Chiffon slipped from pale to downright chalky as he laid eyes on the outstretched note. He really, really didn’t want to take it. It found its way between his quivering fingers regardless, and he opened it with a swallow. Reading the contents, he squeezed his eyes and lips closed. With a sharp inhale, he handed back the piece of paper. To the Don’s immense surprise, the pipsqueak bowed. “Master Cleric, I am of service.”
The old man smiled widely. “Excellent. Tell me, young man whose face I’m starting to really remember the details of. Is money other than divines confiscated?”
Chiffon did not enjoy the mention that his particular face was being remembered by people who performed inspection work, and casually carried a personal Vicar writ in their pockets. “We do, your grace. Divines are fairly exchanged for all the wealth that attempts to enter into Chasuble after being properly taxed. We have several vaults for storage in the event an expedition crew requires some when leaving.”
Artorian calmly nodded, and looked back at the caravan. “In a way, I’m glad you held up Vicar Karthus’s secret little project. Though, I find it troublesome I was made to come and personally take stock of the matter. Since I’m here, you’ve allowed me the unique opportunity to add the addendum. Not only are you going to let the caravan through without complaint, I want all the confiscated wealth that isn’t divines loaded up on this caravan. As much as it can hold. I will be setting out with them to fulfill the Vicar’s private wishes. I trust this can be done as swiftly as the task… yesterday? I would very much like to forget certain faces.”
Chiffon ran for his life, barging straight into the gatehouse before barking orders at the top of his lungs. Don quirked a brow at Artorian, but the infuriatingly scheming human just winked back at him. What in pyrite was going on?
An hour later, the last of the caravan carts cleared the inner circle gatehouse. Artorian sat on the last cart out, and his gaze met Chiffon’s. He waved at the boy. “Goodbye, person I don’t know and don’t remember!”
Chiffon was soaking wet from his cold sweat, not dropping the salute until the last caravan was long, long out of eyesight. He collapsed to the ground and pressed his face into his knees. “Oh, thank the heavens he’s gone.”
“Captain, who was that?” One of Chiffon’s men, equally tired from lugging heavy chests posed the question. They were rarely roused so fast and with swift secrecy.
“One of the Vicar’s personal investigators, if I had to venture a guess. He had a hand-written note from the Vicar himself. Signed. Dated. Ring-Seal. Everything. I don’t ask questions when a four stripe is involved. You think I was going to stick my neck out when who we were dealing with had higher rank? Speak of today to nobody. Today didn’t happen. Take the rest of the night off. The north gate is closing early.”
The aide assented, and started to pack up. “Sir, just… how much gold did we load up on that caravan?”
Chiffon groaned. “Too much.”
Artorian joyfully played with his moustache. The caravan had met up with Dimi, and he couldn’t believe the story from Don until he was in the back of the caravan swimming in a tub of gold coins. “I have never been so happy in me life.”
Don popped up next to him, and he smiled at his massive Dwarven friend, rubies in place of his teeth before spitting them out. He raucously laughed, doing a single backstroke through a caravan hold full of money. “I know the feelin’. Artorian, you mad lad! How did… ya know what. Never mind. What’s all this for?”
Artorian tiredly stretched. Tired of ruses and needing to lie and pretend his way through situations. It was time for some well-deserved, cold, hard truth. “Two things. One, to increase our options. Two… you’ve taken good care of me. Recall that pouch of electrum you prepared for me? Well… have a few caravans worth of gold. I’d say that makes us square, and it has nothing to do with putting a smile on all your lads’ faces for leaving home. I’m responsible for an upheaval, I thought I’d get you some… recompense. I didn’t want you all to scowl and bicker because of me. Consider it my apology to the clans.”
Dimi blinked, and shot a look at Don. “Hold on now. All this gold. It’s… for us?”
Artorian just softly smiled in return, and a tear welled up in the largest Dwarf’s eye as the old man spoke. “Family takes care of family.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Weeks of uneventful travel was dull. Time on the road—when there was a road—left much time for thinking. An unpleasant dilemma for most individuals which meant that caravaneers found ways to entertain themselves on the way to Ziggurat, some more troublesome than others.
Some made garden gnomes out of stone, just to toss them into the distance at their real-life feral namesake. Others went on the hunt with throwing axes, with surprising amounts of success. One entrepreneuring Dwarf decided to get the boars drunk; that was an eventful day! Yet two events stood out above the rest. First, when they accidentally started a war.
Feral gnomes were thieving little creeps that stood only knee-high on Dwarves, and the entire feud had triggered due to a drunken enchanting attempt. Rota, a sturdy and strapping Dwarf whose jokes had latched him the nickname ‘Otter’, had tried his hand at scribing Runes into a set of gambling dice. While that idea was suspect all by itself, the real hubbub began when said dice went missing and a section of nearby forest up and exploded.
Rota had attempted to condense Gran’mama’s explosion effect to go off if the dice ever rolled their lowest value; never considering that this was a terrible idea. The gnomes took exception to this, and the caravan was assailed by the mad creatures. Metal-tipped darts zipped through the air, stinging worse than ice wasps as Dwarves devolved into an angry horde of insults and axes.
It was a strange war. While the half-foot tall bush warriors rushed out to stab their foes to death for desecrating their favorite mushroom circle, the Dwarves invented a new sport by using the swing of an axe and striking with the flat of the blade. Scored based on how far one could club a tiny, screaming nuisance. Bonus points if it didn’t kill them, since the gnomes endlessly came back to fight on for their feud. The fallen gnomes had their little hats gathered and showcased, forming an ever-increasing call to neighboring tribes that caught wind of the situation.
The chaotic activity of the first event overshadowed the mentally taxing tedium of the second. Artorian was putting Dawn’s armor through endless rounds of testing. ‘Find the human’ stopped being difficult. They could now consistently find him when they concentrated hard enough. They’d both been in the back of a cart, and Artorian had asked Don to look away, do something else, and finally read a note. All the note was meant for was to remind Don that Artorian was in the room with him. When looking up from the note, the Don blinked in surprise.
“Ye were here this entire time? I thought you were gone!”
Artorian shook his head ‘no’. His voice remained masked under a heavy *thrumm*, an effect he’d not yet figured out how to deactivate. “The entire time. I didn’t even move while you were counting gold coins. What did I look like? It’s not like I stopped taking up physical space.”
Don rubbed his chin and lay back in the money-pile. “Well… I noticed something. ‘Twas like… how do I say this? When ya go to a drinkin’ hole, there’s always those blokes drinkin’ their sorrows away. Head on the bar, buried in the bottom of their mugs. Ya know they’re there, but you pay ‘em no heed. They’re someone else's problem, and me thoughts put it out of mind. Yer just part of the background unless I’m specifically looking for ye.”
Artorian fed Essence from his Aura back into the runic effect, and he saw Don squint his eyes at him. “Did ye just do the thing? Kill it.”
“Well, any difference?”
The Dwarf grumbled with dissatisfaction. “I knew you were there, but ye blurred out of focus. That whole becoming part of the background again. If I hadn’t specifically been puttin’ my attention on ye in the middle of a conversation, I’d have slipped and gone back to counting gold. Speakin
g of… I thought of a wee problem we didn’t consider.”
Artorian took the helmet off, returning his voice to normal. “With the armor?”
Modsognir grunted in the negative. “We’re headed to a refugee haven, and the first time we thought of this, we weren’t bringing several caravans loaded down with literal buckets of gold. We’ll get torn apart in there, if we even get in.”
The old man pointed to himself. “You happen to know someone that can go in and take a look, before the caravan moves. If you give me about a day, I can go check the situation and report back.”
Don’s expression was flat. “I know what you did in one day in Chasuble, so that be a more dangerous proposition than it initially seems; no matter how innocently ye say it. Still, ain’t got an easier option, and I gotta admit it’s convenient. Aye. One day. Given yer track record, I’ll have the caravan ready to run away, rather than run in. Me nose be tingling even givin ya that much.”
Artorian couldn’t help but gently nod. That was, after all, fair. “Very well. Escape direction?”
The question got the Modsognir right back to grumbling. “Further east and we’ll hit water. There’s better ways to die than bother Aquatic Elves on their beach turf. They’ll think we’re there for their memory stone production, and that’ll be an ugly, wet way to go.
“There be nothing north but deadly mountains and crags, and across that range you’re dealin’ with the Lion and Phoenix Kingdoms. I want none o’ that. Straight west and we’ll be smack back in the mess we’re doin’ our best to leave. That leaves south, and I can’t say I’m fond of Socorro or Morovia. One’ll scorch us and leave us gasping sand, the other has grass taller than Dimi, an’ even worse predators. Still, the eternal plains of Morovia may still beat out the City of Dunes. Ah hate obsidian scorpions.”
Don shuddered as if he felt a chill, rubbing his own shoulders. “Ain’t no good options.”
Artorian sighed and rubbed his forehead. “The sects of Morovia have long since fallen. It’s just overgrown wilderness now. The ligers may be bad in their preferred territory, but they’re really the only problem. Everything else can be dealt with.”
Don sat up in his pile of gold, curious. “What do you mean ‘everything else’? Know an awful lot about a place many people won’t willingly venture. Gonna add that nugget o’ gold to the pile?”
The old man shrugged, trying to brush away the unpleasant topic. “We all come from somewhere, my friend.”
Don flicked him a platinum coin he’d dug out of the pile, dropping the topic after correcting him on a single detail. “Brother. Call me brother.”
Artorian silently smiled, nodding in assent before resuming field tests as the Dwarf removed himself from the cart; escaping his own embarrassing sappiness. Artorian was distracted by national borders, since from Don’s description they no longer adhered to geographical limitations. Why couldn’t kingdoms just stick to nice and convenient squares?
The Modsognir caravan encountered more and more refugees the closer they were to Ziggurat. It wasn’t a major issue for the well-armed Dwarven clan, but it came with its own set of issues. Merchants they encountered began negotiations angry and hateful, and they demanded payment up front. Dwarven gold warmed their cold, cold hearts, so if merchants had food? They bought it. Alcohol? Bought it.
A great number in the caravan didn’t even realize they stopped when the outer territories of Ziggurat came into view. Somehow, regardless of how much they managed to drink, no one spoke a word about their carts full of wealth. They sobered swiftly when someone wished to gander. Sacks full of feral gnomes were tossed at curious refugees with sticky fingers, leaving them covered in a ravenous, angry biting mass.
The caravan had to stop when the population density became too thick. The tent city sprawled, and the mess was as could be expected. Chasuble had a sewer system, even if hidden. Ziggurat did not; instead it had smells and concerning puddles. The Dwarves prepared themselves and their animals for a plethora of diseases, and filtered all water before boiling it. The infernal Essence that freely roamed here was so thick that a cultivator would choke on it. Non-infernal cultivators needed to seal their techniques up tightly; corruption would eat them alive in this region, and they had only reached the outskirts.
Don rapped his knuckles against Artorian’s armored hip. “You’re up, brother. One day. Just. One. If ye come back running, we’re ready to roll out. So expect to find us right at the edge. We will not be moving the caravan any further into this muck than we need.”
Artorian winked at his Dwarven compatriot, tucking in his beard neatly before sliding the helmet over his head. On either side of the helmet, two vertical eye-lines flared to life as the completed set linked the Runes. They interacted as intended, sapping a portion of Artorian’s Essence to engage their passive effects.
They remained present unless repressed, but for the moment the old man was very happy to have a constant supply of fresh air. Regardless, he wrapped his Presence fully about his iridium gear so it didn’t stain as he walked. The trudge into tent city ended up being as unpleasant as imagined. Kind words were only used in a sarcastic fashion here. There was nothing nice about trucking through a living area worse than an active warzone.
How did these people live like this? He made the question rhetorical when he realized there were more dead in the tents than living. There were crews going around piling the bodies up and bringing them closer to the center of the area, rather than the outskirts. Artorian didn’t want to know why. It was clear as day something unsavory was going on here.
It wasn't until tent city gave way to an outer palisade that he found an area he could give the minimum rating of ‘livable’. Initial observations made it clear that strength was everything here. Not his… favorite measurement. Ruffians crowding the gate didn’t notice him at first when he muscled his way through; it was so easy to forget his S.E.P. field was active. To everyone nearby, he was Someone Else’s Problem.
Or he was, until he reached the front of a group only to be barred by a seven-foot-tall man wielding a warhammer. Both factions of ruffians noticed him at the same time. They were confused only for a fraction of a moment before they shouted insults and attempted to strongarm him. Now, C-ranked cultivators can give roughly ten D-ranked cultivators at a time a run for their copper. A D-rank easily handled ten F-ranks. You were only an F-rank if you qualified as a cultivator. Roughly forty non-cultivators against a C-rank? There was only one outcome.
The armored figure didn’t budge an inch against the combined muscle and might of easily seven burly men attempting to move him. Artorian didn’t want to move, therefore he was immobile. His body wasn’t optimal for reinforcing, but as an external cultivator, his Presence performed much the same function. He and his armor were the same thing as far as his Presence was concerned, and the forces involved were measures of energy. The math was easy: he had more.
A single step forward let Artorian bowl through a dozen screaming men, and he snatched a surprised and muscled specimen by the shoulder, only to whisk him about in a half circle and smack away five others before dropping the bruised meat-club into the mud. The path before him cleared quickly. There were grumbles, shouts, and general assertions of unpleasantry, yet the rule here was simple: might makes right.
Don’t get in the way of the metal man that can use you as a baton.
Artorian hated this. There was no point in staying here! No point in trying to get the caravan here. Was there even a point for him to be here? He hurled another strongman out of the way when the bruiser stormed up to him with demands. He was sure the bruiser believed his shouted words to be important; Artorian found them less compelling. He did stop a moment, struck by a realization: how had the bruiser seen him?
He looked at his armored hand. The view around him was clear. He saw it with clarity and detail, but nothing about his hand looked different. He tried to switch his stealth feature off, but found he could not. It was already off? Odd. Had he removed
it subconsciously when stepping into problem solving mode? The armor was meant to be responsive to him, he’d discovered that much. Did it matter? No. No, it did not. “Let’s finish the scouting and go back to the Dwarves.”
Artorian forgot his complaints when his eyes caught sight of a large sign ahead. It was a tournament listing for some kind of arena fight. “Glory, honor, prestige. Recognition from the Ziggurat if one makes themselves worthy. Sure. Can most people here even read this sign?”
The sign used smaller, simpler words. Yet that’s what it essentially said. It wasn’t the promise of prestige that attracted Artorian; it was the two names at the top of the listings. They each had a removable wooden beam as a plaque, names carved in for all to see. Artorian remembered this place now, and found an excellent reason to stay.
Position one. Grimaldus. Position two. Tychus.
His sons were here.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Given the social standards of Ziggurat, being cordial was utter foolishness. Artorian knew there was no point. They’d look at him strangely, and would take it as a weakness to exploit. Fights were a constant in the arena, and anyone was able to join if they could get past the factions of ruffians serving as self-appointed gatekeepers. It was swiftly apparent that the closer to Ziggurat’s center one was, the better the living conditions became.
So, how to get to his sons? He’d need their attention or their presence. That likely meant doing some damage to the current standing of that leaderboard. He was secretly proud they were at the top, and hoped it was a clever ploy to get attention and get the word out. Or it could just… be who they were now. Artorian swallowed hard, he hoped the latter wasn’t the case. It didn’t matter. They were his boys. He’d treat them like all the rest.
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