Artorian's Archives Omnibus

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  Still. Be careful what you hit.

  “Celestial feces!” The previously silent Friar held his arm and cried out. His fist and fingers were mangled, misshapen. Sure, C-rankers aren’t a threat, but equipment powered with Mana fueled runic effects sure were.

  The Friars wasted no time launching their assault. If they could be harmed, this was a different story entirely! The Fellhammer Clan roared rebellion into the sky and charged their new foes. Hammers descended as rocks jettisoned them from the ground into a flying leap. Their armor could only take maybe a single hit, but the runic feedback mechanism was going to ‘counter’ the energy with an equally unpleasant blast. Sure it expended the Rune, but once was enough when they were many and the Mages were few.

  Runes blazed with azure light on Dwarven weapons, and the Friars were forced on the defensive. A strike from a C-ranker, even with a potent technique, was laughable. A C-ranker striking with a Mana-infused weapon stopped all humor. It was a measure of countering category with category, and what the Dwarves lacked in cultivation they made up for with fiery spirit, raging temperament, and unbreakable loyal bonds.

  “Get on!” Don called out orders in a rush. Dimi hoisted the running old man from the ground and heaved him into the cart as the massive Dwarf jumped into the back himself.

  *Hiyaa*!

  The boars tugging the caravan cart snarled and pulled the vehicle into a steady trot. With additional encouragement, they got up to a more decent speed. Artorian’s head popped up from the hay Dimi had hurled him into, and he glared at the Dwarves. The entire trip from Tribunal to cart he’d been tossed about like a piece of luggage. He couldn’t keep it up, too excited by recent events. “Whoo! That was thrilling. Where are we headed?”

  Dimi pushed his head under the hay, and picked some up to throw over him. Snazzy suit be burned, there were survival priorities. “Shush! Talk later. Flee now.”

  He didn’t want to mention that he hadn’t the foggiest clue. Don was the man with the plan, and the plan was currently… tenuous. ‘Don’t let the Church have the human’ was a fairly broad firing range with lots of room for interpretation. Don, Big Mo now that they were back on the road, filled in as his caravan left from a direction well away from the brawl the Fellhammers were engaged in.

  “Can’t take ya home. Hadurin breakin’ that insignia broke his oath to the Church. Ain’t no way they don’t know Dwarven clans as a whole didn’t just throw them under the cart. There be a storm comin’. So there’s likely a Mage headin’ to yer Skyspear, and we don’t want to be there given the numbers they’re going to send. We can’t risk gettin’ intercepted.”

  “Hiyaa! C’mon now!” Hadurin wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his black vest. Their combat gear was in the caravan following close behind them, as the Modsognir Clan of merchants moved into action. Other clans each had their own means and methods to deal with the problem they’d just created. Regardless of how it was going to go, this spelled messiness.

  “Gran’mama is headed to yer home, so don’t worry bout yer wee ones. Mages that show up are gonna get a face full o’ exploding slipper. They’ll be fine. We can’t go anywhere we can’t lay low, so the grove is a no-no. Meaning there’s only two civilized places we can go, and I like neither of em!”

  “Where’s that?” the old man questioned, muffled under the hay.

  Big Mo scowled and grumbled under his breath. “The Ziggurat where the big raider city is currently building up. Endless refugees, easy to hide in the crowd. Downside, it’s the raider society. They’re not going to look kindly on our trying to leave with our goods.”

  He spat before mentioning the alternative. “Or, and I really don’t like this option, Chasuble. The seat of the Church and the Paladin’s order. It’s capital sized, and we’re merchants. It’s massive and has plenty of people, so we can stay in any old inn and not be found so long as we keep our heads down, while right beneath Vicar noses.”

  Dimi agreed that both were terrible. “Aren’t both of those in the same direction?”

  Don Modsognir grumbled louder, doubly displeased. “Aye! They be. Current thought is both the cities are keeping one another in check, and the Church ain’t happy about it since the Ziggurat be getting the grand majority of refugees. If the Church attacks proper, they lose all the goodwill of the millions of folk there. Can’t afford it. Meanwhile the Ziggurarians don’t attack the Church. Vicars are holed up there and they don’t want to give those pain-in-the-butts the justification for a defensive war. Politically terrible for ‘em!”

  Artorian puzzled though it, and a Nixie Tube popped alight above his head. “Why not both?”

  “What?” Don and Dimi snapped at him in unison.

  The academic popped his head back out from the hay, sending stray stems of it flying through the interior of the hooded cart. “Hear me out. The assumption, if I was looking for me and didn’t know my personality, is that I’d hole up in the safest place I could find. That’s the mountain I’m already in. Entire clans of Dwarves that don’t want to give me up? Safe bet. Medium assumption, I’d go home. The safety and security of home terrain means a lot, so retreating to the Skyspear is something I’d send people to try and secure.”

  Artorian stole a breath before rambling on. “Weak assumption, go to a place with a great amount of traffic, and hide in the crowd like you said. That’s the raiders. Unlikely assumption, going on a straight-shot trip to the capital of the people looking for you. Nobody expects that, but they might… if they find us nowhere else. So if we shack up in the capital first, we’re essentially hidden.”

  “Then, when they’ve stopped looking at other sources, we head out to go hide in the crowd unless a better option shows up. There’s no better place to get information than literally from inside of their own house. I could easily blend in and walk around and not be noticed in a big city. Especially since only a very specific set of people have clues as to who they’re looking for.”

  Big Mo scowled. “I don’t like the plan, but I ain't got a better one. It’s going to take us a month to get there. Get comfortable, we’re going to change up our caravan’s look at the first rest spot that’s safe enough. We’re not going to get into Chasuble—the Paladin Capital—with our current colors. Lucky for you, the Modsognirs know how to do things under the table.”

  He flashed Artorian a toothy grin. “Thank ye, for your words of honor in the Tribunal. Hadurin and I would have gotten one deadly punishment if you hadn’t stuck up for us. Though I don’t know what be the tools I gave ye that ye mentioned.”

  Laughter erupted from beneath the restacked hay bales. “The sunglasses!”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The lack of road security caused some issues on the journey. Issues in the form of amethyst direwolves, poison sloths, a rock bear, a silk pheasant, and an invisible blast leopard. None of those were ready for a caravan of grumpy Dwarves. Especially inconvenienced Modsognir Dwarves that were already bitter about the entire deviation from the ordinary.

  Scowling constantly, the clan snapped at one another for the slightest transgression, and tempers ran hot. They hadn’t wanted to break from their trade route. They hadn't wanted to rush home, and they certainly hadn’t wanted to run away from it. Yet here they were, being delayed by regional annoyances. At least they had something to take their frustrations out on.

  Turns out, almost every Dwarf had both an earth and fire affinity channel. Those who went into the Fellhammer clan, or came from it, also had a great tendency to have a celestial channel, with all the corruption that came with it. Fire corruption? Anger. That didn’t sit well with earth corruption’s lethargy. Both combined translated to significant grumpiness.

  Artorian kept his head down on the long trip. Hiding under the hay accomplished a whole lot of nothing, and the attempt was abandoned. At this point, anything that found them would either be individuals that would serve as Dwarven anger management dummies or would be a Mage they couldn’t handle. Neither was a circumstance w
here hay helped, but keeping to oneself certainly prevented your hosts from diverting their dissatisfaction to you.

  “Do we have any electrum coin?” The conversation on the other side of the cloth of the hooded cart made the human perk an ear up. Electrum, why would they need that? It seemed he wasn’t the only one with the question.

  “Why in the ruttin’ pyrite would we need electrum, ya daft geode?” The sound of someone being hit upside the head followed.

  The slapper soon became the slappee, with far greater enthusiasm and intensity. “I be older than ye, ya pebble! Ya ain’t never been to Chasuble before, have ye? They use their own currency, and don’t accept the simple copper, silver, gold standard. Each o’ their coins be electrum, with some Essence markin’s or another that validates ‘em. I’d have smelted a sack of coin if all I needed was some ruttin’ electrum!”

  Slapping contests came to a halt as a third Dwarf stopped the chicken wing fight. “Break it up, break it up! Don’s got a chest o’ divines, and we’ll be sortin that in a bit. Caravan is about to stop before we head up an’ over the hill. Now shoo! I need the human; we can’t be seen entering Chasuble together. Too suspicious.”

  Grumbling, the duo walked away from the hooded cart, a few slaps resounding as they did, the fight continuing regardless. The caravan flap flung open as a thin man squeezed himself up and into the opening. Artorian frowned at the sight, the snazzy black suit had been replaced by… initiate’s robes? He recognized these from the Fringe. “Hello there, what’s with the threads?”

  Getting to his feet, the Dwarf brushed himself off. He beat his thick mustache to get hay that stuck to his face away. The man didn’t have much interest in small talk, handing over drab brown robes and a leather pouch. “Yer gonna find yourself in a similar set. ‘Ere, put these on, and take this satchel.”

  Taking the delivery, he prodded a digit into the satchel, hearing coinage. “That be a few divines, currency for Chasuble. All in all, you’ve got about four to five gold’s worth, so don’t go wastin’ it. That’s a year of wage for yer average Chasuble citizen. We’re going in as northern Dwarven clan traders. Still practicing accents from the mine of ‘sota.”

  “Try not to laugh too hard.” He cleared his throat, providing an example so the human could get it out of his system early. “It’s a lot of money, don’tcha know?”

  The old man did a double take upon hearing the total twist around in accent. He’d been distracted by going through the clothes he’d been handed, but his eyes were wide at what he’d just heard. Laugh? He was speechless.

  “What? Was on the spot wasn’ it? Bah! Ye got no sense of’ appreciation for the culture. Strap yerself into yer new robe when we get to the hill. Yer gonna have to walk over yerself since you can get through the trade as a pilgrim. Divines are for greasin’ palms. We’re a bit early for pilgrimage, but it’s well known they all go to the big temple in the center of the capital. So if you get stuck, just start blabbing about that.”

  Dissatisfied, the Dwarf slipped from the cart as quickly as he’d come, and a still silent Artorian just blinked. That was… alright then. Before getting changed, he flicked his sunglasses out and smoothly lay them on his nose. Picking up one of the spit-shined shields, he checked his reflection after mounting it. Stylish indeed! Just for funsies, he performed a few poses, just to see which could be more entertaining or intimidating.

  Shoulders squared, leaning back, hands held in front of him was a popular choice when including a minor head tilt. Ah, to indulge in feeling young. He ceased his silly antics and changed into the considerably less snazzy robes. Pilgrim indeed, this was some shoddy rag work in comparison. Still. Covered was covered, and he got it on before checking himself. Yup, Fringe Initiate using auxiliary supplies; likely where this robe was nicked from.

  When the caravan fully squeaked to a halt, he popped out and picked up a stick from the ground. Impromptu walking implement to help sell the blind old man look. Don was waiting for him at the front of the line.

  “Ah! Artorian, good timing. Got yer divines?” The trekking human held up the satchel, and a grunt of approval shot back at him.

  “Good. Ye be goin’ first. Soon as we go over that hill, we’re gonna be under scrutiny if news travels as fast as I wish it didn’t. Ya look solid. Drab, brown, downtrodden. Pilgrim! Excellent. When yer inside, find anywhere to stay that’ll take ya. Don’t worry about findin’ us. We’ll easily find you. We know what we’re lookin’ for. Now, off with ya.”

  That wasn’t a great amount of instruction, but it was better than nothing. He’d been the reason for this absurd plan after all. Artorian sighed and scratched at his chin. “Very well then, I wish you the best, my friend.”

  Don slapped the old man on the rear, causing him to jump half a foot into the air and get a move on, before needing to rub the injury as he leered over his shoulder. “Don’t be sappy, we’ll see ya soon enough. On with ya!”

  Artorian was going to comment, but could see the burly man squeezing his mouth shut. He was just about biting his lip. Oh. He didn’t want to show emotion, nor give away the fact that sending the human out was something he felt bad about. Odd, Artorian didn’t recall what would make the Don care for him so. He gave a wave and trekked over the hill. No reason to let his friend get a stomachache from worry.

  The sound of a stream struck his ears first, and his path swiftly led him next to it. Humans coated in dirt passed him as he traveled up the road. He had to get out of the way of a large oxen cart holding a grain of some kind; he’d never seen yellow grain before! It was raindrop shaped? How strange!

  The other travelers ignored him after a mere glance at how he was dressed. The rough farmers didn’t deem him worthy of so much as a greeting, so he didn’t press them. A quick and easy to notice similarity was that all the farmers wore the same chasuble, a kind of scarf over their clothing. Interesting, so it was more than just a city name? They were all made of poor material, and had no particularly interesting markings.

  A good hour of walking brought him in clear view of what must have been a very strange outer wall, separating city from farmland. The Oddwalls? A good enough temporary name. There was a distinct lack of bannermen walking the wall once he got close enough to check. Flags proudly hung and flew in the wind, but no guards? Another point for Oddwalls. Why was this discrepancy messing with him? He shook it off and got in line for the front gate.

  Some merchants and a group of Acolytes lined up before him. Interesting, all of them had chasubles as well. He did not possess one, and that was starting to look like a problem. The merchants wore some with cloth of finer material, and a circle appeared to be embroidered upon the ends. He checked the Acolytes. Two horizontal stripes forming an ‘equals’ symbol.

  “Hmmm.” One stripe per rank? Likely. Artorian watched the interactions with the bannermen carefully. No Acolytes seemed to give the gatehouse guards coin, but there was a peculiar hand movement they all copied before passing through. Without hand motions, the merchants handed over electrum without complaint. There was laughter, and there it was again! The hand movement! He watched each occurrence, and thought he had it down by the time it was his turn.

  “Hello there. Just me, I’m afraid.” Two humans in their early forties tried not to snicker. The guard addressing him nudged his robes with the bottom of his spear, dismissively rebuking him with a half-laugh, as if he was surprised.

  “No beggars in the city, old man.” Artorian was forced to take a step back. That spear butt wasn’t going to do anything to him, but he had to keep up appearances. He caught the smell of hyacinth flowers and his nose flared. Artorian straightened up, leaning on the scavenged stick.

  “Young man I am no beggar! I am a pilgrim from the far reaches of the west, and I have come a long way on my very first pilgrimage for the temple. If there is an entrance fee, merely tell me. There’s no need to speak such foul words.”

  The guard broke out into a wide smile, and the expected greed twinkled in his y
ellowing teeth. One of them was fake, replaced by a sizable golden nugget. “We don’t accept silver here, you’d need to fork over a divine, and I don’t see a-”

  The man was silenced as a coin danced between Artorian’s knuckles, finding its way between his fingers and onto his thumb. Flicking it sharply, the coin *tinked* into the air, and the old man trudged forward as the guard dropped his spear, scrambling from his position to try and catch the coin on the way down. Seemed like corruption would have an easy hold over this locale if the guards were that hungry for a coin. “We’re not off to a great start here.”

  The second guard still held his hand up. “While you’ve paid the toll, I can’t let you pass-”

  Artorian wasted no time, performing the requisite hand movement that he’d seen all the other Church members do. His copy wasn’t perfect, but it shut the bannerman up right quick. Something changed in the guard’s behavior, and he moved out of the way swiftly. “Have a nice day, sir Acolyte.”

  Acolyte? Oh, well, he had copied their symbol. Looking over his shoulder, he stopped moving altogether. Where was the wall? He could see the stone gatehouse, yet the wall was nowhere to be seen from the inside. He quickly snapped a glance back at the guards, but they were handling the people that had come up behind him. An illusion? Should he risk going to touch it? His hand wavered, but his fist squeezed itself. No! Curiosity would not kill the c’towl this day.

  Wresting himself away, he meandered stick first through a poverty-stricken district. Ah. So this is what the Dwarves had meant by just finding a place. That might be difficult if the locals were unfriendly, and explained the pouch of electrum. Money greased the rough wills of the needy into being cooperative. Even the poor had chasubles, and a great amount of them lived within the odd walls. He couldn’t get over the strange layout. No merchant district right next to the gatehouse? How were these people handling their trash and their sewage?