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52. Love

52. Love

“Dear reader,

I used to think that love was an inconvenient illusion. While now I know that hate can only take a man so far. Only time will tell how far abhorrence can take a vengeful god.

I interjected before that I prefer narrations recorded by the characters themselves. But there are issues with this approach. Particularly if the recorder clashes with a shaman who has an affinity for memories.

It is impossible to scry with the level of magical interference generated by the battle previously described, but it is clear to me that Izzig’s account is not entirely true.

This I know because Magar is, at the time of this recording at least, not dead.

It is true that he failed. And almost certainly the case that he will try again. But the real danger to us all would be if The Small King took up the young shaman’s cause.

Because of that, I had to convince Izzig that some things, for The Small King at least, are better off forgotten. Let us soften the trauma of his imprisonment, and wipe away some less than favorable memories for Izzig while we’re there.

This, of course, is a convenient illusion. One that must eventually be shattered. Let us dearly hope we both live long enough to see that story though.”

Dargo stood stunned while wind and blinding light surged towards him, unable to tear his gaze away from the burned and blackened figure of Great Chief Harak. He barely noticed the girl in the grey cloak as she passed by so closely that they brushed shoulders.

The bolt of lightning had struck the giant goblin on his shoulders, tearing through his great frame with bright fire. Harak had been charging the newcomer, but now stood frozen as if he might move and then toppled over in a heap instead.

The small shaman felt a strange, paralyzing feeling that was foreign to him. Like disappointment and sadness with a far greater weight. But he thought that the manlings called it grief. He had seen this happen when he seered, but in his visions he could not smell burnt flesh, or bitter smoke, or the cloak of cold brought by a sudden downpour.

He stood by the hut where he had nearly been beaten to death, likely to be eaten soon after, and where Harak had come to save him, fighting as a youngling against goblins fully grown. Then he remembered the girl, now running out of the village limits.

Dargo reminded himself that these things were more important than either he or Harak. And that the Great Chief’s death would be for nothing if the girl were to die. He hurried after her, as quickly as his short legs would allow, and left the beginnings of raucous cheering and clapping behind him.

“This is not over!” an erudite voice declared. “Find the Void Walker!”

The shaman did not understand the great magics these manlings wielded. Nor could he fathom why they would come to their valley of all places to settle their grudges. He left the conjured grasses and burned buildings behind him, crossing onto sodden mud.

The womanling was headed to the right place, ascending a nearby slope of slick stone, which gave the shaman hope. And he tried his best to keep up with her frantic pace.

Slipping and stumbling, he managed to clamber up the rise at the cost of only a few bleeding fingers and some scraped knees. But when he reached the rise above, the girl in the grey cloak had already stopped, surrounded by a circle of black robed figures.

One of them stepped forth, knife in hand, and though the womanling tried to fight, she slipped and stumbled and was soon wrestled to a stop with a gloved hand over her mouth and a shining knife to her pale neck.

“Void Walker!” another womanling called out. “Enough of your games. Show yourself or I kill her. And if I feel even an inkling of your magic, I will kill her as well.”

“No need for that,” assured a manling’s voice beside Dargo, now the dark one ascended the rise beside him. The shaman had heard manlings speak before but his words were strange, speaking the words of his language more slowly than the others, and more rhythmically as well. And there was a crudeness to his voice that was more goblin than manling, as if he did not speak often and did not like to do so, either. “Shaman,” he said to the small goblin, and he dipped his head as if in respect.

Dargo was surprised to see how skinny the manling was. Though his club was stained with fresh flesh and fresh blood from blows that spoke to significant strength. The rain made his dark skin glisten, and the whites of his eyes were stark against the rest of him.

The other robed figures did not seem to know what to do now, as if they had not expected their plan to work. And were now unsure of how to proceed.

“I hear Avenpark wants me alive, yes…?” ventured the dark one. “So… I will surrender. And come with you. If you spare the girl.” He brushed rain from his wiry chest, which seemed needless, because the rain still hissed down on all of them.

“No,” said the womanling in the robe. “I do not trust you.”

“Trust?” the dark one echoed as if amused him. “Then reason instead. Your betters are down the hill, but will soon catch up. And if you hurt her, then I can be vengeful. Or you can take my word and be the victor here. Glory for you and yours.”

“You are spent,” said a manling in a robe. “You can’t fight us.”

“Maybe so. Maybe not so,” said the dark one readily. “Maybe the Populate topped me up. And I am as ready to fight as I have ever been. Why take the risk?”

“Fine,” said the robed womanling. “You have a deal, Void Walker. On your word.”

“On my word,” he agreed. “I come with you—no harm, no foul. As your prisoner. And you can present me to Avenpark.”

“It is a trick,” warned the robed manling. “He clearly wants to assassinate Avenpark. Listen,” he began as if to the other robed figures. “Kill him, and—”

The shining knife flashed through the air, cutting short his words and opening his throat. “Take in the Void Walker,” the womanling instructed. “Open the portal.”

The girl in the grey cloak had fell to the mud with the sudden shift of weight, and had begun to protest, but soon enough all the robed figures were gone with the dark one.

She seemed confused for a long moment, watching Dargo, but then began running towards where the shaman had buried the box. Higher up in the hills, far from the village, but not so far as to make the journey too difficult for the shaman.

He followed her as best as he could, and eventually she dropped to the dirt, scrabbling and scraping, until her nails grated against hard metal, and she wrenched it up from the earth. She then looked at Dargo, who was by now exhausted and out of breath, and there was anger in her eyes as if she was mad that he had buried the box so deep.

Before Dargo could realize he had confused fear for anger, the burning bite of a blade sank into his back, and out through his chest. Confused, Dargo now lay in the mud, blinking rain from his eyes, as warmth spread out from his aching shoulders.

***

Astrid had tried to warn the small shaman that a blade was coming, but she’d been grabbed by throat and her voice was weak. Even if she had shouted at him, the poor goblin appeared broken and distracted. And now he was even worse for wear, laying in a pool of his own spreading blood.

A lithe figure, viciously smirking, stood atop the shaman. The goblin wielded a sharpened bone knife and had garbed himself in the poorly wedded skins of snakes and lizards. “Slower for you, womanling. Or… give me the box. For a swift death.”

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The goblin was over twice the size of her, and even a smaller goblin would have been much stronger. There was no real way for her to hurt him, let alone to kill him.

But all that mattered was the box.

Which was sealed like all dwarven lockboxes by a code pattern, formed by rotating plates which could result in countless imagery, of which only one would open the lock. Luckily for her, she had already seen the image. And it was already half formed. She frantically twisted the metal, this way and that, to try and get closer to her vision, but the direction of each plate confused her and the slapping steps of her attacker drew closer.

Fire raged on her shoulder, and she panicked, but by the vivid pain it was not a deep cut. The goblin behind her laughed, then slashed again, across her back. Her fingers stumbled on the box, but she kept adjusting the plates.

The goblin stood over her, slashing her again, across the arms and hips and heels. Astrid soon lost count of the wounds, and disorientating nausea began to overtake her. Strength fled her fingers, and as they trembled they began to slip away each time she tried to click a plate into place. Her vision grew blurry, and she was not sure whether she was getting closer to opening the box or further from where she’d begun.

A plate clicked loudly into place and she thought for one hopeful moment that she might have aligned the right image, but then the goblin kicked the box from her trembling, frigid grip before kneeing her in the head.

Teeth clipping her tongue, ears ringing, she slammed back into the cold mud.

***

Chief Saka hissed laughter to himself, grinning down at the bleeding figures of Dargo and the womanling. The shaman was so small, they were almost of the same size, lying beside one another as one leaked red blood and the other leaked black.

Everything had gone well for Saka. Better than he expected. He not only got exactly what he wanted, but he now had two weaklings to torture for the bargain. They would be dead soon, but killing those with true intelligence was a rarity for a goblin Chief.

He was about to kneel down over the both of them and start cutting, but he decided to retrieve the metal box instead. Overcome by momentary worry, he found the dwarven worked steel resting, half buried in the mud. The lid was still closed.

Chief Saka laughed to himself again, picking up the box, but then his ears were met with a creaking hinge and a shuddering rattle. And he looked down in fear and disbelief to see that the lid hung open, swinging back and forth in the rain.

He scowled, searching the earth for any sign of Gahr’ruls hand, but he did not see it. He got to his knees and sniffed and pawed in case it had been buried in the sodden mud, but there was nothing to be seen.

Saka chided himself for his arrogance and idiocy, and surged to his feet, craning his neck to see if he could find the hand in the distance, and to check for any oncoming enemies. But he did not look behind him, and with the ever present hush of the rain, he had not heard Dargo rise.

The old shaman, unsteady on his feet, swung his small club in a tight two-handed grip. The weapon struck true, thumping into Saka’s skull, but the force caused the shaman to slip and both goblin’s tumbled together, landing in a tangled pile.

Dargo’s club slipped from grip, and he tried to use all his strength to push Saka off of him, while the Chief was still dazed, but then Saka’s keen eyes sparked back to life and he grinned down at the shaman. Sharp claws latched onto Dargo’s shoulder, easily worming their way through withered flesh and raking against bone.

Chief Saka decided to kill the shaman, quickly and painfully, but felt a cold hand upon his ankle. He kicked out, turning back, expecting to see the womanling trying to fight, but there was nought there and she still lay idle in the mud.

The sensation travelled up his leg, and across high thigh, and Saka leapt up in a panic, realizing that it must be Gahr’rul’s hand. He reached for his own crotch, trying to intercept the limb, but then he felt fingers on the bottom of his spine.

The Chief desperately reached for his own back, but his fingers could only graze the hand as it travelled further up his back and towards his shoulders. Desperate, he hurled himself hard onto his back, hoping to dislodge the hand with the force, but he landed heavier than he hoped and by the time he came to his senses, he could feel fingers reaching around his neck.

Saka grabbed at the limb with his own hands, and tried to prise it free, but the grip tightened and wrapped tightly around his neck. The Chief tried harder, clawing and scrabbling, but could get no purchase as the hand clamped down on his throat.

He struggled up to his feet, running for his dropped knife, as his vision wavered and he felt starved of air. Saka dropped to his knees, grabbing the hilt, and drove the blade into his own neck. But the hand had released, dodging deftly, so the knife cut Saka’s throat.

While the scale-clad Chief clutched at the wound and choked on his own blood, the filthy, scarred hand crawled over Dargo’s stomach, leaving him be, and then headed towards the pale, cloaked figure of Astrid lying unconscious in the mud.

The shaman tried to stop the hand, fearing it would hurt the girl, but he had barely had the strength to turn and when he grabbed for the limb, it was already beyond his reach.

The hand alighted onto Astrid’s arm, wandering up her shoulder, and eventually crossed onto her neck. Dargo tried to crawl forwards to help, but the hand moved upwards to gently cup her jaw and cheek as if with loving affection.

The hand then leapt back into the mud, soon out of sight as well as reach.

***

Dargo knew he had lost too much blood to survive, but he still tried to pack the wounds of the girl to try and give her a chance at survival. Her wounds were healing quickly, and he suspected that she had more powers than might be outwardly seen.

Perhaps that was why she had been chosen to help Gahr’rul. Though he could not shake the thought that the hand seemed to know her. Or else the severed limb was aware that the girl had helped release it, and was merely grateful.

Still, he was hopeful the womanling would survive.

He had left her under cover of some stunted trees, and struggled back down the hill despite his pain. Ahead of him, rainfall slowing to a trickle, lay their ravaged village. The strange grass that the dark one had conjured had been flattened, crushed, and burned, which made for uncomfortable and noisy footing. The walls of nearly all of their homes had been broken or blackened, while the stone well had collapsed in on itself.

There was a strangeness to the ground that made the shaman’s foot tingle. And he realized the dark one’s magic was burrowed through the whole village like a spider’s web. Dargo wondered if the manling shaman had meant to collapse more than a well.

He slowed to a stop near the one thing his eyes had avoided. He could smell Dargo’s burnt flesh clearly, amidst the faint scents of blood and sweat, washed away by rain.

Harak coughed, wincing in agony, causing the shaman to flinch. “Well…?”

“It is done.”

The Great Chief nodded, not lifting himself up from the floor, watching the shaman with one trembling eye, while the other had been scorched shut by lightning. “Good.”

Dargo groaned wordlessly in pain as he settled himself beside the giant goblin. He rested his back upon the Great Chief’s stomach.

“You are dying.”

“Of course.”

“So am I.”

“Of course. As I seered.”

“You said—” Great Chief Harak lapsed into a coughing fit, and he cried out in pain before the spasms abated. Blood trickled out from his lips, landing in fat drops beside the shaman’s muddy. “Seering is…”

“Fickle.”

Harak grunted as if to agree.

“This time it was not.”

Harak grunted again, neither pleased nor displeased. “This one… Stormcaller. Powerful. Others… weak.”

“I did not think,” Dargo began, but his thoughts skipped away from him, and the lids of his eyes began to feel terribly heavy. His eyes fluttered open and closed, and time passed him by without notice.

“Dargo,” Harak’s words were strained, but concerned. “Are you dead…?”

The shaman blinked, grimacing at the pool of his own blood beneath his crossed thighs. “No… not yet.”

“Do you remember…”

“Remember?”

“The word,” Harak managed, his scorched head lolling. “The word… I hate.”

Dargo frowned, unsure what he meant. He craned his neck to look up at the Great Chief but Harak’s eyes were fluttering, and his breaths were coming out in a feeble wheeze.

“Manlings,” the Great Chief muttered.

“You hate manlings?” Dargo mused, still confused, but that did not seem like the right answer even though it was likely true. Then the shaman guessed that the Great Chief meant that there was a manling word that he hated. And the answer clicked into place. “Love…?”

“Love,” he agreed in a faraway voice. Harak blearily blinked. He reached out to place a hand on the shaman’s small shoulders, but fell back instead, thumping into the earth.

Dargo tried to turn but he too slipped, and the pair drew their last breaths together.

Stillness settled over the village, until a strange, reptilian creature appeared as if from nowhere. Scales of silver, humanoid and bipedal, with great golden eyes, the lizard looked down at Dargo for a long moment. Then he pilfered the shaman’s small club.

In the distance, Chief Ugu watched all this with a mix of relief and confusion. His clan had ran off amid all of the death and fighting, but now Saka and Harak were gone. He would finally become the Great Chief of the Midderlands Pass.