So you keep telling me. Then alter that part of my fate.
As he held his quiet conversation with the spirits, he dragged Glorýa over and gently laid her on the canvas stretcher. He tied her securely in, and then went to retrieve Greffel, placed him, and tied him in. He then put his pack on and tied a rope to the framing of the makeshift sled, and he began to pull them. He returned to his silent dialogue.
Try as you may, dwarf, you cannot alter your destiny, and that includes adding anyone.
I know I have to fulfill the Crimson Moon Prophecy, spirit. Why must you torment me with talk of death and destiny? His feet ached—they always did—as he focused on one step at a time. He knew the way to the road, where he could use the wagon, but it would take a day or two climbing down the mountain to reach it. His hands ached, as they also always did, as he held the rope to pull his fallen comrades.
Because. We have to keep pushing you.
Is that your purpose? To push me?
It is my purpose to help you throw your spells and to keep you on track.
Keep me on track for what?
For whatever the Divine Mother needs.
He paused and took deep breaths as he mulled over that revelation. He thought for a moment and then decided to ask the spirit more questions.
One step at a time. The blizzard continued around Draegos, whipping up snow drifts as he walked blindly down the mountain. He sensed the direction somehow. Then he looked back at his friends, noticing their bodies free of snow with the winds seeming to move around them. He returned his gaze forward and continued his trek.
Dwarfs pay homage to Mu'Anu, and we at the Cabal of Wisdom concern ourselves with the elemental forces. Not the Gods.
That is okay. Sometimes they choose whom to favor.
Oh, is that what this is? The Divine Mother and the Old Traveler are favoring me? A deformed dwarf with no home, no family, and two near-dead friends? If this is a favor, then do me a service, and don't.
The second spirit moved in to join the conversation. They grant favors to only a few, dwarf. You should feel honored they have chosen you.
He kept walking, step by step, eyes fixed.
Is that why they made me the way I am?
No. Sometimes the physical form just tries something different, dwarf. What happened to you has happened to others and is no punishment from the powers that be.
He thought about that last statement. He looked around the mountainside and noted their location, took some deep breaths, and continued his descent. Each step was painful, each pull strained his hands and arms, and every minute he looked around in the blinding snow he became that much more blinded. The statement swam around his mind as he silently marched.
The third spirit spoke up, spirits are not always helpful, dwarf.
You don't say? He replied. His tone filled with sarcasm and spite.
Do you not get how unique it is to have more than one spirit? What did you learn as a Mystic?
That spirits gave us magic, the ability to throw spells, but that they also would come and go. A new one could suddenly be your guide, or that sometimes a Mystic may have two spirits.
He kept the pace of his march, one step at a time, and kept his eyes focused on his feet.
How many had three spirits?
None that I can recall.
And yet you have three. Doesn't that seem unique?
Yes, but why me?
You have never given up. You possess a spirit that is good and full of light. The world needs that right now.
But the ax, I can feel how it wants destruction, to destroy everything.
That's because it isn't whole.
He stopped and stood straight up. His mind lit up, and a puzzle fell into place. That's why our citadels fell to ruins, isn't it?
Partly. The other part has to do with the Prophecy of the Crimson Moon.
I get that, but what exactly is the prophecy?
In due time you will find out. Make that which is separated whole again first.
I plan on it.
Then he felt the spirits leave.
Step by step he made his way down the rugged mountainside. The sky grew into full day then slid away into darkness as he kept his focus on the task at hand. His feet hurt intensely, and his hands were bleeding from pulling the two gnomes for so long, but his spirit never dimmed. He had to get down to the Long Road.
He had begun to master the winds of the ax, using them to hide their steps and presence, finding it quite easy to control the intensity and direction. Slowly he descended jagged edges and carefully lowered the gnomes down cliff faces, taking care not to injure them any further. At one point he had to stop and drink some water, which he was just about out of, and rest his bloody hands. Then he grabbed the bloody ropes and began pulling once again, the pain reaching deep into the bones.
On the second day of his unrelenting journey, the sun rose above the Shield Mountains, draping the valley he was in with dark purples and reds. He took the sight in, as he took one careful step after the other, and focused on the warmth it brought. He felt his sense of hope refresh as he began to notice the lower snowpack, and while gathering his bearings, he noted the Long Road within a half-day's walk. His pace quickened.
Around noon the dwarf made it to the Long Road, finding the road clear of snow, and he sat on the ground for several moments breathing and rubbing his calves. How they ached. He removed his pack and laid it in front of him, opening it up to get the magical wagon out. He held the small figurine in his hands and wondered at the magic used to make it, and where the gnomes might have found it. He got to his feet, slowly, and placed the figurine on the ground several body lengths away.
He whispered the words Glorýa had taught him, and it grew to full form. He opened the back and lifted Glorýa to the bed, wrapping her in the winter cloak he wore, and then did the same for Greffel using an extra blanket from within the wagon. He gathered up the makeshift sled and placed it in the corner of the cabin, then hung up his pack. He closed the door and stepped around to the front, grabbing the reins and ordering the horses into a full gallop. His hands hurt and as he held the reins they bled some more, but at least he was no longer walking.
Several times he dozed off, a bump waking him up, and he slowed the horses to a trot to prevent any accidents. He looked around and took the scene in, noting all looked well. Then he tied a rein to his leg and took a look at his bloody hands. Deep cuts had formed between the thumb and first fingers, where the rope rubbed, and across the palms. He did not have any gloves, as he’d lost them during one of the conflicts, and so he had no choice. He tore at his cloak and made a few strips to wrap his hands, then picked up the reins to continue driving.
The sun went down, then came up, and went down. He was exhausted, hungry, and seriously fatigued. He had lost track of time days ago, and his mind struggled with the simplest of tasks, so he just held the reins and kept the horses on the road. He stopped the wagon and went to check on his wards, a routine now, and then climbed back up onto the bench. One quick whip of the reins and they were moving again. He laughed for no reason, to no one, and he wondered where the spirits had gone.
He was seeing things now, on the seventh day of constant travel, and he was not thinking clearly at all. He swore he saw monsters in the shadows, but when he went to look, they would be gone. He would also remember the lack of sounds along the journey: no birds, no wolves, nothing made a peep. He couldn't recall where he was going anymore, except that at some point on the road they would hit a hamlet. Who are they? He mused.
He lost all sense of the waking world, and the darkness pulled him in. He fell to his left side as the horses kept on walking, and fell into a deep slumber.
He stood in the fields of some twilight realm, a white pillar of light in the distance reaching high into the alien night sky, and the breeze was warm and fragrant. He turned to look around, noting other pillars of light—red, yellow, blue, orange, and purple—in different sections of the la
nd. The world spun all around him as he faded into a new scene. Now he was near some wagon landing, a sign read "WayFaire Junction, Way Station," and across the way stood a high-rising clock tower. The white pillar of light surrounded the clock tower and rose high into the twilight sky.
Draegos turned to see an old man exiting the clock tower, and approached him. "Can you tell me where I am?" he asked the human. He had long flowing white hair and beard, his robes were white, and the staff he walked with had gears and keys hanging from it.
"You're not supposed to be here." The human replied, and winked. He then went about searching various gears hanging on cords from his staff.
"Where is here?" Draegos asked.
"Junction, of course." And then he touched the dwarf's forehead with a chosen gear. The dwarf faded, and his mind swam through the current of consciousness. He struggled to remember the last few days.
"You're in Nýa'Bín," the herbalist soothed Draegos.
As he gathered his thoughts and tried to recall what had happened, he noticed the room was abuzz with movement and discussion. He turned his head slightly, seeing he was clean and saw Glorýa in the bed next to him. She was still unconscious, but Greffel came to the dwarf's side.
"It's okay, Draegos, she is just sleeping," he assured his friend.
"Dor'Úátá?" Draegos managed to say, his voice was raspy and his throat raw.
"I sent a messenger off two days ago. I am waiting for a return message. You both have been out for three days, but you'll both be fine." Greffel offered the dwarf a drink of water and helped him take a few sips.
"How? How did we make it?" Draegos asked. He was so tired, and his mind was fuzzy, as he tried to connect the empty moments in his memory.
"The horses kept walking. By the way, we'll need new ones; they died just after we arrived," Greffel explained.
"Oh . . . I'm sorry about that," Draegos said as he reached out to the gnome.
"Small price to pay for the life of my twin and a friend," Greffel said, and then smiled his toothy grin. "The guards were quite impressed. They saw you tilted over on your left side, passed out. I slept for an entire day, while you two are just now waking up. What happened while I was out?"
Draegos’ mind began to recall the fight. "Blood giant. It had two wolves. Glorýa was fighting the wolves as I fought the giant. Bad fight, but we won, eh?" Draegos replied. "She was bitten quite badly."
"Well, they fixed her up, but they wanted to know who drew the symbol on her forehead."
"I did. A spirit told me to."
"That was some symbol. Had you not done that, Glorýa would have died, Draegos. Do you know what the symbol meant?" Greffel asked.
"Protection of life, I think. As I said, the spirit told me to draw it on her forehead. I had no grease or charcoal, so I used her blood." He went to sit up but the elevation change made his head spin, and he fell back.
"Whoa there, dwarf. You may not have frozen your hands off, or any part for that matter, but you are extremely exhausted. It'll be a few more days," Greffel said as he helped the dwarf drink some water.
Then Draegos’ left hand went to feel for the ax, noticed it was gone, and a look of panic spread across his face. He began frantically looking around the room, trying to locate it, and then Greffel called for his attention.
"It's right here," he said as he placed the ax back into Draegos’ left hand. "I held onto it, for safe keeping."
Draegos’ nerves calmed, his mind relaxed, and his eyes closed again. He could feel the obsidian blade against his hand, the cool stone vibrating slightly, and the warm energies moving up through his arm. He let his mind drift as his body seemed to release all worry and tension. He fell into a deep slumber that would last for days.
All the while, as the two slept, Greffel began preparations for the journey the trio would need to make after they woke up and was well enough. He also borrowed some gold from the dwarf and bought new horses for the wagon and resupplied it with food stocks. When he had made all the preparations that he could, he returned to his sister's side, waiting for her to wake up. He sat silently in a chair next to her bed holding her hand, watching as she tossed and turned in her deep slumber.
As Glorýa slept, her dreams took her to mysterious places and unknown times. She was in the Twilight Realm, and she walked an old road that led to some tower of white light. As she entered the town of WayFaire Junction, she saw the Way Station. She noticed strange new races and watched as they mingled with other species. She was in awe as she looked around at the strange world.
She looked up into the twilight sky and saw that four suns sat on the flat horizon, barely lighting up the shadowed landscape, and millions of stars shone down. Inside the town, there was a tavern called The Iron Gear, a shop that sold odd trinkets called The Nook Store, and a few tenement buildings. She entered into the bar and found a quiet spot in a dim corner. She gazed around the room and noted a fireplace, bar counter, and a door that led to a kitchen. She waved a waitress down and ordered a tall glass of honey mead.
"Strange to see someone of your type here," an old man said as he approached her table. He wore gray robes with a belt, from which three pouches hung, and a black hooded cloak. He stood at the table, holding a thick quarterstaff topped with a bronze clockwork gear, and his pale blue eyes seemed to look right through her. The waitress brought over the ale she had ordered and refused payment.
"Am I dead? I am in the Twilight Realm, right?" she asked as she drank her mead.
"Aren't we all dead? A dream in the mind of some immortal?" he asked in reply. He placed both hands on his staff as he leaned against it.
"That's an interesting thought. Care to sit with me?"
"I can for just a few seconds," he said as he pulled out a chair and sat, fluidly moving.
"Are you immortal?" she asked as she drank some more.
"Those who are spoken of in stories are all immortal. Are you listening to a story?"
"Am I?"
"Life is connected through various ways: spirit, magic, emotion, physicality, and psychically," the old man replied to her and then continued, "What limits us is the way we perceive the world, or what is."
"How should we view the world?" She asked as she drank, her eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute.
"Inconstant. Shifting. Premeditated. Ordained. Fate-driven. You…as you begin to drift off…see shapes and colors…not much meaning…everything is connected…unseen cords…unknown magic…returning cycles." His soft, enchanting voice rolled on. She could not keep her eyes open and fought hard to understand the words he was speaking.
Just before she lost consciousness, she saw him pull out a gear and tap her forehead while saying, "You are a piece of the overall puzzle. Help Draegos."
Glorýa opened her eyes on the fifth day. Greffel was by her side, with Draegos still in his deep slumber. She turned and asked for a drink of water. Greffel poured her a glass and helped her drink, then aided her in sitting up as she tried to put together how they had managed to survive. Then she remembered the wolves and looked down at her bandaged arm, which didn't hurt as much as she had imagined it would. Then she looked up at Greffel and asked, "How long was I out?"
"Five days," he replied, smiling as she moved about on the bed, and he placed his hand on her chest to make her stay put.
She leaned back into the bed and asked about Draegos. "How did he get us here?"
"He walked down a mountain dragging us both along. Somehow he got the wagon going and then passed out. The horses stayed on the road until they made it here, then died of pure exhaustion."
She blinked a few times, and the tears welled up. She looked over at the dwarf and whispered soft words of hope. "Come back to me my dwarven hero."
How many times would the dwarf recall the horrible day of death, he wondered as he again saw his mother's death. The scene unfolding in his mind in slow motion, the same emotional damage occurring, with the same ending. Each time he dreamt it the same sadness wou
ld overwhelm him. After witnessing the scene seven times, it began to change into a new scene.
He stood before a massive crack in the ground, a city below in the cliffs, and a vast plain to the east. Two waterfalls entered the crevice, one from each end, and mountains rose in the northwest and southeast. The night sky illuminated by Aýn and Luna, the two moons known as the Sisters, as they shed their full brightness upon Aeryth. But something was happening.
The Sisters lined up, with Aýn in front of Luna, and turned a crimson red. The land shifted from an illuminated white scene to one draped in blood. Screams of agony and murder filled the background of the night, as Draegos watched the beast-men erupt from UnderRealm and cover the entirety of the land. The Crimson Moon Prophecy, he thought to himself.
In the far distance, the monster horde covered the land and destroyed everything in its path. They burned cities, conquered kingdoms, and killed all who stood in their way. Draegos searched for the one who would be leading this vast army, and he saw him standing on the top balcony of a dark tower. Two others flanked the fairy, a human and a Brynn, and they were looking at a scroll.
Something was different about this fairy, as Draegos looked at his features, and he immediately knew what they were. The long crimson hair, the red eyes, and the pasty color of his skin gave it all away. His companions reflected similar dark traits, and all at once Draegos understood. Someone on the surface was stirring up the beasts of UnderRealm.
Then he heard a soft, male voice reciting an old story:
The fey would come from the City of Light,
Drawing together the Disciples of Darkness,
Ushering in a time of corruption and death,
Once the Sisters have done their Crimson Dance.
They would be opposed by a group of Seven,
Who would be led by a Blind Hierophant,
Rising up from the crevice of Hope,
From the Den of the Bloody Dagger.
The day would stand as they faced off,
An Army of Light versus the Army of Darkness,
A fight for the soul of the land,
One thwarted by The Hand.
The Obsidian Axe: Prelude to the Prophecy Page 9