Chateau Cascade

by Dusty Ridgeman

  In the mirror backed by the black statue, there was a monstrous dead thing. It was the size and shape of a man, with rotting flesh slowly falling off of it in small wet chunks. One of its eyes dangled limply from the socket. It wore a dark cloak and the rich clothes of a noble, but these clothes were stained and saturated with blood and viscera which occasionally leaked out of its decaying form. The creature's nose had fallen off at some point, exposing the underlying bone and cartilage. The summoner thought to himself, Out of all the forms of undead, this is the one he chose to become? He shook his head imperceptibly and contemplated the ongoing side effects of his own transformation.

  In the mirror backed by the red statue, there was a devilish goblin wearing a smart little tunic. It was the height of a kobold and its features were far more ferocious than that of an ordinary goblin. Its teeth were razor sharp and its skin was a garish, bright crimson. It seemed to always be grinning a terrible rictus. It was hyperactive, constantly scratching at its head or neck, or pacing about inside the mirror. Often, it would leave the mirror's field of view, only to scamper back a moment later or poke its head in as though it were warily keeping an eye on the Tower Lords on the other side. Its eyes were oversized for its face; these two emerald-green orbs darted manically from person to person.

  In the mirror backed by the cyan statue, there was a massive purple octopus-creature, easily the size of a bear. Its eight tentacles bulged with muscle and pulsated grotesquely as blood flowed through them – they stretched in every direction and were far too long for the scrying mirror to capture them in their entirety. Its underbelly was a soft cyan color, and its face was utterly inhuman – unblinking white eyes stared out from above a beak-like orifice where a man's mouth might have been. It did not wear any sort of clothing but was covered in a variety of timepieces. These hung from its tentacles and around its mantle. A few were somehow affixed directly to its flesh. Some were large, others as small as a man's watch, but all were in working order. The largest was a massive wooden pendulum clock which hung around the creature's mantle. It looked heavy, but the weight did not seem to bother its owner. Individually, the timepieces hands ticked softly, but together they formed a sort of maddening cacophony of discordant clicking. The summoner felt himself growing uneasy as he stared at the creature. With effort, he forced himself to look away. This Tower Lord was known as the paramount master of hypnotism, and the summoner had no interest in becoming its puppet. He was unsure whether such a thing was even possible, given his transformation, but did not want to chance it.

  In the mirror backed by the green statue, there was a very tall black-skinned human of indiscriminate sex. It stood there, nearly nude, with two thin straps of black leather crisscrossing its muscular chest to cover the nipples of two enormous breasts. A simple, soft codpiece covered the crotch but did little to preserve the entity's decency; a massive outline could be seen straining hard against the leather. A black beard grew on its face and chin. Even the most hirsute of Ouroloan men would have been jealous of such thick and bushy growth. Its face had been powdered with an extremely pale cosmetic and instead of eyebrows, it had bright pink makeup around and above its eyes. This pink color flared off fiercely in either direction, giving the entity a bizarre, belligerent aspect. Its face was extraordinarily angular, with a bone structure which seemed to pop right out of the skin. The creature's musculature was well-defined to the point of freakishness. The summoner idly wondered at how his augmented slave Derik would have fared in a physical fight with this one. He decided that the Tower Lord probably would have popped his servant's head like a grape.

  In the mirror backed by the pink statue, there was a rotund woman wearing a man's crisp white suit. She was short, perhaps only five feet tall, and was shaped more like an enormous blueberry than a person. She had short, cropped hair that stuck straight up and had been gaudily dyed; shocks of purple, blue, and lime green ran through it. The prodigious padding in her face made her age impossible to guess; she might have been twenty-five, thirty-five, or even forty-five years old. The austere alabaster color of her outfit only served to make her look even bigger. In fact, she stretched wide enough that the scrying mirror failed to capture all of her rotundity. Her swollen and pale ham hock hands clenched in and out of fists every few seconds. Her lips were constantly pursed into a thin line of barely concealed anger.

  In the mirror backed by the purple statue, there was a homeless-looking barefoot man who appeared to have just passed his middle-age. A horseshoe of male-pattern baldness was evident, with thinly cropped grey hair surrounding the hairless circle of his freckled head. His eyes were a dull light blue, and he had a very tired look about him. One would likely ignore him or even flip him a copper coin if they passed him in the street. His face was despondent, and his head was always lowered slightly as if in prayer. Half-lidded eyes wandered lethargically, staring vaguely in the direction of whoever happened to be speaking.

  In the mirrors backed by the orange and yellow statues, there was nothing. Their empty surfaces gleamed, ostentatious in their silence.

  The rest of the mirrors were not so quiet.

  “We should not be wasting time with Jodannu's empty visions,” came a voice from the mirror backed by the green statue. The voice was utterly strange: extremely deep but also somehow feminine. “If we are to subdue the West, we must be proactive and take direct action. We must utilize our magic.” The being in the mirror paused, a strange look of unbridled desire coming over its angular features. It let out a disturbing baritone moan before continuing. “I have a way that we can affect the water supply of these Westerners...”

  “Please, Xir,” interrupted Jodannu. His deep voice was calm but authoritative; he spoke as though he believed himself to be the leader all the gathered Tower Lords. “You must give up this idea to poison their water. Shlyek has already explained how their techno-savagery has allowed them to create infernal machines that purify all of their water. It would not work, and they would retaliate.”

  “There are other ways,” came a feminine voice from the mirror with the cyan statue. One might easily confuse it for the voice of a kindly grandmother, but it was coming from the hypnotic octoran. “I cannot support any plan of direct action. It is obvious that the Imperium has not yet learned to embrace magic. This transformation is paramount, and we Tower Lords are going to be central to it. When the West enters a more magical mode, we will be resented because of our leading role. In fact, they already resent us – but without that transformation, the West will not survive. We need not act directly. Instead, we will act indirectly and avoid their wrath until it is too late for them to alter their fate.” The creature's eyes were twinkling as it spoke.

  “Direct action is unavoidable, Shlyek,” came Jodannu's forceful, booming voice. “I have seen it in the mists. They will attack at the place I have seen. We will defend, and then we will strike back. We will fight the savages directly. I have seen it. It is unavoidable.”

  A dry, coughing laugh emanated from the mirror backed by the black statue. “Jodannu, your visions are worthless. How many times have you wasted our time with them?” The creature's rasping voice was a forceful whisper. It paused to cough up a chunk of wet, pulsating organ. The creature made a beckoning gesture to its left, then spoke: “A moment, my fellows.”

  The scene that followed would have been gut-wrenching to any normal man, but the onlookers merely watched in bored silence. A quivering, dark-skinned, naked babe was offered to the dead thing in the mirror by a kneeling woman. The woman scurried off as the hideous creature took it into his arms and held it, shushing and cooing like a dreadful mother. It struck quickly, almost faster than the eye could see, feasting ravenously. It only took a moment for the infant to be reduced to a small pile of bones. Then, the Tower Lord's dead flesh began to churn and knit itself right before everyone's eyes. Before long, the summoner found himself looking at a handsome, pale man in a blood-messed and ragged nobleman's clothes. It looked down its crooked nose at the re
st of the Tower Lords and resumed speaking.

  “Excuse me for that. A delightful necessity, as you well know. As I was saying… I cannot back this plan. Everything returns to the earth sooner or later. If your vision comes true, then all the better – more meat for the grinder, more… flesh for my hordes. Let them come. We need not band together to defeat such savages, such slaves to the natural cycles of life and death.” He licked his thin lips, and an excited grin crept up on his face.

  There was a moment of silence, then Jodannu spoke again. “You've been silent, Scalbe.”

  “He's always quiet,” snapped a sharp, high voice from the mirror backed by the pink statue. The large pale-skinned woman waggled her head and paused after each sentence to purse her lips. “Why would you want him, anyway? I speak for him.”

  “What say you?” Jodannu continued, ignoring the boisterous woman. “Your knowledge of the dreamscape could be very useful.”

  The man spoke timidly. “We-well… actually I was thinking… why don't we leave them alone? It's not really… you know… worth the effort. Can't we just k-keep on doing our thing over here?”

  “Scalbe, you're a worm,” the fat woman shouted, raising one of her ham fists and shaking it. Scalbe recoiled in the mirror as though he had been struck, and even when he stood up again, he was still cowering slightly. “You've always BEEN a worm,” she continued.

  “I'm sorry mistress,” he said, the words flowing out of him quickly, automatically. The summoner could still feel disgust, and it flowed through him in waves. How could this mewling slave be a Tower Lord?

  “You are,” she confirmed, her tone full of venom. “But I won't be a part of the Marble Lord's plan, and neither will you. We follow my plans around here. I am in charge of all of you, and you know it.” A clamor of dissenting murmurs could be heard around the room. “Shut up!” she shouted, louder this time. The murmurs stopped. “I won't have anything to do with your stupid visions. We're done here, Scalbe.” The mirror backed by the pink statue flashed briefly, then was as dead as the ones backed by the orange and yellow.

  “You know what they say,” Scalbe said, sighing deeply afterwards. “Happy wife, happy life.” His mirror blinked off.

  “I've said my peace as well,” came the octoran's entrancing voice. Her mirror blinked off.

  “What of you, Mortannin? There will be much death before this is through. Are you certain you do not wish to partake?” Jodannu said, gesturing toward the attractive pale man in the mirror backed by the black statue.

  “I always partake,” he replied. “But on my own time, not yours. Keep your prophecies.” His mirror blinked off.

  Now only two mirrors remained active: the one containing Xir, and the one containing the little red goblin. Aside from an occasional humming noise as he considered what was said, the goblin had remained silent this entire time.

  Xir broke the silence and spoke in its sultry, deep voice. “You've forgotten so quickly. You already owe me for that augmented slave I sent you, Jodannu,” it said. A wicked, full-faced smile appeared across its visage before it continued, “Oh, all right, you big, tall handsome man. I will send one of my greatest creations. Expect it within the fortnight.” The mirror backed by the green statue blinked off. Behind the obscuring white aura, the Marble Lord's face briefly twisted into a look that somehow expressed both discomfort and relief.

  Jodannu turned expectantly at the red goblin, waiting for him to speak. It stopped fidgeting and stared back through its big, expressive green eyes.

  “Werr,” it began, its heavy accent prominent, “if dere going to be a big battre, I wirr not miss it.” Despite its hyperactive movements, it spoke with slow deliberation. The act of speaking seemed to have a calming effect on the goblin, and its frenetic movements came to a stop. “Da fire coming,” it continued, “I wirr send da seneschar, da minotaur. My most erite force forrow wif him. But if your vision not true, it be your fief he burn.”

  “My visions are true, Gokko. You will not be disappointed in the destruction that follows. The West will burn.”

  The little red goblin rubbed its hands together and giggled like a boy receiving a toy. It smiled widely, showing its razor-sharp teeth, then its mirror blinked off.

  “Come, my servant,” Jodannu said, beckoning toward the summoner as he turned his back. The circle of runes dimmed and then ceased glowing entirely as he walked to the other end of the room. There, he sat in a cushioned chair large enough to be a throne. The summoner sat a few feet away in a smaller chair and Jodannu gingerly pulled a book off the shelf; he set it down and stared at his apprentice as he rapped against the book's surface with his polished white nails.

  “You failed me,” he finally said, flat and emotionless.

  “Yes, my lord. Allow me to redeem myself.”

  “Of course,” he replied. “I knew you would fail, you see. I saw it. It was foretold. Now I know that I have perfected my arts. The visions are infallible. Now your failure will become our victory.”

  The summoner was dubious but nodded anyway. “Then what shall I do with the Changed Ones I have gathered for you?”

  “We will await the coming of our allies. When they arrive, you will lead our combined forces northwest. The true confrontation will take place in the shadow of the Peril mountains. I have seen it with greater clarity than any vision before it. The savages in the West have grown bold. They have found a way to dig through the mountain itself. Soon they will be able to bring their abominable machines and armies directly into our lands, without the Chateau standing in their way. You will meet them. You will crush them. You will pass through to the West and bring destruction in your wake. Salt their fields, leave nothing alive in your wake. Rend a path of devastation all the way from their eastern border to their capital city, and show the savages what it means to challenge the power of magic.”

  The summoner stood, then knelt before Jodannu's throne. “It shall be done, my lord.”

  The Beast Seneschal of Cuprite

  It is a cold night in the Peril mountains, some twenty-five years before Jodannu's meeting of the Tower Lords.

  Dim red light flickers from the campfire embers onto savage faces, and smoke rises from the succulent roasting human flesh above it. The orcs grunt and chortle raucously amongst themselves. Through some clever application of blood magic, their sangoma chieftain has stolen a baby minotaur fresh from the blood rites. What a rare prize this creature would make! They chew on flesh and crunch bone, occasionally tossing scraps to the babe, a bull-like creature that is hideous even in its infancy. The sangoma grins in the dim light at his new pet.

  Years pass. The small, nomadic tribe survives by moving from place to place, pillaging those weaker than them. The sangoma has named his pet Yradesi, their word for bull, but is quickly amended to Yradethi when they realize that the beast cannot say his own name properly. The other orcs, especially the younger ones, have long since grown weary of the minotaur and his incomprehensible, bovine voice. Raised as more of a pet animal than a slave, he learns that speech is a privilege; he is beaten with thorny whips whenever he opens his mouth. He discovers that after a good hunt, once his horns have pierced the yielding flesh of the tribe's prey, the orcs are too blood-drunk to care about him speaking. The lesson stays with him; Yradethi rarely speaks except in the heat or aftermath of battle. He has very little patience or respect for those who speak carelessly or too much.

  More years pass, and Yradethi grows large and muscular. Fearful of his physical strength, the orcs no longer use their lashes on him. The sangoma, growing old, teaches Yradethi the ways of blood magic and the shamanic methods – the secret power which has enabled him to maintain his dominance over the tribe for all these long years. The bull learns of the ancient and terrible Ways Goëtia.

  The sangoma reveals to Yradethi that these dark insights were granted by a darker Lord. It was this Lord that commanded him to collect Yradethi when the bull was but a babe. In all of Genesis, there are few creatures with more capaci
ty for destruction than a minotaur. The Tower of Annihilation would finally have a seneschal worthy of the name, adorned in cuprite and wreathed in flame.

  The sangoma grows tired. He has reached his declining years. Satisfied with the minotaur's progress, he imposes one, final demand on his pet: a fight to the death. With a gore through the heart, the old orc is spared the indignity of a slow withering death. The killing horn drinks his soul, changing from mottled brown to inky black.

  It storms that night, blood and thunder and screams against the dark cloudless sky. Afterwards, bull feasts on orc, chewing on flesh and crunching bone, occasionally tossing the scraps into a flickering, smoking campfire and dimly contemplating his future. Now, except for the guiding whispers from his tainted horn, the young bull is on his own. He travels and practices the Ways Goëtia, hoping to find some deeper knowledge of himself somewhere in all that blood.

  It is not long until he finds it. It is not long before all in the Affiliation fear his savagery.

  To Catch a Thief

  Weeks had passed since the incident in the desert temple, and Karzt's convalescence was complete. He crouched in the hay of a barn, staring into the night through his new tech-goggles. It was a starless night, but to Karzt it was lit with an eerie green glow. The goggles were a marvel of Imperium science and engineering. They were made of steel and glass, with two miniature infused gems powering each lens. His pay from the temple job had been enough for him to purchase the miraculous device, and now he was putting it to good use in one of his nightly stakeouts. He had been in this town for well over a week with no sign of his quarry.

  Whoever the thief was, they had successfully eluded him. Not only that, but it had managed to steal more food, livestock, clothing, or currency from the village every single night. He was tired of failure, and so he convinced himself that tonight would be different. Tonight, he would apprehend the culprit. For now, he waited in the dark and thought about how he had wound up here, enforcing the law in this desolate frontier town.