VI.
Ash’s disguise aff orded him great advantage wending his way through the thick crowd around the amphitheater. All the races pressed together and rumbled like a soft earthquake. They cast anxious glances toward the raised platform near the river’s edge.
No trumpets announced the princess, much to Ash’s surprise. Then again, none were needed. She flew from somewhere on the Spire, only visible moments before she landed lightly upon the amphitheater’s stage. The crowd hushed as one. Even from Ash’s vantage point on a slightly raised bit of ground, the princess was tiny. With a modicum of effort, Ash could have held her in his palms. Unlike the red-shelled guards which landed in a protective screen around the stage or the dirt-hued worker kilkinteth outside the city, the princess’ shell glowed a deep purple in the sun.
“Brzz clack skr skreee,” she droned. The stone amphitheater, yet another feat of hob craftsmanship, shaped the sound, curling it into a wave which crashed to thunderous applause.
“I bring you our oldest story today.
“See the world new, an infant taking its first steps. See the land covered with growing things from shore to shore. See the great beasts, some whose heads topped the tallest of trees. Though the world was young, Bard and her sisters sang, already thick and tall, nourished by the mother’s great light.
“See the horns, the first of the great races. While we who now dare to call ourselves civilized were fighting over scraps of land and food, tongues clumsy with the first syllables of language, the horns had already invented culture, music, art, and philosophy.
“See the horns. Taller than a hob yet more gentle than a mother’s first kiss upon her newborn’s brow. Bound by neither sea, land, nor air, they moved freely between all three. How strange their forms would seem to us, like liquid metal never cooling into one shape. Each possessed a single horn, the only solid part around which their essences were formed.
“Born of the purest magic at the world’s creation, we will never see their like again.”
The princess spoke with clear, measured words, not allowing any of her race’s constant buzzes or clacks to muddle her speech. She barely moved, made no hand gestures, allowing her voice to unfurl her story like an intricate tapestry. She cast a spell as great as any he could imagine. The audience hung on her every word, grapes ripening on the vine, nourished by her craft.
“Weep! Weep for the awakening of evil that doomed their race. Weep for their war against the great beasts, a war fought to protect us lesser races. The great beasts ate storms and spat lightning. Others breathed fire. They commanded the elements, and they too were creatures of sea, land, and air. Whether part of their nature or evil’s first stirrings, they would not share the world.
“In the height of the war, both sides evenly matched for a time, a lone horn left the frontlines. None questioned him for he was the youngest of the horns, the last born, the chosen of their kind. The first hero. Chaur.”
Ash knew the name but a quick glance around showed him rapt faces blank of any recognition. Even he didn’t know the horn’s full story. He used the name as an exclamation, one taken from the Untamed. In the distant past, Chaur had infused the barren Ashen Lands with power, according to the stories he’d heard, gifting the Untamed with physical gifts greater than their human counterparts in the Radiance. Many in those lands worshiped Ash as a messiah, but all of them spoke Chaur’s name with the reverence reserved for a god.
“Something deep in the earth called him, a remnant of ancient magic that promised the power to end the war. With the magic in his horn and the malleability of his body, Chaur sank into the earth like water into thirsty soil. Always his horn guided him, though he couldn’t say to where or how soon he would arrive. Hastened by need, he didn’t sleep, too worried about his kin above. When he arrived at a place deeper than any sea, deeper than any living creature dared to tread, he saw a pool of shimmering energy, a lifeless reflection of his own being.
“Without hesitation, he drank. Magic burned within him, an almost limitless energy ready to reshape the world.
“When he had finished the last drop, he fell into a deep sleep. He dreamed of scouring the flesh from the beasts with his new power. The greatest of his kind, he would stand above all others, when always they had been equals. He would subjugate the other races.
“Most importantly, he would find more pools of magic.
“See how Chaur changed, scarred by the darkness of war, of lightless places never to feel the sun’s embrace or the wind’s caress. Desperate, alone, afraid for his kin, he felt the touch of one who seeks only to destroy.”
The crowd shouted names: Unmaker, Undenblast, Blighter.
“World Ender. You must not hate Chaur for allowing him a hold. It resides within each of us to do the same. Who here has not felt thirst for vengeance? Anger at a misdeed? The desire to gossip harmful rumors?”
Members of the crowd cast their eyes down in shame, bit their lips, and cast meaningful looks at friends and neighbors.
“When Chaur awoke, the dream stayed with him. He had no idea how much time had passed. When he returned to the surface, he could find no trace of his kin. His new power strained to be used, hungered to destroy the beasts, and so he searched.
“He found them in the west. In Le’athnfal. The ancestral home of the horns which we now call the Ashen Lands.
“See the Ashen Lands as they once were, resplendent forests and home to hundreds of races. See the great beasts gathered, celebrating their victory over the horns, burning the sky with fire and lightning as they celebrated victory over the horns. A great race exterminated.
“Except for Chaur.
“The last of the horns.
“Can we blame him for what happened next? Who among us can not shed a tear for Chaur who found the power to save his kin but was too late?
“His anguish and hate drove into the midst of the beasts’ celebration. He could not contain the power within. Imagine the sun as a man, expanding, consuming, destroying. The earth cracked. The firemounts were born. From northern to southern sea, western sea to eastern mountains, a hundred races died.”
Whether a trick of the amphitheater’s acoustics or the princess’ skilled oration, her voice rose to frightening levels. It burned with its own power and cracked with grief, as if she had been witness to the slaughter so long ago.
“A hundred races died. And new darker ones were created! Lashtails. Shadow creepers. Rockwings. Blooded.”
The sun passed behind a cloud as she listed each of the monsters used to frighten children. Ash suspected the princess had timed her story perfectly as darkness washed over the crowd.
“How many more might have perished if the great beasts had lived? Was Chaur a hero, sacrificing himself to rid the world of evil at any cost?
“Was he a villain, killing on a scale like no other in history? How much evil has come from the Ashen Lands? The dozen hound riders. Slacktooth with the cursed blade Doom’s Breath. Sineck and her golem.
“World Ender may have lost his beasts, but he gained a nation. When will his next champion arrive from those dark lands, a new army at his back? Do you hear the march of feet like a thousand blacksmith’s hammers?”
The crowd looked around as if an army might appear at that moment and breathed a collective sigh of relief as the pristine day continued. Ash froze, expecting the sudden call to arms he had feared for so long now. When it didn’t come, and the story continued, he relaxed by degrees.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“None of us should struggle alone as Chaur did. I’ve never known that feeling. I have my hive. Every kilkinteth within is a member of my family.”
The princess spoke very slowly, filling the air with pregnant pauses.
“And now I have the Radiance. We all do.”
Each word seemed heavier than the last until Ash feared the next syllable would crush him beneath its enormous weight.
“We are, all of us, members of the same hive. None of us should struggle alone.”
Ash marveled at the crowd. They dabbed at their eyes with handkerchiefs, hems of skirts, or sleeves. All the listeners broke into ear-shattering applause, whooping and catcalling. They tossed long-stemmed flowers of every color onto the stage until it looked as though the princess would be buried beneath a rainbow of delicate petals.
Recruiters took the stage. The princess regarded them with a sour expression, obviously displeased that her story should be used to bolster the army’s ranks.
Krachnis had been silent throughout, offering no corrections. Ash wondered if it could have been moved by the tale or whether the being was beyond emotion. Something tickled his cheek. He pulled away a finger wet from a single tear he didn’t know he had shed.
Chapter 9 -- Edore
Did you know he would come?” Queen Clintestra asked. She stood in an open window high in Spire. Through her magic, Gailinn had brought the princess’ voice to the room with breathtaking clarity, as if the diminutive kilkinteth had spoken from beside them. The queen swelled, chest puffed, wings fluttering, and one leg rubbing against the other with jittery excitement.
“To the city, yes,” Gailinn said from the window beside Clintestra’s. She wore a green cloak over her customary white dress, not because she felt the chill air blowing in through the window but because of the way the fabric felt against her skin. “I merely hoped he would listen to your daughter’s story.”
“The knowledge in that story is dangerous,” the queen buzzed. “Do you think he’ll make the connection?”
“He will,” Gaillinn said, voice lighter than a wisp’s breath. Ash was her biggest gamble in the constant struggle against Krachnis. A possible hero forged in small ways since the beginning of time. “But we must see what he does with that knowledge.”
“We should capture him while we have the chance,” a voice like an angry bird’s shriek said from the room’s open door. The duo turned from their windows to face the newcomer. A wodenlang earth mother approached, moving slowly. Her skin, long ago given completely over to bark, creaked like an old house. Draped in a white dress which hung across a single shoulder, the earth mother’s face had hardened into permanent disapproval.
“Earth Mother,” Gailinn said with mock incredulity in her voice. “I thought you had grown beyond such blunt methods.”
“You’ll notice I said ‘capture’ and not kill. Though I fear it may come to that.”
It pained Gailinn to hear the earth mother speaking such pessimistic words. It didn’t matter that she was right. Too much blood would be spilled before everything came to a close. All for Gailinn’s weakness.
“Do we face another battle, or is the war coming to an end?” the earth mother asked.
“Perhaps one day all wars shall end,” Gailinn said, knowing how much the wodenlang would hate the words. To her surprise, the earth mother’s face wrinkled even more, tightening around her lips, puckered as if she had taken a handful of bitter medicine. Gailinn missed the days so long ago when the wodenlang earth mother had been a laughing child. Even the young woman with such carefully measured smiles was better than the husk that remained. Still, Gailinn hoped to bring pure joy back into the woman’s life once more before her planting.
The earth mother stared in continued disapproval.
“My war draws to a close,” Gailinn admitted. Clintestra buzzed in alarm, and Gailinn placed a comforting hand on the small kilkinteth’s shoulder, bending down to do so. Could they see her fear? It must seem so foreign on her always-smiling face, like blood on a clean white dress. Those who met her thought the smile to be a mask, a ploy or carefully maintained strategy to hide other emotions and her true motives. She had only ever been honest, and for the first time in ages, she didn’t feel like smiling. “I wish I could say you used to be more fun, but you sprouted with that lemon-sucking face.”
“And whose fault is that?” A great creaking, as if every warped door in the Spire were being forced open at once, and she smiled.
“He’ll be coming for the last pool soon,” Gailinn said.
“With or without you?” the earth mother asked.
“Who can say? Let’s go. If we’re lucky, the princess has another story to tell this day.”
They left the room, both giving a slight bow to Queen Clintestra who returned it with a deeper one of her own.
“You still haven’t forgiven me for breaking Doom’s Breath,” Gailinn said once they were far enough into the hall she didn’t think the queen would overhear.
“I...have,” the earth mother admitted, the words shrunken with shame. When she continued, her voice regained the scorn so often aimed at Gailinn. “A part of me still thinks it was a reckless decision, but such a weapon did not belong in this world. This endeavor, this gamble, feels a million times more reckless.”
“I know.”
As they reached the end of the narrow hallway, Gailinn turned right, eliciting a groan from the earth mother.
“We’re not going to teleport?”
“You’ll have plenty of time to stand around when you’re finally planted,” Gailinn said, unable to keep a soft note of sadness from her words. She would still be able to communicate with the earth mother after her transformation into a tree, but she would be much changed by the process. A fact Gailinn knew all too well, having changed forms countless times. “Why not enjoy the use of your legs while you have them?”
“Will you visit me when I’m planted?” the earth mother asked. Her tone suggested the idea was ludicrous, but Gailinn knew the wodenlang better than that.
“Of course,” she said. “As I’ve visited all of your ancestors. In fact, while I’m there, I think I’ll encourage a family of grocklins to nest in your branches.”
“Please, Gailinn, anything but that.”
Gailinn’s laughter echoed down the hallway as she took the earth mother’s hand in hers. The wodenlang squeezed tight, and the corner of her lip twitched up almost imperceptibly into the tiniest suggestion of a smile.
II.
Moss watched Ash, Rugner, and the other wolves move through the crowded streets of Core away from the amphitheater. She had been following the werewolf for weeks, and her patience had finally paid off. There was no mistaking Ash’s scent. No matter how he changed his appearance, she would always be able to find him.
Now that she had found the pair together, she didn’t actually know what to do. Ash had confessed to playing a role in deaths throughout Breeze Tower, but there was no evidence linking him directly to the crime scenes. Neither could she prove Rugner and his pack were working with him.
But she knew.
For a detective like Moss who lived her life on hunches, there was no greater satisfaction than a hunch becoming truth. As he had in the past, Rugner once more served Unmaker’s champion. She still believed Ash held the power within himself to break free of his dark master, but the veteran werewolf was obviously beyond redemption. If nothing else, Moss would put an end to him.
For the time being, she followed at a safe distance. The group made for the nearest bridge, paying little mind to the guards holding back most of the crowds who were eager to cross. A few people shouted or grumbled complaints, but most parted to the side and headed for another bridge.
Neither Rugner nor Ash gave any sign they sensed the trap until they were too far across the bridge to turn back.
A buzzing swelled, crested, and crashed upon the bridge as dozens of kilkinteth warriors flew down onto the thick stone railings. More blocked the way back and forward. Unlike the farming kilkinteth, these creatures had thicker carapaces which shone with a red sheen. They were equipped with spears, some held forward to stab while others appeared ready to throw.
Moss pushed through the crowd which no longer wanted to cross the bridge; instead, they sensed another entertainment. With her size, Moss had no problem securing a spot beside the river’s edge.
Near the center of the bridge, a hob stood to the side, a game board slung across its chest. Ash didn’t move, hands at his sides, and Moss wondered how he would fight while stripped of his magic and in the diminutive menog form. Despite those limitations, he was tense as if ready to spring into action at the slightest aggression from the kilkinteth. Rugner, meanwhile, flashed a badge of office, one he had no doubt stolen, and shouted for explanations.
While Moss’ mind reeled, producing theories as to what was happening, the most unlikely person appeared on the bridge.
Princess Lozzell descended with her royal guards. Still demanding answers, Rugner stalked toward them, teeth bared, eyes flashing. Though the royal guard brandished their spears, clearly threatening the werewolf, he swatted them aside and stepped between two of the shafts. He towered over Lozzell, who disappeared beneath his shadow, but she ignored his barks, all her attention focused on Ash.
She spoke briefly to the young man, who seemed nervous with a kind of hopeful energy by the time she finished. At one point he looked toward Spire, eyes wide. He licked his lips and considered the princess. Moss strained her hearing to its limits, but the rush of water and murmuring crowds drowned out all other sounds. Ash never appeared to speak to the princess, and with a nod to Lozzell, their meeting concluded as abruptly as it had begun. While the princess took flight, followed by all the kilkinteth warriors in a flash of wings and carapaces, Ash and company backtracked across the bridge. Moss followed for a short time, but it quickly became evident they were headed to Spire.
They were beyond her reach for the moment, but Moss was already retracing their scents to see where they had spent their morning.