041 – Incense

***

The Ugloids moved into the lower levels of the citadel. Perhaps the other cultists forced them below, or maybe they chose to dwell in the shadowy dungeon. They set up a shrine to an ugly idol of a pregnant woman with fish-like features, a highly interpretive representation of one the sea titans that swam in the deep ocean waters. Every morning they would burn incense and broken eggshells in a large brazier before their goddess, and every night they would slit open a fish and spread its blood across the statue. It did not smell good in there. The ritual worship of gods still confounded me, among all the other strange prejudices and habits of modern people.

The work crews had an especially strong prejudice against deformed people and refused to eat their meals in the same mess hall with them. The Ugloids took the kitchen scraps and leftovers down to their own dining room where they ate in isolation. Oddly, Famigrist the giant monster, took his meals alongside them. He ate raw flesh still on the bone. His lack of table manners did not offend the Ulgloids, and their appearance did not bother him. To the minds of most people, the monster and these disabled humans were practically kin.

I didn’t quite understand Famigrist’s status in the Void Phantoms. He was a monster, yet he was also part of the dark lord’s court. No one expected him to follow the protocols—the saluting, and kneeling, and my-lording that the swordsmen did. He had a strong fire and huge body. If the cultists didn’t respect him, their fear of his power stopped them from expressing their opinions openly. The Faceless stayed out of Famigrist’s path. No one dared to speak to him.

“Do you have a problem, human?” the monster growled at me. He swung his shaggy head toward me as he left the Ugloids’ dining hall.

“Sorry, uh, Master Famigrist. I didn’t mean to be rude.”

“Don’t ‘master’ me, faceless one. And don’t stare at a monster while it eats unless you want to be next on the menu.”

“I apologize. It’s just that I’ve never seen someone like you before, that’s all, and was wondering what type of monster you were.”

“I’m not a type. I’m just Famigrist. No more, no less. Do not trifle with me further.”

“I understand,” I said and backed away.

The monster’s aggressiveness caught me off guard, because he had acted so civilly towards the Ugloids. Perhaps he was biased against healthy humans. My encounter with Famigrist lasted only a brief few moments. In that time, I did not sense within him the presence of a daemon, although his strong fire may have obscured it. His soul had a different character than human’s, and the mana streamed through him unusual ways. Daemonics had a whole new sub-field in monstrology and the changes it wrought on living species.

I toured the lower levels to see the developments. The Goadsmen took over the entirety of level negative three and dubbed their new home the Warpit. There they whipped the captured trolls into a disciplined fighting force. A few work crews started setting up smelteries and forges for smithing the army’s equipment. Mainly though, I played truant from the Hall of Discipline. Zambulon only had a day to get in any last minute sparring sessions before leaving for Sandgrave. Then he would come back as an officer. I was almost free of him, and Yurk too.

When I returned to the Hall of Discipline, Putrizio was there to see off his two students. He scowled at me as I entered the room.

“Where have you been, Strythe? Did you get lost again?”

“Yes. In the lower levels. I was almost eaten by a monster down there.”

“This is no time for tomfoolery. You have to ship out in a few hours.”

“What?” I looked around in shock. Zambulon and Yurk carried travel bags over their shoulders for their upcoming trip. And so did Hwilla.

“Yes. Your two senior disciples are going on a final training mission to prove their worth,” he said “and you are going on your first training mission to learn from them. Pack your bag and get ready. The four of you are to meet Luniquial down at the barges at sunset.”

“I– No– But– What?”

Zambulon threw an empty bag at me. “Get moving, junior. We don’t want to keep the spymaster waiting.”

Of course our lazy teacher would think of a way to get rid of all of us at once. It would be a nice vacation for him. This new development threw everything into chaos. I had to race back to my workshop and lock the place up. I left a note for Zvidsi, since she had my spare key and sometimes used the facilities for making accessories in her dressmaking. Nimblesto’s thieving ways forced me to hide the golem’s core in another location so he wouldn’t sneak in and run off with it. I gathered up some of my tools in a hurry and then ran down the ramps and stairways to the ground floor of the citadel. The other disciples were already half way down the mountain.

Luniquial waited on the barge for us. His messenger bird no longer sat on his shoulder. It must have flown off to deliver a letter to some distant location.

“Are you ready, disciples?”

“Yes, spymaster,” Zambulon answered for us. I wasn’t ready at all.

“Good. Then let’s return to Mournhaven.”

The settlement had gotten a name for itself. The original settlers had long ago named it Morning Haven and called it that while they lived there. But afterwards they didn’t call it anything at all, for the curse changed them into groaning specters and their town into a graveyard. Sailors on the gulf avoided mentioning the haunted place except in hushed whispers, and the name slowly changed to Mournhaven.

A dozen rowers worked the oars of the barge. They did not strain themselves too much on the voyages down river and let the current propel the boat. With its supplies unloaded, the boat sat high with a shallow draft. The lower deck was practically empty. The ship smelled like a barn from transporting animals to the citadel, and flies buzzed around the hold. We settled into these luxurious quarters by hanging up our hammocks from the beams. The disciples huddled near the stern of the boat.

“Junior Disciple Strythe, a word.”

“Yes, senior?”

“In preparation for this journey, I took stock of our available resources, including the newly established Student Improvement Fund.” Zambulon jangled a large pouch of coins at his belt.

Hwilla said, “We have a Student Improvement Fund?”

“We did. It seems our money box is much lighter than when we filled it. Strythe, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Yes. That money has been hard at work improving the students. Specifically me. It’s funded several of my research projects.”

“We are swordsmen. The only things we need are fire, swords, and hard work. Nothing else is necessary. What to do you have to show for these projects of yours?”

“They are still in the early stages. While they do promise great things, the projects need time to come to fruition. I would have readied a presentation for you, had the fightmaster given me more warning of our trip,” I opened my travel bag and started scrounging around. “Uh. Ah! Here we go. Some early results of my experiments.”

“What are they?” Zambulon asked as I handed out some of my old practice pieces to the disciples. Each pebble of quartz had a brass ring on one end attached to a short leather thong.

“New lumestones. There you are. Seeing in dark places is technically an improvement.”

Hwilla lit hers up. “Wow. It’s pure white too. Those are the most expensive type.”

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“Where did you find these?” Zambulon asked.

“I didn’t. I made them myself.”

“Lumestones are collected from special caves around the continent. They’re not crafted.”

“They are now. And if they’re expensive, maybe we can sell some before returning to the citadel in order to replenish the Student Improvement Fund.”

Hwilla played with her new toy, and Yurk hung his around his neck. But my beginner runes disturbed Zambulon.

“Only a few sects forge magical swords, and they jealously guard the secrets of their manufacture. Those smiths would track down and kill anyone who uncovered their techniques. Some swordsmen of legend left behind artifacts with magical properties, such as the iron cauldron. But they were powerful magi and old wizards, not young disciples who had yet to learn the basics.”

“Um? What’s a wizard?” I asked.

“A dullard is a dull person. And a drunkard is a drunk person. A wizard, therefor, is an exceptionally wise person.”

“Shouldn’t they be called ‘wise-ards’ then?”

“Their ways are mysterious and inscrutable to us norm-ards. Who am I to judge?”

“Right… Whatever they’re called, I hope to join those wise men some day. Rather than wait around for my gray beard to grow in, I decided to get a head start. You could say that lumestones are the basics of my new brand of wizardry.”

“And that’s what you’ve spent all our coins on?”

“Exactly.”

The senior disciple was unconvinced, but he did not press the matter further. I had been sure not to spend more than half the funds, so as not to deplete the communal chest too much. We still had extra money for traveling across Sandgrave on our undisclosed mission.

***

Luniquial called us on the deck of the barge right before we reached the mouth of the Spitpoison River.

“Disciples. We are about to reach the coastal settlement. Most of the residents here are refugees from the far north who are friendly with the Void Phantoms, and many of our hired workers are here as well. However, Mournhaven is a public outpost. Sailors rarely visit due to the site’s reputation, but outsiders do pass through or dock their ships in the harbor. For that reason, you must not publicly speak of the cult or the existence of the citadel. And of course, now is the time to remove your masks…”

“Yes, spyma– I mean… Master Luniquial.”

Zambulon stood rigid, fumbling with the knots on his mask. I tried not to watch and make his nerves worse. This was the first time the four of us took off our masks in public. I had seen Zambulon and Hwilla once already, so they did not surprise me. It did feel awkward though.

Yurk untied the strings and pulled away his mask. He shook his head and sent his long auburn locks flowing free. He brushed aside the hair from his exposed face; it was like storm clouds parting to reveal the sun. Yurk turned out to be a devastatingly handsome man, with full lips, pearly teeth, geometrically perfect cheekbones, dimples, long eyelashes, and sparkling brown eyes. Everyone on deck took a step backwards.

“Yurk?” I said.

“What?” He flashed a smile that would have made babies stop crying.

“Nothing. Just checking if that’s really you.”

I did not expect our quiet jock to be a total dreamboat. Even Luniquial was taken aback. The spymaster frowned.

“Please don’t do anything to draw attention to yourselves, either here or in Sandgrave. From this point on, we operate in secret. At times, you will not want to travel openly as swordsmen. So be prepared to keep your blades concealed in your bags. Since none of you use large swords, that should not be a problem.

“You have no sure way to conceal your inner fires from other magi, so you should avoid them whenever possible and shy away from places swordsmen are known to frequent. Your mission will be dealing with normal people who will not sense your true natures or guess your identities.”

“What is our mission?” I asked.

“It’s yet to be decided. First we must travel to the capital city of Nettlewreath. Once there, I will have to catch up on the latest events and review my intelligence. The peninsula of Sandgrave is in a moment of political turmoil, so the situation changes rapidly. But certainly one of the items on my long list of errands will fit your abilities.”

The barge rowed into the harbor. A remarkable change had occurred in the place over the past weeks. The workers had revived the dead settlement with frenzied activity. The skeletons of new houses rose from the old foundations. The tall chimneys at the brickyard belched out smoke. The crumbling city walls had been repointed with bright mortar. A new gate stood proud at the entrance. About twice as many work crews roamed through Mournhaven than at the citadel, because feeding and supplying them was so much easier at the port.

The new settlement had a ferocious appetite for timber. Crews of lumberjacks chopped down all the trees surrounding the city walls and cleared the scrub away with fire. The town had no sawmill run by mechanical power, so the laborers had to do it all by hand. They towed the tree trunks to saw pits and then divided them with massive saws worked by two men.

On the continent, monsters lurked at the edge of the forests, and even the trees could fight back. Trees released toxic fumes, shot out barbs, bristled with needles like cacti, and grew snare-like roots. Woodcutting was an incredibly dangerous job. Only the brave and reckless became lumberjacks at an outpost.

Our river barge beached at the gravely shore, and we disembarked. The inside of the town had undergone a similar revival. Streets were clear of weeds and moss. Old wreckage disappeared from the houses slated for reconstruction. Buildings near the center of the town were closer to completion than those at the outskirts. A bustling tavern occupied in the shell of an old building, but with no upper stories or roof yet, it was more of a beer garden. Workers drank alcohol under the open sky. Fishermen offered up their goods from small booths set up in a market plaza.

New Mournhaven was still a very humble town, but the stark transformation from what it had been gave it an atmosphere of bursting potential, like green shoots springing from a muddy field.

“What did they do with the gaunt corpses?” I asked.

“They threw them in the incinerators I imagine. That’s the usual way to dispose of the undead. Leave nothing but ash,” Zambulon said.

“That’s too bad. I wanted to collect some samples.”

“Corpse samples? What for?”

“They could have magical essences useful for my experiments. Or they might serve as an ingredient for alchemic medicines.”

“You’re going to turn human corpses into pills? That’s so ghoulish. Isn’t that basically cannibalism?”

“I suppose in a way. But it’s not like I’m the one who killed them,” I said “and you wouldn’t even taste it.”

“The taste is not the problem.”

“We belong to an evil cult run by a necromancer. A little cannibalism shouldn’t even phase us.”

“Well tell me if you make any corpse pills, because I don’t want them.”

That made no sense to me. To my mind, killing and inflicting suffering was the bad part, and what happened to the leftovers didn’t really matter. Human meat and animal meat were basically the same. Once you crossed the line and started eating that stuff, anything goes—fish, bugs, corpses, whatever. But modern people feared cannibalism. It was baked into their culture. They wouldn’t eat monsters with human forms or even apes. It may have come from the fact that daemon possessions, such as werewolves, tended to become ravenous man eaters.

“Um. So? You wouldn’t happen to know which furnace they cremated the bodies in, would you?”

“No I would not!”

So much for that idea.

Luniquial did not allow me to tour the town or observe the ongoing renovations, nor did he let us stay overnight in the settlement at the half built hostel. There was no time for delay. We only stopped to transfer over to a more seaworthy vessel: Luniquial’s own ship, the Lozenge. Once on board his one-masted sloop, we sailed out of the harbor to Brimwater Gulf. Our goal was on the eastern coast of the peninsula, so the trip would take several days.

In no time at all, we sailed into the gulf. The disciples stood at the ship’s stern and watched as New Mournhaven shrank in the distance. I was off on my first official mission.

“The sea titan must have been through here recently. Look how green the sea is,” Hwilla said.

A wide algal bloom spread across the bay. Og-Sfalensok the sea titan must have stirred up sediments at the bottom of the bay with his boiling heat. The warm currents of water raised nutrients to the surface, which then fed an explosion of fresh algae and plankton. The passing of the giant monster had become an important part of the life cycle of the bay, and he helped support the large fish populations, which supported humans on the coast in turn.

“The village I came from gave sacrifices to our local sea titan,” Hwilla said. “We had an idol to her raised in the square. But then the Paladins came and burned it down. They said that titans are devils from the depths of Hades. After that, the fishing was poor, and my parents sold me to the cult so they could feed the rest of the family.”

“And now you want revenge on the Paladins?” Zambulon asked.

“No. If they hadn’t come, maybe the villagers would have sacrificed me to the sea titan. But I still don’t like them much. I’m more angry they burned down the Void Cult’s temple.”

Sacrificing a person to a big monster made sense. The monster would at least get a meal out of it. But I didn’t understand incense and prayer, what the Ugloids offered to their idol of a sea god. It was one of things that confused me even more when the modern people tried to explain it to me.