Interlude - Vae Victus 2 (1/2)

“Number seventeen.” Melos smiled, as he handed the orange crystal over. “We had to run down to Caneland for this one, so I hope you appreciate it. It was a swamp dungeon, with gribbits everywhere. You would not believe how many of us saw the inside of giant froggy stomachs.”

“That?” Grissle said, taking the core with a rictus grin, “that is why I don’t mind retiring from the field so much.”

“So what now?”

“Now?” Grissle looked toward the throne, powered down, and looming, all angles and runes and spiraling copper tubes. At the pillars, each of which bore a gem at their peak. “Nothing. It’s the middle of the night and Brin’s asleep. It takes a lot to make seventeen Pygmalion copies, as it turns out. A lot of materials, a lot of crafting, some of which has to be done the old fashioned way.”

“Ouch.” Melos frowned. “I can’t imagine the patience that would take.”

“Which is why it’s good she’s a dwarf. They’re not as bad as elves, but they’d rather spend a few years working on something rather than admit it has some minor flaws.” Grissle glanced toward the throne. “Unlike me.” The old wizard’s face grew pensive.

“What is it?”

“No… I’m sure it’ll be fine. Nothing.” Grissle shook his head.

Melos put his arm around his oldest friend, the man who’d given him a chance, who’d looked past the cultist to see the hero within. “Gris, talk to me here. We’re dealing with forces that daemons tread cautiously around. And you’re…” dying, “…you’ve been busy, and under a lot of stress. Talk to me, here.”

Grissle sighed, and sat in the throne, staring down at his slippered feet. “There are some issues with feedback. There’s been a side effect to nesting the dungeons… it puts pressure on the central dungeon master’s column. I’ve been able to rig an emergency shunt to the throne, but I can’t cancel the bleed-out entirely. “

“Pressure. What kind of pressure?”

“Mental pressure. It…” Grissle mopped his face. The man was sweating far more than normal, his voice dull. “All pillars do it, they fray at the sanity of those within it. But in most, as far as I can tell, it’s gradual. When you’re nesting seventeen dungeons at once? It goes quickly.”

Melos rubbed his beard. “Mana potions?”

“Good when I’m on the throne. Non-functional in the main pillars. You don’t regain any pooled energy in there, not sanity, not moxie, not anything. Drinking doesn’t work. Sleeping does, a bit, but it’s deuced uncomfortable.”

“You’ve been trying this on yourself.”

“And who else could I ask?” Grissle raised his hands. “King Grundi’s found out that the Delvers are messing around with dungeon cores, and taken it hard. If a dwarf dies here, it’ll be the end of the Delver society.”

“Wait. Dies?” Melos said, crossing to the throne, and leaning on it, scrutinizing the old wizard closely.

“Small chance.” Grissle licked his lips. “But there.”

“You’re experimenting on yourself, with something that could kill a DWARF.”

Grissle sighed. “They don’t have my contingency plan.”

“Gris…”

“I know. I know I said I was done with necromancy. But…”

“You know how the King is going to take this.”

“The King doesn’t know. Nor will he, unless the worst happens, in which case I fix it, and go to my eternal rest.” Grissle stared up at him, with watery, desperate eyes. “Unless you tell him.”

Melos closed his eyes.

A breath. Two. Three. “You’re bound and determined on this.”

“This is only the first iteration. Every day, I’m learning what I did wrong with this control throne. Every day I’m another step to understanding. Understanding why.”

There were four tier one jobs that granted access to a form of the experimentation skill, at twenty-fifth level. Grissle had all four, had ground them obsessively, seeking answers. Answers for the changeover. Answers for why the cure disease spell had been stripped from every cleric in the land, well before his own illness surfaced.

Some people had determination. Grissle was determination.

“You’ve unlocked that job, haven’t you,” Melos opened his eyes, staring into Grissle’s brown, tired orbs. “The thing you said you gave up searching for, years ago.”

“I have,” Grissle whispered. “And the fact I’m here, in the pain I am, proves that I won’t take it unless Cylvania itself is on the line.”

“I’ve fought enough undead, destroyed enough undead, to know that it changes even the strongest…” Melos looked away. “It’ll change you. You… I trust you. I don’t trust what you might make of yourself.”

“Melos. I gave you a chance. A chance for redemption.”

“No. No, that was different.”

“I didn’t tell them about the children.”

Melos inhaled.

“So it’s like that, is it?” He said, as the old shame came back to haunt him.

“No. It doesn’t have to be.”

“They…” Melos shut his eyes. “It was the final test of loyalty. They would have killed me if I refused.”

“And so you cast three innocent babes into Cron’s flames.”

“I avenged them!” Melos roared, stomping away and clenching a fist. “When I saw the truth I went back and slaughtered every last one of those evil shits!”

“And yet one of the guilty remains.”

Melos punched the stone wall. Punched it again, felt his gauntlet flex and dent. Punched it a third time, felt his fingers nova into pain, and then the tears were coming now, tears of shame. Tears of weakness.

“I will spend the rest of my life atoning for what I’ve done.” Melos said. “I have. I’ve restricted… there’s entire skills I’ve given up, things I don’t use, will never use again. And you’ve trusted me to do that.”

“Yes. And I still do.” Grissle said. “All I’m asking is for the sort of trust I’ve given you, over a thing I haven’t even done yet. A thing that pales by comparison, to be honest.”

Melos clenched his eyes shut, willed the weakness out of his voice. There was still a quaver. “And if I don’t you’ll tell them. Tell my wife.”

“No.”

“No?” He turned, shocked, eyes red and warm and still blurry.

“No. If you tell them what I plan, I’ll say nothing on the matter. But…” he turned his head, looked around at the room. “But there is no contingency plan, if I die with this uncompleted. Amelia can’t match me. Rezzak was never arcanely-inclined. The Dwarves won’t touch the plan, not with their King agitating against it. Who else could we trust?” The old necromancer said to the ex-cultist. “Who could we trust with this responsibility?”

“It’s power,” Melos agreed, peeling his gauntlet off with a hiss of pain, and mopping his face with his throbbing hand. “And I know what power does. Just…” he sighed, feeling the fire drain from him, feeling old. “Promise me you won’t get dumb over this.”

“I won’t. Didn’t get this far by being stupid.” Grissle looked around. “This really is my legacy,” he said, gesturing at the cluttered workshop, and the apparatus he’d spent months building, perfecting, while the Seven hunted down cores to finish it. “I don’t want it tarnished by my weakness.”

“You’re not weak,” Melos said, smiling, though his eyes were still hot and his head throbbed. “You’re the second strongest person I know.”

“Amelia’s the first, I’ll wager?” Grissle smiled.

“You’d win that bet, if I was stupid enough to make it…”

*****

Cecelia cooed in his arms, and he rocked her as best he could with his armor in the way. He’d had special, non-spiky pauldrons made for expressly this purpose. The effect diminished the overall look he’d gone for, but… well, somehow, scaring people just wasn’t as fulfilling as it had been, before he’d become a father.

Besides, he could still use his Demon Knight skills to help with intimidation when the need arose. The job was all about fear, fear didn’t have to dominate his life when he was off the clock, so to speak.

A noise at his back made him tense, and he shifted in the creaking wooden chair-

-but it was just a black kitten, creeping up onto the table, all pudgy belly and curious little face. It stared at the little girl, then Melos met its gaze. Little yellow eyes widened, and the cat was gone, disappearing so quickly that Melos almost doubted it was there in the first place. Up until he saw a quivering black tail behind one of the mantle plates.

“Oh come on, I wasn’t even trying.” Melos complained.

Which spooked the cat, and sent the plate crashing to the floor as it fled the room entirely.

Cecelia wailed, spooked by the sound.

“Is everything all right?” Amelia called, from upstairs.

“It’s fine,” Melos said. “Fine, just… fine.” He rocked Cecelia until her sobs subsided, then made his way to the shards of the plate. “Mend,” he whispered, and picked up the reconstructed dish.

When he looked up, Caradon was glaring down from the balcony at the top of the staircase.

“Your cat got a little clumsy,” Melos explained, putting the plate back on the mantle.

Only to have it slip through his gauntleted fingers, and hit the ground again. Cecelia wailed as it broke, and Melos felt his temper flare as the middle-aged man snorted in disgust.

“My cat. Sure,” Caradon said. “You could use a few more animator levels, looks like. The dexterity would do you good.”

“True,” Melos said, raising his voice over the wailing infant. “Mend.” The plate reassembled and he put it on the table this time. “Although they’re good in other ways. Animus Blade has got some interesting synergies with my Hellswords-“

“I don’t want to hear that filth.”

The air fell silent between them, save for the frightened infant’s sobbing. Melos rocked her, shushing her, but his eyes never left his father-in-law’s gaze.

Finally, Caradon turned away. “Are you done yet, Amelia?”

“Almost!” She called back. Her voice was very muffled. This house had thick walls, and for once, Melos was thankful for it. Around her, both he and Caradon pretended to be on polite terms. It was an unspoken agreement, really.

Caradon finally shook his head and pointed at the bassinet to the side of the fireplace. He breathed hard, sighing with Cecelia as she finally subsided, and deposited his daughter into the baby bed, smoothing her frizzy little fringe of hair with one hand, all under Caradon’s stare.

A stare that finally turned, as his daughter hugged Caradon from behind, and kissed him goodbye.

Melos held the door for Amelia when she bustled downstairs, and ordered Emmet to follow.

“Remind me why we’re here and not at the pass again?” Melos asked his wife.

“Besides a chance for Grandfather to meet Cecelia? And Grissle needing us to check his calculations?” She grinned. “It’s a chance to go hiking. There are some awesome views along here, and I want to show them to you.”

“Did I mention that I’m more of a city guy? I’m really more of a city guy. We’ve got some awesome views back at home. Outside our window and all. Really, they could have sent Jane.”

“Jane’s got her own hands full in the North. With whatever the Earl of Balmoran has her doing.”

“Is that where she is?”

“Oh yeah.”

“She say anything about what was going on up there?”

Amelia snorted.

“Right, right, dumb question.”

She led him through the hills, up a small mountain, and into a shielded valley. It was… good for his agility, at least. “You know, Jane could have totally done this with one of her ninja run thingies or whatever it’s called,” he griped to Amelia. “Just stuck her arms out to the back of her, and charged headfirst through the thickest forests here, never eating a tree branch once.”

“You’re the one who insisted on wearing armor. Don’t you have Always in Uniform?”

“Well yes, but Demonplate doesn’t work with simple clothes.”

“Probably good. There’s no way I’m letting demons get into your pants. You’re past those days,” Amelia smirked.

“Har har de fucking har. Please tell me we’re there.”

“About.” She stopped, stared up at a high mountain slope. “Now we wait.”

“How’d you find this spot, anyway?”

“One of Dad’s friends used to take me all up and down through these woods. Tried to convince me I needed to be a scout. Good guy, but obsessed with the outdoors. All the time.”

“Ah. So you told him-“

“Same thing I told you, when you wanted to sleep with the window open a few months ago. Fuck winter. Winter is for curling up inside with books.” She smiled, and leaned back against a tree. “And warm husbands.”

“Can’t object to that,” he said, feeling himself stir as he looked at her, arms spread out, flush with life and heat from the walk.

She was beautiful.

“How much time do we have, do you think?” Melos said, bracing himself against the tree, looking down into her black eyes. She smiled, lips parting, as he moved in close, so close to her.

“Mmm. I like the way you think-“

The light shifted.

“None,” she said, looking sharp, and pushing herself away from the tree. And him. “It’s happening.”

A flicker, then a CRACK, followed by a rolling rumble so loud that for a second Melos thought it was a storm. To the south the light above the mountains dimmed, then dimmed further. “Is that it?” He asked Amelia.

“Appraise.” She squinted up the peak. “We need to get closer.”

“Is it safe?”