Mordryn entered the paddock and patted the neck of the horse. It was named Legion, and it had a particular connection to him. Stuffing a thousand souls into one body was enough to make any creature go mad with suffering, and Mordryn felt like they could recognize the madness in each other. Legion didn't even allow Mors to ride it and that fact filled Mordryn with petty satisfaction.
"Come, old friend." The assassin whispered. "We have ghost stories to chase."
The trip out to Wayward was surprisingly pleasant. Fall had descended upon the land causing the mornings to be brisk and the days to be refreshingly cool. During this time of year, the wind carried the smell of rotting leaves and sweet wines as the Vallyrians celebrated the many festivals in the autumn months. The sun only shone fully for four hours which even the most incorrigible Vallyrian appreciated. Their race had a natural affinity for the cold, and the dark and the sun was the natural antithesis of their preferred climate.
As Mordryn made his way west, the weather largely remained the same perhaps becoming a little wetter, but Mordryn hoped to be back home on the coast well before the fall rains blanketed the area, eventually becoming dangerous snowstorms.
When he entered the outpost of a town, he realized that there were perhaps only a hundred people in the whole place. He would find nothing useful from interviewing them, and he could swear the stench of cow shit and unwashed bodies was overwhelming. He made his way to the only stone building in the backwater town.
A member of the Ventrix line had always been stationed here. Mordryn had never understood the significance of the location but chalked it up to tradition rather than practicality. It was a highly visible way to demonstrate who was in the Patriarch's good graces and who was not. More often than not, members of the line consigned to this shithole often found themselves spiked and used as a component for a spell before the year was up.
He dropped his reins and dismounted smoothly. Legion neither need to be tied up or fed and watered. The horse lived off of the spiritual energy provided by his multitude of souls. Occasionally, the stable would request a "refilling" so to speak from the Nocturnus' priests. The servants were loath to bring the subject up because they usually found themselves becoming "fuel" for the horse as they realized the beast was infinitely more valuable than them.
As Mordryne made his way into the building, he sniffed experimentally. He didn't sense anything on this level. His kind could find sustenance in the pain and fear of others. Usually, intense emotions would leave a stench in the air for a few days that he could pick up and piece together the events.
He looked around the first floor. It looked like nothing more than a post office that couriers would visit to receive and deliver messages. Nothing had been stolen or rifled through that he could determine. He paused. Along one wall, he could see that soot and dirt over the years had discolored the wall around a large square. Something had clearly been removed. Perhaps a map? Mordryn thought to himself.
That was curious. Most citizens of the Collective had no need for a map. The information was readily available from merchants and other information peddlers. Its theft implied that whoever visited the building didn't have much information about the surrounding area. The natural conclusion being that he was dealing with a new player. It wasn't likely to be a Vallyrian or an agent from an outside area. The information could be acquired in less obvious ways.
His first inclination was to assume that he wasn't dealing with professionals, but he would wait until he had seen the second floor as well. Thinking such thoughts, he trudged his way up the stairs and found himself in the living quarters of the minor noble. He could tell this is where the highlord had died. The smell of fear, pain, and death was still heavy in the air, even two days later.
As he entered fully into the room, he noticed a hole in the ceiling directly in front of the door at the furthest corner of the room. He strode closer and studied where the weak sunlight entered. The hole wasn't a clean entrance. The stone had melted unevenly giving it a strangely organic appearance. Looking down, Mordryn noticed dewdrops of cooled rock.
He glanced to the side of the room where the bed lay. It wasn't too far from this entrance. The Vallyrian Highlord should have been alerted by the sound of melting stone if it were some kind of explosive magic. He paused in thought. He had seen attacks like this from an insectile race many years before. They had looked and operated like a colony of ants at one point. They had been eradicated by the Vallyrian Collective. Races that possessed a hivemind were almost universally destroyed before they were allowed to grow. That kind of coordination posed a threat to every other sentient creature.
The insects had popped out of the ground of a church and then began running amok in the countryside. It had taken a group of Vallyrians, including himself, almost a full week to track and kill all of the creatures. They had been adept at tunneling and using an acid attack from their hind ends.
He studied the hole again. It could've been biological—that certainly would've been quieter than an explosive or magical fire. Mordryn frowned. There weren't many creatures within the Collective that used acidic attacks. Maybe a wyvern or a basilisk? He thought. Those were usually swamp creatures, and that didn't live within the Collective. Those kinds of environment had been further north.
He left the hole in the ceiling to study the site of the killing. What surprised him was the complete lack of body. It wasn't often that members of the Ventrix line completely disappeared. Even someone as removed from favor as this one should have been able to escape into a soul crystal. It was usually kept hidden near or on one's person, but even that had been supposedly destroyed.
The highlord had been well and permanently killed, which pointed to someone within the Ventrix line or one of their enemies. Their abilities to switch bodies had been considered a state secret that even the noble lines honored. They all understood that once they gained the throne, they would be endowed with the same powers and didn't want to give the competitive advantage to an outsider. This case was truly puzzling. Mordryn had found three separate instances that pointed to three different kinds of attackers.
Shelving the inconsistencies, for now, Mordryn departed from the building. He should probably talk to one of the locals to see if they had seen anything unusual. Glancing around, the only person he saw was a merchant packing some of his wares into the back of a donkey.
"You there!" Mordryn shouted. His voice sounded like the crack of a whip.
Appearing startled the man looked for the source of the shouting before settling his eyes on Mordryn. "Yes, —Lord?" He stammered.
"I'm not a lord," Mordryn snarled. "Come here."
The man dropped his belongings into the wagon and sprinted toward him. When he got within normal speaking range, he fell into a low bow. "How may I help you, my lord."
Mordryn raged. "Are you dense, I’ve just told you I wasn't a Lord!" He spat onto the earth. "Lord's sit on their pretty little thrones and ask better men to bring them breakfast." He drew a sinister-looking knife from his side and held it to the man's throat before hissing "I kill what I eat."
Surprisingly, the man didn't look the least bit scared of Mordryn's antics, and this caused the assassin to study him further. There weren't many who could remain calm with a blade to their throat. The merchant was dressed plainly, wearing neither overly opulent clothing nor threadbare rags. To the observer, he looked like he wasn't poor but that he wasn't worth robbing either. His features themselves were totally unremarkable.
The merchant was swarthy skinned from a life living outside—both in the marketplace and on the road. He had black hair cropped short that could have been a matter of convenience or so that it was more comfortable to wear a helmet. His face was unshaven and wild which once again, could have been a matter of convenience or so that he could change his own appearance rapidly by shaving his beard. His eyes were light-colored blue, but that wasn't unusual for the region. Additionally, lighter eyes were more natural for some disguising magics t
o work on. It was easier to turn blue eyes brown than it was to do the reverse.
He wasn't one of the Vallyr which means Mordryn didn't fundamentally trust him, but he did feel like one of the eyes and ears that the Ventrix family used to keep track of the comings and goings of the Collective. He slowly put away his dagger and studied the man. The man didn't even flinch at Mordryn's predator gaze. Mordryn quickly tried to remember the code phrases for this month.
"It's a beautiful fall season, isn't it?" The assassin asked.
The man shrugged. "It isn't the best. The chill grows in the morning, and I feel that the frost is soon to bite."
Mordryn frowned. "Surely, if that were so, you would just keep yourself warm with spiced wine and a nice fire."
The man met his eyes, countenance serious. "If it were just the chill, perhaps you would be right, but the roads aren't safe, and the forest grows restless."
"Which forest?" Mordryn asked.
"The only forest that ever mattered to this shithole town." The merchant answered and then gestured to the wagon. "This will be my last stop to this particular town. It has grown Wayward, and it will probably die that way."
Their last series of exchanges hadn't been in code. The assassin struggled to reconcile what the merchant was saying now with the context from before.
"Where will you go? He said at last.
"I think I'll ply my trade in Bastion." The man nodded in farewell to the assassin and then turned to leave. He secured a final item in the back of his wagon and then made his way to the front where he leapt into the waiting seat. With a crack of his reins, two horses launched themselves forward, and Mordryn watched the wagon until it disappeared around the corner, heading south.
Mordryn considered the merchant's words. The only forest that had ever mattered to the Collective was the Wyldwood. It was an expansive tract of wilderness that couldn't be developed because as soon as anyone penetrated its depths for any length of time, they would get lost and never be seen again. Vallyrian leadership had always wanted to know the strange circumstances of the wood, but it ended up being a place people avoided. It was a natural mystery, and there were plenty of those to be found in Somnium.
The assassin considered whether he should investigate the forest. He wasn't superstitious, but ever since his childhood, the Vallyrian had known not to stray into that place. Would he really let the word of a random merchant steer him to certain death? Mordryn sighed. If he went back now, all Mors had to do was search his soul and see that he had received information he should have pursued. He would be sent out again. Just this time with more specific orders that would be bound into the essence of his being so that he couldn't disobey even if he wanted to.
He decided that if he were going to die, he might as well get on with it. He climbed back on Legion and made for the edge of the outpost. Soon enough, he had reached the outskirts of the city where the treeline began. The trees didn't look any different from any others, but darkness blocked his vision after the first tree.
He sighed and used his knees to urge Legion forward. The mad horse snorted and trotted forward, expertly navigating through the plethora of roots and vegetation that covered the forest floor. Mordryn should have felt at home in the dark and damp, but he felt increasingly uncomfortable as if a presence were watching him. He stopped his horse and glanced around uneasily.
He snarled. He wouldn't be afraid of a bunch of trees. He dug into his horse and Legion launched its way forward into a canter. Occasionally, he could hear denizens of the forest flee his presence. Natural life didn't mix very well with the Vallyr. They could sense the perversion inherent in their way of life. It didn't matter much, though. The natural predators of the Vallyr had been eliminated long ago.
Mordryn spent most of the day traveling to the center of the forest and found nothing. He was growing irritated that this trip was turning out to be the wild ghost chase that he had assumed it to be when he came across an abrupt clearing in front of him. He paused and gaped at the scene in front of him.
A monumental, shining ziggurat-like structure rose from the tree line. The opening appeared to be on the opposite side of the clearing where Mordryn had entered, but the pyramid alone was awe-inspiring; enough to keep him rooted to the spot. He could swear that material, and the style reminded him of something, but he couldn't put his finger on it.
He elected not to enter further into the clearing. He could see silver figures in the distance patrolling around the structure at regular intervals. Additionally, if they were anything like the Vallyr, they would have placed a ward around the clearing that would alert them to strangers. He couldn't detect anything, but Somnium was filled with all kinds of magic and was better to be safe than have your head end up on a pike. What he needed to do was collect information.
He turned Legion around and kneed the horse into a gallop. Legion could maintain the pace indefinitely, and he needed to get back to the outpost. There was a communication crystal in the basement of the Collective government building. He could reach back to the scribes at the palace and try to figure out what the style of pyramid reminded him of and communicate what he saw to Mors. Once he received more information, he could decide what to do.
As he flew through the forest, wind whipping past his face, he could feel his ancient blood begin to stir. Finally, he thought. Something interesting.
Chapter 21: Tale of Two Cities
A whirlwind of thoughts ran through Slate's mind. He actually wasn't afraid of the golem itself. It was large and didn't pose much of a threat, to Shale and himself, if it only had melee capabilities. He was more concerned that the fight would carry itself through the city and destroy the very thing he came to conquer—the people.
The most useful thing about Bastion, besides its geographical positioning, was the established economy and the people themselves. The forest compound still had a barter economy and was too lopsided in its military to civilian ratio to be truly successful in the long term. The human capital here was worth their respective weight in gold.
As he was thinking about how to engage the golem in combat another system message startled him.
WARNING! Lighthaven is being attacked! If the settlement token is captured, you will lose control over the settlement, and your connection to your deity will be severed.
Damn. Slate thought. Bad news always came in three’s. He would have to wonder when the next hit would land. He now had two choices. He could break off his fight with the golem and attempt to organize a running retreat towards Lighthaven, or he could stay and fight in the hopes that Merus and the guardians in Lighthaven could defend against whatever was attacking them.
Neither option looked particularly good. If Slate broke off here, then the city would likely be destroyed with the people inside of it. The Vallyrians didn't seem like the type of leaders to let control of the town go willingly. However, a running retreat was always fraught with danger. That would be the easiest time for his enemies to ambush and kill his Guardians. Additionally, he wouldn't know what he was retreating to. He could be trading one bad situation for a worse one.
He would have to hope that Merus could hold out at Lighthaven until he could defeat the enemy here and then rally the Guardians to attack the force assaulting Lighthaven. As if the golem had heard and accepted his challenge, it inhaled and then spat out a wave of violet energy. The energy coalesced into twisted humanoid figures that screamed with pain. There were a few scores of them, and they broke into a run towards the Scourge forces.
Slate immediately issued commands. "Form up in front of the gate! Three ranks deep! First two are fighting, third get ready for relief!"
A chorus of "Aye, Heritor!" Met his orders and the Guardians burst into action. Slate knew they wouldn't be perfect, they hadn't trained for any of this, but the alternative meant dying. He glanced over at Shale's silent waiting form, and her silver eyes met his gold.
Let them kill the shades, we'll take care of the golem. Slate said through the Scourgemi
nd. With her assent, they launched themselves up to the nearest roof and passed around the incoming shades.
They sprinted along the rooftops toward the golem, and it had a malicious look of glee on its face as they made their way forward, shifting from four limbs to two as necessary. We'll probably have to use fire to take it out one piece at a time. Slate informed Shale. She didn't bother replying, too focused on the golem ahead.
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