Those Fallen
By: Sylvance Posted on: March 31, 2013
Prologue
Raindrops cascaded, like broken chords tumbling from the fingers of an expert lyrist. They were soaked by the unrelenting downpour, and whipped by the merciless wind, and yet these things were as naught, because comfort was a distant concern when the very fate of the world hung in the balance. Yes, Bards are want to speak of tragedy and superlative epicness, but truly here was a situation that could not be overstated.
Warily, they circled one another, breathing as one man. The tension mounted; even as the counterpoint of myriad battles, of uncountable stories, filled the air across Nishnatoba, the Wailbringer and the Undaunted had eyes and ears only for one another. This courtyard was all the world.
Another step. Was that a flicker of movement, of intention? The slight rising of the shoulders that suggested a breath drawn in preparation?
Another step. The ghost of a frown creased the Undaunted's brow as his intricate link to Lord Thoth's realm bespoke the tearing of yet another person from the mortal coil.
Another st-
The rain slowed, or did time merely quicken?, as the Wailbringer stormed forth in a flash of steel and music. The song-blessing upon his rapier seemed to cry out hungrily, drinking up the notes of his Pesante as he flew at his arch-nemesis. Yet the Undaunted simply raised an eyebrow, watching the other come towards him and thrust his rapier hilt-deep into his gut and-
-vanished.
"I taught you the Prelude, old friend," the Undaunted said with a bittersweet smile. "You dishonor us both with such trickery. This will only be resolved one way. Steel for steel..."
A dark smile crossed the features of the Wailbringer, who was, indeed, standing back where he had been. "And blood for blood. But knowing an illusion is one thing. Being unaffected by it..?"
The rain's tempo increased violently, and the Undaunted's every sense was overwhelmed: the warm embrace of petrichor; the intimate clinging of sodden clothing against his skin; its harsh clamour in his ears. Another sad smile courted his features as he touched his Shield and shifted his Trueparry. The Wailbringer would bring the attack when it suited him, and the Undaunted could wait. If there were just one thing that life had taught him, it was patience.
Polyphony
"I'm Cadent. Cadent Songe. Friends call me Cay."
It took Zirrik a moment to realise that it was he that was being addressed. Antennae twitching nervously, he looked up at the speaker. The young satyr certainly cut a dashing pose, lithe shoulders swathed in a plush, forest green cloak, with a smart doublet in a slightly lighter shade, a pair of brown leather boots buffed to a sheen, and his left hand resting just a little too casually on the pommel of his rapier.
"Okay," the horkval replied uncertainly.
The other deflated slightly, then broadened out again, giving him a measured look. "Well... what do you mean 'okay'?"
Another nervous twitch of the antennae. "Nothing." First day at the Academie, and less than a week as a Dilettante of the Great House Ty Beirdd. Too early to be making enemies. He fidgeted for a moment, then turned pointedly back to the tome that he was reading. Surely if he ignored the satyr for long enough it would go and speak to one of the dozen other people who were in the common room right now engaged in introduction, horseplay and posturing.
"Come on; you must have meant something. Speak your mind, sir."
"Please, I didn't mean anything by it, it's just that...." He snapped his mandibles shut, unsure of how to proceed.
"Yes?"
Ugh. In for a sovereign... "Well it seems a bit coincident that a person would be named Cadent Songe and just happen to become a Bardd, is all."
The satyr's glance became a glare, and his lips pressed together like mating worms. The horkval looked uncertainly over to the entrance to Sam's where members of the faculty were currently congregated, trying not to squirm beneath the head of that gaze and-
"Ugh. Is it that obvious?" With a soul-deep sigh, the satyr flopped uninvited into the chair across from him and put his feet up on the table. How he was able to do that with a rapier strapped to his belt was beyond the horkval. "Fine, it's Aschdyn. Aschdyn Rousseau. Well, Dilettante Aschdyn Rousseau now, I guess."
"Oh, well, very pleased to meet you, Aschdyn. My name is Zirrik." He seemed to remembered being told that these mainlanders did something with their hands what they met, but he had no real clue what it was.
"Zirrik what?"
"Just... Zirrik. Sorry."
"Garden be good! Relax, man! Why are you so nervous?"
"Well, I'm from Ulangi. It's... quite a bit more... quieter. Cyrene is such a big city, and everybody is so lou- err, friendly and boisterous."
"Cyrene? Big? I should take you back home to Ashtan, Zirrik. Your head would probably explode!"
"That sounds rather unpleasant. Restoration would cure that right? Maybe bloodroot?"
"No, no, not litera- Nevermind. Ha! You're alright, you know, Zirrik! I reckon we're gonna get along famously!"
Now it came to pass that in the six-hundred-and-sixth year of the fall of the empire of Seleucar, a leal Runewarden of the Great House Mojushai did rise to power in Cyrene, the Heart of the Vashnars. And his rule was one of justice and plenty, such that folks took to calling him both the Bounty and the Judicial.
It is one of the great wrongs in history that his rule was overshadowed by events entirely beyond his control, yet how many other songs have been drowned in the grand chorus of Sapience’s troubled symphony?
When the first of the xoran began to fall ill, there was no expense spared from the treasury, and even decades after his reign, folks would comment at how freely the Bounty gave aid to those sick even outside of Cyrene. He led the first charge against the ormyrr and was the first, save Lord Aegis, to step onto Nishnatoba to bring the final fight to the Worldreaver, yet history shall not remember him.
This is his tale, also.
The attack came in a dazzling burst, with the Wailbringer appearing in front of him, rapier streaking through the air in a blow clearly aimed to behead, and even as the rational part of him screamed that it was another illusion, the Undaunted's body was reacting. Moving into a low stance, he gathered himself for a mere second before leaping into the air and preparing to bring down death from above, raining steel even as the heavens continued their own downpour. But his foe was not there.
When he landed, it was in time to see the Wailbringer step through the veil of rain and unleash a weight of sticky webs upon him, leaving him bound up and able to do nothing but writhe helplessly. A moment later, an onslaught of song and a dastardly application of venomed steel left him with three broken limbs, and the point of the other's blade was at his pulse.
"Now I'm going to open your throat and see if that daunts you. Make your peace."
"Is this what she would have wanted, Wailbringer? Nunaiah was the best of us, but she also saw the best in us. We cannot kill each other now; there's just too much at stake." Just a few more minutes.
The other simply laughed. "We are not killing each other, dauntless one. I am killing you."
"And if we squander this single opportunity to destroy it, what then? This is bigger than us. Think! If we waste our essence here, then who will avenge the Fallen?"
Lament
The House Hall had been bedecked in black, yet even this grim shade was far brighter than the mood therein. Her death had been a shock of the worst kind; wails and sniffles formed a chorus around the unceasing refrain of the same three questions being sung incessantly in the round:
Who had robbed her?
What had she lost that had been so important?
Why had she reacted as she did?
Fingers had been pointed. Meetings of the Bardic Council and the Senate itself had been called. Supplication had been made to the gods, and worldwide condemnation of the robbery of young ones had been made loudly in a rare display of unanimous inter-City unity.
But nobody was doing anything.
No, that was unfair. Aschdyn had been the most vocal in crying for blood, and his fiery orations in the aftermath of Nunaiah’s passing had literally brought Cyrene to arms. He had championed her with heart-rending speeches that had made even the pacifists don steel, and the eulogy that he delivered had been so great that he had been lauded by the Imperiate.
But Nunaiah was still dead.
Zirrik punched the training dummy once, twice, thrice, then again because it felt good. He’d loved her in a simple way that was unpolluted by carnal desire, yet was more complicated than mere friendship. In an important way, she had completed him. Her smile had been as much a part of his Art as his own inspiration. Indeed, she had been much of his inspiration.
A final cry of frustration, and he launched a kick at the damned dummy, but when it hit the rear wall of the armoury it simply fell to the ground. Without resistance. Helpless. Dead. He fell to his knees and fell into wracking sobs that threatened to engulf him, and when comforting arms wrapped around him, it was some time before he even noticed.
“I miss her too, Zi. It’s okay. It’s okay. We’ll find who did it.”
“And do what, Asch?” Zirrik snapped at his friend. “Give them a stern talking to?”
“Come, that is unseemly,” the satyr said firmly, warmly. “The Garden has decreed that the perpetrator will be shrubbed until time indefinite. And They are even considering stripping we mortals of much of our ability to steal.”
“And will that bring her back?”
“Nothing will bring her back, you fool. She suicided. She is gone. But look at Cyrene. Look how she has mobilised around our beloved, in honour of her. When last did you see our people actively patrolling the Highway, and hunting thieves? When last did you see the Houses work together so fiercely to ensure that every new citizen is immediately prepared to see off a thief? My friend and brother, you speak unseemly of nothing being done, but I tell you truly that our wonderful sister has done more for Cyrene than has been done in a century. She lives on.”
A silence, filled with naught save the solitary trail of another tear down Zirrik’s chitinous cheek. “That silver-tongue of yours will be the death of us, Lyricist.”
“And your blade the life of us, Bladesinger. We shall find them, and repay them steel for steel and blood for blood.”
The two looked at one another, uncomfortably, before Aschdyn laughed off their foolish machismo, batted aside his friend’s crossed arms and took him in a warm embrace.
“You ought to join the Commune, Asch.”
Did the young satyr’s gaze darken just a shade? “They seem a nice enough bunch, but I’m not sure I’d fit in there, Zi.”
Contradanse
A great bard once wrote that nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd, but he was wrong. Crowds attracted crowds… but scandals really attracted crowds, and never moreso than when such played out in Cyrene’s Courthouse.
“Order! This assembly will come to order!”
Not another person could have been squeezed into the public gallery, not a troll nor a dwarf, and it was all that the troubadours could do to hold back the swarming press as each person vied to get closer to the front. For, in truth, whilst this was an opportunity to see justice meted out, so too was it an opportunity to consolidate one’s place in the social order. At front stood the Lords and Ladies, and the leaders of Cyrene’s Great Houses in a gaggle around the Hand of Phaestus, whilst Ministers were a few paces back. At the rear, less storied citizens jockeyed for position in an impressive fracas of elbows, curses, threats and promises. The Senate looked on over it all from the dais, with the Imperiate at centre stage.
“This hearing will consider the case of the People of Cyrene versus Cadent… Songe?” For the first time in public memory, the Imperiate looked unsure of himself, and shot a reproachful look at a nearby scribe. The young atavian hurriedly whispered something, then the Imperiate spoke again. “This hearing will consider the case of the People of Cyrene versus Aschdyn Rousseau. Is the accused present?”
A murmur as the satyr was brought into the courthouse and ushered before the Imperiate by two surly guardsmen. He was dressed impeccably, with hoof and horn buffed to a resplendent shine, and even his bow before the Judicial could not reasonably be faulted.
“These are serious allegations,” the Judicial solemnly intoned, and a hush fell upon the assembled townspeople. “It is writ clearly that Cyrenians are not to join disapproved Orders, yet it is accused that you did, in full knowledge of the law and without lawful excuse, whilst in possession of your faculties, willingly and successfully pursue membership with the Order of Suffering.”
Aschdyn’s face was a mask. No trace of guile or shame or fear or anger… Or guilt… He simply looked levelly at the Imperiate, yet the tension in the room began to mount until it was near palpable.
“Are you going to answer?” growled the Minister of Security from the gallery.
“The Minister of Security is not recognised,” the Imperiate snapped in a tone that would brook no foolishness. Then, he turned back to the accused and spoke with quiet firmness. “Are you going to answer, Lyricist?”
“I heard no question, Imperiate.”
The crowd gasped, and somebody spluttered, even as another cried out scandal and-
“Order! There will be order!” the Judicial shouted again.
Only one person in the crowd seemed to be separate from the wordless desire for blood, and this young horkval simply looked at the accused with unfathomable sadness evident in his multi-faceted, iridescent ocelli. Aschdyn turned and smiled sadly, unapologetically at his friend before turning back to his accuser.
“As you please,” the Judicial said when the guards had finally re-established some semblance of quiet. “Lyricist Aschdyn Rousseau, you are hereby charged with Willful Disrespect of Cyrenian Law, specifically that you did join a disapproved organisation. How do you pl-“
“Guilty. Fully guilty; guilty as charged and more guilty besides.”
If his earlier churlishness had caused hiatus, this announcement seemed to stop every sound in Sapience. Nobody spoke. Some did not even breathe. The Imperiate’s mouth worked wordlessly for a few moments, and one of the Senators slapped her Mindseye tattoo.
Face reddening, the Imperiate found his tongue, but it was Aschdyn who capitalised on the shocked silence. Cape swirling, the satyr turned to the crowd behind him and spoke. “People of Cyrene, the world has changed around you. Around us, in truth, yet it is clear that I shall not be amongst your number for much longer, and more is the pity for you. You will condemn me, and that is proper, yet first you will hear me. Aye. You will hear me.
“You, who look upon me with loathing, must accept that it was the death of our citymate that shook you from your apathy, out of your armchairs and onto the Highways. Suffering improved you, is this not true?”
“This is an affront!” yelled a priest towards the fore of the crowd.
“Agreed!” Aschdyn returned without pause. “That a doctrine that you yourselves have sworn true with your actions should be disregarded. Folly is too mild a word for this. But whilst I live and breathe, we shall remember what Nunaiah taught us. I say again: There is improvement in Suffering. Condemn this young Adikoi, for you must. But heed my message.”
The crowd found its voice, and in the end it took almost fifty guardsmen to bundle Aschdyn safely from the courthouse to await sentencing, and fifty more to disperse the crowd that quite emphatically demanded his execution long into the night. Amongst them only a single person, a horkval, watched with a colder fury, knowing but not quite realising that he had just lost the second of his closest friends in little over a year.
“There will be order!” repeated the Imperiate.
“There must be order,” Zirrik said quietly.
Before him, a seasoned human took his measure from across the massive desk that took up much of the interview room. Corstuss of Shallam was renowned for precisely two things: His unwavering belief in Righteousness, and his ability to spot a lie from fifty paces. Eyes that smouldered with something close to fanaticism seemed to bore deep to the horkval’s soul and lay him bare. The Bardd stood at a smart attention, as steadfast as he could beneath such scrutiny.
“You speak truth, Bladesinger. There must be order. There must be orders. And there must be Orders. Yet truth is not always whole truth. You have still not told me why you are here.”
A twitch of antennae. “Because each man in Sapience that has seen the corrupting power of evil must take a stand against it. Sir.”
“Another fine answer. But not the truth. Why are you here?”
A twitch. “Because I want to be stronger.”
“Who is he, Zirrik? Who is the man that you will not speak about? Who is the man that has brought you to our door?”
An oaf, a bastard, a liar, a breeder of dire events. A whore-spawned Braggart, a ruffian delighting in wickedness, said his mind. A fool, a miscreant, an intolerable cretin. “He was my friend.”
“Why are you here, Zirrik?”
Twitch.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Because she created him. When she died she destroyed him. And made him. And I cannot allow only badness to come of her death.”
Contradanse
The crypts of Azdun are a superlatively unpleasant place, which echoe unpleasantly, where the lurching shape a dozen feet away might be the festering undead or the last danse macabre of an unfortunate adventurer. The smell is indescribable, and all this overlaid with an all-but-tangible feeling of foreboding, of impending doom, of the promise of a thousand dark thi-
“BY THE TWIN LORDS!” roared a vexingly familiar voice.
Zirrik spun around at precisely the same time, feeling something unexpected press against his back as he took another quiet step back, and suddenly he was face-to-face with-
“Asch?” his antennae twitched nervously. “Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me, Zi. What in hells are you doing down here creeping around?”
The satyr had changed in some way that Zirrik could not quite put his finger on. There was a firmness to him, a resolve and fire. No, even that had always been there. He seemed… harder. It was not just the obsidian and bone that he wore, all weaved intricately into a dazzling and beautiful parody of a Lord’s attire. Something in him was different.
“I’m looking for some Dilettantes I sent down here a day ago. Not answering tells.”
They looked at one another for a long time. Really, what was there to say?
“You’re a dick,” Zirrik suddenly said, then clicked his mandibles resolutely shut.
Anger crossed Aschdyn’s features before he sighed. Deflated. Nodded. “Yes. But a dick trying to do the best, Zi. Just like you; yes I know you joined Pentharian. I know that we’re on opposite sides now, Zi. But you’ll always be my friend.”
“We’re not friends, Aschdyn. You let them take you. How could you have been so weak?”
A harsh laugh. “You think they took me? Do you have any idea at all how hard I had to try before they would take me in? But it was worth it. Cyrene is weak, and I can forgive them that, but what I cannot brook is that they swathe it in Respect and call it strength. Even having suffered and grown stronger in suffering they-“
“Enough!” shouted Zirrik. For the first time ever he raised his voice towards the satyr, and with stunning effect. Aschdyn actually stopped talking and just stood with his mouth open; it might have been comical if the noise were not also likely to have roused considerably interest in the ever-hungry denizens that resided down here. “I’ve heard the rhetoric. But here’s the deal: You were the weak one. You started off well enough, rallying us all, and if you’d continued to do that perhaps we’d have found the thief by now or at least kept the Highway clear. You’re a one-hit-wonder, Asch. What was it? Were you scared of success? Or was it the responsibility that did you in?”
Red rage began to fill up the Adikoi’s cheeks, then it shifted into shame and, finally, shy humour. “Fine, if you won’t be friends… we’ll be Rivals.”
Zirrik’s antennae twitched a swift staccato. “What?”
A grin from the satyr. “That’s right, Rivals! You want to fight Evil? I’ll be your Evil. You need someone to blame, then choose me.”
“I’m not fighting you-“
“No, you’re fighting yourself. But until you learn that, then give your negativity my face. And let’s start with a race to Dragon. If there’s any inch of you that truly believes that the Light is strong, then prove it to me. First one to get scales on fights for the noble cause.”
Zirrik clicked uncertainly. “This is madness. I’ll have no part in it.”
“Then you’ll lose, Zirrik. See you at the finish line.” Turning crisply on his heel with a semi-mocking bow, the Adikoi sauntered off deeper into the crypts.
“I’m not taking part!” the Bladesinger shouted at his back, yet as his words echoed condescendingly back at him, he knew that, once again, he’d told a lie.
The myriad battles that waged across the wasteland were growing no less heated, and still, despite all that was at stake, still there were petty fools zapping one another to count coup for decades-old feuds. Ashtanite zapped Cyrenian. Cyrenian zapped Mhaldorian. Mhaldorian zapped those who no longer had a city to call their own. Whether Lord Thoth rejoiced in this ill-timed orgy of vengeance was beyond the Undaunted’s comprehension and, if he were honest, beneath his care at this point. Two creatures had to die today: Either he or his best friend, and the shaded mockery of what had once been his god.
Oddly, the thought was a peaceful one.
He who had once been a young and naïve bardlet. He had been scared once, a small fry, but the ceaseless torment, trial and tribulation that was life had slowly whittled away that innocence and left behind only the sorrowful, stark truth of experience. The Rivalry had been good for him, better than he might have imagine, in all honesty. Really, neither of them knew when it had turned serious, when the playful engagements had become heated exchanges. Neither knew when they had stopped turning their blows. And, truly, did it matter?
With an eye on his surroundings, he sent out a silent call to the rest of his unit. No response. It didn’t surprise him; there was more at stake today than his safety, and the very chaos that had allowed him to get separated was likely also obscuring his absence. He was on his own. Alone, too, yet… so was his Rival.
If two people were alone, did that make them alone together?
“There’s a pattern to this, and I just cannot put the pieces together,” the Judicial said sadly. The worry lines upon his forehead were deeper than they had been when he had taken office, yet even for the toll it took, these events were bringing out the best of him. “And you’re sure she’s dead?”
The Minister of War fidget uncomfortably. “Were it just a few eyewitnesses, my liege, I would be inclined to say that I am not yet sure. But… well, El’Jazira. And… I am told that Hal-Tolneth is in considerable distress.”
The Imperiate’s sigh came from somewhere deep. “Okay, thank you, Minister,” he said, dismissing the man gently.
The Senate seemed no more pleased with the news than he was, and none of them had answers. They debated long into the night on what the next actions should be, and each of those assembled seemed to be troubled, all save for the Hand of Phaestus, who reminded them on many occasions that the Garden was with Sapience, and that all things were in the capable hands of the gods.
Too much was happening now, all at once, and whilst he could not see how the pieces fit, the Judicial was sure that he was less than thrilled with the picture that was forming. It was time for Sapience to stand together or hang separately. All small enmities must be put aside or there was no hope.
Partita
The next time they had met was also by chance, in the Crystal Leaf Inn. Aschdyn had not even looked up as Zirrik had approached him, so engrossed was he in the letter he was reading. He continued reading intently until the horkval pulled up a chair opposite him, then he looked up with a deepening frown and was about to toss out some rebuke before recognition spread across his face.
“Defender of the Song Zirrik, Hand of Elysia. Congratulations on both promotions, and condolences for the circumstances leading to them. Yet both your expression and the… spirit of our last meeting suggest that you are not here for celebratory drinks.”
If insectoid eyes could glare, then Zirrik was glaring. “Your friends are to stop the defiling of my Lord’s shrines immediately.”
“And then?” Aschdyn asked, with a raised eyebrow.
“’Or else?’ might have been the better question.”
“Whoa, take it easy, Zirrik,” the satyr replied with a smile that could have been sold in the sweet shoppe. “We need not allow a theological disagreement become a personal one.”
“That’s the difference between you and me, Aschdyn. I am my theological argument. Now, I want you to take these terms to your Orderhead, for immediate and unconditional sur-“
“He says ‘no’,” Aschdyn responded in a strangely distant tone. “He says that not only would that be a disservice to his Order, it would also be a disservice to yours.”
“Oh, let me guess, because our warriors have been forged in the fires of these conflicts?”
“You understand Suffering better than you care to admit, Hand of Elysia.”
“We don’t fight to grow stronger. We fight because it is the right thing to do. But I’m through trying to explain that to you. Just tell your Order head that-“
“He says ‘no’.”
“And how the heck can you know what the Orderhead will say before you’ve even brought him my turns?”
Smiling with something between bemusement and embarrassment, Aschdyn held up the letter he had been reading. “Because Kendresh has just announced that he will be turning to slumber indefinitely, Zirrik. Because… as of right now, I am the Martyred and Purified Prophet.”
Aeternam
The surging crowd kept on pulling them apart, then pushing them closer together like two ships on the Lemnian Sea. Each of them was surrounded by the highest members of his Order, these men and women effortlessly batting aside the attacks of lesser adventurers and knocking aside any denizens that came too close.
“You have no business here!” Aschdyn, snarled as they came together, weapons ringing a screeching dischord. “This is between us and Ashtan!” Another unfortunate Theran wondered into the fray and was mercilessly slain by a single dazzling strike from Droch Jaydeen’s runeblade.
Zirrik and Kelatyn were back-to-back in the midst and thick of it, repelling the invaders with every trick, combo and synergy in their repertoire. Pushing with a grunt as their blades crossed, the horkval belted Aschdyn with a wordless stream of noise, his spirit rising as the songbird on his shoulder skilfully weaved a harmony around the song, and the Prophet fell back step by step before the assault. A quick intake of breath telegraphed the satyr’s use of Voicecraft, so Zirrik quickly drew upon the strange knowledge that had been seared into his mind and shot a trio of stiffened fingers into the other’s windpipe and watched with satisfaction as the song died in his throat.
“Meteor!” roared Kelatyn. “Make that two! Bah! Three!”
They both put up Shields just seconds before the first missiles would have done horrendous damage, yet the third slammed into Kelatyn’s torso and-
A flare of burning salvation erupted from the ember she held, suffusing her fullplate and devouring the meteor in full. With a quick prayer of thanks to the Messenger, she reset her Shield. But the pause had given the Mhaldorians enough time to regroup.
“Get out of here, Zirrik; last chance,” Aschdyn promised from increasing distance.
“I know what you’ll do with the corpses. And you know I won’t allow it.”
“We are not going anywhere near your shrines, for crying out loud!”
There was little point in talking, because Aschdyn’s greatest problem was that he did not listen, yet the infuriating thing about the satyr was that there was no ignoring him. “And what will you do with the corpses then, fell Prophet?”
"Maintain our shrines! We have no care for attacking you!" Aschdyn was practically tearing out his hair.
“Precisely. No more shrines, Aschdyn. This aggressive expansion has got to stop.” The Continuo strengthened him, and he could see Kelatyn also being bolstered up by it… but so were Aschdyn’s harmonics having the same effect on his allies. It was a stalemate of the worst kind, because whilst the two Orders could not destroy one another, nor could Zirrik stop the raid from happening.
“This is folly, Zirrik. Stand down.”
“The fact that we can’t win isn’t reason enough to not do the right thing, Aschdyn. I thought you knew me better than that.”
“A fool, and a stubborn one to boot,” Aschdyn responded in exasperation. “You bring neither hope nor sense to this engagement, my old friend. You can do naught but make me wail in frustration.”
The tide of battle brought them together again with another screech of competing songblades. Perhaps it was the rage of warfare, or the pointlessness of the situation, or the smell of blood and the sound of screams in the nearby village. Maybe it was simply the casual cruelty that would drive a City to massacre a small settlement just to frustrate another City. Whatever it was, something within Zirrik finally snapped, and for the first time he truly accepted that the satyr he had once known and loved had been replaced with something else. “I hate you Aschdyn, and everything you are, and all you stand for. I will not rest until every mortal that flocks to your twisted god is permanently dead and your shrines are nothing but an uncomfortable memory. I dedicate my life to ending yours, Misguided and Pugnacious Prophet. So get used to wailing.”
Dark anger flashed across Aschdyn’s face then was gone a moment later, replaced with that perfect smile. “As you wish. I name you Wailbringer. Now… let us really fight.”
Bagatelle
The death of Lady Kastalia later that year changed Sapience forever. Of all the Fallen that are named herein, it was this one that most shook the world and all its people, because for the first time every heart beat in union, for just a moment, brought into synchrony by fear, the most basic of emotions. Yet, whilst each heart beat in unison, not all beat to the same tune.
“For the first time in mortal memory, folks are wondering if Sapience itself might fall,” the Judicial intoned from the podium at Central Crossing. “Your Senate does not have the answers, Cyrenians, yet there are other questions that we can answer.”
Across the continent, Aschdyn, the Martyred and Purified Prophet, stood at the Stygian Crossroads with his hands raised implacably, yet somehow imploringly. “Some of you are wondering if Mhaldor takes the right side in this war. Are you one who doubts? Well what is 'right', I ask? Is it the path of least resistance? The decision that makes you feel warm and fuzzy? What is it, Mhaldor? Is it these things, or the choice that makes us stronger? Stand tall and firm, for the world is yours if you are strong enough to take it.”
“Whilst we stand in faith and stick to our ideals, Cyrene,” promised the Judicial, “nothing can destroy us. We have suffered much, but we remain.”
“Keep Suffering, Mhaldor, and you will remain!”
“And each of us will lose more, as surely as the Heart of the Vashnars beats in time with my own. When the dust settles on these foul events, we will have won because we did what was right.”
“Citizens? Some of you are barely worthy of the word. Gird up your loins and prepare to be hated by those who are losing, and know that their scorn only makes you stronger. Slaves, this is your chance to show what you are willing to endure in the name of Evil. You may be named in history or fall between its words. I give you Evil, neighbours, and choice. And strength. Take it, if you will.”
“I tell you on a personal level that these events grieve me. I am your Imperiate, but also a mere man. I have cried when you have cried and hurt no less keenly than you have. But again, together we will survive this.”
“And remember, citizens of Mhaldor, that there is nothing to lose but weakness. Again, I give you choice: will you murmur and mutter in indecision, or will you stand against the crashing wave of smaller cities? Will you capitulate to their gnashing and weeping, or, like me, will you stand before them, unforgiving. Undaunted?”
He could remember giving the speech as if it were yesterday. He still believed each word of it, of course. Pain was the route to strength. Yet nothing had been able to prepare him for the murder of the Great Suffering. Aschdyn had turned to drinking and gleam and dice and whores, and in none of those places had he found the sweet release he’d so craved.
He had even gone to the heights of the Vashnars and shouted vile curses and imprecations for three days without ceasing, pouring out his agony so that the world might share in it. Eventually, Zirrik had answered his summons and come scuttling up to the ram’s horn to meet him.
The horkval had spoken clumsy platitudes, had had the cheek to offer condolence, and had gone so far as to suggest that Apollyon had chose his own fate. It had been too much, and Aschdyn had learned true hatred and fallen upon his old friend in earnest.
As the sun fell languidly behind the horizon, after begging him to go away and mourn, finally did Zirrik, the Wailbringer, himself truly fight, and in that moment the duel was over.
“You want pain, Aschdyn?” he had said with true sadness. “You want to wear your suffering? I grant you your request.”
It is said that the head of the Bladesingers must use Art to defend itself, and never had that been more true than when the Wailbringer played a blade like a maestro with an instrument. With a flash of cold steel in the rapidly approaching dusk, he flicked his rapier across the Undaunted’s face, forever there to leave his mark.
“Do not challenge me again, Aschdyn,” the horkval had said over his vanquished foe, as he turned his back contemptuously and began to descend the mountains. “Nor even again speak my name. For the next time we meet, I will kill you.”
Absently, he traced a finger of the scar on his face, and strained his senses once again for the next attack. It was a useless, of course; Zirrik was Veiled; he could be anywhere. Aschdyn, the Undaunted, mentally checked his vials and tattoos and offered up a silent plea. My Lord. You cannot hear me, for you are dead; still I take strength from all you taught me. We must always be strong enough to do what will make us stronger, whatever the cost. I thought that I drew my strength from you, My Lord, but that was not true, was it? You are gone, and I am stronger than ever. I will vanquish the enemies of your realm. I will right the warm, weakening wrongs you warned us against. You protected me, My Lord, from his beautiful lies and the seductiveness of his false doctrine. Your truth was all I needed, and remains all I need. Please, continue to strengthen me.
“Praying, Aschdyn?” asked Zirrik, the Wailbringer, from directly behind him.
The Prophet did not even bother to go for his rapier. Any second now… “Indeed, old friend. My faith was in Lord Apollyon and his realm. The death of one does little to detract from my belief in the other.”
“And how will he save you if I choose to run you through right now?”
“A good question, and as with all such questions, there is no short answer. Once, there was a man who-“
“Do you really think I’m going to stand here and listen to you talk until your essence replenishes, Aschdyn? So that you can put up divine fire and draw out this game longer than you already have? It ends now. You have five second to make your peace.”
There is no fear, my Lord. Though you are gone, still you are with me.
“Goodbye, Aschdyn.”
Complex Harmony
All Sapience was in the minor chord as the events surrounding Bal’met’s coming began to reach a crescendo of every negative emotion that there was. True to the grim predictions of the Martyred and Purified Prophet, Mhaldor was indeed an object of hatred for all other parts of the world. Skirmishes between adventurers and adventurers, and ormyrr shook the world even as the deadly fighting in the Garden rocked the heavens.
And all the while the list of Fallen grew longer, until folks could not reckon Who was alive and Who dead. One Divinity fell after another, and Order fell after Order into the yawning mouth of this ravenous, insatiable war.
Of course, for one horkval, there was one death that was particularly cutting.
The days following Lord Pentharien’s Falling came and went like some twisted inescapable dream for Zirrik. It was the end of his world and the end of his life. It was the end of colour and flavour, and the demise of Light and laughter.
It was losing Nunaiah all over again.
Truly, the Wailbringer, who for a time had been the bane of all mortals beneath the banner of Evil, found himself trapped within a personal hell, surrounded by silent wailing of his own. But slowly he crawled out of that dark prison, each step a determination in his mind, for now he had a new goal.
“Blood for blood. Pain for pain. I will tear down everything that satyr knows and loves. My Lord will be avenged.”
“Zirrik, stop!” A movement from the nearby ruins, and a moment later the Judicial stepped into the courtyard. “We need to get back right away. Your brothers are dying. Every second you wait here is costing a toll in lives, and I do not exaggerate.”
“This is all his fault!” shouted the Hand of Elysia, pressing his rapier dangerously into the small of Aschdyn’s back.
“It is nobody’s fault,” snapped the Imperiate. “And who cares whose fault it is? Look at this mess!” His features softened. He knew the feeling of loss that pervaded Zirrik’s being. “He deserves death – of that I have no doubt. But now is not the time.”
“It will only take a second. Ten, if you include the part where I dance over his corpse.”
“What is Righteousness, Zirrik?” the Imperiate asked quietly.
The horkval’s eyes narrowed and his mandibles clicked firmly shut.
“I asked you a question, citizen!” roared the Judicial suddenly in a voice that could not be denied.
“Righteousness is… doing what is right,” Zirrik whispered. “Whatever the cost.”
“Indeed,” the Imperiate continued without mercy. “And right now there is a shade wearing the face of Lord Pentharian, which is killing your Ordermates.”
“I don’t-“
“It is wearing his face.”
“Fine! He lives. For now. But the very second those shades go down, we finish this.”
Paxmusicalis
Shoulder to shoulder they had stood, not in ranks, yet an army that had stretched as far as the eye could see in this place between planes. Their hearts had been heavy indeed with the words of the Great Mother and what she was entrusting them with. Here a haughty Freewoman looked in disdain that this unspeakable blessing was being handed to Mhaldorians… and neglected to notice that there were yet people from her own City perusing her with the same disbelief. Shallamite and Mhaldorian had shared a silent nod, finally united against a far greater enemy.
Yes, the meek and the mighty, the wondrous and wicked, the seasoned and untested had stood beside the insane and the saintly, and all would benefit from Maya’s diminishing herself on their behalf. Zirrik had looked across the sea of faces as Lord Aegis hefted his fearsome sword and began to rally them, to mentally and emotionally prepare them for the unparalleled battle that would follow. Those dead insectoid eyes came to rest upon Aschdyn… and for just a moment the satyr thought he saw that the horkval could not find it in him to feel angry.
The power had rushed into them suddenly, yet pleasantly, aggressively but warmly, like the ravenous kiss of an ardent lover after a long voyage. Such knowledge!, from the arcane to the artistic. Suddenly Aschdyn had Understood. Not just the esoteric business of Enlightenment but the unfathomable humour of the jesters and the grim and beautiful determination of those who followed the blade first and last. The nurturing way of Groves was his to command, as were the Phaestean arts of Forging and brewing.
For a moment he had felt as if he would faint with the sheer fullness of his knowledge, but then suddenly a well of power had risen up in him, sustaining him. And then the gate to Nishnatoba had been thrown open and the final battlefield yawned before them.
For just a moment, the world was a thing of perfect balance and possibility, and the demi-godhood within him made all things right and good. And then the legions of the ormyrr had come spilling across the wasteland plains… and all hell had broken loose.
“Focus, dammit!” Jaydeen roared, renewing her Aria, then wreathing herself once again in divine fire. “You are the final hope of Sapience, worms! The last bastion of true Evil; stand fast!”
The unit tried to rally as the shade attacked again, with all of Apollyon’s ferocity, yet not a trace of his temperance, and another of their number was torn from life. Four left. Jaydeen saw the second strike streaking towards her and was bracing for the impact when her entire being lurched inexplicably out of the blow’s path.
“Where in the lowest hell is the Prophet?” cursed Garuu, tucking the Jaydeen doll he carried back into its place on his belt.
“Thanks,” she replied, slightly shaken, as the two stormed back in to engage the shade. “He’ll be back.”
“I’m already back,” Aschdyn said smoothly, doubling into the area and wreathing his blade in songblessings. “Now, let us end this affront. For Suffering!”
As his honeyed tones sliced across the battlefield, bolstering up his Ordermates in a skilful torrent of curses and encouragement, they firmed up and began to attack with co-ordination, and little by little they unmade the foul creature that had dared to take on the countenance of their god. One more of the faithful was slain, but the shade was pushed back a step at a time, screaming for mercy that would never come. Another fell, but finally they surrounded it, and the last three of them shared a look of grim determination.
“Now!” shouted Aschdyn, running towards Garuu as the troll interlaced his fingers and suddenly hoisted him up high into the air, deftly handing the satyr Jaydeen's puppet as he flew, and even as Aschdyn flew skyward, the real Jaydeen was furiously sketching upon her runeblade, then tossed the weapon up into the satyr’s free and waiting hand.
For a moment, he was frozen in midair, high enough that Nishnatoba stretched out beneath him. He saw Zirrik and what was left of his Order battling the shade of Pentharian with equal fierceness, saw the hundreds of other adventurers taking part in pitched battles and the odd unspeakably selfish bastard doing blood on another demi-god. It was strange, that both the best and the worst of the mortal races was taking place right here and now.
He tensed as gravity noticed him, yet at that moment the shade looked up at him, and… was it his imagination, or was there something of Lord Apollyon in there?
“Do it now, Aschdyn!” Jaydeen shouted up. “For Suffering!”
Closing his eyes, still held in the infinite space between rising and falling, he bowed his head. “For Suffering. Forgive me, my Lord. May you find peace.”
Garuu suddenly burst into being beside him, snatched back the puppet with a wink, then skillfully pulled out a Pandora Blackjack. "For Suffering."
And then, as one, as Jaydeen ran towards the shade with a totem from below, the shaman and the bard fell upon it from above.
It made a horrible sound as they descended upon it in a blistering synchrony of death, with the might of a trio of demons. Some energy too disgusting to exist leaked from its black interior, then, with a sound like tearing certainty and a last rending please, it burst into wisps and ribbons of blackness before dissipating in the dead air of Nishnatoba.
The three demi-gods bowed their heads solemnly. Only the essence and adrenaline kept them on their feet, and there was no levity in their stances. This was no victory, and no time for applause.
“Now let’s kill this so-called Worldreaver,” rumbled Gruul.
“Go with my blessing, brother. Sister. My war is over. I have but one more battle to fight.”
Place of Eternal Song
The war raged on, but for two demi-gods it was all but ended. Zirrik’s eyes were freezing cold, and empty like the void between worlds, as he stepped back into the courtyard. Aschdyn was also dead in a way that he could not quite explain.
They stopped ten paces apart, instruments in hand. Neither much looked as if he were contemplating music.
“Are you ready?” Zirrik asked.
“Yes,” Aschdyn responded simply.
A smile devoid of warmth. “Any last words, my verbose nemesis?”
“Yes. I love y-“
Zirrik’s hand moved faster than was physically possible, and Aschdyn’s too. The Prophet unleashed a dazzling burst of godly wrath, not because he hated the Hand of Elysia, but because the horkval’s eyes told the satyr that he had died already during the battle. A little Suffering was good for the spirit. But sometimes the spirit simply broke.
Both streams of energy hit their targets at once and, without song nor ceremony, they each fell to the ground, fatally, if not yet mortally, wounded.
Bal’met fell, and as the victorious demi-gods were licking their wounds and listening tearfully to the words of the departing Logos, a satyr and a horkval lay expiring, alone together upon the plane of Nishnatoba.
“In the end you were just like me,” breathed Zirrik, the Wailbringer. “You killed me, because it was the right thing to do. I… I think I knew you had it in you… Asch.”
Aschdyn, the Undaunted watched as the horkval died with the semblance of a contented smile upon his buggish features. “No, Zi. You finally learned. So many chances to kill me. I gave you every opportunity, but you were too weak. In the end, after all you had been forced to endure, you were strong enough to do what was needed.”
Closing his eyes, breathing his last, and finally at peace, the satyr died.
FIN