A small party of four navigated across a treacherous and narrow valley road where rockslides seemed liable to happen at any point. Their feet crunched when they fell upon with the loose basalt fragments beneath. They had the inhuman, alabaster-like skin of the people native to Vysenn. Their wizened yet large leader bore a staff which he leaned upon heavily to walk. Most of his body was exposed to the elements, though not indecently so. His red tattoos were densely packed as to give the impression he was wrapped in something.
The narrow pathway did eventually open up. An austere temple was the first thing to greet them. The structure was made of polished volcanic rock and made to seem a natural fixture to the mountain. The volcanic gases expelled from most of the earth had been pathed through loose stone bricks so as to grandiosely shroud some of the building. The three escorting the old man looked up in wonder, yet he led on without sparing a glance like he’d seen it all before.
Inside, the old man’s staff echoed through the halls, and they all walked in silence through the dark and poorly lit halls of the temple. The walk was quite a long one, and as it carried on, the man leaned on his staff more and more. In time, a brighter light emanated out ahead, and a wave of heat assaulted the four of them. It was powerful enough that it seemed to distort the air. The three escorts paused before entering, kneeling down and placing their heads upon the ground.
The room ahead was known as the heart chamber. It was a place of worship where only tribal chieftains could enter without special exception. The heart chamber was carved from the earth, fashioned into a crude circle. There was a large ring that acted both as railing and a table. It blocked any from falling into the titanic, uneven hole bubbling with magma far below.
The old tribal chief looked about, witnessing all present. There were many other chieftains here, but none so old as he. They sweated from the all-consuming heat of the heart chamber… but not all of their sweat seemed to come from that, he thought. There was nervousness and fear in the air. His eyes fell upon a young boy, who had the least tattoos of all present. He looked hollow and shaken.
“Why are you here, boy?” the old chieftain asked before any words were exchanged. “Where is the Blackweb?”
Another man stepped in, almost shielding the young one with his staff. “The Blackweb died, Firevein. The boy has abandoned his old name and taken his father’s position, now.”
The Firevein narrowed his eyes. “The next Blackweb was not so young.”
“They all died,” the other continued. “He’s the oldest male of his bloodline.”
The Firevein clenched his staff a little tighter. “He cannot even wield a weapon…” he sighed and stepped inward. “And we must deal with the Webspinners’ folly? Ridiculous! They deserved what they got. Their tribe is dead, scattered to the wind, to be absorbed by the others.”
“But we have to deal with the repercussions,” another called out from across the gaping pit of fire between them.
“And why?” the Firevein rebutted.
“Because when disease infects one member of the family, the rest are sure to grow ill. We may blame the sick for their weakness, yet the disease must be dealt with all the same,” he said proverbially, leaning onto the table until the light from the magma illuminated his blue eyes. His tattoos were white, and so provided a very peculiar effect upon his already-pale skin that made it seem textured. “The chief of the green lands beyond has come seeking retribution. His spirits claimed hundreds of the Webspinners, and he brought with him the one who hunted their tephramancers—the Stormdancer.” He stepped back and slammed his staff upon the earth. “Gather, everyone, and let us discuss.”
Everyone focused and shifted closer to the table with light, uncertain steps. The Webspinners were among the strongest of the tribes in the region. Despite this, their numbers had been culled until they were the weakest overnight. All survivors of the battle in the green lands spoke of the Stormdancer. Equally pervasive was the one who’d slain them after with all the rage of nature, yet he had not been given a name.
“Their leader is the one who called the spirits?” another chief asked.
“What does it matter?” the Firevein waved his hands. He had a grudge with the blue-eyed chief, the current Snowrock, who’d spoken and did not care to see his point taken so seriously.
“History rhymes,” the Snowrock said simply. “What happened before can happen again… on a grander scale.”
“Can two alone repeat such results indefinitely?” the Firevein scoffed. “Then why have the green landers not conquered the world by now?”
“They hold all we know, except Vysenn,” the blue-eyed chief rebutted. “Do you care to see that change, Firevein?”
The two stared fiercely at each other. Before they came to blow, someone with off-yellow tattoos stepped in front of the Firevein, breaking his gaze. “Come. Cease this bickering. The chief of the green lands has come seeking amends for the intrusion upon his lands. Unless others have alternatives… we approach this chief and see what he wants, or we prepare to fight.”
The Firevein looked off to the side, and the heart chamber settled into silence.
The new speaker stepped around the table. “Those in favor of repelling him, say aye.”
None spoke in favor.
“Then we have our decision,” the Snowrock leaned away from the table. “All that remains is picking who goes.”
With this, a great deal of debate erupted. All seemed to loathe the idea of this duty, but concurrently all realized its importance. In the end, the heads of the most prominent and ambitious tribes elected to go, if only so that they would be able to influence the outcome of things.
“The Snowrock of the Snowfalls, the Firevein of the Flames, and the Tender of the Grasses,” the final decision was repeated.
“I have something to say,” the new Blackweb stepped to the table. The young boy spoke words that sounded rehearsed. “In order to stay the wrath of Vysenn, and to combat the misery my tribe has brought upon our people…” he stepped up to the ringed table, then climbed atop it. “I would feed the earth.”
A mixed reaction spread in the room. The Firevein nodded in approval, while the Snowrock looked greatly discomforted by this fact.
“What?” the Snowrock asked incredulously. “Boy… step away from the heart. Would those you’ve left behind want that for you?”
“He is no boy,” the Firevein interrupted. “He is a chief and has a duty to this land and its people!” he pointed his staff. “A chief whose tribe is dead, at that. The best he can do is offer repayment to those his forefathers wronged. We must do penance—so should he. If he can calm the earth and appease the gods beneath, that would be the greatest service. Am I wrong?”
“…that is your right as a chief,” the Snowrock hesitantly admitted.
The last bit of life drained from the current Blackweb’s youthful face. The Firevein lifted his staff up and drummed it upon the earth. In time, all gathered in a rough ring around the pit in the earth, striking their staves upon the ground. The boy stepped up to the pit, nervous and shaking. The ground beneath him seemed to rattle.
And then… he stepped in.
#####
The party of three chieftains stepped over the hills and laid eyes upon the waiting green landers. Prudently, they had chosen to meet outside of Vysenn. Things might have gone differently had these outlanders recklessly gone into the tribes’ heartlands.
Snowrock’s chest became aflame with nervousness when he set eyes upon their party, and he breathed deeply to calm himself. Barring the guards armored in metal, the people there were more than what was described. Tall, formidable, and calm: that was the impression they exuded.
“Swallow your pride,” the Tender, chieftain of the Grasses, reminded them. Unlike most of their brethren, he did not bother with tattoos and kept his hair long. “Standing can be regained, but death is forever. I don’t want either of you doing something foolish because you can’t bear to lower yourself before a rival.”
The Snowrock and the Firevein looked at the strange chief, then nodded their heads in turn. And then, they stepped out across the grassy hills on the edge of Vysenn… moving headlong towards their fears.
“We greet the chieftain of the green lands,” the Snowrock said, coming to one knee. He saw no point in putting on airs, and did not trust the Firevein to do the same—so long as he offered obeisance, so too would the others.
The other two returned the greeting in much the same fashion. The Snowrock dared a glance at them. The Stormdancer was incredibly tall, and the chieftain even more so. His hair was like the black glass formed from the volcano. He had eyes gray as stone… and they jumped between the three of them casually like they were animals that had strayed upon his path.
“You intruded upon my lands,” he began in a clear, somber voice. “You sought to kill my people. You collaborated with rebels.”
“Chieftain—”
“You will call him Your Majesty,” a titan armored in steel declared, guttural voice more terrifying than the rumbling of the volcano.
“Your Majesty,” the Tender lowered his head obediently, bowing until his hands needed to support his weight. “Please. One of our tribes acted alone. We ask for merc—”
“You deflect blame?” the Stormdancer spoke.
The atmosphere grew tense. “No, we…!” the Firevein tried to explain indignantly.
“I don’t care to hear explanations. The people that assaulted us came from this land,” the chieftain of the green lands pointed beyond. “The Snowfalls, the Flames, the Grasses, the Waterfallen, the Mistwalkers… I’ve known of your people. But your lands are useless to me, and so I have left you be,” he declared coldly. “But you spilled the blood of mine. And that has drawn my interests.”
If things had been tense moments ago, they were suffocating now. All waited as though a guillotine hung over their head.
“But death begets death. If you pay just recompense… we can end the cycle before it concludes your people’s history,” he said confidently.
“…what could one so mighty want from us?” the Firevein questioned bitterly.
“Your livestock,” the chieftain of the green lands held his hand out. “The salamanders you rear. The secret to your resilience.”
The Snowrock lifted his bowed head up in shock.
“You ask…!” the Firevein began loudly, but lowered his voice when Galamon took a step nearer. “We live on these lands because of those creatures… Your Majesty. If we give them up…”
“I don’t ask for them all,” the chieftain of the green lands said in annoyance. “Just recompense, I said. And I meant just.” (C) content.
“And if we refuse?” the Firevein said. The Snowrock looked at him furiously, but he understood the man’s position—the bulk of the salamander herds were kept by the Flames, after all, so this request impacted him the most.
The chieftain of the green lands looked back to two rather inconspicuously dressed people. They held their hands out, and a great ripple of teal spread out from their bodies. Something incomprehensible danced in their palms.
And then… a giant blade of compressed wind formed in the sky on either side. They reeled back, their points barely meeting. Then, they swung. A powerful gale shook the earth. Their twin blades tore through a hillside each… and cut through it cleanly, leaving a flat stretch of earth that quickly crumbled into a more natural shape as the now-dislodged earth slid in a dangerous landslide.
“I’ll flatten these hills,” the king turned back and declared before the winds and tumbling rock had settled. “You can pay a few pounds of flesh… or a river of blood. It’ll be more difficult, but I can get what I want regardless.”
The chieftains were deeply rattled, and the Tender even fell to his knees in shock. That damage… they could achieve it, perhaps. And by ‘they,’ the Snowrock meant all of his people, all of his tephramancers working in tandem. This man had achieved that with two.
“It shall be done, Your Majesty,” the Tender lowered his head. The Snowrock was soon to follow. And lastly, gritting his teeth… the Firevein bent the knee, too.
“Excellent,” His Majesty declared happily.