“Great pyrites below. What… what happened here?”
Kiwi didn’t know what to say either. Several more Inquisition officers joined the convenience of the large water repelling Essence bubble, but they too could not find the words. The impact crater was bigger than any hole they’d ever dug. The entire lower half of the Skyspear mountain was scorched and blackened from whatever heat had been present to scour and break the land. All that farmland they remembered seeing was just flat, or part of the crater. The entire city of Jian they’d passed through days ago was nowhere to be seen… like it had never existed.
Artorian swallowed and started speaking: “Well, I went on an enthusiastic walk through the woods-”
O’Nalla’s armored grasp clamped his shoulder before he could continue that ridiculous start to an explanation. It made the old man stop, and seemed to have gotten the point across as he started over.
“So, I was minding my own business-”
The sound of a tea kettle boiling over peeped between the angry Dwarven woman’s lips, and the grip on Artorian’s shoulder squeezed. Kiwi wanted to laugh at the landowner’s attempts at humor, but the view was grinding that pleasantry down with mortar and pestle. “Did ya get yer wee one?”
The old man released a heavy sigh. “I did… at a cost.”
The question of the cost didn’t need to be asked. The view was enough. The teakettle noise ceased, and O’Nalla’s grip loosened. “The survivors are in the academy, packing up to leave. We’re going to try and save what knowledge we can before burning everything else to the ground, and laying down a land-law so that none will ever be allowed to enter these lands again. We will leave a hoard of wealth and eons of knowledge inaccessible to all, locked away until dust is all that remains.”
He tiredly looked up to Kiwi. “You were too late, my friend.”
A look from the Fellhammer head made O’Nalla take swift and silent steps backward. The hefty Dwarf plopped himself down next to Artorian, patting a hand on his back. “Don’t let it eat ya. It’s just how things go sometimes. Think o’ yer wee lass.”
The old man somberly nodded in an exceptionally slow fashion. “Yes. Yes, that’s a good idea. It’s just such a shame. I planned to build a new life here, you know? We even had a large number of recent breakthroughs, and… this.”
He pulled a sheathed jian from under his cloak, and several of the Inquisitorial commanders took a cautious step back. Even sheathed, the raw power emanating from the gap where the hilt touched scabbard was viciously palpable. A borealis of light poured free when his thumb pushed the grip away, releasing waves of incandescent heat that hung in the air. The old man tiredly looked at the lights, his gaze wistful.
Kiwi swallowed, entranced by the sheer might contained in a weapon not more than two feet away from him. Wealth fever crept up along his spine, and his lips moved before his brain could tell him it was a bad idea. “Could I… see that?”
Snapping his mouth shut, the Inquisitor fully realized no man would hand over a weapon that emanated such vast power. One leaking Mana, as if it was a wasteful byproduct of the true potency the weapon contained! Dawn had let Artorian have the jian she’d personally used. It was a crucial part of the initial deception.
Without even looking at the star struck Dwarf, Artorian clicked it shut and handed the weapon over with dejected, downcast casualness.
“Sure. It’s the only one I could recover. The rest…” He sighed, motioning with rejection at the crater before him. “Lost. Buried.”
Kiwi and O’Nalla’s gaze met, a silent conversation taking place with mere looks as the Inquisitor firmly squeezed the jian in hand. The implication that there were more weapons like this… just laying around… even this sword alone was a tool that could swing tides into the favor of a C-ranker, or be a suitable gift and sword for any Mage that got their hands on it. If the old man was going to lock this region off… all that power would be wastefully lost.
The Dwarf snuck a peek. Nothing within him could resist a glance as his thick thumb popped away the hilt once more. Freed more than by merely a hint, the blade released a steady stream of iridescent grey energy which flickered and ate through the air like a firework burst. The grey, void filled flame shot towards the closest suit of charred armor, and filled it with a waking wholeness.
The empty suit of armor popped and cracked. The insides were fueled with the growing, silver-grey flame as its charred arm reached out without a body inside to control it. The helm was taken and placed upon the space where a head should have been. Held firm by an unseen force, the helmet remained steady and in place. Four sharp lines burst into bright silver behind the burnt-out helmet; eyes of energy that judged all flaring to life as it sought the eternal enemy.
Dwarves close by drew their weapons and jumped back. Wary troops realized the existence of a possible threat and bounded forward, bearded axes in hand. They circled the kneeling armor, which did naught but place both its gauntlets atop the blade’s pommel. It remained there, like a loyal knight awaiting orders.
Kiwi released the blade from its prison no further. His concern stained with worried eyes flashed to the landowner. The man was still and downcast, unaffected by the events that just transpired. Which meant he must have seen it happen before and was jaded to this spectacle. Kiwi connected the dots that there were ‘many blades’ and ‘many suits of armor’. That ‘wealth and knowledge’ was going to be ‘abandoned’.
This was a gold mine for the Inquisition, if he could but claim it. He needed to convince a single, depressed old man that lost the majority of his region not to lock it off. He also wanted to keep this sword. Kiwi badly wanted to claim and hoard it. Yet if he did, it would be seen as the act of greed it was. The old man would not take him seriously with any talk if he kept it. Seating himself back down, he bit his tongue and said nothing as a very shaky, unwilling hand returned the weapon.
The old man smiled weakly, took the sword, and pushed on the pommel to fully sheathe it once more. He laid it on his lap like it was a piece of plywood, giving it no further thought as the light within the armor began to fade. Taking its helmet back off, the scorched suit placed it back upon the sword hilt. When it took the position of rest, the same as all the others in a very lengthy line, the four silver lines faded. When the potential foe stilled, the nearby Dwarves relaxed as their commanders gave hand motions for them to stand down.
Kiwi paid it no heed as he leaned sideways. “Y’know. You don’t have to leave. Could always rebuild.”
Artorian rubbed his forehead. “Y… yes… I suppose I could. However, with almost every piece of silver, copper, and gold buried beneath the dirt I can afford no work crew. With the materials to the swords stuck in mountain veins, we can mine them no further. The secret knowledge of the breakthrough of a new kind of weapon empowerment is equally buried in the dirt, along with most everything else of value.”
His next words seemed to ring out from a hollow space within himself. “I have no workforce, no money, no goods to trade with for reconstruction. There are no more local resources to rebuild with, and there isn’t a human in my academy that knows how to work stone well enough for new housing. I have students, but they are children. Tired, drained, and injured children who just lost their families, their lives, their friends.”
Artorian sighed once more and buried his face deeper into his hands. “The time it would take to recover Essence alone, for my tiny group of scholars and lads to recover enough to do work, would leave us starving a good few months before we could commence any sort of work. I have nothing. Nothing. Just an empire of dirt. I cannot hire and cannot pay. I cannot grow on desolate land. I cannot retrieve what is lost, for we don’t even have a single shovel.”
Those with knowledge on how to build settlements agreed that those conditions were dire. The man before them was a landowner in name only, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t set the land-law to kick them all out. The wealth fever was creeping into many more of them, having heard the
kind of riches that would be there for the taking if they only had the time to unearth them.
“Then, if somehow I could rebuild. I need facilities of such complexity that only gnomes knew how to make. If we cannot store the knowledge of our library safely, against the weatherings of time… better to burn it. I know of none with the power to craft a room sizable enough to store centuries worth of vellum and scrolls. I might know how to move them, but…”
He shook his head, hiding his face in the crook of both arms. The robes he wore hid his expression, but he had all the bearings of a man defeated. O’Nalla motioned at the hunched over figure, mouthing angry, soundless words at her superior not to let this opportunity go by. An upset motion at their cohort of troops, and sharp point at the crater was enough for the Inquisitorial leader to get the message that his subordinates were on board with the claiming effort.
They’d come here to fight a war, instead they could go home without a single casualty, bringing the Inquisition a golden platter of resources. The honor they could bring to their clan for such a feat was massive, and such a gift didn’t come by every dynasty. Kiwi cleared his throat, “Well, I’d say that’s not quite right. Ya know at least one who could make that sort of building.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Artorian placed his hand over his heart and shook his head. “Please don’t give an old man needless hope. It will only hurt bitterly in the end.”
Kiwi Fellhammer gripped Artorian’s non-sore shoulder. “Look, lad. Listen, I’ve got four hundred and eighty soldiers behind me that came here to help. So we came late to the fight, it’s true. That’s still nearly five hundred heads worth of smarts, and a thousand hands with Dwarven muscle to get something done. Why don’t you tell ol’ Fellhammer here what’s in yer heart, and we see what we can do. Ya look burdened. Get it off yer chest…”
Artorian’s heavy exhale failed to be masked as he pressed his mouth against palmed hands. “Lord Inquisitor, really, I cannot afford your services. No matter how kind and heartfelt they may be. What could I possibly offer you for this boon? I have rocks and dirt. Rocks and dirt!”
The Dwarf slapped Artorian’s back and didn’t let up. “Humor me. One old soldier to another.”
Those words made Artorian’s eyes sparkle. He knew that saying, and he knew it well. With a stern breath, he righted himself. Motioning to the crater, he spoke with his hands as much as his mouth. “Oh, very well. I apologize for this old man’s childish daydreams. If I could do anything, I would strip mine the mountain tip to base. Crack every vein of ore, find every grain of starmetal, and gather every handful of rock. I would wish to rebuild a brand-new city in the crater from this. The edges mark a perfect city border, and as much as it pains me… the burnt woods will allow for farmland that would yield fantastic crop yields.”
He swallowed and motioned lower. “It was joked that we could have a lake now. A paltry attempt to get a smile from the weary. I would dig deep into the rock, reclaim the lost riches, the lost swords, and the lost arts. I would have ordered massive construction projects to allow for an underground library with exact conditions. A hidden city under the surface, masked by a sprawling cultivation school above it. A multi-tiered pagoda at its center, the new Skyspear.”
He dropped his hands. “Ah, such dreams I have.”
O’Nalla sharply head-motioned at her superior, sending hand signals that translated as ‘clinch the deal already’. Kiwi’s attempt to say something was interrupted as an interested sound came from the Headmaster, followed by a message that wasn’t great for them.
“Though, perhaps you are correct! I do know one who could help! It has been quite a long time since I have encountered Modsognir. I don’t know the name of his clan, but he was a merchant. He might work out some kind of deal if I… perhaps sold off some land in recompense?”
Kiwi’s words were short. “Don Modsognir? Fox fur trim gambeson, fine wolf pelt boots, buttons of platinum closing his arctic elk jacket?”
Artorian’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, you know one another?”
The Inquisitor did his best not to grumble, but the sourness spilled through regardless. There wasn't any bad blood between Dwarven clans, but there were frequent… opposing viewpoints that resolved in a violent manner.
“Few do not know of Clan Modsognir, which, so you know, is the clan name. They are a kind of… merchant, yes. However, the one I was referring to was your connection to the Inquisition. I’m aware you’ve encountered a Fellhammer brother in the Fringe? It was my hope you were on good terms. Since you mentioned them, I see no reason not to inform you that contract would be acceptable. However, if you would be willing to let the Inquisition do the work, we would be willing to do so for only salvage rights.”
He motioned at the sword with a thick finger. “It’ll pay for itself with coin and goods you would have owned regardless, and it will save you the trouble of needing to dig it up.”
He saw the old man frown and hold his chin with a hand. The landowner was clearly considering it. “Can… can you do anything about the immediate survival of my students?”
O’Nalla stepped in behind her leader. “We could certainly add that to a contract if you were willing to draft one with us. We could speak of terms and conditions, and the like. Not only would it give you a chance to specify your worries so we could address them, but a contract would ensure that we would not back out of assisting you. Your wee ones benefit, you benefit.”
The surrounding Fellhammers nodded in agreement as well. They were in on the ruse, and they were going to take as much land and resources as they could get away with. Still the old man had to agree to actually sign the Mana contract. Sweetening the words used even if the contents of the pot didn’t change was a perfectly acceptable Inquisition tactic. It was even in the rulebook. Chapter three, section seven. Acquisition without assault.
Artorian released his chin. ‘If… if salvage rights will do for your immediate assistance, does that mean to imply that you would be willing to indulge the entirety of my childish dream for… more?”
Kiwi’s wealth fever struck him hard, and his tone was sickeningly sweet. “Why, my dear Headmaster, whatever could you mean to offer? As a skilled force of the Inquisition, not to mention that we’re comprised of Dwarves and half-Dwarves, your dream isn’t only possible, it’s within reach.”
Artorian sat up, and shifted on his pillow. “Land? Land sounds like it would do. Though you’d likely want a duration.”
He pensively opened his roughened hands and looked at them. “I’m not getting any younger… it… it might be best for another caretaker to take over in my stead. What… what about a full land transfer? With the caveat that it occurs when the last of the Skyspear mountain is mined away and not a single rock of it remains, and that I see the majority of construction to completion. Particularly the school and main pagoda spire? Would that… would that be sufficient? I’d like the chance to see my children happy before I leave for greener pastures.”
Kiwi roared orders over his shoulder. “Fetch me vellum and ink!”
O’Nalla was beaming. That was perfect…! “Aye, this sounds like good business. We can begin right away, after we got some signatures sorted and inform our men.”
Even with the heavy rainfall, well over three-fourths of the cohort was already aware of the entire goings on. Essence-enhanced hearing, while it made the rain worse, was plenty for keeping information well gathered. They were the Inquisition after all. Inquiring was their specialty. Those who didn’t know were filled in swiftly as events occurred, and the wealth fever spread.
They were building a brand-new outpost and were getting away with hiding it. With official documents to cover it up, and what sounded like an immense haul of loot to take home. The honor they were about to bring to their clan… Blessed pyrite was looking out for them this day! All this trudging through rain had revealed a mountain of gold at the end!
Kiwi tugged at his shoulder, whispering lower than needed. “Gree
ner pastures?”
Artorian leaned back in his direction. “I might be a cultivator, but it isn’t buying me the time I expected it would. I have a few years left in me, certainly. However, I’m doubtful that I have more than that. No amount of refined Essence can indefinitely keep my wreck of a body together. C-rank wasn’t what I hoped it would be, and I’ve expended many years dilly-dallying. I have two more children to get back home… and for that I need a home for them. Do you recall when you told us where they were?”
The Fellhammer recalled well, and the thought wasn’t pleasant. “Deep in enemy territory. You’re thinking of leaving the territory in someone else’s hands so you can go on a last-ditch effort for yer children. Can’t say that ain’t noble. Also, can’t say it doesn't make me understand why you’d set the transfer on completion of a task, rather than, say, yer life ending. Ye want yer wee ones to have a home, in the likely case ya don’t actually succeed.”
The old man pressed a hand to his chest again, leaning back in shock that he’d been so easily seen through. “Am I such an open book to you, my Inquisitorial friend? Here I thought I managed to be clever, if not outright sneaky!”
The Inquisitor could easily tell Artorian hadn’t lied about his lifespan problem, it was a well-known issue for older cultivators; they never got the same results youngsters did. That’s why so many young adults tended to run the show and go on wild adventures; their physique could handle explosive growth. “Well it is mah profession, my friend. An’ what father wouldn’t want a better life for their wee ones? We’ll build you a fantastic hold.”
Artorian mused it out, a small smile on the corners of his lips. “Imagine that… a Dwarven hold named Skyspear. You’d never even guess it.”
Artorian's Archives Omnibus Page 93