by David Adams
The bellows closed, and the fire, starved of air, began to recede. The glow faded from the metal, Magmellion’s body completely absorbed into the grooves, filling them in and leaving the metal perfectly smooth once more.
I gathered up the metal plates, and careful not to fall, I climbed out of the furnace. The workers shut the grate, closing off the air to the flames and choking the life out of it.
Silence reigned. The crowd of kobolds watched, the closest ones splattered in soot that had drifted out of the fires and settled over them like a dark blanket. I was covered in the stuff. My hand was blackened and covered in ash so thick it came off in clouds when I moved. My whole body hurt, and I felt drained. I could sleep for a hundred years.
But I had made my first set of plate armour.
Not the first set that was mine; that was standard patrol gear made of human leather, boiled and hardened. I had left Atikala with it. It had been destroyed by Khavi, my dear dead friend, when he burned a swarm of spiders off me. The memory of him and his demise made my chest hurt.
I had replaced my leather with chainmail recovered from a dead Darkguard. Sufficient, for a time, but while I still had it, I had outgrown it.
This plate would serve me better.
Above the sea of sooty kobolds stood a larger figure, broad and strong, a head taller than all others. Dorydd the dwarf, of the Thunderhammers. She smiled from ear to ear, white teeth shining in the fading light of the forge.
I smiled back, and with all the strength I had left, I lifted the forged plates aloft. I reached within myself, summoning my magic; flaming wings burst from my shoulderblades, so natural to me that they were as my hands. Two beats took me into the air, ten feet off the stone floor, the glow of the flames lighting up the whole cavern of Ssarsdale, bathing my city in light.
“War!” I shouted to the throng.
The crowd erupted in wild exultations.
War! War! War!
ACT I
War
WAR.
MY WORDS RALLIED SSARSDALE to war. Killing Vrax was the first step of that decision. I had my chance to live a peaceful life, and I chose the path of murder. At the time I thought that what I would do was just. A necessary evil.
I failed to understand, however, that this did not make my war a good act. Even today the righteousness of what I had done does not quiet the complaints of my conscience, nor quell the memories of all who died in my name. War is always evil. Never good. It is the young and idealistic or the old and foolish who think otherwise.
Sometimes only evil can fight evil. Sometimes the choice is taken away from you, and you are forced into conflict. Sometimes you have to embrace the darkness within and use wickedness to destroy wickedness. It is the nature of being a righteous soul. Inevitable. Where there is evil, it must be opposed, through any means and at any cost.
Or so I told myself.
Every bard within every inn across the land can spin you a tale of the plucky hero who overcomes adversity and triumphs in the face of great evil, snatching victory from the jaws of defeat just in time to make everything right in the world once again. Humans are raised on these tales, fed them from an early age well into adulthood, and most believe they are true. They try to believe. They want to believe.
They are wrong.
War is a meat grinder. The brave and fit are fed in, and ruin and corpses are produced. It is a place where the young go to die at the behest of the old, the powerful, those with petty grudges they cannot relinquish. I was neither old nor powerful so fell squarely into the third category.
I wanted revenge. Contremulus had hurt me. He had taken Khavi from me, had tortured me, and I wanted to take from him in return. I wanted him to feel what I’d felt, all those days and weeks spent chained in his dungeon, battered and abused. I wanted to visit his evil with righteous vengeance and remove a terrible creature from the world for the betterment of all.
But above all else, I wanted him to experience genuine suffering.
It took months to rally the whole of Ssarsdale to my cause, to bring them completely under my banner and convince the leaders of the city that my cause was worth sacrificing for. That my pain was worth their blood, worth risking everything they had fought for generations to preserve.
They were eventually convinced. Word of what had happened in Northaven spread like wildfire amongst my people, and my second rebirth at the stake in Contremulus’s courtyard had shown them that I was something more than a simple kobold. More than a goldling who had magic in her veins. The fallen star had been a herald of my coming. I was the seed of something powerful, righteous, and just, and all should follow me.
I was important.
As every day passed, my armies grew more powerful. I trained them. I showed them how to fight and win against the humans, against the great dragon that was my father. I enchanted their weapons, pouring my soul into the finest of steel, forging for them Humanslayers—special versions of the Feyeater blades but thirsting for men—to rend the flesh from those who opposed us.
I was special.
As every day passed, my power grew. My dreams became more vivid, and my fire burned brighter. Soon Tzala and I cast as peers, equals in the arcane arts, and soon after that I surpassed her. My grip on my power grew tighter. I flew on wings of fire, higher than all, and I rained death upon anyone who dared to defy my commands.
I was superior.
And as every day passed, I sounded more and more like Contremulus.
I sinned, and I forced others to sin a thousand times in my name.
I was a fool.
I was such a fool.
Please forgive me.
— Ren of Atikala
CHAPTER I
I HANDED THE PLATES OFF to Ssarsdale’s craftsmen to sand and polish, and then assemble into a full suit of armour. What remained was no small task; they would still have to add leather straps, buckles, and chainmail for the joints. It would be some time before they were complete, and I was more than comfortable with that. I wanted no more part of the creation; the effort of binding the fire elemental had drained me more than I had anticipated. As the surge of energy wore off, I felt exhaustion more and more.
The forging of my armour should have been a moment for celebration. I felt as though I’d aged a year. My legs were heavy, and my arms ached. I needed rest. The stairs up to to the central spire of Ssarsdale—a large structure that served as the meeting hall for the council and the quarters for the same, including me—seemed to take an eternity to climb. I focused entirely on putting one foot in front of the other, with the concentration only a spellcaster could muster.
I barely noticed when I passed by the doors to the council room. Within those plain walls we had our endless, boring meetings about a thousand trivial things I could not possibly care less about. As much as I hated them, the council were necessary to the running of Ssarsdale. I couldn’t run this city without them.
Yet.
My position on the council was…unique. Vrax’s death—well, more correctly, his murder at my hands, unknown to anyone else but me—had left a position vacant. Commander of the Armies. Although that was my title in theory; in practice I had inserted myself as the supreme leader of the council. They all deferred to me.
There was no time for meetings today. I made my way directly to my sleeping chamber. It was the largest of them all, nestled at the very top of the spire. I pushed the door open, and yawning loudly, I stepped in front of Vrax’s mirror. My mirror now. Glowbugs crawled on the walls and the ceiling, providing light.
I looked wretched, more than I had in some time. There was no lustre in my scales; they seemed dull. My tail hung limply behind me. My eyes were puffy and sore. I grimaced instinctively and saw that my teeth had yellowed. This morning they were white and clean.
“You put on quite a show,” said Tzala, behind me. I nearly jumped out of my scales.
“Don’t scare me like that,” I said, placing my hand over my beating heart. It thumped at a
nervous hum. I had never known Tzala to be so stealthy. “What are you doing here, Mother?”
“The door was open. I assumed you would want to sleep as soon as possible.” Her voice was polite, but she seemed…distant. Displeased. “I had hoped to talk to you.”
“I’m dead on my feet.” The confession was as true as they came. “I haven’t felt this tired in a long time. Not since we first came to Ssarsdale.” I slid over to the water basin, and with a low groan, splashed my face in it. The effort required to drag my head out of the water afterwards was significant. “I just want to sleep.”
“Be that as it may, I think you might have a problem brewing.” Tzala moved beside me, touching my back with her remaining arm. I wished she had both. I needed a hug. “Your wording on the enchantment was poor. You promised the elemental it could go free on your death.”
“This is the age of forgiveness, after all,” I said, smiling at her. “And it seemed only reasonable. If I’m gone, I will have no use for its service.”
“A short sighted conclusion,” said Tzala, rubbing her hand over the small of my back. It was a soothing, pleasant sensation that did nothing to fight the growing droop of my eyelids. “The elemental within your armour is bound to serve you, this is true, but it did not choose this path. It is compelled only to do the bare minimum in order to fulfil its obligation.”
“I understood that risk when I bound it,” I said. “You and I both did.”
“Yes, but now instead of simply begrudgingly helping you, you’ve made a powerful creature actively work against your interests. If it can find some way to cause your death, then its service has ended.” She sighed, reaching up to her forehead with her hand. “I don’t foresee any serious complications, but it is dangerous to keep an enemy so close to you.”
As much as I’d hoped Tzala would keep rubbing my back, I had learnt long ago that I didn’t always get what I wanted. “Our cause is important,” I said. “We march on the surface as soon as the preparations are made.”
“There is still so much to do before that,” said Tzala. “Our weapons are not ready. Our allies, Dorydd’s kin, have not yet responded to your call for aid. Your expedition to recover the fallen star has not yet even begun. The council sides with you, but they are not your thralls. They have questions and want answers. Answers, I feel, you should give them.”
So many things. So many things that I just didn’t care about. “You’re on the council,” I said, a little more snappish than I intended. “Is this them speaking, or you?”
Tzala’s ever-so-slight hesitance told me everything I needed to know, far better than her words did. “I think they are entitled to know what you intend. You are not of Ssarsdale, and there are now two Atikalans on the council. There are mutterings that your position is less…tenable than it might seem.”
Tenable? What in the Hells was that supposed to mean? I didn’t have the energy to fight her. “What do you suggest I do?” I asked, too tired to think of a solution.
“The council has heard much in terms of your words,” she said, speaking very carefully as though she did not want to offend me. “They have had their fill of them. What they need is action.”
Actions suited me far better than bickering. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all morning.”
“Good.” Tzala’s eyes glowed in the dark. “I suggest a show of strength. Something to show the people that you are worth following.”
Fine. “In the morning,” I said, “I’ll have the Darkguard strike out at one of the nearby villages.”
Her snout crinkled in dismay. “What have farmers ever done to us? Or to you? Our cause is righteous vengeance, Ren, not senseless slaughter.”
Humans were humans as far as I was concerned, but there was no gain in butchery. “You’re right,” I said, words I’d said far too often recently. “I’ll go to the surface with a hundred kobolds and attack…something.”
She shook her head. “I suggest, Ren, that embarking on a war march without a clear idea of your objective, or the strength of any possible defenders, is folly. You do not know enough about your enemies to know where to strike them.”
“Well then,” I asked, sensing that Tzala was leading me to ask this question, “what do you think I should do?”
She smiled, genuinely, for the first time in a while. “Ask your dragon friend,” she said. “Visit Tyermumtican. See what he has to say about all this. He may be able to help you.”
“He is a long way away,” I said. “Many days travel. A month at the outset.” Even the thought of such a journey made me more tired.
Tzala’s face was a knowing smile. “There are ways and means.” She reached out to touch my back again. “But for now, I think you should rest.”
Without even answering, I dragged myself over to the nice, firm part of the floor that I slept in, curled up into a tight ball, and was instantly asleep.
I slept, and I dreamed. Pleasant dreams came to me, but they were light and airy and eerily disturbing, like hearing music an octave too low and at a quarter speed. Consciously clear and in focus, subconsciously distant. Wrong. Damaged.
It was a process that was interrupted by a knock on my door. My eyes flew open, and a surge of anger leapt through me. I had asked not to be disturbed—I had asked that, hadn’t I?—and my body still ached from the enchanting.
Still, sacrifices would have to be made, even from me. I took a breath, uncurled myself, and lay flat on the floor.
“Come in,” I said, loud enough that I hoped it would be heard.
The door cracked open, and a welcome, rusty-scaled face greeted me.
Valen. Son of Khavi and Falla; I had rescued his egg from Northaven, a wicked city, and he had hatched on the road.
He stood tall as he entered. Excited. Valen now came up to my waist. He was no longer a child; soon he would be assigned a task, and it was no secret what that task would be. His feet barely whispered as they landed, his hands were steady and quick, and his eyes sharp.
It would be a waste to make him a simple warrior. No, Valen would be a Darkguard. I could not be more proud.
“Good evening Supreme Leader.” He dipped his dark snout low. “I hope I did not disturb you.”
“You are always welcome in my sight, little one.” I stood up, extended my claw, and patted the top of his head. “Though you are not so little now.”
“I eat, and I grow.” He straightened his back. “Just like you taught me.”
“Just like I taught you.” It seemed so long ago, wandering through the underworld and teaching little Valen, at that time no bigger than my hand, how to live as a kobold, how to grow, how to fight. Time passed so quickly.
He hugged my waist and then stepped back. “I have been training.”
That was odd; Valen was close to his assignment, but not quite there yet. “Have you?” I asked. “With whom?”
“Ilothika.” He held his arms out in front of him, as though he were holding a blade. “And also on my own. I found a sliver of stone in the lower levels. Just like the one that dragon made for me. I practice with that.”
“The lower levels?” They could be so dangerous. “I told you not to go there anymore.”
“I know,” said Valen. “I just enjoy the challenge of exploring somewhere new; an action without some degree risk is of minimal value. Tzala said that.”
Hearing wise words from my own mother was an odd experience. I knew she was aged, and well placed in both Atikala of old and Ssarsdale, but for her to be tutoring the hatchlings… “I’m sure she didn’t mean to apply that to accessing areas that are, for good reason, restricted.”
“I know,” said Valen. He held up a small hand as though to offer an apology. “Speaking of Tzala, she sent me here for you.”
My mother frequently spoke to me, but she always came herself. “Why?”
“She did not say,” said Valen, red eyes narrowing in confusion. “Which is odd. She said to fetch you immediately, so I did.”
I sen
sed, perhaps, that there was a sense of urgency, which Valen had not picked up on. “Where is she?”
“The gates to the city,” said Valen.
Without waiting for him to speak further, I stepped out onto my balcony, activated my wings of fire, and then I flew towards the gates.
My wings beat as I flew over Ssarsdale. Below me, thousands of kobolds looked up from their daily tasks, pointing and cheering.
Even after all this time, I had not become accustomed to being worshiped. Their attention made me feel special and important, but I had been raised as any other kobold—to subsume my individuality and to fit in. It was difficult to be an individual in a society where one was encouraged to be part of the faceless throng.
As I drew closer to the gate, I could see a crowd of kobolds near the closed, thick iron doors. I landed, blowing up a cloud of dust. I dismissed the spell, and the tendrils of flame folded into my shoulder blades.
“Ren,” said Tzala, running to me, her face twisted in a way I had not seen it before. Fear. Anger. “There’s been an attack.”
A flash of fury rose within me. “Here?” I asked, “at the gates? Who would dare—”
“No.” Tzala touched my shoulder and guided me forward. “One of our daily patrols.”
She could have just said patrols. I knew they were daily; I had been assigned to the patrol in Atikala. She should have known that. I wasn’t sure why, but my mother not remembering this detail in my life annoyed me greatly.
Fortunately, my anger had no time to play itself out. I soon saw the reason why the crowd had gathered around. A kobold dressed in leather and splattered with blood slumped limply on the cold stone. Two arrow shafts stuck out from her abdomen. Her skin was white, pale, and her eyes sunken, and her lifeblood slowly pooled on the stones, a sanguine trail leading from the far tunnels, through the door, and to the spot where she lay.