Artorian's Archives Omnibus

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  The inspector that glanced into the back of the cart didn’t see him at all, and gruffly grumbled a ‘go on’ before the caravan shook into movement. That was… surprisingly easy. He shifted on his armored butt to the back flap, and looked through it. Dozens of organized, armed to the teeth Dwarven defenders were prepped and ready at the gate they just passed. From what he could tell… they were looking for something?

  A little worried voice told him that they were looking for him. They all looked ready to intimidate. Must be one of those traditional things? Strange. Why? Why was it so important to keep him in the dark and prepare troops to give him a particular social image? Was he wrong about this? …maybe. He shook it off; he would trust the words of Roberts the Ruminating, for his wisdom was vast. “If there is doubt, then there is no doubt.”

  When the caravan came to a halt, Artorian peeked from the rear flap. Natural light came down from above, so he wasn’t underground. Good! From the look of it, they were surrounded by a molded mountain range. One that had been altered to make this perfect oval of a greeting area? Many other grand hall shaped openings dotted the oval wall, likely leading to other important sections inside of the mountain.

  Again he saw Dwarves impatiently waiting on something. Except… what’s this? Sliding from the back of the caravan, he tested actually moving around in the iridium suit that covered every inch of him. His ability to see was awful, and he grumbled it out loud. “Hmph. Wish I could see better.”

  He stopped moving at the drop of a copper as panic gripped his heart. The slits providing visibility on his helmet sealed shut, and Essence was pulled out of his Aura. Artorian couldn’t prevent the expense, but then again Dawn had warned him that the sizing function of the armor couldn’t be stopped. It just did its own thing. Had… had he forgotten to ask what else the armor did? Abyss, he had!

  Darkness and silence sealed away his senses. How was he going to breathe if… colors and shapes flickered into place in front of his vision. What? The landscape he’d previously only just barely seen came into focus before him, and without the slit limitation he’d previously been dealing with. On the outside of the armor, four silver lines seared into activity on the now seamless faceplate, and they moved along with his vision as Runes activated according to his need.

  Air Essence cycled bad air out of the suit, and replenished it with a fresh supply without ever needing to create a cavity in the airtight nature of the suit. What he was seeing wasn’t an exact copy of what his actual eyes saw, but it was good enough to properly take stock of everything that was around him. “Dawn… what in the Abyss did you give me?”

  It took him a moment to recall that her ancestors had fought on the moon; a place where there was no breathable air. Armor like this must have been commonplace back then. He bet he could even go beneath the water with this suit and not drown. It wasn’t a big leap for equipment that freely reshaped itself to fit the user. Okay, so it cost him half of a cultivation rank. Worth!

  He flexed his hands and smiled widely. No issues! Oh, why had he never tried putting the entire set on before? This was amazing! He cursed himself from having close to no knowledge on Runes. His time was precious, and techniques had taken priority while he worked to gather as much Essence as possible to hit the zenith of the C-ranks. Which he’d not remotely managed to accomplish. Most of his plans, going forward, seemed like they needed a body that could handle the strain he was going to put it under.

  “Ohohoho I could get used to this!” He paused; his voice was different! It was similar to the gruff, growly tone that Dawn had those first few days in the grove. So the depth of the voice had something to do with speaking from inside of the suit, and it… helping? He didn’t know what any of this Ancient Elven craft did, but there was no time like the present to find out!

  Walking. No problem? General flexibility? Fantastic. Strength… not the right time for this. Couldn’t let enthusiasm take away from the main reason he put this jester suit on in the first place. Looking around again, it didn’t seem like Dwarves were giving him a second glance aside from ‘is warrior’. Artorian strolled to the front of the caravan, the hooded cart he previously occupied was roughly fourth of fifth from the back.

  Arrival was… interesting. Diverting to where a few merchant stands had been erected to sell food to incoming groups, he spun up a conversation. The nearby Dwarf daintily held a fine teacup in hand, his three-headed hound resting nearby as he read something from a tablet. Fine reading glasses perched upon the end of his nose, and he seemed comfortable in his padded stone-shaped chair. “Wonderful creature! Does he… they? Bite?”

  The Dwarf looked up, smiled, and reached down to gruffly love on his mutt. “Oh, Fufu here be a downright harmless ball-chasin’ fluffball. Don’t be put off by the three heads, it was a compromise for the missus. I wanted three dogs; the missus only agreed to one. In a way, we both got what we wanted! Fufu is the creature’s name, but each head has their own name, this one here is-”

  “Hold up… is that the one with the human on it?” The pleasant Dwarf stopped sipping tea from his glass and squinted at the caravan. Artorian chose not to reply verbally and just nodded, the hasty response he saw from the Dwarf filled in a lot of details. “They’re early! Blessed pyrite!”

  The tea was quickly slotted into the cabinet next to his work stand, and the glasses were stored. The merchant Dwarf pulled free a bearded axe and a sharpening stone. Slowly, his face melted into a scowl that the man looked like he could hold for days. He gave his axe a practice sharpen, and tried to appear threatening. “Fufu, puff up and snarl.”

  The three-headed hound bristled. Its eyes reddened and muscles bulked unnaturally. One of the three heads didn’t get the message, remaining a tongue-lolling derpy little bundle of happiness whilst the other two turned downright hostile. When snapped at, the third head followed suit. “Good boy, Moon Moon. Faster next time. You! How’s me scowl?”

  Artorian wiggled his hand back and forth. “I’d half close one eye to really sell it.”

  The merchant did so, and thought it satisfactory. “Aye, this’ll do. Come back and play with Fufu when the hubbub dies down.”

  The suit of armor nodded and returned the way it came. ‘Tradition’ was interesting indeed, and Artorian fought against his usual bodily behaviors. He copied how Dwarves held themselves. Where they kept their hands, what gait they strolled with. How did they not notice he was taller than an average Dwarf? On second thought… never mention that. Ever.

  It was a great way to get kneecapped.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “Where’d long beard go?” Don Modsognir was looking around after an aide informed him the man was no longer in the back of the fourth caravan. Hearing ‘I don’t know’ had not been the answer he wanted. They couldn’t let a non-Dwarf roam around the hold. There were rules! At least he’d be easy to spot.

  “Lanky man, look for fluttery robes and a beard as long as I am tall. Bald, so ya might be able to pinpoint the lad from reflection alone.” Some laughter went around at Artorian’s expense, but it didn’t help them locate the old fox. He couldn’t have just slipped away. He was an obvious standout amongst Dwarves, and the Inquisition had no knowledge of the old man having any tricks that let him hide or disappear… so where was he?

  Artorian stood in the middle of the caravan with his arms crossed, more confused than ever. In a full iridium suit, he was a shiny man. A tall shiny man. Why wasn’t a single Dwarf giving him a second glance? Sure, they saw him, but it was like they saw him and he was someone else’s problem. Even the merchant he’d spoken to hadn’t noticed.

  He took steps to be out of people’s marching path, but they didn’t do as much as acknowledge him. He wasn’t in their way; he wasn’t their problem. Was this the suit’s doing? This was… the best! He’d never been good at sneaking about, but if he could just walk wherever and not be given a second thought, he could-

  “There y’are!” Crackers and toast. The plan sunk like a boa
t full of holes as Hadurin Fellhammer marched right up on the iridium suit. “What’s this chicken fence you’ve covered yerself with? Whole caravan be looking for ya. I had to cycle me Essence just to find ya, and I really had to want to find ya. We’ll talk about that later. Can ya end that effect? I’d prefer to sort this before a centurion shows up.”

  Artorian sighed. “Well I’d love to not be ignored by everyone, but…”

  He didn’t have time to end the sentence as the ‘someone else’s problem’ effect lifted, and only then did the cultivator realize a Rune had been siphoning away his Essence. It was so minor that he hadn’t noticed, and right away did he grasp the value of a well-crafted Rune. While a good technique might recoup Essence used, this Rune stuff streamlined their use and discounted the cost. The Rune must be a technique in its own right, but finished and heavily optimized to really cut down on the Essence draw while accomplishing the same effect.

  Had he tried that without the Rune’s help, Artorian would have been back in the D-ranks already. A marvel! What wasn’t a marvel was the sudden silence that fell over the oval region. Every Dwarf that hadn’t given him a second glance became very aware that the human was in their midst, and tradition must not be crossed.

  Tea brewing stands closed up instantly and almost threw mugs of ale onto a rough wooden slab for people to take instead. Those who had been imbibing the hot leaf juice spurted it out in a misty cloud and snatched up a flagon to down in a single go. A few Inquisitors that had been spending time gossiping and working on crocheted baby booties threw their work into a box and pulled free weapons. They scowled at one another as pleasant banter turned to threatening tones and snarled half-insults.

  Gardeners stomped their feet, causing entire flower gardens to descend a foot downwards into a pit as they called for their pickaxes and blamed everyone who was around for taking them. There was mining to do! Those who were knitting did much the same as the crocheters, dropping their tasks just to jump on another Dwarf, scream, and begin a brawl that half of everyone in the oval decided to join without a second thought.

  Hadurin held his face with an embarrassed hand, hiding his eyes. He didn’t want to accept what had just happened. The Grand Inquisitor suddenly became incredibly polite, dropping his Dwarven drawl. “Please don’t tell the Matron.”

  Taking his helmet off just to make sure he was seeing what he was actually seeing, Artorian’s long beard spilled free. When Hadurin peeked between his fingers, the old man was flashing him the widest smile. “Oh, pyrite… no…”

  Artorian decided to give his friend some leeway. “Hadurin. You know I can’t see so well. What’s this ruckus I hear all of a sudden? What’s going on? Is Tibbins around? I’ve come to sneak a meal without Yvessa knowing so I can try and get a double portion. Where are we? It’s all so blurry!”

  The Grand Inquisitor cleared his throat and quickly waved everyone away before a centurion showed up. The order helped significantly, and all the Dwarves who heard it made themselves scarce. Maybe a minute later, Artorian stood in a far less populated oval entry area. “So... Gonna tell me what I just definitely didn’t see?”

  Hadurin squeezed the haft of his hammer. “No.”

  Even with the armor on, Artorian felt Dimi’s hand on his shoulder. The pressure was firm and strong. While he didn’t feel the squeeze the large half-Dwarf was trying to add, a smiling Artorian turned to pleasantly greet the poultice-carrier. “Hello again, lad. I sorted my headache situation…”

  The stern scowl on the mountain of a Dwarf dropped to an expression that bordered on panic, and his eyes flashed over to Hadurin, who pointed at Don Modsognir hastily running over; he’d been all the way at the end of the caravan looking for their charge. Even though they were both technically his charge according to the contract.

  Don grumbled at the old man when in complaint range. “Don’t you start bein’ Oak now.”

  Artorian feigned innocence. “Whatever do you mean, my friend? I’m harmless. Why, in fact, I wasn't even told there might be a problem on arrival. People I thought were going to inform me kept their distance. Here I am doing my best to blend in, and now you’re all sour about something. Who knows what? Anywho, I still feel the pressure from the contract spurring me on. Shall we?”

  Dimi said nothing as the Fellhammer and Modsognir leaders had a quick huddle. They occasionally stopped whispering, poking their heads out from the pile to sharply look at Artorian before ducking back down to continue. The words seemed… garbled? Or it was in a language he didn’t speak? Either way, Artorian didn’t get the chance to understand what they were quibbling about.

  With the majority of his superiors distracted. Dimi leaned down, speaking in barely a whisper. Still, the C-ranked cultivator heard him loud and clear. “How’d you do it?”

  The iridium armor-clad man tightened the grip on his helmet, whispering back at similar strength and cadence. “Do what?”

  He could tell the large Dwarf was trying to squeeze him, but it was doing all sorts of nothing to the shoulder of the armor. “Vanish. We were looking for you and suddenly, *pop*. There you are in the middle of the caravan; in a spot we couldn’t have possibly missed you.”

  The old man shrugged, voice just a hint shy of snide. “Try that poultice for hair growth. It might give you the answers you’re looking for.”

  The massive Dwarf rumbled in the back of his throat. It was like a great beast snoring, just more upset and not as asleep. “Don’t you be clever with me. I saved your hind in the grove. Give me this.”

  Artorian’s eyebrow raised. “This is where you want to cash in? Very well. I owe you that much. Can you even tell I’m wearing armor? Nobody seems to notice.”

  He got a stark nod from his ‘holder’. “Aye, nothing special though. Any Dwarf can have his own customized set, and most all of ‘em do. Yer getup is about as standout as a filled flagon of ale in an all-Dwarves-drink-free buffet bar lineup.”

  A wordless ‘ah’ left the detainee Dimi had his hand on. “Truth is simple, my boy, I don’t know. I planned to use the armor just to try and get informed, since you’ve all been beating around the bush. I thought the change in appearance might be sufficient for a few minutes. These extra features are lost on me. It seems to be able to do a few things, but none that I understand or would know how to put together. Much less take apart. I could try vanishing again?”

  The grunt that came from the mountain answered a definite ‘no’. Artorian was pleased with what he’d learned, and didn’t press the situation as the huddle nearby dispersed. It wasn’t enough, but a start was still a start.

  “Artorian.” He perked up as Modsognir stepped back into talking range. The rest of the huddle was hurrying off elsewhere. He could smell the words ‘damage control’ but said nothing. “We’re going to set you up in yer room. Then we’re having the big moot. Try not to tick anyone off, we’re in enough hot lava as is. I know we’ve been givin’ ya the silent treatment, and I’m sorry. I just can’t tell ya anythin’ at this point. Knowledge of, and about, Dwarven holds ain’t shared freely. You ain’t got the permission. I know where you’re from information is shared freely, but that ain’t the case here. Please, for the love of pyrite…”

  The Dwarf poked his stubby finger hard into Artorian’s armor. It wasn’t even important anymore why the man was wearing it; there were far more serious and pressing concerns. “Don’t mention or say anything about cultivation. Yer school may be yer region, and yer free to share. Here though, knowledge is precious and hoarded, and ye’d be startin’ a war if ya shared anything that didn’t go through proper channels. I don’t even know if it’d be with the Church or the clans. I don’t think you’d live long enough to find out. We’ve put a lot of effort into keeping all our heads attached. Gran’mama is furious, so don’t. Do. Anything. Stupid.”

  The spent Dwarven man exhaled through his nose like they were heated smithy fumes. “Now come along, and don’t you disappear on us. Still talking to you about that later, but we
can’t let the elders wait any more than they have.”

  Artorian followed along with Modsognir and a few members of his clan. “I thought you were your clan head, and in charge?”

  Don nodded; such information was true. “Oh, aye, but I’ve got folk I don’t dare cross. A good number of them we’re going ta see shortly. You’re probably thinking Mages, but no. Worse, far worse. Ain’t got nothing to do with cultivation. I know some Saints that will shut their trap in front of the folk you’re about to encounter. Don’t fret, it ain't royalty. Far worse.”

  The intrigue mounted. Trying to puzzle out the information, he followed the party through the sculpted hallway numbered ‘VII’. Must be some kind of counting system. Nixie Tube lights increased in number as they passed into the actual mountain, and still the architecture was so noteworthy that more than a few times he wanted to stop and just stare; if only to take in the artworks forged with intricacy into the overall design.

  The hall was massive, and he barely noticed the direction the floor dipped. When the path curved, Artorian couldn’t quite believe his eyes. They were in a sprawling, city-sized underground cathedral. Yet it was so bright he was under the impression that it was a sunny day, just tinged with a hint of orange. As they passed from Fellhammer section into the Modsognir Clan section, the architecture altered into the form of an exquisite grand mansion.

  “The Don is back!” Cheering erupted, and whole families poured from their intricate homes to welcome the returned merchant party. It was always good for them to see family return home alive. Don was cordial where he could be, but hushed whispers replaced the mirth as he reminded his clan that they had company.

  The instant difference was night and day. The people of Modsognir left, only to reappear in snazzy… what was that wearable contraption? He was going to call it a suit, as it went over a crimson vest that connected in the middle with metal buttons that the black cloth suit covered. A matching crimson handkerchief stuffed their front left pocket, the Modsognir insignia clearly displayed upon it.