately for Gilna, Ragna shared his dumbstruck expression. The man with more cuts on his face than functioning brain cells shrugged. Gilna spoke with the intelligence of a bag of bricks, “I think it’s one of them jokes?”
Ragna scratched at his neck. “Issa bad ‘un.”
In front of the gates of a hastily erected palisade which looked like it traveled with the raider force, an old man was making a fuss. “Think he got lost?”
Gilna shrugged and made an ‘I don’t care’ grunt. They both shared the tight space of the single guard tower, which had been constructed so shoddily that a half-blind, crippled, paraplegic Goblin could have done a better job. It croaked in complaint if you looked at it funny. With both guards in there, it leaned violently to the side. Running bets had been placed on when the thing would snap.
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