Whispers. Whispers from the dark. Muddied in amongst his unconscious mind.
Rise, warrior.
It was a strange voice. Almost his own, but not his words. What an odd thing to hear, at this hour…
You do not break so easily.
They cannot build a cell that can hold you.
Then another. Different from before. Worn, rough, and strangely accented.
Wake, Dallen. Wake, wanderer. Your fate lies far from here.
The deep, howling moans of the wind encompassed all his thoughts, swallowing the rest of his slumber.
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Dallen stirred to a dark, dank room. A heavy, pressing pain clouded his head, making the room appear to spin slowly before him. He blinked through puffy eyes, straining to make it out.
The room was a cell. Small, cold, and slightly wet. Dim moonlight came through one set of bars, dim torchlight through another.
Should have figured as much. Couldn’t even enjoy a night of drinking without getting himself into some mess.
Dallen pushed himself away from the wall. His back, hips, and neck all ached with stiffness from the odd angle he’d been laying at. They creaked and resisted him as he moved, eventually letting out a series of soft pops and clicks.
His head spun again, disagreeing with even that small movement. He felt his heartbeat directly between his eyes, throbbing through a skull swollen with blood.
Dallen reached a hand up and felt the cold, smooth touch of the Maker’s arm on his forehead. After all this time carrying it, he still woke some days forgetting it was there. At the moment, it was the only part of him that didn’t hurt.
Finally reaching an upright position on his knees, loosely stable, he patted himself down. He was down to the simple base layer of his clothing. His cloak was gone, tattered as it was. The knives and tools were gone, what few there were. The sword was gone, obviously, not that it had much use left in it anyways. He supposed most of the things they could have taken were all but useless now anyways. Except for the bottle of fine booze he’d kept tucked away for a special occasion. The bastards better not have drank it.
Dallen crawled unsteadily on his hands and knees towards the cell door, placing his hands against the thick bars and squinting through them. Seemed like there was a guard somewhere down the hallway. At least, there was the dark shape of something that looked like a person. Or a stack of barrels, maybe. Hard to tell.
“Oy,” Dallen called out, his hoarse voice struggling and cracking. “You the man in charge here?” The pitch wobbled between a gravely bass and a weak tenor. Devils but he could use a drink of water.
“Oy!” the voice shouted back. How polite of him to return Dallen’s greeting. “Shut your damn mouth, you sad little shit! You’re lucky they want you alive.”
Wonderful hospitality they had here. And what in the deep hell did he mean they wanted Dallen alive?
He hung his head, feeling the blood swirl around in it. There were footsteps from where the guard had spoken, but they seemed to be moving away. After a few deep breaths, fighting off darkness encroaching from the edges of his vision, Dallen looked up and inspected the bars.
They were tough, rusted iron, about two fingers thick. The strongest man he knew couldn’t bend them. But…
Dallen glanced down at the Maker’s arm. Sturdy. Solid. Unbreakable.
The Maker’s arm could bend these bars. He closed the solid hand into a fist, seeing the interlocked pieces of the forearm move and separate as if muscles flexed beneath them. Wind howled through the small window, splitting into low, discordant notes on the iron bars.
His vision swam, and darkened.
There would be time for a daring prison break some other time. Right now, he probably wouldn’t make it five feet out of the cell without collapsing.
Head throbbing, throat dry as the southern deserts, Dallen slumped against the stone wall. Had to regain his strength, after all.
The howls of the wind lulled him back into a cramped, heavy sleep.
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Dallen stirred once more. The aches had not gone from his body, but his head seemed clearer. The room did not lurch so much every time he moved his eyes, at the very least. He’d not had nearly enough sleep, but something had woken him. Just a subtle change — but apparently his senses were still sharp enough to notice it and wake. That, or the sleep had been shallow enough.
A small group of men stood at the bars of his cell, torches held aloft. Most were guards, like the ones he’d seen at the tavern — in fact at least one of them had been at the tavern, he was pretty sure. But far more interesting were the two men at the front, those that the guards were surely guarding.
Front and center of the pack was a big man, with a round, red face mostly hidden behind a greying beard. He wore lord’s clothing, but it was faded and dirty, with stains all down the front that had not quite been washed away completely. He wore a fine sword on his belt, its guard beset with small jewels, but Dallen doubted the lord knew how to use it. A great big warhammer would probably be more his style. Just swing it at anything you don’t like; no need for finesse.
Off to his right was a small, slight man to contrast the big lord’s stature. Slightly hunched, thin and wrinkly with age that crept into the realm of elderly, with a neatly kept beard on his chin. And most importantly, he wore fine white robes, marked with intricate designs in deep black stitching.
A wizard of the Pattern. Ordained by the Constellate itself. A wielder of the magic that made up and governed the physical world. An academic, who studied for long years to see the Patterns that weave just out of mortal sight, and dictate the rules of reality. It would be a lofty title worthy of great respect, admiration, and fear — if wielding the magic of the Pattern wasn’t as likely to get you killed as it was to perform a miracle nowadays. That was the issue, when the world broke; all the magic broke with it. Still, the position held some significance, enough to make Dallen wonder what he was doing in this backwater town.
The lord at the front narrowed his eyes at Dallen as he woke, serving him a look of disapproval, frustration, and indignation all at once. Dallen would have said a word to break the tension, but he was still trying to get enough spit in his mouth to actually wet it. Felt like someone had dried it out with a sandy towel while he’d dozed.
“Imagine my pleasant surprise,” the lord started, “when I learned that we had a champion of the Contest of Swords in the midst of our humble town.” The man’s voice was harsh and thick, not at all refined as most lords tried to make them. One corner of his mouth curled into a sneer of disgust. “And imagine my disappointment when I’d learned he was being held in the dungeons like a petty criminal.”
Damn it all. He couldn’t even drink himself into a jail cell with anonymity anymore. But he supposed it was no better than he deserved. Finally Dallen found the requisite saliva to greet his visitors, and gave the lord a smile.
“I meant to thank you for the lovely accommodations. Nothing like finding a nice place with a roof and walls to stay out of the wind for the night.”
The lord’s frown deepened.
“This all some big joke to you? Is that it?”
“Anything can be a joke. You just have to choose to laugh at it.”
“Tell me then: was it a joke when you split old Erred’s jaw open? Sent his teeth and blood spilling all over the tavern?”
Dallen paused, thinking.
“Depends. Did he laugh about it?”
Somehow, the lord’s frown grew even deeper, and his face redder. But it was the Pattern wizard that spoke up, interjecting with a soft, mannered voice.
“I’m afraid he won’t do much laughing for quite a while.” He actually sounded quite sad about it. “There is only so much I can do for a wound so grievous as that, even with the strength of the Pattern. He may have sustained damage to his head, as well — it’s hard to tell, at the moment. Regardless, even with the most optimistic outlook, he won’t be speaking with much eloquence ever again.”
“About the same as before then,” Dallen said with a shrug. He could see the lord’s fists clench, trembling slightly, before the man drew in a deep breath and steadied himself. Then he raised one meaty finger towards Dallen.
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“You hit him with that thing, didn’t you?” The words were both accusatory and curious, the finger pointing right towards Dallen’s arm.
Dallen raised it and wiggled the fingers.
“Fashionable, isn’t it? I think in ten years time, everyone will have one.”
“I doubt that will be the case,” the wizard said, a subdued tone of awe creeping into his voice, “unless they go digging through tombs and labyrinths some time soon.”
The lord squinted through the torchlight, anger settling somewhat as he became fixated on this new subject.
“What in the Pattern’s name is it?”
Dallen slowly lowered the hand, not responding. He looked away from the group at the bars, his smile falling slightly. The wizard answered in Dallen’s stead.
“That,” he said, “is the work of a Master Maker.” The words were filled with awe, and a touch of fear.
The baron reflected those same feelings, leaning more towards the side of fear. He almost took a step back from the bars. But he did not take his eyes off the Maker’s arm.
“Is that where you got it, then? Raided some tomb? Stole it from the corpse of some hero who died in the Final Battle?”
Dallen’s eyes fell to the arm. Gleaming cool grey in the dancing torchlight.
“It was a gift. Unasked for. From the last person who believed in me.” He spoke the last part softly. Almost to himself.
“Hmph. I bet they’re real proud of what you’ve done with it.”
There was silence then, save for the wind through the bars and the quiet crackling of torches. It lingered for a moment, then the lord squatted carefully down, closer to the level of Dallen’s face. He leaned close to the bars, expression somber and red-tinted eyes heavy.
“I know your name, Sir Osterval, so I’ll give you mine. Lorin Prout. Baron of Haverren and what few people it has. Baron of this forgotten little corner of nowhere. And I know why you’ve come here.” Dallen raised an eyebrow, his expression flat at the baron’s claim. “I know you must be aimless. Wandering, after the Fall of Callia. Lost for purpose, right?”
Dallen did not respond, clenching his teeth. Anger tightening at the baron’s assumption that he knew the first thing of why Dallen wandered. The first thing about what had happened at Callia. The baron went on, without paying his silence much mind.
“I can give you a new purpose here. Things are changing ‘round here. We’re fighting back. Taking matters into our own hands. But we need all the men we can get. And the last knight of Callia on our side would be a bloody godsend.”
Dallen scoffed, his eyes drifting to his small window, and the cloud-covered moonlight that came through it. His words were flat and mocking.
“Grand plans then, Baron Prout? Going to strike out on an expedition to the Untamed Realms? Stab at the Shapeless God yourself?”
“Hmph. You and I both know any plans for that sort of thing died a hundred years ago, alongside all the gods and heroes and devils on the field of the Final Battle. Anyone who still follows them is a fool. The Empyre is broken and gone; we decide our own fates now.”
“Hm…you’ve finally said something I agree with…but you got one part of it particularly wrong, baron.” He turned to the big man, a grim expression to match the one on the baron’s red face. “There are no more knights of Callia left. They all died when the city burned to ash. All of them.”
The baron’s brow furrowed in a tired anger, and he lifted himself back to his feet with a grunt.
“Suit your damn self. You can sit here and rot in self pity and old piss, or you can make yourself useful. Just because all the gods’ grand bloody plans fell apart a hundred years ago doesn’t mean we all just have to sit around and wait to die.”
He gestured to his men, and started off. They each eyed Dallen with contempt, but with a hint of fear — maybe even a little wonder. All except the Pattern wizard. He lingered behind, grey eyes fixed intently on Dallen for a moment. Then he departed as well, falling into step at the back of the pack as the baron went on, voice carrying through the stone hall of the dungeon.
“Too damn early to deal with all of this shit. What in the deep hell am I gonna tell Hadrir when he finds one of his best men broken like a…”
The voice faded, and Dallen was left alone. His eyes were heavy once more, and he let them close. The conversation had left him in a grim mood. And it was better to sleep than to deal with the thoughts that it had stirred.
Plus, his head still rang like bloody church bells.
Maybe in the morning, he’d…
This cage cannot hold you.
Break free, Dallen.
Someone was there.
Dallen opened one eye, muscles tensing, looking toward his cell door.
The wizard stood there, slightly stooped and looking no more intimidating than before. He waited, alone.
Devils, couldn’t he get one damned moment to actually sleep? What did this fool want now?
“You missed your exit with the rest of them,” Dallen said, still only looking through one cracked lid.
The wizard studied him for a moment. His eyes slowly went from Dallen’s face, to his torn clothing, finally to the Maker’s arm. Dallen shifted, anxious for him to get on with whatever he was there for.
“You come to take a look at this?” He held the Maker’s arm up, waving the hand.
“Thank you, but…no, I would rather not. The Makers’ works are not something to be studied lightly.”
“Smart fella, you are. You’d be surprised how many people want to take a good look at it — how many want to take it.”
The wizard gave a small smile at that. It was a kind smile, like a grandfather’s.
“Hm. I take it, that didn’t go well for them?”
“Most of ‘em ended up like your bandit friend at the tavern.” He stretched his neck, hearing a soft pop as the tension released. He needed to find a better sleeping position for the rest of the night. “Well, if you’re here to make me reconsider the good baron’s offer, I sure hope you brought a better argument.” He tapped his chin with one finger, mocking deep thought. “Maybe you’ll torture me with some Pattern magic, eh? Break my bones, set my skin alight, that sort of thing?”
The wizard looked disgusted even at the mock suggestion of it.
“I would never use the magic of the Pattern to do harm. I swore to use my strengths to protect others, no matter the dangers involved. That…that is why I am here.” His face fell. “I am not here to convince you to take the baron’s offer, rather…” The wizard glanced down the hall, nervous. This clearly wasn’t his usual line of work. “Rather…I am here to ask you to work against him.”
Dallen cocked an eyebrow. That certainly wasn’t what he expected. Haverren had more going on than it deserved, for a town of its size.
“Sounds like treason there, sir wizard.”
“Please, I am no sir. You may call me Vanteus. But the baron is the one committing a treasonous act. He means to abandon the Highest Order and the ways of the Pattern completely; to give in to anarchy and violence and rule by strength.”
“Sorry to break it to you, Vanteus, but the Highest Order died alongside the Pattern during the Final Battle. Or is your broken magic not enough of a reminder?”
“The Pattern may be dead,” Vanteus said, “but we can still take lessons from its weavings. We can still tell right from wrong. And the baron’s plans are cruel and heartless.”
Dallen thought back. To the men in the tavern, abusing people of the town while drinking alongside the guards. To the baron, seeming to take responsibility for the one Dallen had injured. Needing to report to someone about that incident.
“Those men in the tavern were bandits, right?”
“They’re not just in the tavern; they walk freely amongst the townsfolk, weapons on display, as if they were guards themselves.”
“So the baron’s working with some bandits then? Hm…it certainly ain’t good, but I’ve seen a whole lot worse.”
“It’s not just that,” Vanteus said, leaning close. “These are no ordinary bandits. They are a vicious, violent group that is bound by no law or code. All they are bound by is the one they follow: a warrior of the Shapeless God.”
Dallen’s stomach dropped slightly. Yet he felt a strange tingling on his skin.
“A Shapeless warrior? Here in the Shattered Heights?”
“An occurrence that grows all too frequent these days. They say he is the size of two men. That he fights without armor, yet bears no wounds. That he cannot be beaten in combat.”
The tingling feeling grew, the fingers on the Maker’s arm twitching. Vanteus continued.
“The baron has given into his rhetoric and his lies. He follows this warrior’s ways now, and he means to give over his own town in exchange for power. All in the name of some vague sense of freedom and liberation. But…if he does, it will be a bloodbath.” Vanteus swallowed, finding the strength to continue. “I know it will. I have met this warrior myself. He is a butcher.”
The wizard Vanteus watched Dallen with intense eyes that seemed almost on the verge of tears. Pleading, righteous eyes.
A great part of Dallen wanted to accept it. He could almost hear his mother’s voice, pushing him to say yes. To stand up for what was right, to protect this town. But he had learned since leaving the ruins of Callia that he could not change things so easily.
What would he do, fight this unstoppable warrior by himself, in single combat? Then kill every bandit in tow, and all the rotten town guards for good measure? They’d still be left with the baron, would he kill him too? If Dallen went from town to town killing every corrupt lord in the broken remains of the Empyre, he’d be occupied near till the end of time, and leave only a more broken land in his wake.
Yet something deep inside seemed to yearn for that.
No…it yearned for the Shapeless warrior. For the chance at that fight. He clenched his right fist, hard surface of the Maker’s arm clinking softly.
After enough of Dallen’s silent thought, Vanteus spoke up again, more subdued than before.
“Something to help in your decision…your plan was to, I assume, break out of this cell with that, correct?”
He pointed at the arm. Dallen looked down at it, but didn’t respond. The wizard already knew he was right.
“Well, if I might suggest,” continued Vanteus, “there is a much easier way to get out of this cell quickly. Just…take up the baron’s offer. Initially, at least. You can hear him out — and I’m sure you’ll understand quickly why I need to do this.”
Dallen felt a little stupid at that. The baron had practically offered to let him walk free from the cell, and he was still planning on spending all the effort on bending those iron bars with the Maker’s arm. Then fight through whatever and whoever he had to, just to flee this backwater town with no good travel clothes or equipment.
“Fine,” said Dallen. “Tell your damn baron I’ll join him.” He raised one finger up, cutting off Vanteus’ response. “After I get some sleep. You people keep interrupting.”
The wizard bowed, low and genuine.
“Thank you,” he said, low almost as a whisper. “You say you are no longer a knight…but you still act like one, sir. I will fetch the baron in the morning.”
He turned and headed off, white robes billowing softly behind him.
Dallen closed his eyes once more, tried to ease his mind. But his thoughts kept turning towards his life back in Callia. Of his mother, telling him to do the right thing. Of his father, weary and overworked, telling him to be realistic.
And his thoughts turned towards a silhouette on the broken hilltop. A warrior, looming above. Unbeatable. Was there truly such a thing as an unbeatable warrior?
Never, a voice whispered.
Dallen wondered whose it was, but was taken by sleep one last time before he could find an answer.