Spikes, Horns, and Stone 19
The plan is set.
Insomuch of a plan that it is.
It's not the safest for either party, but neither is it the most dangerous for either group. The soul bond you share with your wife is not the most exacting instrument to use for communication, not like the telepathy that you know the Amethyst Wizards seem capable of. Then again, you have no idea what the range of that is, or how it works at all. You've definitely gained far greater insight into magic than you ever could have thought possible when you were a younger man, not simply due to your marriage and children and other friends and allies who wield the Winds as they do, but through the soul bond as well. Ever since it was forged between the two of you, inextricably linking you and Natasha on a level literally more intimate than would otherwise be possible, it is like you can sometimes peer through a darkened and fractured mirror at the end of a dim tunnel. You can perceive, through Natasha's sensations and emotions and memories of magic herself, as she does. Except only as she does, and only from her perspective.
Most of the time, at least.
You think.
It is difficult to be certain.
Regardless of that, you communicate as best you can to your wife your intentions, a flurry of images and memories of deliberate pauses and windups during spars and other such occasions. In turn, she resolves to send you the memories of her rolling her eyes at you and then fond acceptance, along with determination in combat when the two of you have been partially separated on the battlefield before in battles large and small. She also deigns to send you a great many images and emotions conjured up through the bond to further describe the utterly deplorable living situation of the aquafarms for all. The Deep Dwellers are not enjoying the closeness of their light-born Druchii cousins, and the reverse seems to be true as well. This is and has been the domain of the former for generations from all the way back to, you imagine, when the Black Ark was first created. It conforms to the thin and bulbous-eyed Dwellers, who bend and twist and speak in a gutter tongue which is almost that of Druhir but most definitely distinct.
Natasha personally finds the speech especially disturbing to her more esoteric senses.
You know, as does she, that Druhir is a truly dark dialect of the original Eltharin languages, for the Druchii seem to take some perverse pleasure in the fact that they pepper in liberal usage of aethyric darkness to layer upon their syllables and words. Outright to the point of occasionally using the literal Black Speech of Chaos, an inherently tainted language from the get-go. How the Druchii think their society can possibly be so great and perfect compared to the rest of the world when they deliberately taint their tongues and minds with such a thing is a wonder of the staggering power of elven arrogance. Even you poor, primitive humans with the means to learn and know are capable of comprehending that some knowledge is so twisted by the influence of the Dark Gods that it can poison and madden and mutate. Not that the latter seems that common amongst the elves. Just one more blessing amongst the rest they have you suppose.
Then again it doesn't seem to have been enough for one who liberally uses it, and more likely has often spoken purely in the Black Speech, to utterly destroy one such as Hultressa. But based on your own thinking you think that she truly must be an immense rarity amongst her kind. The world is not so charitable, after all. But more concerning to Natasha is that the speech of the Deep Dwellers is not quite Druhir, or rather an even more degenerated version of it. There is a touch to the language they speak, a flavor that is more obvious to the more aethyrically attuned such as your wife, which is not that of Chaos as she knows it. It is something altogether more gurgling and twisted, and not quite carrying the same revulsion as normal but there is most certainly something wrong with it. At best that she could communicate through the bond, the language that the Deep Dwellers speak solely amongst themselves carries a different hue than she has ever experienced before. Conversations she is hearing more and more as they continue to grow ever more ornery about the interlopers in their midst.
Which is more than a little disconcerting.
Aside from that, she is already working to slowly and carefully feed and then maintain ice through the plumbing and pipes, a little bit at a time so as not to draw the suspicions of either the Deep Dwellers or the more standard Druchii which are attempting to establish themselves in the depths. Much to your wife's amusement, and your own once she informs you about it, the Druchii that are having to set themselves up as overseers, watchers, and guards seem altogether shocked and appalled at the literal near darkness and the austere surroundings they have found themselves in. They presumably saw a chance at increasing their wealth, power, and influence, and leapt at the opportunities offered by Alyssa in the aftermath of the chaos the first sabotage caused without knowing just how things were down there. And now that they have accepted, no matter how much they hate the smells, the sounds, and the sights of what is required to make the aquafarms function properly, they cannot so easily back out after accepting. To do so would be a sign of weakness and a betrayal to Hultressa who they already hitched their wagons to, and thus has essentially locked them into place no matter how much they are coming to realize they hate being down amongst the Deep Dwellers for so often during the day.
Apparently, your wife has even overheard, through her rudimentary knowledge of Eltharin, that some of the newcomer Druchii in the aquafarms are finding themselves dismayed by how other Druchii are treating them after spending so many literal days and nights in the depths. Something about the smell which is beginning to cling to them and the air which is somehow causing their normally flawless hair and skin grow ever so slightly bedraggled and clammy. Perfection being marred in even the slightest way tends to be far worse received than something already flawed being a tiny bit worse after all. Not that you, Natasha, or you would imagine Roland and their other companions and allies down there care much at all if some power hungry Druchii get upset about their appearances and smells.
"Is this good?"
You blink, turning away from your maudlin thoughts to look over at Gwendoyln as she holds up a bomb. This one is made up of some of that agelessly superior elven pottery, in this case a glossy and shiny glazed black piece which at one point used to be a small vase. A clogging glob of some mishmash material that Hultressa managed to craft with her alchemical wizardry caps the vase off save for the fuse sticking out of it. The thoroughly dried and partially frayed rope at the top isn't the best possible, but you have to work with what you have. All things considered, it's pretty good for a kid that hasn't ever even touched black powder weaponry before. She hefts the vase upwards with both arms, looking at you with a great deal of caution and worry on her face.
"It's fine," you smile and reach over to ruffle the top of her head, "It looks like you did exactly like I told you."
"Ah," she mumbles as she ducks her face away from your sight, putting the vase down next to the other bombs you've spent the day making. "Thank you."
Just then, a thought strikes you, one you communicate down to Natasha in the middle of picking through the disgusting fish slurry that is fed as rations to the slaves in the aquafarms.
Is it strange that you have recruited a young child to help you make relatively powerful explosives?
Her response is swift, and communicated in the imagery of Anna swinging around a match-lit handgun at around the same age as Gwendolyn is now.
Which is more than fair enough.
"I am prepared," Hultressa announces as she enters the torture foyer, eyes scanning the tableau of various explosives you've prepared already just for this moment. "What of my stock for the day's work?"
Today, Hultressa is dressed with a pair of molded golden caps over her chest, attached through methods that you assume must be magical, with a fluted black and gold mantle across her shoulders from which a dark purple cape descends. Her thin black and gold girdle for the day is not particularly armored, or large, but manages to cover just enough of her modesty for her purposes, whilst a large dark green and black patterned cloth has been expertly wrapped to hug her hips and further descend her front and back to just reach her knees on both sides. Her boots are glossy black hydra-skin that extend up to mid-thigh with gleaming steel capping the knees and outer edges. Her staff is the same as ever, though you see no sign of the sword you've seen her pull or deposit into its pocket of ether. Then again, you suspect that is the exact point of the latter. The odd face-framing crowns that some sorceresses seem to favor is absent, her curtain of flowing black hair unrestrained in any manner.
Ever since the plan began, she has been altering her outfit every single day. Sometimes multiple times a day. While the armed forces of the Ark go out and pillage islands of Chaos worshippers, killing many and enslaving far more, she has gone about her own work. Pretending to seduce, pretending to be seduced by, informing others of supposed seductions of herself or of others, betraying, informing, making false allies, double crossing, double crossing her double crosses, and more is apparently quite a lot of work. Not that you suspected otherwise, but it's still something that you've never been quite so close to before. Some days, she has returned with the faintest impressions of what you are very sure is teeth marks on her neck and collarbone, or other places. At other times, her chosen perfumes of the day are partially inundated with other scents which linger on her body. She informs you about how the previous day went at breakfast, or lunch if she has to remain out for longer at some residence or another. Honestly, it sounds like trying to play hopscotch with a hydra's heads. Multiple hydras. Inside a tiny room. It seems quite exhausting to you to even imagine trying to play around with so many balls in the air with conflicting personalities, especially amongst Druchii, but at the end of the day that is what their society
is. That is the society that they have been born into.
"Here," you point to the devices in question. "You requested smaller bombs this time around, right? Yield should be okay, but clustering them somewhat would be advisable if at all possible."
She hums, tapping a manicured nail against her chin before nodding.
"I can do my best," she sighs. "Overseer Telladri is beginning to become…annoying," she mutters.
"That the one that thinks she's good enough to get you to kill her husband for her?" You raise an eyebrow. "Who's brother is the one who…,"
Hultressa scoffs and then nods.
"Indeed. She is convinced that her husband is already suborned by her half-sister, who in turn is working with her father's second wife who has already killed three fourths of Telladri's siblings from her own mother. She isn't even close to correct," she shakes her head, placing a hand to her face in disbelief. "It's her dead mother's own cousin-,"
"The one who jumped out of Karond Kar to play Shade for a few centuries," you interject.
"Yes, that one," she snaps her fingers at you, "That cousin's great grandchild's wife is the one who has cuckolded her. And she doesn't even realize it. Meanwhile, somewhere in that shaved twig of a woman's mind, she has successfully begun cultivating," Hultressa falsely swoons and continues in a painfully sickly sweet voice, "Lonely, isolated Terror-Maker, who has surely surrendered to her desires after so long apart from the Druchii."
The sorceress snorts and makes a faint looks of queasy disgust.
"The only reason she has maintained her position thus far is because of the two terrors she purchased from me a century ago," she tells you with a shaking head. "They have saved her life more times from poison and assassination than ever should have been needed by even a moderately sensible Druchii."
"Well," you shrug, "At least you got a good payment from her?"
"Mnneh," she wrinkles her nose. "I suppose at the time it was, but if I'd known the trouble she'd cause me now back then, I would have demanded at least half again as much gold for it.
And more flesh than just her father and twin to make them."
"But you've got her handled, right?" You raise your eyebrows.
The sorceress narrows her eyes at you before huffing and tossing her hair with a sniff.
"I said she was growing annoying, not that she was becoming an obstacle," she says pointedly. "No, that is High Overseer Amon. His soul belongs to another – literally," she adds at your questioning look. "Someone in the Coven ensnared his soul, and tore it out of his body," she grumbles, one hand going to her hip as the other hand tightens on her staff. "He cannot even begin contemplating harm against them, or working upon his own release, without causing himself immense harm and pain."
She clucks her tongue.
"It's a nice piece of enchantment, I'll give whoever did it that. It lights up the inner nerves of the body like a localized lightning storm whenever such thoughts appear in his head."
"You've spent enough time in his office to see that about him though, then?" You point out.
"Not necessary," she shakes her head with a short scoff. "He's constantly in pain. All the time. As he strides in the overhang walkways, stalks through the fields and planting lifts with his guards, talking to any sorceress in his pyramid, any and all of it."
"But you said…," you trail off. "Sigmar's beard. He's thinking about it all the time then?"
"All. The. Time," she notes. "He is in excruciating agony on a constant basis. I think he even uses it to remain constantly awake, never sleeping. It keeps him sharp as a blade so long as he is full of hate for whoever she is that entrapped him."
"I can admire that, on some level, I think," you mutter.
"Hate is a powerful motivator, I agree," she nods. "But it does make him a frustrating obstacle. I can make it into his office…probably," she adds with a frustrated sigh. "But whether or not he would discover an explosive with his hyperawareness is another thing. We'll see what can be done."
"Still, you said…," your thoughts roil for a brief second, "You said he had no successor, no heir, no family, no blood, none of it."
"Yes," she points at you. "He has clutched for a single scrap of power, and holds onto it with all his might, and intends to do so for eternity. If he dies, control of the pyramid becomes wholly up for grabs amongst a number of interested parties."
But that same paranoia and focus is also what is making it so hard for Hultressa to organize is death.
"Well…good luck, I suppose," you grunt, saluting her with a half-empty bottle of wine. "May the Gods you prefer favor you in your endeavors."
"It'd be nice…," she trails off as she gathers up her bombs and heads for the doors.
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(Fulminating Fulmination 4: 64+Gruesome Reputation(20)+Growing Presence(5)+Chaos of Retreat(5)+Shuffling Records(5)-High Alert(20)-Druchii Paranoia(10)+Prior Habits(10)-Alyssa's Grasp(5)+Stirring Passions(10)+Slash and Chain Campaign(10)=94/100)
(The Leadup To The Boom: 46+Gathered Allies(5)+Done It Once Already(5)+Averaged Intrigue(13)+New Masters(10)+Friction of Masters(10)+Disorganized Shuffling(10)+Disguise Expert's Training(15)-20-10-Growing Experience of New Oppressors(5)-Chains of Alyssa(10)-Fervor of the Deep(15)+Very Good Start(15)+Good Continuation(10)+Acceptable Continuation(5)=84/100)
In the end, you may never know just how many Chaos worshippers were swallowed up by the Black Ark nominally under the command of Alyssa Voidreaper. There are apparently many small islands that pepper the seas which are not on any charts that the Empire has as far as you know. Some so small as to have a tiny village of dozens, some larger to have some hundreds, and apparently one which actually had managed to build itself into some larger settlement with walls and towers. But whether they worshipped the Blood God, the Fly Lord, the Prince of Pleasure, the Changer of Ways, all of the Dark Four, or some other obscure Chaos entity, it did not matter. Not under the gaze of Alyssa Voidreaper and the Druchii that follow her. For whatever reason they do so, they follow her well enough to pillage and raze all they wish. According to Hultressa, they are taking just about everything they can. Metals that can be refined properly with superior Druchii techniques, with even pig iron finding some use here and there. Woods that can be taken and used for repairs is especially valued. None of it as quality as the sort of lumber that the Druchii can find back in Naggaroth after being treated by Druchii arborists for millennia, but then the Ark has no intention of going back to Naggaroth for as long as possible. The more riches and wealth they can build back up, the better it is for them when they eventually have to return to their frigid homeland.
If that means using inferior wood for a time, then they will. You're quite sure that the Druchii can explain it away as them putting it to better use in their hands than inferior humans ever could. If it means they'll even be stripping human ships and taking them for their own use, they'll do it even if they'll regard the entire experience as being disgusting and something to blame on the now conveniently dead Screamtaker. This you realized almost immediately as Hultressa relayed to you the news that Voidreaper had given specific orders to prioritize keeping as many of the ships the Chaos worshippers had intact as possible. None of them, not a one, could possibly manage to be the equal to one of the proper Druchii dagger ships or the like, but at the moment you suspect the Supreme Sorceress desires carrying capacity more than anything else. Things with which to ferry her troops forth to targets and then carry back any and all spoils to the Ark to enrich and repair it further.
If you're being honest, you're a little annoyed that you hadn't even thought that was something she might have lowered herself to doing. Sure, in the short-term, it has most certainly cost her in terms of image and influence according to Hultressa's observations, but if she is allowed to survive in the long-term you can foresee this sort of windfall allowing Alyssa to rapidly rebuild her wealth depending on which targets she tries to hit. Yes, it may be bought upon human-built ships, but damn it, nothing is a better excuse than success and victory. They'll sneer, they'll pout, they'll complain, but if Alyssa can use the ships she has bloodily taken from the slaves of the Dark Gods for long enough, those same feelings will fade. You've little doubt that enough money can buy ships from Naggaroth to resupply the Ark over the course of however many years or decades Alyssa intends to use.
But none of that matters right now.
What matters is what Hultressa and your wife were able to accomplish during that chaotic period of conquering, pillaging, and slaughtering.
And what is now to happen as the Ark places itself somewhere in the northern oceans between Norsca and the Northern Chaos Wastes proper. Any further west and there is the slightest possibility that a fleet of Asur might show up, and clearly Voidreaper is attempting curtail as many such possibilities as she can. She is furthering her integration of the other Ark's forces into her own, working to establish her authority, all the while the Cult of Khaine kills a great many of the new captives to reconsecrate their ships in the name of Khaine over the Dark Gods. How spilling blood like they do from their cauldrons repels the Blood God, you're not quite sure, but it apparently is something that the Druchii are faithful enough to the God of Murder to believe possible. The Cult also is working to show the power of their God by taking what artifacts and trinkets that are dedicated to the Gods of Chaos and openly shattering them, burning them, throwing the remains of them and their disemboweled and further desecrated priests and shamans into their boiling cauldrons of blood. Celebrations and more abound across the Ark, reveling in victory, in near effortless bloodshed, in cruelty and pain. Such are the ways of the Druchii.
"Today is the day," Hultressa says as the two of you share a bottle of wine in her torture foyer, sitting atop the slabs and coffins within which future terrors incubate.
"Yep," you grunt.
You both sit in similar posture, hunched forward slightly, forearms on the knees.
"It will not be so easy as when most of the military were off slaughtering the weak," she cautions you, as she has every few days.
"But not so difficult as it will be the closer we get to Norsca," you shrug. "I know. We've been over this enough times, I think."
That doesn't stop your body from tensing, your heart pounding, your mind endlessly churning in spirals. Natasha can send all the reassurance she can through the soul bond, but it won't change the facts. The fact that you are in a position that she has been in a great many times before, and are not handling it nearly as well as she has. The irony is not lost on either of you, but aside from some lighthearted bantering between the two of you, you are extremely grateful that your wife is absolutely sympathetic. She sends you all the reassurance and love she can, all the kindness offered that you had not been able to give her in the decades when you were separated other than a promise and oath before the Gods. One you've managed to keep so far at least. For what comes today, you can do nothing at all but pray, and so pray you have been.
"When she begins the detonation, I will be near the western entrance," Hultressa recites, eyes closed as she thinks. "Having personally arrived after raising concerns about the fertilizing detritus we have been receiving from them at the pyramid for some of the crops."
"She and the rest of them will flee like the rest of the panicked slaves. No rebelling, nothing more than potshots if any," you continue. "She knows your face and appearance, if nothing else, as well as the presence of the two terrors you'll have with you."
"We ascend, I take ownership, rush through to the fallen Tor's ruins," she murmurs. "And keep up the warding spells as well," she concludes with a nod before opening her eyes. "All that will be between them and relative freedom in the open air will be an Ark full of Druchii."
"So business as usual," you drawl, rubbing at your chin.
"True enough," she laughs lightly before drinking the last of the wine and placing the bottle down. "So be it. Pray, Frederick von Hohenzollern."
"I intend to," you say with no small emphasis as she rises and strides towards the door, two silent lumbering terrors forming up behind her.
No sooner has she departed than you actually head out to do just that. Something tells you that the torture foyer has likely seen a great many desperate prayers before that were not answered, and so you do not remain there. Instead, you head for the living and leisure area where even now a silent and mostly motionless Eldyra still resides. Gwendolyn is present, but upon seeing your face she simply nods and remains quiet as you get down on your hands and knees.
"Holy Sigmar…," you begin, inhaling deeply before after a thought change your mind. "Ancient Widow, hear my prayer…,"
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(Kaboom: 71+5+5+13+10+10+Somewhat Disorganized Shuffling(5)+15-20-10-Growing Experience of New Oppressors(10)-Chains of Alyssa(15)-Fervor of the Deep(20)+15+10+5+Good Final Preparations(10)=99/100)
In the depths of the
Claw of Dominion, one of the eldest and greatest of Black Arks in existence, there was a great deal of water. So much of it that she could not feel, could not touch, due to the sheer distances involved. It was a literal island unto itself after all. But she had not needed to grasp for the ocean, only what was all around her at all times. Flowing, filtering, and swirling throughout the pipes and pools. Vast amounts of shaped stone in the greater cavern, all to allow the spawning and breeding and further harvesting of fish and vegetation to feed the heaving masses above. All channeled through a complex system of plumbing that would have staggered most of the engineers of the Empire to even consider, save perhaps those few who had partaken in the creation of the vast aquatic temple in Marienburg dedicated to Manann or other such projects.
A few chips of ice here.
A half-cylinder there.
Latched to metal, to stone, to bends in the pipes and drains. Tracked and felt as they passed, stretching her mind to frayed ends as she strained to hold onto them and their essence in her mind. To remain connected to the ice she brought forth into the world. Created and then sustained, a piece at a time. Difficult to do, even harder to keep it from the eyes of the Deep Dwellers. Malformed elves they might have been, elves they still remained, elves enough to be far more sensitive to magic inherently. But thankfully they were far more focused on the other elves in their midst, the Druchii which sneered at them from on high from their towers and barracks and walkways. The two both had pointed ears, sure, but avoided each other as best as possible even when walking within narrow confines. Distaste, disgust, whatever it was, it helped to distract them from what she did.
More than a few slaves that had been as inactive and inefficient as she had not been so lucky to be shielded by Roland, Jaqueline, and their small number of other Bretonnian slaves.
Getting one's throat slit after being whipped until the skin and flesh hung like tatters from one's back all to end up dumped into some of the pools to literally feed the fish was one of the kinder fates she had seen down in the dark and damp.
"Lady of the Lake, watch over us as we strive against the darkness," Roland was praying in their meager open-air quarters. "Guide our blows, shield us from wickedness, that we may prevail in the name of justice and righteousness."
Jaqueline and the other Bretonnians quietly murmured after him, repeating his words, and attempted to firm their hearts. None of them looked like they had when they had first arrived in the aquafarm. Hair color changes with sludge and slime, grime and dirt carefully rubbed into skins until Natasha had grown concerned if it might ever actually be cleansed from them. Changed lines of the face with the most crude and rudimentary of makeup crafted from the substances around them, practically killing one's ability to smell at all, but worth it enough to change the lines and shape of a face and body. Natasha wasn't even sure if Frederick would recognize her if he saw her again, but by the Gods she was determined to give the man she loved the chance.
"Here…," she grunted, straining with temples throbbing and teeth nearly cracking against each other in her skull while she ground them. "We…,"
"Up, brothers and sisters, up," Roland chivvied their fellows upright, clenching and unclenching his fists.
"Go!"
It was both a horrible pain, like a slow drawn out birth, and an explosive relief as she forced the ice to grow as much as it could. She gasped as she collapsed, blood trickling from every orifice in her head, vision darkening to the distant alarm of her husband through the soul bond. But even in that state she could hear it, feel it, as pipes groaned and creaked, as stone shook and cracked. Shouts of alarm went up amongst the aquafarm, whether slave, Deep Dweller, or Druchii. It didn't matter. The chain reaction she'd set up was already underway, sending some of the more carnivorous fish species erupting out of their pools in geysers to land amidst all that walked the aquafarm. She felt a few pangs of regret as she heard screams of terror in all too human throats, but could do nothing for them as she felt herself get carried along like a particularly limp and stinking log over Roland's shoulder. Amidst screaming crowds, her long toils of weeks came to pass, and once more, she broke stone and body both with the creeping chill and power of the Ancient Widow. Water erupted here and there, pressure and fluid dynamics doing the rest. She did not need to know, precisely, the mathematics involved, for she could feel the water and ice that she made from it like it was her own blood and flesh and skin, simply out of her body.
Nevertheless, as water disappeared from one pool to another, she did see as she lolled on Roland's shoulder and vomited as one slave – attached by a rope harness on his back as he cleaned the bottom of the pool amidst more peaceful fish – let loose a single scream.
Before he was sucked through a small rectangular slot leading to the next pool that could not have been more than the width of her hand tall.
Was it her exhaustion, her pain, the near seizure such an expenditure had caused, or did she hear a distant elderly woman's laugh amidst it all?
Either way, soon enough, she could hear and see nothing at all, going limp as the pain of the exertion and casting and concentration leading up to this took its great toll on her.
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This was not the first time that Roland had carried some maiden on his shoulders away from danger. It was not even the fiftieth, and not even the tenth time he'd done so to rescue someone from the clutches of the Druchii. It was simply unfortunate that there was no chance, none at all, for him to actually reach true freedom and safety, nor guide those he had taken under his and…Jaqueline's…wings. Perhaps it would be even more accurate to say the woman knight's wings given her nature as a Pegasus knight. Even now, his fellow Bretonnians moved as a single unit, despite outwardly appearing like just another screaming mob. Some of the men and women had even managed to cry as they ran, all the while the entire group worked to push their way through as the cavern continued collapsing. It wasn't as if he had not fought alongside female warriors before, or even knights of the Empire that happened to be of a feminine persuasion. Or even the occasional Bretonnian woman who had taken up arms for one reason or another. But generally, women of Bretonnia were not knights, never at all for the most conservative of his kin.
Of course, the latter group often attempted to ignore the legacy left behind by the legendary Repanse.
It was undoubtably true that there were women who had disguised themselves in the absolutely most concealing full plate armor available to even Knights Errant for quite some time before Repanse. Some had even been revealed, going from some songs and stories. Some had fled before the local lord could bring their full offense to bear, while others had quietly stepped out of history back into their own lives. Roland could not fault them that. At the beginning, when he and his brother had begun their glorious quest to try and truly reestablish and redeem the homeland of the pinnacle of all knights save the Uniter himself, such a thing would not have been acceptable to him at all. Everything had needed to be perfect, in every way, all standards the highest possible, to ensure that their piety and purity was unshakable in the eyes of all of Bretonnia. But what worth had any of it been, when Maldred had gone mad? Had he been fully ensnared by the wiles of his witch, or had he been more readily willing to fall? A question that Roland had contemplated more than once.
Now, closer to a century of living than not, he was no closer to an answer.
Yes, indeed, he was so very much older now. Like a stone, worn by the river of life and conflict, or perhaps a piece of vellum stretched to its limits and was now threatening to stretch even further to tearing. Old enough to think much on Repanse de Lyonesse. On the lady knights of the Empire, of Tilea, of Estalia, of Tiger Generals and Admirals and Captains and more. Had the Lady retracted her blessing from him for consorting with a woman who proclaimed herself a knight of Bretonnia and the Lady? No. She had not. Not throughout the entire battle at Salkalten. Did he dare presume to imagine that he had seen some form of that blessing conferred unto the Whitewings themselves, or had he been simply distracted by the rest of the fighting, by dehydration and pain and bloodloss? He did not know. As the years stretched on before him, he had come to know that he in fact knew less and less than he had thought in his youth.
All he knew was his dreams of the Grail, the pursuit of justice and good in a world beset so dearly by darkness.
"There!" Jaqueline called out, pointing, and Roland turned his head to look as well.
Amidst the chaos and anarchy spreading everywhere throughout the aquafarm, there was but one small spot of tranquility. Purchased, much to his distaste, with blood. There, the hideously powerful sorceress Hultressa stood, uncaring and unmoving, in the center of a great many concentric rings of the dead and dying. Her staff held in one hand, the other free, she locked eyes with him through all the crowds between them. Two of her monstrous abominations stood at her sides, lashing out and killing any and all that approached within a certain distance. It did not matter if they were Druchii, Deep Dweller, or slave. All learned quickly enough, stumbling upon the bodies of the dead. Here was quite possibly the most deplorable of allies he had ever made, one that he was not entirely certain would taint those around her irrevocably on presence and essence alone. He had heard Natasha describe what she looked like to those with the aethyric senses to tell, and even without it there was a steady thrum of power that emanated from her like did from all powerful wielders of magic.
Yet she swore by her child, and nominally acted to bring salvation to her, to escape the cloying darkness which was her people.
Could he believe her, truly?
Could he afford not to?
The Grail still burned bright in his dreams as of yet.
"Finally," the sorceress announced just as they reached her, snapping her fingers and cutting the sound out around them somehow. "I was beginning to wonder. Follow," she declared before further waving her hands about, sending great sheets of color and illusion to bloom around them.
The magic spread out like an eruption of mist, and while it spread outward for dozens of feet, a great deal of it clung directly to Roland, Natasha, Jaqueline, and the other Bretonnians with them. It was sticky, filmy, and yet also carried the sensation of an incredibly thin layer of sand which somehow covered every single inch and crevice of their bodies. There was no time to question, no time to theorize, for already the sorceress was moving. Not simply walking, or stalking, or strutting, but running outright with a level of athleticism that he had not quite expected. Thankfully, something about the magic also seemed somewhat energizing, enough that even with the paltry rations they had been forced to subsist on, they were able to run behind her quickly. Quickly, far more quickly, they ascended up the winding tunnels past checkpoints that were either already abandoned or in the midst of being abandoned by their Druchii guards.
Some looked up, clearly questioned the presence of Hultressa internally without actually giving voice to it, but their eyes slid right off of the slaves running just behind her. He heard her shouting in Druhir, the language like a stinging burn to his ears just to listen to, but whatever it was seemed to satisfy the Druchii. Some ran towards the doomed cavern, but most did not. The important thing was that none of them stopped them until they reached the blessed light of the sun above and the smell of far fresher air. If one had to give some small credit to the Druchii, they somehow managed to make their cities and all the functions of them smell better than any city of man he had ever visited save for a handful in Ind and Cathay. Compared to the filthy stink of the aquafarm, it was even better. But even then they dared not stop to try and take it in, they had but one place to go and try to reach in the name of safety.
It was a whirlwind of movement. The streets of the Ark were flooded with Druchii, flush with content after brutal slaughter. There were many laughing, drinking, talking to themselves, who were shocked by the sight of the few escapees from the aquafarm spreading out. All of them armed. All of them dangerous. Brides of Khaine danced down the streets, dancing small cuts onto some of the Druchii who were too slow to dodge out of the way, and got ridiculed and laughter lavished upon them for their weakness. Others dragged along snarling, struggling men and women of far northern descent, naked as they day they were born and marked with brands of the symbols of Chaos and the Dark Gods, hauled along by spiked chains. Some were held up on stands in the streets, being flayed alive to tear their symbols free, those squares of skin thrown into purple-red flames billowing out of braziers marked by the God of Murder's own emblem. Some were being bled white while hooked through their skin by a hundred such things tied to walls as Druchii laughed and threw trash. Others were being forcibly marked by Khaine's devotees as they screamed in the horror of the faithful being damned.
All this and more spun past them as they ran, their own presence unremarked as Hultressa cloaked herself shortly after they'd emerged into the sun. Illusions and invisibility were powerful things, and though some might have more respect and attention for wielders of fire and lightning, Roland had learned quite well that those who had great skill with the Wind known as Ulgu were potentially exponentially more dangerous. Thankfully, they had gained an ally, somehow, who had such a mastery of it, of all the Winds he suspected, for she was a sorceress who had had more than a thousand years to plumb magic's mysteries in a way no mortal wizard or sorcerer could ever hope to possess. Without, of course, some sort of tainted tutoring by the Dark Gods or their servants.
"Mmmnh," Natasha mumbled, finally waking upon his shoulder, her pained moan weirdly muted to his ears. "Ugh."
Awake, but not enough to begin running or be let down from his shoulder, that was for sure. Thankfully, she had nothing on the weight of a certain merchant's daughter that he was decades departed enough from to admit had been somewhat too spoiled by her father.
"Almost there," Hultressa announced, pointing at their destination.
Many of the Bretonnians that had chosen to follow him did not quite understand, and more than that seemed quite terrified by the presence of the sorceress at all, but he dearly hoped that their faith in him would not be betrayed.
"Stop!" She called, holding up a hand, turning towards them all with a severe look on her face. "All of you, stop!"
"What is it?" Roland asked, out of breath.
"There is something…," she cut herself off, cursed something in Druhir which only made his teeth itch, and then clapped her hands.
In an instant, the sand-on-skin sensation disappeared, and all of them heard the world around them with crystal clarity. At the moment, they were hidden in an alley between two looming structures of black stone, with no windows pointing directly at them, with the ruins of the tower just up ahead. But they could also hear a great deal of shouting and yelling, the ringing of bells, and the distant rumbles and groans of broken earth that was just beginning to settle. Some of the rescued slaves whimpered, but silenced themselves upon Hultressa glaring at them, the beaten in instinct at obedience towards a Druchii still quite strong. Natasha, on Roland's shoulder, let loose a pained groan and clutched at her head.
"What is-," Roland began to ask again before Hultressa raised a hand up at him and made a hissing sound at him, motioning her hand over his mouth.
The answer came a few seconds later, as something that even he could feel
flowed over him in an outwards expansion from the Tor of Dominance nearby. Some of the weaker slaves collapsed where they stood as a sheer wave of unclean energy seemed to pulse through all of them. Roland grit his teeth, feeling somehow twice as unclean as he had felt in the aquafarm in that instant, a bit of bile attempting to gather in the back of his throat. Hultressa let loose a short whistling sigh, leaning against one of the walls with a quiet thump of the back of her head on it, hands shaking slightly. The bells and shouting grew louder, and soon was joined by daemonic screeches as whole swarms of furies began to stream out of the Tor and spread out across the skies.
"The Supreme Sorceress is displeased," she finally said to him, stark marble white skin grown a few shades paler. "That was a mixture of disruption and detection, not meant to be used except in emergencies. The amount of time and effort it takes to store up power to unleash that contingency is…considerable," she shook her head. "They might well find signs of her," she looked towards Natasha who was now on unsteady feet, "Magic. Speaking of which," she fluttered her hands and a wave of Hysh fell upon them all and was far more welcomed, purifying and healing and energizing all at once. "Foreign magic, strange magic, curious matters such as that," she went on. "They'll be investigating the broken farm now with extra scrutiny, especially as it interrupted the celebrations she organized with the Cult of Khaine. We're still in danger here."
But as she raised her hands once more, a new voice intruded.
"Well…someone's in danger all right…," a throaty rasp echoed from the entrance of the alley.
All of them turned.
There, dressed in what had clearly once been the armor and hood of a shade, stood a figure. Or perhaps stood was the wrong word. They were hunched, legs bent, leaning partially against the wall themselves with fingers that terminated in claws which clicked quietly against the stone. In their other hand was one of the largest and heaviest guandao he'd ever seen, colored in an obscurely familiar set of red, black, and gold. His eyes flickered to the calm red glow of primeval runes along its blade. The being inhaled, slowly, and then tilted their head slightly as they locked onto Hultressa with her arms still outstretched towards Roland, Natasha, Jaqueline, and the rest.
"You're going to lower your hands now," they continued, taking a single slow step forward into the alley, sniffing again.
"Am I?" Hultressa raised an eyebrow and tilted her own head. "And why would I do that?"
"Because if you try and cast on them," the figure rasped as they took another step, voice guttural and scratchy, "I'm going to have to kill you slow rather than fast."
"You think yourself a threat to me, creature?" Hultressa huffed in amusement. "I assure you that I am not like the paltry guard you've slaughtered so far, nor those young buffoons you killed."
There was magic cast, then, but it was not from the sorceress.
"Stop!" Natasha called out, staggering forward alongside Hultressa, shards of ice forming around one hand. "I don't know who you are," she grunted, holding that hand out with the shards now floating around it. "But you need to back off before we get found out by the rest of the Druchii."
The figure paused, staring, their face concealed by the hood and mask of the shade they'd clearly killed and looted.
"You're standing next to one," they said, still hunched forward predatorily.
Roland swore he saw the faintest red glow in the shadows of that hood.
"Yeah, well, this one is helping us try and escape the Ark. So if you think that by going after her your rescuing us, you're wrong," Natasha insisted more forcefully this time.
"I give my word as a Questing Knight of Bretonnia that she speaks true," Roland said, now standing to the fore as well. "The longer we waste time, the now alarmed Druchii might find us."
"If you are against the Druchii, and…not of Chaos…," Natasha trailed off as she looked at the runes and weapon. "Is that a Cathayan weapon?"
The would-be rescuer glanced amongst them, still sniffing, twitching slightly where they stood.
"You could have ensorcelled them," they finally said, but the ragged determination was wavering.
Unfortunately their Druchii ally was not given to modesty.
"Easily," Hultressa tossed her hair and sniffed. "But I have not. Now either you move and let me continue aiding my allies, or you don't, and you die," she raised her staff and a globe of pure Dhar formed in front of her. "Make your choice."
"If…nnngh," Natasha groaned, stumbling slightly to the side, and might have hit the alley wall before Hultressa reached out with her free hand and held her upright, a bloom of Ghyran washing over her.
"Oh no, Hohenzollern," Hultressa said dismissively, "You do not die this day. Your husband would-,"
"Hohenzollern?!" The figure rasped, and took another few steps forward before pausing as Hultressa rapidly shifted the blazing black globe of Dhar to block them. "Wh-…?"
"I'm all right, I just…really strained myself," Natasha muttered as she once more stood under her own power. "Frederick is going to-,"
"Fre- wait," the figure paused, straightening with a few dull pops of their spine. "Natasha?"
Natasha blinked blearily.
"Yes?"
"We need to
move," Hultressa stated and then with remarkable boldness started marching forward, pulling Natasha along with her for a few steps before the Kislevite was able to start walking on her own again. "Come along or prove yourself more of a threat to be removed!" She spat at the figure who seemed taken aback.
"We can talk later," Natasha said to them as she pushed past as well, and so the rest began to do the same.
"My apologies, warrior," Roland said to them, surprised to find that at their full height they were ever so slightly taller than him.
A rare thing indeed.
"This is…this…I…," the figure cut themselves off with a deep and unwholesomely long inhale through their nose. "Okay."
So they moved, temporarily cloaked in magic once more, for just a few more minutes until finally,
finally, they were within nominally safe borders. Many of the Bretonnians collapsed to the ground outright, sobbing in relief after months to years without the sun. Some were staring at the slumbering forms of a gryphon and Pegasus uncomprehendingly. Jaqueline, for her part, rested her aching bones by taking a seat in a small pile of cushions that had been salvaged from some now dead Druchii noble's bedroom which had been obliterated in the destruction of the tower. Natasha and Roland could not afford to do the same, not when the unknown had entered with them at Hultressa's straining sufferance. At the least, Roland reclaimed his blade, as did Natasha, for weary as they might have been, they simply could not afford for their ally to be struck down by another.
"This isn't…what I expected," they finally said.
"Did you even have a plan when you came upon us, or did you somehow intend to kill however many thousands of Druchii you thought reasonable to make an escape?" Hultressa snorted, shaking her head. "Or did you even think that far ahead at all?"
"Hey, don't you…," they pointed threateningly at Hultressa before their gaze – now confirmed to at least have two small rings of red within the hood – slipped over to a wary Natasha and Roland. "I…,"
Hultressa raised an eyebrow and frowned, one hand still on her staff at the ready.
"The idea was appreciable," Natasha said, clearly mustering what little reserves of energy and diplomacy she had left. "The execution not particularly desired at the time. But I think you have maintained your mystery for long enough. Who are you?" She raised her blade, holding it without a single waver in her grip. "You knew my name."
"I did. I do."
The figure's voice began to twist itself again, becoming less guttural, less androgynous grind and something more feminine. Slowly, she took off the stolen shade's hood to reveal a curtain of bright and almost glowing red hair which had clearly been tied tightly to her head. Only now was it unbound to fall down past the shoulder blades. The face that was revealed was not quite familiar to Roland, but clearly was to Natasha who gasped at the sight of it. The woman on the other side of the now drawn low mask was beautiful, certainly, but Roland was wary at the enchanting aspect of it which seemed more than merely mortal. Of course, he didn't need those instincts, his eyes were more than enough. Though the skin was a somewhat flushed tan, almost bronze, which was surprisingly human, the eyes were recognizable for what the being in front of them was. Black pits with circles of red which blinked only once as the gazed at Natasha. A jaw which was slightly resettling within itself with clicks of bone. Then the vampire blinked, and those eyes disappeared to be replaced with human ones of electric green though even these were slightly blown out as if overly stimulated.
"Fancy seeing you here, Natasha," the woman declared weakly, as if she couldn't even properly believe it.
"Johanna Fuerbach. As I live and breathe," Natasha murmured. "You look…,"
"Different?" The vampire said with a small laugh.
"Well…yes!" Natasha said, surprised. "I thought the whole point was that vampires
didn't do that?"
Johanna rubbed at the back of her head.
"Yeah, well. Things happened."
"Hohenzollern," Hultressa interrupted, "This is Johanna Fuerbach?"
Roland desired to know as well, actually. The other Bretonnians were terrified by the presence of one of the undead, while Jaqueline had bolted out of her cushions and staggered to her weapons before stopping.
"Ah," Natasha blinked. "I don't know why she's here, or
how, but this is Johanna Fuerbach, yes. An…old friend."
"Johanna Fuerbach…the vampire from your husband's stories?"
That made Johanna's head whip around to stare at the sorceress again, a brief flicker of darkness in those green eyes making Roland grip his sword a bit harder.
"Husband – you – where's Frederick, then?" Johanna asked more harshly.
"Right now?" Hultressa inhaled deeply. "I imagine he is continuing to drink his way through my wine stores while continuing to make me bombs."
"What?"
"Things happened," Natasha said drily.
Johanna rubbed at her forehead with the heel of one hand.
"You leave for a few decades…,"
"How about this. Let's all relax, recover, and convene," Natasha suggested. "Johanna, this is Hultressa, she is our ally on this Ark. She wants off. We all do. We've got a plan. Hultressa, this…," the Kislevite turned back to Johanna. "You…aren't here to…,"
"No!" Johanna looked offended and hurt, "I came to…hell I don't know…I wasn't thinking too straight at the time," she mumbled, looking away and to the ground.
Natasha looked conflicted for a moment, then distant as she sometimes did when deep in communion with her husband through their soul bond as Roland had come to recognize.
"Frederick says sorry on my behalf, and sorry you're here, because it's a shit situation," she eventually said, making the vampire squint.
"What?"
"We have a…," Natasha sighed again and let her hand drop down from where she'd begun gesturing at herself. "It's a long story."
"We have some time," Hultressa stated, "But not too long. I will have to make myself seen elsewhere after reinforcing the wards here."
"I'll go first, then…you can explain…you," Natasha flapped a hand at Johanna before finally collapsing into a chair.
"Okay…," Johanna said, head still cocking at strange times, sniffing at the air.
"I'll try summarize as best I can, but it's been a hell of a time since you left after the Vampire War…,"
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No vote this time around, but this seemed a good place to stop for now. Next update will hopefully come soonerish than this one took. Thank you all for reading.
