Ungala kneeled at the Black Broodling who stood before them, lowering their head into complete submission.
Emperor Emberstone had been everything a Mingor Broodling was meant to be. Towering over his subjects at nine feet and some inches, powerful limbs nearly bursting through brilliant black scales and a snow white underbelly.
And Wings. Not show wings that were simply there, and non-functional. The Emperor was a rare Broodling among all the Broodling Races who had the power of flight.
They wore their crown around the horns that curled from their head, and a royal robe of deep purple, with gold trimming to mark their status.
“Rise, Commander, you no longer need to bend knee to me.” Emberstone ordered with a shift of their wrist for Ungala to rise.
“I refuse such an Order,” Ungala rose thumbing their fist against their chest to their Emperor.
“Loyalty until Death, I would call you a true Darkscale,” the Emperor smiled sadly, “But I know our history far keenly then I would like.”
“Sire?”
“Don’t fret over it, I’ve been associated with things Older then this Tower as of late. Learning things none who live should learn.” the Emberstone explained, though the answer did not settle with Ungala;s growing sense of foreboding. “Fortunately, it will not be long that this knowledge peeks into the world again.”
“Come, walk with me.”
Ungala followed the Emperor through the landing, their eyes scanning over stone benches that were scattered without real uniformity within the Landing. The Pyras Broodling soon realized, as he slowed to inspect what looked like a crumpled pile of debris, that it had the empty confines of heavily corroded armor.
Another pile, and Ungala came to the conclusion that the Landing had been some ancient Battle Site, and as his eyes turned towards the Dragon Bones, the thought occurred to him that something had chased that thing here.
“Avians.” the Emperor seem to read Ungala’s thoughts. “During the Dragon Wars they did the unthinkable and attacked us directly.”
Ungala continued to follow after the Emperor, though inspected the Landing, and their foot falls, ensuring not to disturb what had been cleared to be the Honored Dead.
“Somewhere during the End of all things, the Avian launched a counter Offensive point blank on the Capital. The Emperor at the time rode out to meet them in Battle.” Emberstone spoke on, turning to gesture to the Dragon’s final resting place. “That is the end result. But despite the Mortal Wounding of their Sire, the Darkscales rallied around a Prisoner of War, a Golden Scaled Cannoness, and pushed the Avian’s back.”
“That is how the Quiet of Char came to be behind the Black Wall.” Ungala concluded, and found themselves out on a balcony with their Emperor.
“And how the Darkscales started to respect their Enemies.” the Emperor added, leaning against the stone outcropping to stare out across the landscape. “And how we fell, and rose again. But the Empire I fought for is gone, thanks to them.”
As he said them, Emberstone pointed out and Ungala surveyed.
The Capital of the Darkscale Empire had been crafted out of raw obsidian centuries ago, carved right through the side of a Dead Volcano that was simply called ‘The Hollow’ in part of the thousands of miles of tunnels honeycombing through it. The Hollow had been dead eons before the first Mingor dredged through the rocky terrain, the magma long cold and depleted.
The City, called Baalgroth, had no real shape other than a black blotch on gray rock, that stretched from The Hollow to the banks of the Sea of Storms.
Inside the the City however, had been a Pyramid, clearly visible even from here. And though Darkscale Pennants decorated the Fortress Gates, the black flag, with the blood red circle within a circle, cut awkwardly with a line was largest, and most prominent site anyone would see from any direction.
Ungala had been disgusted by it, and turned his eyes away from it to peer elsewhere. To the North, had been the Tundra where Frost Trolls and the occasional Blue Scaled Dragons roamed, completely hostile to all forms of life.
To the South had been the Green, Farmlands that stretched out to the very Western Fringes of the Empire, with Forests and Valleys ruled by Feudal Lords of all sorts of Broodlings all hailing Loyalty to the Emperor.
Or, they should have been.
Thinking of that, Ungala turned, pointedly looking back into the Tower towards the West.
“Who is to replace Lord Hungai?”
The Emperor chuckled, folding his arms over his chest.
“I would have appointed you, actually.” Emberstone explained, logically breaking down the reasons. “You know the People, the Land, even the Garrison, what's left of it, speaks highly of you. You are the best choice.”
“But?”
“First the Nobility is throwing a fit that I, their Emperor, had the gall to appoint a Low Life Farmer to the role of a Military Commander in place of a Broodling who, according to them, you personally fed to that Human Savage, Jeria Warstalker.” Emberstone sighed as he offered the reasons, not at all impressed with them as he rattled them off.
“Second the Cult has demanded your head on more than one occasion, and had, at one point, tried to force the Senate to vote on removing you out of the Military and into their tender mercies in order for you to pay for not saving, or avenging, the Cultists Jeria slaughtered.”
“Lord Elraine Restorm however, refused to hear word that you acted beyond anything other than Honorable.”
Ungala, for a moment, could not find words.
Elraine Resortm had openly betrayed the Kingdom of Rilstar, and pledged Coin and Soldiery to the Darkscale Empire, citing slights against his Family made by both the King of Rilstar, and the Warstalker line. Ungala did not think highly of the man, they were typical of Nobility, thinking themselves far above the Common Folk.
The Treacherous Noble knew exactly what Ungala was when not being fielded by the His Empire. A lowly dirt farmer, a lowly, common peasant. And they also knew how ashamed Ungala had been not being able to avenge the death of the Emperor Emberstone’s Cousin, the Lord Hungai.
“According to Elraine, to the Senate Members pushing for your removal, you were outnumbered surrounded. If not for your tactical skills in the face of overwhelming odds, on top of your diplomatic capabilities to pry three days of truce from the jaws of the Worg Rider, there would have been nothing left of the Army intrusted to your Former Commander, who had been assassinated by the aforementioned Worg Rider.”
Ungala’s scales shifted on his face, folding his arms across his chest as he frowned at what the Emperor told him.
“Elraine lied.” the Pyras Broodling stated flatly. “He was not there when we walked into that Ambush with our own, and it was the Din Commander there who forged the truce, not that thing.”
“Thing?”
“It was like being near one of those Temples for that damned Cult when Jeria is near.” Ungala explained, their talons tapping their bicep. “Something about him chills the blood. Jeria is not human.”
“Yes, I remember, he did not plan, he simply executed.” Emberstone nodded slowly, “Either case, Lord Restorm spoke highly of you, as well as that young Captain, Trasis.”
With a pause, Emberstone laughed quietly, “He still runs I am told. In full mail and a half plate.”
“For a Human, he has the Stamina of a Broodling.” Ungala complimented, shaking their head in amusement. “So, what would you have of me sire?”
“Nothing.” the Emperor turned towards the City and once more leaned on the railing. “You have all of your orders in our first meeting. I am simply distracting the Cult’s spies, and biding my time.”
“You brought me here to be a distraction.” Ungala grunted, “More games, sire.”
“Trust me, if you knew the length and breadth of these games.” Emberstone chuckled, their gaze sweeping over all that lay before him. “You would likely toss me from this balcony.”
“Tell me, sire, what is the length and
breadth of all of this?”
“Gaze on the City. Drink it in. Study its detail. Watch the peasants, the militia, the dots that move about from place to place, doing whatever it is that allows their daily lives.”
As Emberstone spoke, Ungala could see the sadness in their face. They stretched out a jeweled claw at Baalgroth, then slowly closed it.
“All of it tainted.” Emberstone growled softly. “All of it corrupted by the Nameless and their damned Invaders.”
“Look on it,” the Mingor Broodling demanded with more force in their voice, with authority befitting of their title, and Ungala did as instructed. “And know, with utter certainty, when I am finished, and if you return to this place, it will not be here.”
“Sire?” Ungala asked after a moment. “What are you planning?”
“Vengeance for my Empress.” came the hiss, the sneer that curled their lip revealed the pointed teeth, a primal expression replaced one of regal calm.
Ungala’s own heart stirred at the mention of the Empress. The Pyras Broodling remembered the snow white scales of the rarest beauty in all of the land.
And knew what the Cult did to her. Again, as it did before, uncertainty had been replaced the knowledge that whatever the Emperor planned, it would still be too good for the Cult.
“My Wrath will be total.” Emberstone replied, there had been no emotion in their voice as they simply stared out, with smoldering rage burning behind their eyes. It was as if Emberstone would burn the City with his very gaze, and their tail thumped hard against the stone as he slowly, with great effort, regained their composure.
Yet, they let slip more, the last of their unbridled anger slipping through their teeth.
“Complete and total.”
<><><><><><><>
“Something is strange about these Wards the Emperor has Commissioned.”
Perkesh’s hooded head turned towards the speaker, an Acolyte who prostrated themselves in the mire of the Temple.
The Chamber they inhabited was cast in deep shadows, with very limited illumination placed in very particular spots in order for the occupants to see each other, and very little else. There had been no carpet, just a lake of black blood that kept about their ankles, the smell was wretched and beyond appalling, yet none choked on the decaying rot.
“Explain.” Perkesh ordered, though made no move to force the Acolyte to rise.
“None of the Wards added to the Original set is in any language we have seen.” the Acolyte did as they were ordered, going as far as turning to face their pacing master as best they could. “We have applied every known Ralsian and Corsarin script we have.”
“We cannot translate the Wards.”
“And more, my Master, where they Carve the New Runes, it disrupts the flow of Magic of the Original Wards. Some of the Wards have even burned out. Some have Runes flicker with life, then die.”
Stopping in their movements, Perkesh rubbed at his jaw.
“You are dismissed.”
The Acolyte rose, and slithered back, their ankles leaving ripples in the black oily filth.
Turning to regard the other Priests of the Cult, Perkesh gestured for one of them. “What do we know of the Wizard, Pifang?”
Another stepped forward, though made no effort to reveal themselves.
“They are a Baalgroth Native, Studied within our own Tower of Wizardry within the Western Green.” came the report. “They are Old, and spent all of their life North of the Black Wall.”
“That does not include Portals.” Perkesh immediately dismissed the report.
“Pifang studied the Portals, but never set foot in them.”
“Yet he is a Wizard and has gone where he pleased.” Perkesh observed, pointing back towards where the Acolyte had departed. “Can any of you explain how a Wizard comes about with a new form of Warding that we do not know the purpose of.”
“You just heard the report, what Magelings who will bend knee to the Invader God have no idea what Pifang and his Apprentices are carving into the Emperor’s Castle, and they have been at it for months.” Perkesh stated in annoyance. “The Emperor says it is reinforcements for the Warding, but he is lying.”
“We could ask Gorgreen.”
“I will not ask that thing, anything.” Perkesh snapped bitterly. “And he has yet to make contact with us after the incident that happened in Westwatch.”
“Do we know what happened?”
“Does it matter?” Perkesh again, almost snapped at the Priests. “We should have wash hands of that inhuman filth as soon as he gave us the communication spells.”
“But the High Priest-”
“-and the Previous Emperor made their Pact with that thing, yes, I understand that. And in the Nameless’ Shadow Gorgreen will have Rilstar, so long as the Tithes are in full.” Perkesh snarled, then peered around at the Priests before him.
“Yet has any seen the High Priest recently?”
The Hoods of his fellow Priests turned from one another, with silence following.
After a moment, one of them stepped forth and dipped their head. “Locked away in the Pit of the Temple, Communing with the God.”
“Then why did you hesitate?”
“Because he has been there for the last few days. What servants who attend him have gone into the Dark, but none of returned.”
Perkesh turned slowly to regard the Priest who addressed them.
“Activity of the Black Ones?”
“None, we can be assured they are alive.”
Offering a nod in agreement, Perkesh pulled their hood back to reveal their scaled face. “Continue to send more, expendable, assets into the Dark then. We will not disturb the High Priest if we do not need to.”
As they departed, Perkesh made his way to the cleaning bastion to wash the blood from his feet. Plodding through the Temple, they only stopped when they reached the Messaging Chamber.
It was a simple Chamber, with a single Guard on the Outside, and Inside, one to inform when a link had been established, and the other to ensure no one entered when there was a conversation between the Senior Priest and whomever Agent of the Empire had been addressing.
The Cult of the Nameless had taken over these duties, and forcefully removed the stone from the Temple of Quiet some decades ago, overseen by Hanress, who had somehow been murdered by Gorgreen during a rather heated engagement.
Somehow, because Gorgreen had been in Westwatch when he broke Hanress’ neck through the projection.
Hanress did have a Temper. Perkesh was not sorry Hanress was dead.
This form of Communication had kept the Cult in the flow of information between the Agents of the Empire and the Emperor. This was something the High Priest wanted in order to keep the Nameless Cult in the shadows until the was right.
The Emperor however, continued to use Messengers to direct his Generals. Like Perkesh, the Emperor did not trust Gorgreen, that may have been the only point they would agree on.
Stepping into the Chamber, the Guard informed Perkesh that there were no contact with anyone, but they waved them off.
Perkesh simply inspected the room, looking on the Wards around the edge of the wall, and then the standing stone in which projected him to the agents in which he needed to address messages.
The Runes on the Walls could be found in any Room of Importance, made to keep scrying eyes from spying on the internal State of Affairs. They were almost universally written and scrolled across the floor.
Then there had been others near the door that if Perkesh did not have the right runekey on his person, who emit a noise loud enough to bloody eardrums until deactivated. Again, those were virtually the same sort of Wards one would find in a modest merchant’s home.
Yet, Perkesh knelt over the circle of stone he would stand over, inspecting the rune work etched into a slate of obsidian that rose from the floor by a hair’s width.
Runes and Wards were something one learned in either the Temple or the Tower. Both were practitioners of Magic, an
d there were various runes meant to do various things, all depending on what was written. Perkesh knew what many of the Runes of Warding look liked, knew what most did and knew, personally, how to carve his own.
The Runes on this stone did not look like anything he seen before.
This had to be connected to what had been carved along the inside of the Emperor’s Palace.
And Perkesh was growing suspicious that he was being played for a Fool.
Chapter 6
Iltu Isounder had once been a Paladin of the Din. She had risen from the ranks of Lessers, and one of one hundred Din to wield a Firebrand in battle.
It had been an honor, a boon to the Isounder House!
The first of the Isounder line to rise above the rank of Lesser!
Now Iltu had been crippled, having lost her left leg at the knee. Her storied service to the Empire over. Normally, this would mean Iltu would return home. They would eventually fit her with a prosthetic, but her fighting days were over.
Maybe Iltu would have become an instructor. A teacher of War and Conflict. Or perhaps History, Literature. It did not matter what she would chose, Iltu would return to the Empire, with Honors.
Iltu of course, would never see another battlefield, nor earn glory for the Empire. To do exactly what she had been reared and groomed for.
To be a Warrior.
And the Man who took her leg rode near the wagon that carried her Northward. They did not do so out of malice, or at least Iltu believed they did not. They did it to save their life.
Something Jeria Warstalker has done twice now.
Unlike Islin, Iltu had fought in the Kallaxian Theater of the Din War. She had been there at the opening salvos, where Iltu had originally believed Jeria viciously scarred her face.
Yet Jeria claims that Markus, his deceased Elder Brother, would have been the culprit.
To Iltu, it was not Legends and Speculation of the Kallaxin Campaign of the Din War. It had been a simple fact that Jeria Warstalker had slain more Din in and out of Combat then there were marching to the City of Westwatch.
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