Chapter 222 - Epilogue - Under the Table
A less-than-entertained centaur sat in an empty room, scribbling away at the pages piled atop his desk. Though he was often its only occupant, the office had space for at least a dozen. The others would occasionally pop in to file their paperwork, but they would fill out and review only a few reports at a time, maybe ten on a busy day.
As the operation’s commander, Lord Pollux was responsible for keeping tabs on every one of its aspects, for it was only through his due diligence that they could proceed without error. Under a smoother set of circumstances, said diligence would have involved little beyond reading over the high level reports given to him by his direct subordinates, already filtered for the relevant information. Alas, war was unpredictable, and the pipeline rarely functioned as it should.
To make an informed decision in a time of crisis, he would need to learn as much of the status quo as he could and process all the information himself. And it was precisely to facilitate the gathering of every last morsel that he had opened up a new channel of communication. Any individual in possession of useful information was given the opportunity to file a report that would be sent straight onto the pile atop his desk.
The diligent soldiers that were his rank and file quickly got to work. Nearly every man wrote an account for the poor commander to consider. Most were relatively quick and concise. Knowing that the marquis would have a whole mountainload to sort, the men penned brief descriptions that expressed only the events and their consequences. Few of the reports saw any mention of momentum, but those that did noted that their attacks and velocities were preserved. The combination of the tightly packed space and the troops’ half-finished swings resulted in over three dozen casualties. They were fortunate enough to see no fatalities arise, but the unwarranted damage to the soldiers’ equipment was sure to eat into the expedition’s budget.
Just as stressful as the rise in expenses was the bizarre condition that spread through the camp the following morning. The soldiers turned overnight, with many reporting feelings of weakness and discomfort. It did not begin at scale, but by lunch, half the men were affected. Their logs reported the illness as the result of the Curse of the Rotting Mists, and it continued to spread only among those that had been on the ninth floor, even as the camp moved back aboard the ship.
The resident priests and priestesses were able to treat it without issue, but they were kept busy by the ever increasing victim count. Those that had taken up positions closest to the central mountain relapsed after just a few hours, while those that had arrived late to the scene appeared to find themselves fully cured with just a single treatment.
As he himself suffered no symptoms, Timaios left the curse to his men and focused his efforts on investigating the source of their sudden teleportation. He and most of the other commanders assumed it to be a quirk of the dungeon at first, but a quick check with one of the accompanying divine scholars had ruled the conclusion out as highly unlikely.
The gods were intelligent and fair. The adverse effects that came from failing specific aspects of their trials targeted only the individuals that had failed to perform. In rare cases, such as where a test’s purpose was to evaluate a group’s teamwork, they would punish whole parties instead, but it was entirely unheard of for an entire organisation, let alone a coalition, to find itself subjected to a magical deportation.
Adding to the confusion was the lack of an obvious source. None of the soldiers had reported anything along the lines of a possible cause, and the adventurers that the marquis had interviewed were just as clueless. There was always the possibility that they had lied to his face, but he doubted it. He was a good judge of character, and those he checked in on had been relatively earnest, or at least fearful enough of him to divulge as much of the truth as they could recall.
Some of the groups had muttered something or other of a divine protector, and one such report from the scouts had confirmed its existence. There was a creature with an excess of divinity living atop the tallest mountain—a strange being they had discovered in the investigation of the unexplained, momentary snowscape. But by the time of the scouts’ arrival, the divine protector had already been subdued by a member of Lady Augustus’ party. There were a few notes of confusion regarding the battle’s precise outcome, the most notable of which was that the extent of damage incurred and the protector’s behaviour were at odds. Pollux was planning to sit down with the lieutenant and ask for more details, but that was an appointment he would reserve for a later date.
He thought it likely that the winter storm had something or other to do with their removal, but with the divine protector ruled out, so too was the option of its influence.
“Or perhaps not. It is always possible that the blizzard’s effect was delayed.” He stroked his moustache as he pondered the thought, scribbling it down on a page full of hypotheses. The timing was perfect. The icy apocalypse had occurred just a few minutes after they first stormed the city, and nearly all the men had presumed it to be some sort of counterattack.
“My lord,” A familiar voice pulled him from his thoughts. When he raised his head, he found his butler present, dressed exactly as usual, with the extra adage of a metal cap resting between his ears. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there is a matter that requires your attention.”
Timaios sighed. “What now?”
“Lady Augustus would like to request an audience. She claims to know the truth behind the incident.”
“She lives then.” Like all the others that had failed to teleport, Claire had been presumed dead. The strange spell had transported none of the corpses, but all those that had yet to perish were present and accounted for. “Perhaps there was some merit in Silvanus’ report after all…” He glanced at the page on his desk before pressing a hand into his brow and returning his gaze to his servant. “Send her in. It would not do to keep a lady waiting.”
“Right away.” Seeing that his master was the one with the headache for once, the butler left the room with a vibrant, happy sneer.
Timaios tidied up his papers in the meantime, sorting the various reports into piles, and ensuring that the more confidential documents were covered or tucked away. If she was anything like her father, she would be sure to look around and glean every bit of information he left exposed.
Armando showed her into the room not too long after he finished. She was accompanied by the members of her party, as well as a strange, pink bird he had not seen before. Her description loosely matched one described in the scouts’ report, however, and she carried with her an excess of divinity—an effective testament to her identity as the ninth floor’s so-called protector.
“Good evening, Lord Pollux.”
Claire stepped forward and lifted her dress to greet him with a formal curtsy. While he did acknowledge the practiced greeting, polished to irrefutable perfection, his attention was taken instead by the girls’ attire.
They presented themselves not as wandering sellswords, but as ladies prepared to attend a formal event. Each was decorated in a puffy dress tailored perfectly to suit her frame. Even the fox was given a set of clothing. She wore a large lacy bowtie on her neck, alongside an elvish hood that featured a pair of long, flowing coattails.
“Good evening, Lady Augustus,” said the centaur. “Wherever might you have obtained such a beautiful dress? I recall that your party was traveling light.”
“Unfortunately, I must refrain from divulging my methods, for a lady without mystery is one that will inevitably lose her charm.”
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“It is as you say, my fair lady,” said the older gentleman, “but so too shall an excess of unanswered questions render any potential suitors too wary to approach.”
“Perhaps then it is to my good fortune that I am not in the market for a suitor.”
“What a shame.” The man breathed an exaggerated sigh before placing his hands on his desk. “I suppose that suffices for pleasantries. Let us discuss the incident.”
“In that case, Lord Pollux, I must ask that you speak to a related party.” Claire stepped aside and allowed the witch and the bird to advance. “On your left, my good marquis, is Meltys, Arviad Skyfeller, and the divine protector of Arviandor, the godsent representative of the nation located within the dungeon’s confines.”
“A pleasure to meet you,” he said with a nod. “I am Timaios Pollux, thunderhoof dreadnaught, and the lord responsible for Cadria’s southernmost marsh.”
“The pleasure is mine,” said the duck.
“And on your right,” continued Claire, “is the woman with all of the answers you seek.”
“The answers I seek, you say?” He raised his brow and looked the witch over, his gaze settling on her chest for a solid five seconds.
“Good evening, Lord Pollux.” She did not bow to him, facing him instead with a demeaning smile that demanded his subservience. “I have recently caught wind of a number of rather interesting rumours floating around the Vel’khanese castle.” She produced a fan as she spoke and covered the sneer that made its way across her face. “They say that you wish to introduce a foreign system, the merit of which the queen fails to see.”
“What are you suggesting?” The centaur met her confident gaze with one of violent suspicion. It was the only appropriate response. One wrong turn, and he could destroy his reputation among the locals.
Arciel did not answer his question immediately, laughing instead in the obnoxious way that only a spoiled, rich girl could. “Have you any knowledge of the imperial house of Vel’khan?”
“Naturally. The Vel’khanese line is a well respected lineage of lampre—”
He was cut off with a snap of the fan. Arciel stepped forward, her eyes filled with an angry glow, and her heels clacking against the stone plateau.
“There has never once been such a thing as a leech of royal blood. The vampire queen has always been a blood-sucking kraken descended from Arcereula Vel’Khan herself.”
The princess’ body began to change as she advanced towards his desk. Her skin went from pale to blue, her hair from black to purple, and her legs from two to ten. They were no longer the humanoid shapes they had previously held, but long, thick tentacles dyed a few shades deeper than the ones atop her head. Each was covered from start to finish in suckers, massive, powerful suckers capable of ripping the stone beneath her apart.
“But now, I stand as the last of my kind,” she smiled, wistfully, “left to watch as an unjust murderer sits atop my rightful throne and rewrites its history.”
The marquis paused briefly, looking first at the regal tentacle monster, and then at the lady responsible for her referral. Seeing Claire nod, the marquis sat back in his chair with his lips twisted into a smile.
“I see what you are saying, Lady Vel’khan. While I do not doubt the legitimacy of your claim, I cannot simply volunteer my support to a princess whose backing consists of a runaway, a deserter, and a less-than-subtle knight. It takes more than that to contest the crown, Princess. You cannot win a game of politics by merely flying the flag of the rebellion. To back even the most righteous of efforts requires an extent of power and influence.”
“And I have both.” She opened her fan again. “Have you not considered the reason we bring knowledge of your army’s teleportation? Or perhaps why our arrival was offset?”
The marquis furrowed his brow. “Prove it.”
“Gladly.”
The squid snapped her fingers and crafted a vortex of spiraling shadows. The darkness itself did nothing, but the whooshing sound it made served as a perfect cover for the tune Sylvia hummed under her breath. The office’s occupants vanished from the manor, appearing a moment later in the airspace above Vel’khagan. The city’s distinctive castle was in full view, bright as ever, with a group of maids actively polishing the brilliant white stones. Unlike the observers, who stood atop tailored, invisible bubbles, the servants were rappelling down the castle’s walls, fixing themselves in place with nothing but iron and rope.
“This is certainly an interesting illusion, impeccably crafted and impossible to see through” said the Cadrian, after a moment of looking around. “But I am not so easily fooled. He stood up from his seat and took half a step, as if to demonstrate that his desk was still present, but his hooves touched nothing. His body pitched forward and fell through the sky, eyes blinking in confusion.
He spread his wings a moment later, but flew into the city instead of rising back to his previous location. He dashed to ground level, disturbing the populace and even speaking to a stranger or two before finally returning to the group.
Arciel smirked at him, confidently, before snapping her fingers a second time. Again, an invisible portal answered her call, and again, Sylvia’s handiwork was perfect. They were taken right back to where they started, the foreign dignitary even reseated in his chair without incident.
“How intriguing,” he said, with a smile. “You possess a power capable of overcoming strategic military positions in the blink of an eye.”
“What I am lacking, Sir Pollux, is the numerical superiority to minimize casualties on both sides. Half of this country’s greatest men have taken my side, and the others are sure to capitulate in the event of the false queen’s demise. Victory shall fall into my lap regardless of your allegiance. I am present on this day not to ask for your assistance, but to offer you an opportunity, a choice between a stain upon your record, or the glory of pushing your nation’s policies through the reinstatement of the throne’s rightful ruler.”
“Are you threatening me, Lady Vel’khan?”
“By no means,” she said, with a shit-eating smirk. “I am merely stating that I would leave you to be dealt justice by the lady here with whom I have forged an alliance.” She pointed her fan at the divine protector. “For your army has wronged her people, many of whom seek blood for the lives spilt.”
Timaios scoffed. “It would be trivial for me to subdue her and put an immediate end to such a plan.”
The vampire covered her face and laughed. “Perhaps if it was your blood she is after,” she said. “I would be rather interested to hear the consequences, should you return to your motherland with no soldiers and no ship.”
There was a moment of silence as the marquis played with his moustache. “Then I suppose I must accept.” He clasped his fingers together and rested his hands on top of his desk. “I am willing to offer you soldiers in your effort, but in exchange, I would like you to do three things.”
Arciel nodded. “And what, precisely, might these three things be?”
“First, I would like you to instate a private Cadrian police service, the details of which will be submitted to you at another time.”
“Rejected.” Arciel narrowed her eyes. “A joint police service perhaps, but I shall not allow your people to enforce our laws without direct supervision from my countrymen. It is not only a problem of our sovereign dignity, but a ticking bomb sure to drive long term dissatisfaction.”
“A mixed force will do,” said the Cadrian. “The second request is to instate business legislation recognizing corporations as persons as per the documentation presented to your soon-to-be predecessor.”
“And the third?”
“To frame the dungeon’s happenings in a way that does not bring shame to the Cadrian army.”
The squid tapped her fan against the palm of her hand as she considered. “Acceptable. I shall provide you with the precise details of the coverup at a later date.” She spun around, turning human-like again, with her previously vanished heels clacking against the floor. “It is a pleasure to work with you, Sir Pollux.”
“And you as well, Lady Vel’khan. I bid you good tidings.”
The marquis waited for the group to funnel out the door before allowing a smile to surface. The foolish girl had thought him manipulated, but she had far from seized his reins. While she flew her banner, he would do exactly as parliament had instructed against and sow the seeds required to seize control of the tiny seaside nation’s underworld, and then, the throne itself by force. He would, of course, still employ their economic approach in the meantime—it was the perfect coverup, a legitimate reason to remain in Vel’khan and manage his operations with no risk of interception.
Parliament could no longer stop him. The eleven horned king was dead, and with him vanished the peaceful policies that he had always supported.
It was now his master that led the nation.
The age of peace was over.
And it was time for one of conquest to begin.