It was all transparent, looking little more than fragile glass, yet solid enough to take years of magical bombardment to crack. It would prevent any Godkin from manifesting themselves beyond it.
"Magus knew Xander had a Hollowed Wall Prepared. But what does he gain with it erected?!" Lokyrim scowled at it, then turned away. "It tells us nothing other than Xander has been preparing this for centuries."
"And what of Magus' hand? Where is it?"
"Why focused on his appendage?" Mordrim frowned, facing the same direction as Lokyrim.
"Because it's still alive." the God of Magic explained. "If not, then Magus would not be able to manipulate objects as I seen him do. He would have to regrow it."
"Ah, a nifty little trick.”
“Yes, and then there is the case of how Xander came across the Pearl, and why Sol’reve gave it back to him, if he is following Magus’ orders that means Magus is either siding with his brother.” Lokyrim led with the thought, half glancing at their Son.
Mordrim did not take long to finish the line of thinking, mimicking their Father’s look. “Or Magus has made a move against Xander with the Pearl, and we just don’t see it yet.”
“That would make more sense, considering Jeria is Magus’ own, but what move did Magus make that we did not see?” Lokyrim questioned, gesturing towards the Bulwark, “It's clear as Day that Xander in his planning made sure his Brother had been accounted for.”
There was a brief moment of respite as the two simply stared at the Bulwark and its near invisible addition.
"Xander is beyond our reach for the moment. It will take us years to pound that shield down so we can enter." Lokyrim walked away, frustrated. "Or Xander goes about and invites us, and I doubt that will ever happen."
"It will be up to the Champions now." Lokyrim flicked his bloodied hand just before spitting in contempt.
Again the vegetation reacted to the life-giving fluids of a God, with the tree shooting upwards several feet with its branches creaking outward. There was an audible crack of wood and the tearing thump of the ground as roots surged. Neither of the Gods bothered to regard the source of the noise.
"A simple Invitation would all it take then?" Mordrim sneered in disappointment. "Do you know how easy it is to tri-"
It took a moment more, and Mordrim shifted, realizing they had missed something.
"-Champions?" Mordrim asked, somewhat dumbfounded. "Did I hear that right. Champions. As in plural."
"Please tell me it is not who I think it is."
"Yes. Apparently, there are two on Bel, neither is the Ravager, so put your mind at ease." Lokyrim noted, cupping his nose. It hurt to speak.
Mordrim frowned. If the Ravager had been here that would have been two problems dealt with in one go.
"I guess Magus has Jeria." Mordrim rumbled, racking their axe across the shoulder as they thought aloud. "That is a given considering how protective he is of the man. Who is the other?"
Lokyrim told him.
Mordrim came to an abrupt halt, utterly shocked in expression and action.
Then the God of Bloodlust and Guile laughed.
Chapter 3
2nd Month of Spring, 749, Age of Fire.
It was not a typical day within the palisade.
They had gotten a dispatch that an Allied Force had been spotted moving northward, right for them.
They had gotten lucky when the Din marched past them a few weeks back. A mile more to the east and they would have stumbled onto a hidden fortress that barely had two hundred men, and the heaviest armor was being worn by their leader, Kres.
They had been commissioned to take shots at passing Griffons, not fight an army of mirror wearing, blue-blooded cat people.
A momentary ceasefire had been put in effect until they felt it was safe to start taking the shots again. They managed to kill a few griffons, but someone had gotten dull it seemed and only wounded one.
It had dropped the message it carried, one meant to go directly to the Lord-Protector of Reikard's Shield.
Now less than a week after, there was a force heading straight here.
Time to pack and move.
A Captain of this band marched through the ramshackle courtyard of wagons and lollygagging men. They were a motley band of Mercenaries, Bandits, and General Thugs. They were not Soldiers. Some had virtually no combat experience outside of raiding an undefended village.
Or shooting down a Dwarven Flying Contraption. Everything they have done as of late has been against something that could not fight back.
They would not last in a fight with a standing army, much less against the likes of this Lord-Protector.
The man they called the Worg Rider.
Moving through the barracks, the Captain continued on passed men having their morning meal. A few looked up, seeing the urgency in the Captain’s face, and voiced their concern.
"We have an army coming at us from the Shield. Estimates it'll be here tonight," they called, making a gesture with the message. "Spread the word, we might be breaking down and running to the winds shortly."
Nods and confirmations, with some clamping down on the bread or bits they were eating to scatter and do as they were told.
The Captain went straight up the stairs, around a bend, pass another set of guards and right into Kres' Quarters. They closed the door, turned around holding out the parchment.
"News."
And then they realized something was wrong. Very wrong.
The living quarters and the office of the man, Kres, was not altogether spacious, but it was lavished in furs and loot here or there. There was a desk just on the other side of the door, with two chairs facing another where their Leader would sit. There were silks separating this side of the room with their bed and a small chest for their clothes.
Kres' job may have been an underhanded Commander of two full companies of low life thugs with a few sparkling gems here or there, but they had taken a small measure of pride in being a thug.
Sitting behind the desk, however, was a not a shabby haired man in chainmail with a mace across a table normally littered with dispatches taken from the bodies of Griffons, or the more traditional messengers.
It had been a dark-haired man, wearing a faded bandana to keep the strands out of their eyes, strange looking yellow armor, with a strange sword on the desk.
Kres lay dead, crumbled in a corner with their head on the floor.
The man looked up at the Captain, their eyes emerald green, yet slitted like a cat, and it did not take long for the Captain to realize who they were looking on. They had a description of him in one of their dispatches.
Jeria Warstalker, Lord-Protector of the Warstalker Lands within the Kanoi Province.
The Worg Rider.
"I would assume that is the dispatch from the scouts?" the Lord-Protector questioned, before casually looking back down to the parchments again. "That would be Dratin's idea as a joke. The army already has the fortification surrounded."
The Captain just stood there, apparently frozen. A dark gloved hand reached out and took their shoulder, and they jerked, seeing a purple eyed, purple haired, obsidian skinned man who had a friendly smile on their face.
"Have a seat." the obsidian-skinned man, a Tiefling, pushed them towards the chair.
"And before you call for your guards, they are mine," Jeria informed them. "We had infiltrated your camp last night. My Daughter wants to offer you and yours a chance to surrender."
The Captain sat down, their face twisting a moment and Jeria raised a finger.
"Keep in mind I have a group of angry Outriders and Din within that army." the Lord-Protector observed, pushing one parchment away to regard another. "And I would rather slaughter you all and be done with it."
"What do you want?" the Captain started, trying to keep their composure.
"As my Father has stated." the Tiefling patted the Captain's shoulder. "I am Grigs by the way, your name?"
"Jorge." the Captain swallowed.
"As my Father has stated, Jorge." Grigs repeated himself, still smiling that disarming smile. "The missus, the Lady Zansui, would like you to surrender without any more bloodshed."
"Any more?" Jorge asked dully.
"Most of your scouts are dead, the rest have been captured and questioned." Jeria started, pulling up a particular parchment and leaned back to read it. "And all the Guards posted on the upper floor of the Barracks are my Raiders in their uniforms. We outnumber you five to one, and we have an overwhelming advantage."
"As I said I would slaughter you and everyone within these walls for crimes for banditry. Looting. Rape. Murder. Willingly commit High Treason for coin." Jeria frowned darkly as they read the message, before rolling it up and peering across the desk towards Jorge, who squirmed beneath the Samurai's unflinching stare.
"However the Lady Warstalker knows that many of you have families to feed. Twists of fate and all that. Her Mercy is well known, is it not?"
Jeria answered with a stout "Good." before Jorge could muster the courage to speak.
"It is simple really. You will gather what is left of this rabble you call troops. We will lay the proposition at their feet." Jeria observed, tucking the parchment beneath their breastplate. "Then we will go from there. Any questions?"
Again, just before Jorge could start saying anything, Jeria offered a stout "Good." before gesturing them to rise out of their chair.
<><><><><><><>
"You are disappointed that they surrendered."
The Half-Elven Woman who directed the statement towards Jeria may have been a few pounds lighter than the man in build, but it had been obvious to any, with their matching hair, they were related in some way.
Zansui Warstalker entered Barrack's dining hall, flanked with Soldiers wearing Warstalker Gold tabards. Jeria had parchments spread out for inspection on a table in the middle of the dining hall and they had one clasped in hand.
Within the dining hall had been Dratin, a Ferios Dragoon. Grigs, Zansui's husband, and Grok, a Worg who lay curled near the door that had been ripped off its hinges to make room for War Horse sized Wolf.
“It was Dratin's Griffon they shot," Jeria grunted, holding out the missive. "Maybe I grew attached to the little thing."
"Or maybe I would have liked to seen my Son here use his new toy." Jeria added as he turned slightly to regard Grigs.
The Tiefling touched the hilt of a magical sword that chilled the air when it was exposed.
”No thanks,” Grigs grunted,”Less bloodshed the better."
Jeria shrugged, neither disappointed or appreciative of the answer.
"And how is 'Beaky' by the way?" Zansui questioned to divert the awkwardness between Jeria and Grigs, now regarding a nine foot tall Broodling in damaged Dragoon Armor.
"Recovering well, my Lady." Dratin reported, dipping her blond haired head, though a grin spread on her scaled lips.
"Don't start that 'my lady' with me," Zansui warned teasingly, making a dismissive gesture with her false arm. The Half-Elven Lady of the Lands turned to the Samurai next.
"What did you find Father?"
Jeria handed off the Parchment as his Daughter came closer.
"In short?" Zansui questioned as she unfurled it.
"It is a week old. By the time it landed here we finally managed to get your husband's bandages off." Jeria observed, gesturing towards a corner for the date. "It had been dispatched a few days after we returned from liberating Mistfire from Ulimax's clutches."
"Your King wants me to head to Westwatch and 'Negotiate' with Daimyo Fuji Hayabatsu." Jeria summarized for all to hear. Then smiled wickedly. "And a Powerful Wizard leveled Dalitrous Gorgreen's estates."
Dratin offered a short bark of laughter. Even Zansui could not help but smile for a moment, though it turned downward as she continued reading the details.
"Gorgreen is a Mage?" Zansui read aloud.
Everyone froze. Jeria however, noted the shock on everyone's expressions, even the Soldiers.
"And?" Jeria asked, shrugging his shoulders indifferently.
"Westwatch has a few dabblers," Grigs explained, turning to regard their Father by marriage. "Cantrips, some enchantments, warders and the like."
"The Wizardry of Rals had a School in Westwatch, but the Din burned it down.”
The speaker walked in wore armor so polished that it was mirrored. It was shining, silvery, and in certain lights, blinding. Yet it was damaged along the shoulder, with a shoddy patchwork job to conceal it. The wearer themselves were Din, a race of beings with cat-like qualities, and reverse jointed legs.
This one had been Islin, a Din Paladin, and they offered a nervous smile to everyone who looked their way.
Jeria simply stood, his expression unchanged, they were still not understanding. "And?"
"Well during the Whispering Plague, Wizards and Magelings were persecuted to a point that after the crisis had been over, they never returned to rebuild the school," Zansui explained further, rolling up the parchment. "If there are people with the talent for spellcraft outside of healing, they keep themselves hidden and rarely show their power so they don’t get blamed for the next impending disaster,"
"On that note, there are very few places on Bel one can study War Magic openly."
"Usfoundly, which can explain Gorgreen's Elven Spy you killed your first few days back in Rilstar." Grigs noted for Jeria, and the Samurai turned towards the Tiefling
"The Din, and they are not keen in teaching outsiders." Islin added, stroking at their unshaven face.
"Or the Darkscales." Dratin finished for them all. "Because the Ferios believe in axe and steel, not wiggling fingers."
"That would explain why Aunt Rebekka has been leery of Gorgreen as of late." Zansui guessed, and Jeria picked up another piece of Parchment for her to study.
"An update on the previous message. This one is new." Jeria summarized again, even as Zansui read the words for herself. "It appears the Din occupants within the Dock District are being driven out."
"Why?" Islin demanded genuinely appalled.
"A local ship owner claims that the Din knew of the incoming Undead surge, having noticed that many of them had left without recourse." Jeria turned towards Islin with raised brows. "Then Ulimax's short return. They are pointing out that there were no Din among the dead."
Zansui swore quietly, before furling the parchment she had been given. "They killed a Din family as a warning to others to stay out of the District. The Guard attempted to arrest the man but there have been warriors in strange armor fighting them off."
"They haven't slain any of the Guard in outright confrontation, but Aunt Rebekka believes that these warriors are Samurai, considering all of them are wielding Katanas." Zansui tossed the rolled parchment away. "If it is not one problem it is another."
"Well, at least this time we know it's not Gorgreen." Grigs pointed out.
"They cannot be Samurai either," Jeria noted, drawing Zansui's attention. "The ship owner is Kallaxian descended if that is his name, Alari Kufang. Good chance he is a member of an Akuza."
"A what?"
"Something like your Thieves Guild," Jeria explained, turning to Grigs who asked the question. "Accept less prone to having 'conversations' and more along the lines of do it or die and open confrontations."
"Think of the group we just defeated, accept they extort and raid inside City Walls." Jeria continued and made a sweeping motion with his arms to indicate where they stood. "Criminals with teeth,"
"Aunt Rebekka thinks Alari Kufang is being protected by Samurai under the orders of Hayabatsu," Zansui added, and her Father regarded her with a tilt of his head.
"No. The last time Lord Hayabatsu had any dealing with an Akuza it had been a very pointed message." Jeria explained with a cruel smile.
Zansui shifted on her feet, frowning in disapproval as she guessed, "Hayabatsu sent you."
Jeria's wicked smile and silenced told Zansui the answer.
The Hal
f-Elf slowly shook her head, and sighed, "Just when I think you are improving."
"Well, we do have some good news." Grigs interjected to turn everyone's mind off the evil of Jeria's smile.
"These are the men who shot down the Calamity Jack. The Commander had more than a few trinkets from the ship in his possession."
"I am sure the Stone Well would appreciate talking to this Commander." Zansui nodded as she regarded her Husband, “That is good news,”
Grigs offered a nervous chuckle and cast Jeria a sidelong glance.
Before Zansui could express any further disapproval, Jeria snorted in contempt.
“No one fucks with my Family and lives."
"Claiming a Master Thief as Family then?" Zansui observed, annoyed with her Father's lack of self-control in such matters.
"Have to. You married him." Jeria motioned towards Grigs. "So technically this is your fault."
"Dad!"
"What?"
Zansui scowled at her Father, before turning her attention once more to her Husband. "How did they shoot down an Airship anyway?"
Grigs grimaced slightly, and Zansui took that as bad news.
"What did you find?"
"A Ballista" the Tiefling answered reluctantly. "Looks like the same sort you would find on the rock walls of Keystone."
"The sort they would use to shoot Rok-Griffons." Zansui finished for him, and she sat down at the table. "Let me guess. The Commander would have known where they had gotten a very expensive piece of equipment."
Again Grigs looked to Jeria.
The Samurai shrugged indifferently. “Again, your fault.”
Zansui simply put her face in her hands and sighed in dismay.
<><><><><><><>
Rebekka Jakuul pinched her nose as she settled in her seat.
"At least THAT issue has taken care of itself." she lamented loudly.
The King, Ein Wingsteed, chuckled at the missive and leaned comfortably back in his throne.
"I do not think it is really that funny, my Liege." Rebekka scowled lightly at her King before rolling her eyes.
"Males."
The Bloodied Shield Page 4