Artorian was fuming, finishing up the last few paragraphs before an earlier mention finally clicked. “Wait, Don is coming?”
Hadurin made a holy motion across his body to forgive himself. He sighed heavily and pressed his hand to cover his eyes, hunching forward slightly. “Aye. He’s got… the other one.”
Artorian’s concern was instant. “The other what?”
*Crack*!
Wood burst as the shrine door was kicked squarely off its hinges, the voice of a very upset and familiar Dwarf tearing his way through the front easily heard. Inquisitorial guards had not been able to stop the man, and slowing him down had been equally unfruitful. Hadurin had heard the stomping coming through tremor sense, and merely stood there, not really wanting to deal with this right now.
“The other missive! From the family!” Don Modsognir’s glimmery platinum coat buttons came into view before the rest of him did. An equally metallic missive was in his hand, and a drinking horn in the other which angrily pointed at his Dwarven brother. “An’ the family always. Comes. First!”
He stomped to a halt and deeply inhaled through the nose. “Ya know that! So don’t be sending mah boy here to yer blasted Vicars. Ah don’t trust it, and I knew ya was doing it too! I diverted mah whole caravan and ignored a whole tradin’ route to try and cut ya off, and ah still got here too late somehow. An… Artorian, drop that! Quickly!”
The academic didn’t hesitate, parting his fingers wide and letting the metal message clang and clatter to the ground. Don was nearly in a panic. “Did any o’ yer blood get on it?”
Artorian checked his hands, and then looked down at the message. His hands were fine, but now that he was looking for it… at the bottom where his hands would have gone, he saw the golden edge coating was razor sharp. The back of the message also appeared to be a… was that a contract? “Those sneaky celestial devils!”
His head jerked up to Hadurin, who was still covering his eyes. He’d known and wasn’t able to say. Under his breath he mumbled gruffly at his brother. “Took you long enough. I even sprinkled clues ruttin’ everywhere.”
Artorian was preparing to lambast his Fringe friend, but the dejected tone and word choice made him hold his tongue. If there was a contract on the missive, then it was very likely Hadurin was under one as well, unable to say or do certain things. “Now I can at least tell ‘em that I got here first. That’ll have to be enough. Please hand yer’s over will ya. I really need tah sit. Been getting dragged around by my oath for weeks.”
The Don handed over his message, but the long beard did not unfurl it. It was inspection time first. He carefully handled the prior missive to compare them in structure and hidden message contents. Modsognir went over to his brother and gave him a solid Dwarven hug. Their foreheads knocked against one another in familial greeting; must be a Dwarven thing. Hadurin relaxed shortly after, another heavy sigh of relief escaping him.
“Ah got here in time. That’s wha’s important. Lemme guess. Yer Vics were gonna ‘invite’ the old man over and tear ‘em to pieces?”
Hadurin shrugged. “Ah can’t tell you anything of the sort, but I also can’t tell you it’s not something they’d do. Gimme a bit longer, I feel some oath-chains fadin’.”
He got an understanding nod in return, and Modsognir moved to sit down next to a human that was going through every line in each missive like it contained a cypher. “Find anythin’?”
The Headmaster grumbled, glancing up only for a moment before flipping both missives over, pointing at several ‘off’ geometric lines he didn’t understand. “These are identical, but abyss if I know what they are. It looks like a rune, but I know awful little about those things. Best I could tell, and really only because I overheard you both, even a drop of blood would count as a ‘signature’ which would compel and require me to fulfill the hidden keywords written in fine print. Very clever to hide that text between the sheets of metal. Can’t be seen from the outside unless you’ve got some vision skills or an earth affinity. I bet the Church was counting on my lack of earth channel. Yet, why the summons at all?”
Don pointed at his. “Well, if you sign this one, then you can’t sign that one. The dates and times of where you gotta be then conflict, and since you can’t uphold both there’d be a wee problem. Which is why ya ought ta do it in that order. So ya can go to the Church but not be stuck under whatever scheme this is trying to entrap ya in.”
Artorian lifted the second Missive. “This one says I’m to attend a party? Did I get that right?”
The Dwarves shared a look, and the Don patted his friend’s back. “Never been to a Dwarven hold and family gathering, have ye? The Matron wants to see ya. Some of yer exploits got leaked last year. We’re aware ya probably don’t know. Hadur, can ye fill in yet?”
Hadurin nodded, looking much better. At least his movements no longer appeared stern and rigid like he was a rusty golem. A freedom moved through his limbs, and he stretched them for sheer relief. “Aye. So about a year ago, I get a visit in the Fringe from a person I can’t tell ya about. Save that their rank be higher than mine. They be askin’ how we got the land, why it’s goin against ancient regulations not to build in the Fringe, and why we’re still putting a whole cathedral up regardless. An’ yes. Ya heard that right. Cathedral. In the salt flats, by the way. On the water.”
Some incredulous head shaking followed, and Artorian noted Fellhammer was having some trouble sticking to his normal accent. Some of his speech was slipping in and out of Dwarven drawl. Was his fading vow trying to force him into gabbing with proper eloquence? “So some names get dropped, because there’s a few folks in the Church that make ya unable to omit the truth. Shortly after it gets discovered a Paladin-aspirant that was personally thrown to the curb by a Vicar is not only still alive; she’s doing just fine. The lass lives without help or influence from the Church, and there ain’t nobody that knows how a cultivator survived for years without a Core. There’s talk of miracles.
“Then we’ve got reports of a rumor that a Heavenly was holdin’ her near-dead body and walked up and out of the city at the foot of the Skyspear. So some folks go to investigate, and come to find out there be a raider incursion coming to flatten the place. Not only do the visitin' Inquisitors get a whole lot of good information, but they personally confirm the Paladin-aspirant’s well bein’… as a C-ranker! So not only did she survive, she made it from death back to the C-ranks without dungeon access to boot. All of this in an amount of time that shouldn’t be feasible or viable even by Mage standards.
“So for years the Vicar’s been scheming. On one anvil, they know that if it’s a sign from above, they did wrong by this one. On the other anvil, knowledge of a certain someone’s cultivation creation notes were recovered from the Fringe. They look awfully similar to verbal accounts of what visitin’ Inquisitors saw. So to cover their bases, someone figured… ‘Let’s squeeze all possible sources before we announce divine revelation that didn’t come from us’. Savvy?”
Hadurin hard nudged his head towards their human friend. “They’re in a tizzy from recent events, and the methods be getting more heavy handed. Things be movin in the world. Like somethin’ big is goin’ ta happen soon.”
Modsognir supportively clapped him on the back a few times. “Had the feeling it mighta been something like that. Good call on the not telling the family anything. Especially on the not leavin’ clues. Gran’mama will be pleased ya did well by yer own. Be sounding like the Church ain't what it used to be, and there’s some… questionable events afoot. Especially in the higher echelons.”
Hadurin squeezed his hands together. “It sure ain’t pleasant, and the Kere Nolsen ran off recently. Something about how he got information on his Da, and now the Saint ain’t approachable. The lad may be part o’ the organization still, but the Vicars ain’t got no leash. They don’t like it, but they can’t do nuthin. So that leads us here. What’s Gran’mama want?”
They both glanced at Artorian, who was going th
rough that particular missive for a third, if not fourth time. A small smile graced his lips, and it concerned both the Dwarves present. From the details the old man was reading… they should be nervous. “Modsognir, my friend, can I take it that you did not read this message before delivering it to me?”
The Dwarf pressed his fists to his fine belt. “Ah don’t go through other people’s mail! I ain’t mah mother!”
Artorian nodded, and marked the contract on the back of the missive without further thought. That’s exactly what he was hoping to hear. “Then I will accept this task, for two reasons.”
Lightning cracked the sky outside, and the old man was smiling at both of them. The Dwarves felt unsettled. What had just happened? Modsognir was the first to react. “Long beard… what was in that missive?” What do ya mean… task?”
Artorian exhaled from his nose, thinking of all the time that he had spent cultivating and watching the new city of stone being built in record time. Well, rather than ‘built’, rock was being ‘shaped’ with a function that the academic categorized as ‘convincing’. He likened it to an argument: one side was attempting to convince the other side something was correct. In this case, a hard headed Dwarven earth cultivator against a literal rock. How the Dwarf won those arguments was beyond him.
Rocks and entire patches of ground reshaped into new forms before his eyes, and had for the last few years. Who needs wood when condensed stone worked just as well—apparently better after some Runes got slapped onto it. Sometimes literally slapped! He knew construction workers snapped and scowled at inanimate objects, but this kind of shaping was unreal.
The region had been divided into hexagonal quadrants. A little nod to his honeycomb network, even though it was what was preventing him from gaining extra years of life. Each hexagon was dedicated to something specific above ground. Below the ground was a different story, and he thought it fine to let the Dwarven clan moving in do their thing.
The main pagoda smack in the middle of a lake was already twenty-seven layers tall. More, secret layers, existed under the ground. The building slowly rose as new layers were added below. A few of the architects had taken ‘Skyspear’ as a challenge, so twenty-seven was just the start. That still only took up the middle hexagon. Surrounding hexagons were all dedicated to lake space, for fish. The hexagons next to that were courtyard, and the spaces next to that were housing and essential facilities.
Great swaths of space had been allotted for it all. Not even a single zone had been filled to house all current students, and considerably more were planned for future expansions. Another lake layer bordered housing, followed by another district that was meant to include shops and crafting zones. Bordering that was undesignated, currently set aside for anything growth and production related.
Artorian shook himself and closed the letter with a *snap*. After folding the metal message up, he figured out how to lock it and handed it back to the Don. Modsognir did not like the feeling of Artorian’s hand on his shoulder, and he did not know why until the man spoke, and his stomach crashed through the ground along with Hadurin’s.
“Here are the two reasons. The main one is that this trip will put me within spitting distance of the two children I have yet to save… and the second is that ‘Grandmama’ says to bring her grandsons home. Both of them.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
The Modsognir and Fellhammer clans got along exactly as well as could be expected. Nearly the entire trip had been filled with bickering, the most passive aggressive of quips, and a nightly brawl shortly after the alcohol provisions were passed out. The next morning they were all marching with bruised lips and black eyes as if nothing had happened. Offering to patch that up for them was taken… poorly.
“Ye’ll not be touchin’ me battle trophies!” Don threatened him.
Artorian gesticulated with his hands, upset they weren’t letting him help. “Why not? You look like a fruit that hit every branch on the way down! It’ll feel better and you’ll be fresher for the next brawl, since it appears none of you can live without one.”
The Modsognir Clan Dwarf grasped him by the robe and tugged him down to eye level. “Don’t. Touch. Me. Trophies. It be against tradition, and tradition be more important than rules. Ya break the rules, ya just get castigated. Ya break tradition? Matron be sending diamond-class death squads to hunt ya down and present ye before tribunal. You’d be lucky to retain yer skivvies as yer tried in front of ‘eryone, addin’ massive shame to yer clan and family. There be worse reasons to flee to the depths, but I don’t know of any. Got me?”
Artorian’s hands went up in the air, admitting defeat. The Dwarf let him go, and the academic dropped the entire topic of helping them out. This was not how he was hoping the caravan trip would go. This whole ‘tradition’ business was news to him, but the weight it carried was significant. It likely meant far more than the Dwarf had let on, but he wasn’t going to get anything more out of them. These men and women were immune to his usual wily tactics; he would have more luck getting information by sweet-talking a cliff face.
He plopped himself back into the caravan, hiding away from the ruckus outside. Rubbing at his brows, he sighed as he crossed off yet another idea from his mental list. A whole year of travel, and he’d been none the wiser about their destination and customs than when he’d left. It was frustrating!
A massive hand opened up the caravan flap, and Dimi leaned in. “There y’are! Hey, now… ya look ill. Need a poultice?”
Artorian held both sides of his head and groaned. “If you’ve got anything to fix frustration about tight-lipped Dwarves and not having the slightest clue what I’m walking into… then yes, I want that poultice.”
Dimi-Tree bellowed out a laugh. He didn’t see this as a problem. He had a reputation for being able to fix everything after all. “What’s eating yer gullet?”
Artorian was getting desperate for something to work with, so he decided to open up. “What are these traditions? It sounds like even though I’m the one with the mission, I’m in the dark on the social customs that will actually let me complete it. Don and Hadurin aren’t giving me a speck of their time, and haven’t the whole trip! Did I offend them? How? If I had hair on my head, I’d be pulling it out. My poor beard has been suffering!”
Dimi smiled wide, showing teeth. “I’ve got a poultice that supposedly helps with hair growth, if ya wanna give that a try. Tastes like a boar’s behind, but I won’t stop ya.”
“Taste…? Don’t you rub poultices on?” Given that massive D-ranked boars that were pulling all the caravan sections along, Artorian had gotten his fill of that smell. He just waved it off, because… ew. No. Why would one even make…? Never mind. He didn’t want to know. “Traditions? Anything?”
The soft head shake from the massive man just made the elder drop his head into waiting hands. This was hopeless. Dimi shrugged, “You don’t need to fret about it too much. We’re at the mouth of the Ancestor, so a few more hours and we’re home. Expect to get a lot of scowls; they know there’s a human coming.”
The massive head tugged free of the flap, and Artorian was left alone with his thoughts once again. Abyss! They were specifically telling him nothing… now hold on. Expect to get scowls, because a human is coming? He was the only human on the trip. Would that mean the treatment would be different if his hosts could not discern his race?
His hungry mind grabbed at the concept and shot out ideas like a child made messes. He’d never had much use for this before, but now was different! His Essence reserves were holding strong at the C-rank… reaching into his spatial pouch, he tugged free Dawn’s iridium helmet. It completely obscured his face, and he had a full set of this armor! A couple hours before arrival? He could get full plate on with a couple hours.
The Ancestor’s Mouth was a gap in a waterfall held open by two humongous statues of Dwarven nobility in regal full armor. Each held a shield that was used to part the falling water, while in their main hands they held a hammer and axe,
respectively. Even from behind the iridium helmet, Artorian could deduce that it was likely those statues had moved themselves to their current position, which begged the question: how?
A grand hallway awaited the caravan as it crossed over a stone bridge that rose from the river in front of the waterfall. Exquisite, masterful craftsmanship was visible as far as his eyes could see on every square inch of the structures that came into view. Precious metals were inlaid in the walls, and gems twisted in glass containers were giving off an incandescent orange light.
“Aye, I’ve missed the Nixie Tubes.” Artorian tilted his helmet, listening in on the conversation between the caravan drivers. Nixie Tubes? What were those? The captured lights?
A softer, gentler Dwarven voice calmly responded, curious and intrigued rather than excited. “Did ya hear Nix made another thing? Reverse engineered it from some gnomish toy.”
The original, hyped voice gruffly waved that off. “Aye, that too. Why is it always gnomish toys? Didn’ we get a whole stargazer from the place we just got back from?”
The caravan shook from how heavily the second Dwarf nodded. “Take two guesses who’ll have yer head if ye try and take that apart without the prospectors getting a few years with it first. Even though we got all the doors open, I didn’t understand half of the stuff we found. Even those notes didn’t make no sense. What in pyrite is a ‘solar sailer’? Ain’t touching it with a ten-foot axe. So yeah, toys, because that’s as far as we got with understanding. Even then… even then! A gnomish toy be more sophisticated than our best technology. If Nixie says he needs more time, I’m giving the lad more time.”
The academic remained quiet, pulling his frame back to be out of sight of the conversation. He was too in-view, and wanted to keep his appearance a surprise as they went through what he understood to be a checkpoint. He sat with his back against the caravan wall, and sat nice and still to mimic an empty suit of armor.
Artorian's Archives Omnibus Page 95