Ren of Atikala: The Empire of Dust

by David Adams

  I was quiet for a moment, stroking my chin with the tips of my claws, trying to make sense of that. Weakness? What weakness had I displayed to my father? All he had learnt of in Northaven was that some unknown, great power resided in me, and that I could come back to life.

  “Curious,” said Sirora, finally, without elaboration.

  “Yes,” I said, and once again, I felt strangely unwelcome in this place. Watched. Sirora’s eyes once again flicked to an empty piece of air.

  I whipped Kurdax, my dagger, out from my belt and hurled it where Sirora was looking. If her servants were invisible, now I would know them, and then—

  The steel whistled into the stone at the far end of the room, then fell to the ground.

  “Paranoia,” said Sirora approvingly. “A useful tool.” She slid over to my fallen steel, picked it up, and returned it to me. “I hope it serves you well in the future.”

  Glaring at her, I took back my friend, resheathed him, and left towards my quarters.

  My mother was angry with me.

  I had never really known her to be this way. She had been frustrated with me, on occasion, and we had disagreed—but nothing so serious. Nothing where she had left me without saying goodbye.

  She disapproved of me turning to Sirora for help, but the necromancer had provided more help than I could have imagined. I did not believe for a second that any of this came for free, but what choice did I have? I did not know the spells Sirora knew. My power came from my blood, from my draconic father, not…whatever dark essence powered Sirora.

  The more I thought about the source of Sirora’s spells, the less I liked the conclusions I came to.

  It ultimately didn’t matter. She had her power, and I had mine. We were different, but alike, and we would have to work together.

  For now.

  I went back to my quarters, half expecting Tzala to be there waiting for me. To talk to me and make everything okay. Instead, it was Dorydd who stood outside my door, her strong arms carefully folded over her chest.

  “Hello, Ren,” she said, her tone a little more formal than I had expected.

  “Hello,” I said. I had not seen her in some time. “Is everything okay?”

  Dorydd smiled, but it was a little cautious. “Yes, it is. I was just coming to see you about our planned expedition to the Thunderhelm territories. To Irondarrow keep.”

  I had almost forgotten. “Yes, yes.” I tried to gather my thoughts. “We will go, I promise you.”

  “When?” she asked, her tone pointed. She wanted specifics. “I will require time to notify my people, so that they may prepare for your arrival.”

  What kind of preparations would be needed? I would arrive, talk, then leave. Dorydd’s people were…strange to me. “The travel time is substantial,” I said. “We would have to cross most of Drathari. That should give the dwarves plenty of time.”

  Dorydd’s smile grew, becoming genuine. “About that…although I could use the exercise, cooped up in Ssarsdale for months as I have been, there is another option. If time away from your people is your concern, I know of a wizard who owes my family a favour. A magical return journey could be arranged. At no insubstantial cost to my family, but the benefits could be substantial. My kin are always looking to open up more trade routes to distant locations…Ssarsdale could have a lot to offer them.”

  Teleportation. Powerful magic indeed, well beyond me. Meeting such a wizardwould be a useful event. The idea of attracting dwarven trading allies, however, was more troubling. My people would never accept such a thing—they traded only with the kobold settlement of Emparsdon, now that Atikala was gone—but that would have to be a secret only I and a select few knew.

  I was keeping a lot of secrets these days. Adding one more to the pile did not seem so bad.

  “I would welcome trade with Irondarrow,” I said. “Especially if we could be there within the day.”

  Dorydd seemed pleased. “Then I shall make the arrangements,” she said. “When should I have the wizard arrive?”

  “Send him in two weeks,” I said. “That should give me time enough to finish my tasks here.”

  “As you wish.” Seemingly pleased, Dorydd left.

  What now? I wanted to sleep, but at the same time, I felt far too awake for that.

  I wanted to see Tyermumtican again. I wanted to be back in the stone cavern where we had kissed. I wanted to—

  No. I didn’t know what I wanted. I grit my teeth, mentally scolding myself. This was no way for a leader to behave. I had to be strong. Mighty.

  I had a job to do. I was the leader. The destiny of my people was in my hands.

  To serve them I would need to work. To work I would need to rest. This was as logical as anything to me; my conclusion seemed unimpeachable in my mind, but for some reason, my hands would not move to the door’s handle. My feet would not take me beyond the threshold. I sensed something inside there, something waiting for me in my quarters, and I tried to banish these thoughts. I wasn’t sure why I was being so cautious; this was my home, I had no reason to be afraid.

  I pushed open the stone door to my quarters and stepped inside and crawled into the area I used for sleeping. Within moments, my eyes were closed, my breathing slowed, and I found myself relaxing for the first time in a long time.

  I woke up to a world of fire.

  Smoke billowed all around me, up my nose and into my eyes when I opened them.

  “Shit of the dead gods!” shouted Dorydd, from outside my room. “Ren! Ren, wake up!”

  “I’m coming!” I shouted, but then the door to my chambers blew off its hinges, and Dorydd ran in, her hair and face blackened by soot. Valen was right behind her, coughing and gagging.

  “What is this?” I asked. “What’s going on?”

  Valen ran to me and clung to my waist. Dorydd began coughing, air coming difficult to her. The smoke didn’t burn my throat, as it seemed to do to the others, but the smoke irritated my eyes.

  I focused myself, squinting away the watering of my eyes and forcing the sleep out of my brain. We were definitely in my room at the central spire, but it was not as I remembered it. Smoke rose from the cracks in the floor, and the whole building reeked of burning support struts. It almost smelled good, in a strange way, but its implications were horrible.

  “We need to get out of here,” I said. The only way out was the balcony. “This way!”

  I grabbed Dorydd and Valen’s hands and dragged them towards the fresh air. Valen’s feet dragged on the floor as he, eyes forced shut by the smoke, cried pitifully.

  My head spun as we crossed the threshold. The lights of Ssarsdale stretched out before us, the base of the tower engulfed in a roaring fire that consumed most of it. A throng of kobolds, spears in hand, were fighting in the open space below.

  Fighting humans. Humans with bows and chains and swords. It seemed as though my forces were winning, but there were bodies everywhere. A dozen kobold lives for every human.

  I could even the odds.

  “We need to get down there,” I said, taking in a deep breath of the fresher air. “We need to join the fight.”

  Dorydd stared helplessly at me. “Even if I could, Ren, it’s far too far. I’d do more harm than good down there after a fall like that.”

  A brief assessment of the height and I agreed. Besides, someone had to take care of Valen. “Make for the eastern tunnels,” I said. “Get down below. Down deep. They won’t look for you there. I’ll come and find you.”

  Valen took Dorydd’s hand. “I will guide her,” he said.

  “How exactly do you plan on getting down?” I asked. “Surely you can’t jump through shadows yet.”

  “No,” he said, his red eyes watery from the smoke, but glowing with anger in the amber light. “Not yet. Blast it!” He snarled, baring his teeth. “I should know this trick. I told the instructors they should have taught me—”

  There was no time for this.

  “Can you climb down the outside wall?” I a
sked Dorydd.

  “Yes,” she said, flexing her fingers.

  “Carrying Valen?”

  Now she appeared less confident. “Probably.”

  Valen shook his head. “I can climb. I have been well trained.”

  I was apprehensive, but Valen swung his legs out over the balcony, and as though he were some kind of lizard, began skittering down the stone wall of the tower, nimbly dodging smoking windows and loose rocks.

  Dorydd shrugged helplessly and followed him over the edge.

  They had their place, and I had mine. I sucked in air, focusing my magic and summoning forth my wings of fire. I leapt into the smoky air, wings flapping as I climbed away from the burning tower and over the melee.

  All eyes turned to look at me, blades pausing mid swing.

  “I am Ren of Atikala!” I shouted at the group below, fire bubbling my veins. “Intruders to Ssarsdale, your assault is at its end. Throw down your weapons, and I shall be merciful!”

  My answer came in a volley of arrows that barely missed me and flew off to the south of Ssarsdale. If I had my plate I might have tried talking to them again, but I did not, and I doubted they would listen in any event.

  Then they should all burn. I conjured a golden orb into my hand and hurled it towards a concentration of the humans. It exploded and burst into fire, enveloping them and blasting them to ashes. I conjured another and threw that one, too, blowing another group to oblivion.

  More arrows harmlessly flew past me. Rage burned brighter than the fires of my wings. I swooped low and held out my hands, arcane words of power flowing from my lips. Flames swept over two of the humans, and I kept casting until they were dead.

  My troops rallied, turning the defence into an assault. Warriors rushed forward, their spears finding human flesh, chanting furiously.

  Ren! Ren! Ren!

  Thirty remained. Twenty. Ten. The survivors formed a circle, and looking up to me, threw down their weapons, raising their hands above their heads. My warriors surrounded them, spears raised.

  I stopped throwing fireballs, and drifted over the heads of my enemies. I looked each of them in the eye—women and men alike, strong, armoured, skilled—and I took stock of their faces. To remember them. Their hair. Their eyes. Their clothes.

  I summoned a wall of fire in a ring around them, the waves of heat pointed inward. Their hair, their eyes, their clothes ignited, flesh springing to orange light as my heat, my rage, poured out into them from all sides. There was no shelter. No reprieve.

  They screamed, they burned, and they died.

  I landed on the ground, folding the winged fire behind me into my body. The warriors who had witnessed my strength fell to their knees.

  “Almighty Ren, Supreme Leader,” said one, his head bowed so low his snout touched the stone. “We are honoured to serve you.”

  I touched his neck. “You have done well. Rise, soldiers. Defenders of Ssarsdale!”

  Another cheer rose.

  “Extinguish the fires. Effect repairs. Make sure all the humans are dead. Each of them will have a metal ring. Remove them, and bring them to me.” I took a breath, drinking in the smell of my roasted enemies. “Tell me, warrior, how did this happen? How did humans breach our gates?”

  “A spellcaster,” said the warrior. “He appeared in the basement of the spire. Brought with him a container, an extradimensional space. The humans arrived from out of it. Sirora fought him bravely, but she was overwhelmed and called for aid. The humans set the supports alight as aid arrived, and then tried to fight their way to the gate. Then you arrived.”

  Why the basement? That was Sirora’s lair. “Where is this spellcaster now?”

  “He fled,” said the warrior. “Into the eastern tunnels.”

  Where I had instructed Valen and Dorydd to go. I bit my lower lip in frustration.

  “Bring me Yelora,” I said. The magus’s martial might and knowledge of the deep mines would be useful. “And Sirora. And Tzala, my mother. And fifty warriors. We are going to find this wayward mage.”

  “As you wish,” said the warrior. “What of the dead humans?”

  It was strange to me that the dead humans were a concern to him, whereas the rapidly cooling bodies of his own kin were not.

  But I knew what to do. Too much kobold blood had been spilled, and I had been asleep for most of it.

  That was the part that rankled me the most. The surviving humans I had killed with modest ease, but without me, my people seemed utterly helpless. What was the point of having an army if I had to do all the fighting myself? When Contremulus and his humans marched on Ssarsdale in strength, would I essentially be standing against them alone?

  “Burn them,” I said, unable to stop my upper lip from curling back in disgust. “But not to ashes. Merely to blackened husks. Then stake these husks outside the gate as a warning to those who would defy me.”

  “It will be done.”

  I nodded in approval. “And collect the kobold dead,” I said. “Bring them to the eastern tunnels when we have secured them. These fallen are heroes who should be rewarded accordingly.”

  He bowed low, and then the warriors went to work, extinguishing the last of the fires and rounding up the bodies of the human dead. Any still living had their throats slashed, then their bodies were rammed through with iron spikes, from buttocks to throat. Ten kobolds dragged each bloody, charred corpse to the gates of Ssarsdale where they were erected in rows, arms and legs splayed out in grisly fashion, mouths agape and dead eyes empty.

  I barely looked at them. My thoughts were turned inward. My house was a crumbled ruin. Dorydd was missing. Valen was missing. My head arcane caster was missing.

  Worse, my pride had been injured.

  Worse still, I cared about that more than the others combined.

  ACT II

  Warmonger

  IT FELT GOOD TO BE the leader.

  Command suited me. I enjoyed my time as Ssarsdale’s supreme commander, and if my rise to power had not been so dramatic, I imagine it would have happened naturally. I would have climbed the rungs of my station, working my way up through the leadership structure of my adopted city, eventually coming to a position on the council.

  Maybe if I had earned my mantle, instead of seizing it in a coup, I would have been better at my job. Still…my enjoyment would have been no less. Although I might have felt doubt about my course of action, or shame for my mistakes, there was an undeniable pleasure in authority. This went beyond the mere perks of my self-appointed station.

  And there absolutely were perks. My life was improved, and my choices unquestioned. None were left to oppose me. I swiftly became familiar with having my own way, to being in command and in charge. Authority was my morning meal, my food and water, something I rapidly became accustomed to.

  Addicted to.

  Anyone can become addicted to almost anything. Some claim to be above such base surrenders; they say an elf would never crave gold, or a dwarf lust for unlimited arcane knowledge. Yet, despite the rarity of such things, all may be tempted by drink, wealth, or worse. Everything in excess is dangerous in its own way.

  When I killed Vrax and assumed the mantle of leader, when I first dispatched troops to war, when I killed the wizards in the sky above the frozen Worldcrown, in those moments I tasted of what would prove to be my addiction.

  Power.

  Such things are subtle at first. I was the last to see it. My friends warned me. My conscience complained, but I did as many others do and excused my failings on external factors. I told myself that my hand was forced, that my actions were reactions, that everything I had done was warped by bias and perspective.

  Given the benefit of hindsight, there is some truth to this. It may be strange to say, but I do not place much blame on myself for what I did.

  Recognising one has a problem is hard enough. To actively fight an addiction is so much harder than anything else we do.

  The part of yourself you’re battling is so strong and so u
sed to winning.

  Some people never progress past this first, critical step, but for most of us there eventually comes a point in our lives when we realise that we are powerless in the face of our failings. Ironic, wasn’t it, that my failing was a need for power and control.

  Such needs are not uncommon amongst spellcasters. Some even consider magic a drug; it promises much and seemingly delivers, but each success always leaves the wielder craving more. More power. More might. More respect.

  For those who desire to shape the world, even everything can not be enough.

  I learnt this lesson far too late.

  — Ren of Atikala

  CHAPTER IX

  WITH THE RECONSTRUCTION WORK WELL underway, I headed south. Yelora joined me by the entrance to the eastern tunnels, fifty warriors at her heels. Sirora hobbling along soon after, walking through a crowd that parted to let her through.

  “Thank you for coming so swiftly,” I said to them both, pointedly avoiding looking at Sirora. “Where is my mother?”

  “Tzala could not be located,” said Yelora. “She has not been seen in the city for some time.”

  Had my mother been caught up in the fighting? Unlikely. She was a powerful spellcaster, and I would have seen evidence of her presence. I had not seen her since our argument.

  Had she…abandoned me?

  “Where is she now?” I asked.

  “It is of no concern,” said Sirora. “This slight against our people should be avenged.”

  “Interesting,” I said, turning to face her. “That this slight appeared inside your lair at the base of the tower.”

  She glared at me with her ancient, wizened eyes. “You imply that I had something to do with this?” Sirora practically hissed. “If you were as knowledgable about magic as you are paranoid, you would know that a basement is the perfect place for a teleport-assault. Smaller chance for error, as the stone walls prevent mishaps from shunting the caster into similar adjoining rooms, and it also leads to only a single point of exit. A perfect plan, except the human filth did not count on the presence of my servants. Most of which are dead now, their lives spent reducing the tide of humans to a manageable trickle.”