Chapter 51: Tales from the Dark (2/2)

“Their what?”

“Drill constructs.”

“Right. They will use those strange things and help us exploit the mine in return for food and sundries. We help them get back on their feet, they help us catapult this operation off the ground. We keep the rights to the mine. Everyone is a winner.”

“Sounds good, provided that you manage to convince them.”

“Come on,” Farren said shrewdly, “have a little faith, hmm?”

And he was right. It only took ten minutes for Gar-Gar and Farren to shake hands. After they were done, one of the Yries escorted the group to an empty house right by the entrance. Viv found that she liked the circular, vertical design, though the lack of sky frustrated her. Someone had left a few personal effects and the guards gathered them before crashing on an assortment of stone seats and couches. Someone knocked on their door.

Viv turned and took in another Yries, a female one in flowing robes colored white this time. Viv was not sure, but she thought the species might have more than a few pairs of breasts under all that cloth if the bulges were any indication. The large… woman, let’s go with woman, wringed her thin hands as she addressed them in Enorian this time.

“I am Lak-Tak, daughter of our previous stone weaver.”

She spoke laboriously, syllable by syllable, each one articulated with great care. The result was slow but extremely clear, though it did feel like being considered as very slow children.

“The revenant will return after dusk. We bid you rest till then. We have little food. But we have much water. We will bring you water.”

“Appreciated, thanks. Don’t worry about the food.”

They still had plenty of dry travel rations, and Viv was glad because most of it contained bits of black mana, so she felt refreshed every time.

The expedition settled and someone found bricks of dried plant matter to start a soup. Farren sat next to Viv.

“I believe that I still owe you a tale or two about artefacts, yes?”

“You did say that.”

“I could tell you, then you should probably take a short nap. The night will be long.”

“Alright. Go ahead.”

Viv sat down more comfortably in an adjacent bedroom, with Marruk plopping down by her side with an eye on the entrance. The temperature here was pleasantly fresh and the air felt clean. There was even a bit of wind coming from somewhere. Farren smiled and settled himself in a lotus position, back straight as a rod.

“Ahem. Let me start with the story of the Sword of Baran, the Sword of the Dragonslayer.

“A hundred years ago, in the eastern march of Baran, where mountains and deep vales hide the light, there was a small village, and in that small village, a boy was born. That boy was bright and strong and his skin was sun-kissed, for he spent every waking hour playing outside. As soon as he could participate, he picked a piece of wood and won the yearly blade tournament. No care for bow or staff he had, only for the sword of the nobles. His dedication and skill attracted the favor of merchants and pretty girls, but he had set his eyes on a bigger prize.

“When the boy reached sixteen, a traveling master passed by a nearby town and the boy challenged him to a duel. For the first time in years, the boy lost. The old master had not used strength or speed to beat him. Instead, he always knew what the boy would do. It had been a contest of skill and finally, the boy was happy, for he had found a challenge to overcome.

“Who are you?” Said the old master. My name is Eron, he replied, and the master took an apprentice that day. The pair traveled to the city of Baran, with its white walls and majestic columns, where his training began in earnest.

“For two years, the boy practiced until his fingers bled. No other student was his match, and still he persevered, for his true target was the old man. And then, the old man died.

“The school closed and its students dispersed, and Eron realized that old age had robbed him of his target, so he did the only thing he could think of. He enrolled in the Baran arena.

“Now, at that time, the arena was an even more bloodthirsty affair than it is now. Eron faced foes with strange weapons, bows, and claws. He faced monsters. He did not win all his matches, but he won so many that there was always coin and favor to help him recover. At the ripe age of twenty-one, Eron had become unbeatable.

“There are many who came to rob him of his title, and he answered every challenge. He outwitted the Swordbreaker through careful feints. He read through the mesmerizing motion of The Lily’s whips. The axe of Gromel found only air while he found flesh. Even the Southern Stinger was deflected and broken by his expert blows. Eron was only one step away from greatness, and that step was offered to him.

“The King’s Champion, Urden, proposed a duel for his own position and for a day, they fought. Urden was older and his power and finesse were legendary. It took Eron everything he knew to keep the Champion at bay. But eventually, Urden tired. Every day he had spent by the king’s side, Eron had spent in the training fields. Urden’s feet were too used to the creamy tiles of the palace while Eron knew the harsh grit of the bloody sand like his own skin. Urden faltered, and Eron won. The Champion gracefully admitted defeat and Eron became Champion of Baran at twenty-three. No one ever approached that achievement since then, and perhaps no one ever will. The King made a magical sword for Eron and the newest Champion asked for no fire or ice, only that it could contain his incredible drive. The result was an unadorned tool of death that could endure anything.

“But then, at the top of the world, Eron heard that his native region had been beset by a dragon.”

“Squee!”

“Ah, errr, hm, it was a stupid and weak dragon, not like the magnificent Arthur. That dragon was burning villages and eating cattle for no other reason that it could. The king forbade him to go, but Eron went anyway.

“Despite so many years of success, despite his fame and wealth, Eron did not forget that it was his village that had started him on the path he now tread. It had been his elders who had seen the talent in him, and pushed him to leave farmwork. It was his family that had fed him while he practiced, and so Eron discarded everything but his blade and set out. He left behind the white walls and silk sheets, the welcoming thighs of Baranese countesses, his money and his title and returned to his home. There, he found the dragon killing people indiscriminately.

“Eron fought him alone.

“For three hours, they dueled under the gaze of the mountains and the forgotten vales. For three hours, fire scathed the earth while blade cut the sky. The combat was cataclysmic, and the villagers froze instead of fleeing, for no one had ever faced a dragon in single combat and lasted more than a few seconds.”

“Squee.”

“Ah, hm, indeed. And after three hours of combat, silence fell upon the land. The most daring of villagers went up but they found only the corpse of the mighty creature, the sword embedded deeply in its eye and brain. Eron’s hand was still attached, but the rest of the body had been reduced to ash.

“And so the villagers brought the sword to the king. Eron was forgiven for his disobedience and given the funeral of a hero. It is said that, even to this day, whoever holds the blade can feel the determination of Eron at the moment he died, and reproduce the impossible strike he made to end his foe forever. That is how the Dragonslayer Sword came to be.”

“Squeeeee.”

“It’s fine, little one,” Viv said while stifling a yawn, “I’ll never let some big human dummy annoy you for three hours. You are safe.”

“Squee.”

Arthur coiled tightly around her, and she felt the creature’s intense warmth seep through her sleepy body.

“Another tale, then, a darker one.”

“Sure.”

“Ahem. Half a millennium ago, when the Old Empire still ruled over most of Param, there was a land deep to the south where men settled. They built a cold, half-buried city, huddling close to the bitter sea, where summer was but a fleeting dream. For all its harshness, it was beautiful and affluent, for the waters were teeming with bounty and the earth hid much gold. Imperial fleets would come and bring riches from the north, sweet wines and fruits and other things that could not grow there. It was on one of those ships that the clerk Nazear arrived. He joined the office of the governor and did what he did best, counting and measuring for days.

“It did not take long for Nazear to realize that his superior was a crook. The arrogant man spent fortunes courting the favors of the high quarter’s most expensive prostitutes. The clerk saw that, and saw the money taken from the hands of the workers. One night, Nazear gathered his evidence and went to the governor. The imperial guard found the chief clerk in the arms of a honey-skinned beauty. In his anger, the governor had them slain, as well as all the other courtesans who had benefited from the arrangement. Nazear found the action excessive, but he saw the joy in the eyes of the workers when food and money was returned to them. When the governor asked what recompenses he sought, Nazear asked for the position of the dead one, and his wish was granted.

“For years, Nazear kept a vigil over the finances of the kingdom. Many corrupt officials did he reveal, and they died to the governor’s fury as imperial law allowed. Rooms were filled with records until Nazear ran out of space, so he used the rewards he had gained to have a magical book made. It was a work of art, capable of adding or removing content from its countless pages. Nazear was happy. With the more dishonest people dealt with, Nazear turned his sharp intellect to solving the inefficiencies in the local administration.

“For decades, he labored to improve the world, marveling at how every flaw was painstakingly recorded in the book and disappeared from the world. Every piece of chaos became but a corrected number in his colorful tome, a perfect history of Nazear’s own success.

“But it was not enough.

“Nazear saw how the anger of the governor and the jealousy of his wife affected the day-to-day affairs. He recorded every occurrence in the book as well as ways to stop them, and the book listened. Anger left the king, and jealousy, the queen. Lust left the cook. Gossip fled from the lips of the servants. Nazear was ecstatic. His land, his work, a perfect clockwork arrangement.

“But soon, the murders started. Families inexplicably turned on themselves. Nazear felt frustrated and fed more into the book. Every night the tome grew more vibrant and the world more dull until, one day, the imperial fleet returned to find streets awash with blood and apathy. The drab victims of the book had taken arms to feel something, anything, no matter how cruel. They searched for their lost souls.

“The imperial guard culled the entire city. They found Nazear, gibbering and delirious in the darkest chamber of the palace where he kept recording the dark deeds he had witnessed.

“‘I will record you too, soon’, he told the soldiers. An inquisitor was called and found the book bloated with mankind’s drive and dreams. He failed to destroy it.

“So the inquisitor left the book and cut off Nazear’s hands. They broke his teeth and pierced his eyes, then collapsed the passage behind them so that he would die there, unable to read the records he had so patiently taken, unable to add to them. Some say that he still waits there, sustained by the cursed artefact.”

“Wow. Creepy,” Viv said. She yawned deeply and rolled into a ball with Arthur nestled close. Marruk placed Solfis nearby then she and Farren left the room. It was dark and comfortable.

//You should rest, Your Grace.

Viv closed her eyes.