Chapter 24: Meanwhile
‘Beastmen’. Rather than a single race, it would be more accurate to consider the term as referring to a collection of races with similar features. Namely, being a bipedal, human-sized version of a land-dwelling animal that is capable of speech. However, they have humanoid hands and feet, regardless of the peculiarities of their more animalistic counterparts.
Interestingly, despite the huge range of different types of beastmen – it is almost impossible to find two beastmen who look similar – it seems that any two beastmen (of opposite gender, of course) can successfully have children without any difficulty. In this event the child, or children, will not become a hybrid of the two parent beastmen, but rather will be of the same type as one of their parents.
Strangely, despite the beastmen seemingly subscribing to the idea of ‘survival of the fittest’, there is very little discrimination between say, the powerful bear beastmen and the relatively weak cat beastmen. Perhaps it is because they instinctively realise that despite some beastmen having an early advantage, any beastman can become strong through training and mana.
Honestly, some of the people from the other races could take a leaf out of their book in that regard.
-An unknown scholar
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A rough hand reaches out, brushing aside the thin veil of a long-abandoned spider’s web. He steps through, a ball of light above his head following smoothly, illuminating the area around him.
Something shuffles out of the darkness into the circle of light provided by it, and a bolt of lightning flies from his palm, and it stops moving. When he ventures closer however, all he sees is a small patch of damp soil.
“You shouldn’t waste mana on something as weak as a slime, Greg.” Says one of the people behind him reproachfully.
Raising an eyebrow, Greg turns and addresses him. “I don’t want to hear than from spam-fireballs-at-a-goblin Antonio. Besides, didn’t we already agree to keep chitchat to a minimum down here?”
Antonio frowns, but unable to find anything to dispute, shuts his mouth.
A thin smile creeps across Greg’s face for a moment as he turns back around, replaced almost instantly by his usual grim, focused look.
Just over a year ago, the two of them had thought that they might be the last remnants of the summoned heroes. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case, and they were able to find almost everyone.
‘Hero’. Greg detests the word. He doesn’t feel like a hero, and he sure as hell doesn’t act like one. He makes mistakes, mistakes that have caused injuries among several of his team-mates, and even the death of one. He can’t save everyone, he can barely save himself from the nightmares that plague his sleep nightly.
And yet, that was what people were calling them now. They killed the Goblin King and his elite squad of generals and shamans, defended the town across the river from Ginerbe city from an invasion of werewolves, and in more recent times single-handedly defeated a small group of demon spies.
But, they were all coincidences. They happened to find the Goblin King’s stronghold while wandering lost on the plains, and mistaking it for a human town, went towards it. One thing led to another, and the next thing they knew, they were exchanging blows and magic with the goblin king himself. They happened to be sleeping in the town when it was attacked by werewolves. Greg just happened to look up when a group of people clad in black clothing were creeping across the rooftops.
And the request this time is only going to increase their reputation, Greg muses, groaning internally. It is said that a population of monsters can grow in strength by almost two ranks, depending on how long they are left on their own.
Without people, monsters fight each other for food. Through years of natural selection, what will eventually be left is a small pack of elite monsters. As for how this is relevant to the request, this is an old mine that had been forgotten during the last war – almost sixty years ago. According to the old records which had been found recently, it should contain some deposits of mithril.
There is never enough mithril – it is found deep underground, and strong people have to be around to protect the miners from monsters that will spawn at such depths. But it will be difficult to do that here without first clearing out whatever monsters have built up over the years, hence…
Sighing, Greg continues deeper into the tunnels.
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In the kingdom of Stalia, there is a city called Lhoy. It is a very large and majestic city, with walls of pure white stone and guards garbed in similarly brilliant armour. The streets are clean of much of the filth common in other cities, and people go about their daily business with a smile, as if the massive conflict still ongoing doesn’t affect their lives in the slightest.
This city is not the capitol of Stalia, nor is it in some prime location that allows its citizens to have no fear of assault. But Lhoy is the holy city of the holy light religion, easily the largest and most wide-spread religion over all the five kingdoms. As such, it is practically immune to the disputes between the kingdoms. Who could attack a city when it was so holy and important in the minds of most of their commanders and soldiers?
It would be more likely for the army to defect and defend the city instead.
Still, for all its illustrious reputation, every city has its good parts and its bad parts, and Lhoy is no exception. Starkly different to the cleanliness and purity of the main sections of the city are the slums, with shallow pools of putrid refuse lingering below every closed window and in every alleyway.
Frowns and tears are as common here as smiles are elsewhere in the city, and a long history of hardship and pain has made its residents cynical and untrusting. The people here believe the saying, ‘there’s no such thing as a free lunch’ more than anyone, causing them to distrust and even fear the people of Holy Light and their gifts.
‘They say the food is free, but what if one day they start telling me to pray for it? Could I really say no? As much as I hate it, I partly rely on the food they bring to survive. And after prayer, next thing you know you’re converted.’ Is the collective opinion of the slum-dwellers, much to the sadness of the church.
Of course, there are still some believers amongst the slum-dwellers, but most of them don’t believe.
On these very same dirty streets, an old man in white robes is walking, not knowing or not caring that the hem of his robes is steadily being stained a muddy brown.
People lurk just out of sight: peeking out from the tiniest crack of a window, peepholes in doors, from the shadows of an alleyway, peering down from a rooftop… The old man frowns, but not out of anger or hurt. He frowns because he is sad that they still don’t trust him, even after all these years of helping them.
Still, he has gained some positive reputation, so when he stops at a crossroads and shouts, “free healing!” in a slightly hoarse voice, people slowly start to trickle out of the woodworks.
An old woman walks forward and wordlessly holds out an arm. Upon it is a long wound, the skin around it discoloured and emanating a peculiar smell. Gently, he places one hand underneath her arm to support her, and another hovers just above the wound, beginning to emit a radiant glow.
As he works, he speaks in soothing tones. “I will have this healed in just a moment. Tut tut, this doesn’t look new, Harriette. You should have come to me last week, and spared yourself all the pain.”
Harriette doesn’t say anything, just watching as her wound closes, ejecting a few worms and other parasites. A moment later, the skin is returned to a healthy state, and she nods in gratitude. She walks swiftly away, stretching her arm and checking that it has indeed returned to full functionality.
Just after she leaves, another man slinks into sight, making a half-dozen other people step back into the cover they were in the process of leaving. There is no line, but the healer knows there are people in wait, and there will only be more coming. His shout wasn’t loud, but the slums has its own information network, of sorts. The news will get around.
He talks as he works, not often getting a reply but continuing nonetheless. Almost every person he heals he knows by name, the meagre results of a long period of helping them. Many people come and go, with all manner of injuries and disease. Each one he handles calmly and kindly, restoring them with rarely more than a word of thanks in return. But even that is its own reward to the old healer.
Finally, one person leaves and nobody else comes. Looking around, he lets out a tired breath and starts to leave but stops when a thin boy nervously limps towards him and pulls up one leg of his daggy leggings, revealing a thin but deep knife wound. It is leaking a steady stream of blood, no doubt aggravated by the boy walking.
Although serious, the wound is straightforward, without much grime contaminating the wound. It takes only seconds to heal completely under the ministrations of the old healer. As soon as the boy confirms that his wound has indeed healed, he darts off without so much as a nod of thanks.
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The healer calls out after him. “The church is always in need of knights, young man. If ever you feel interested in turning your life around, you need only ask. Food, shelter, education and training, and it won’t cost you a copper!” He practically shouts the last line, the boy already out of sight.
Undisturbed by the outright refusal, the old healer turns and begins back the way he came, whistling a jovial tune.
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Inside the throne room of the palace in the capitol city of the kingdom of Stalia, King Duarte IX reclines regally upon his throne. Garbed richly as ever, he idly twirls a blonde lock of hair with one finger, occasionally sampling a slice of fruit from a silver platter beside him as the dwarven man before him speaks.
The dwarf king, Nemoc, has returned to his kingdom to organise his armies, and the elf king Galen is at the battlefront. He would be there himself, but a few matters have required his attention back at home. Hopefully, he will be traveling back on the morrow.
To his right stands another lavishly dressed man – although not nearly as lavish as the king himself - who appears to be listening intently to the dwarf, occasionally taking notes through the use of paper, quill and inkwell precariously balanced on one arm. The scratching of his quill across paper provides a constant undertone to the room, not unlike that of a classroom, albeit with more respectful listeners.
Glancing down as the dwarf pauses momentarily, the King takes the opportunity to speak a few words of his own. “The armies of Morrock have almost reached the battlefront, yes?”
To his credit, the dwarf barely bats an eye at his dialogue being completely derailed and replies calmly and confidently. “Barely a day away, sire. Our troops will be ready to reinforce and integrate with the present armies of the Kingdoms of Stalia and Enlux upon arrival.”
“Very good.” The words are almost a reflex for the King, spoken without any particular inflection or meaning; a pleasantry, if you will. “Is there anything else?”
Hesitating for a fleeting moment, the dwarf says straightforwardly, “Nothing that I couldn’t write up for your highness to peruse at his leisure.”
“Very well. I appreciate your work here, ambassador.” King Duarte waves a hand, and the doors start to open. “You may go now.”
Bowing deeply, the dwarf politely withdraws from the room without any further words.
Plucking the last slice of fruit from the plate, King Duarte places it delicately into his mouth. Gently tugging a scarlet handkerchief from a chest pocket, he wipes his sticky fingers upon it and refolding it, places it back within the pocket.
Turning his head, he asks the person beside him, “Did anything interesting happen while he was talking?”
Blowing gently on his page to dry the ink, his advisor produces a sealed letter from somewhere and hands it to the king. With a raised eyebrow, the King breaks the seal with a finger and unfolds the letter from within. His eyes rapidly scan across the lines, and his face moves into a subtle frown that deepens the further he reads.
Done reading, he hands it back, instructing his advisor to read it. He does so impassively, but when he finishes, there is a barely noticeable hint of confusion hidden deep within his eyes. “Intriguing.” He says calmly. “Not just one, but every prisoner taken had the same answer when asked, and adamantly insisted it was true. A few could be a plant or coincidence, but not so many.”
The king lets out a rare sigh. “Indeed, but I do not know that it will make a difference, even if it is true. An arrow, once fired, cannot be taken back. War is war, regardless of the cause. Perhaps the die has long since been cast…”
Adjusting his jacket, the paper, ink and quill are nowhere to be seen on the advisor’s person. “And yet, knowing is better than fumbling in the dark. We should investigate.”
“Indeed. Dispatch a group of spies to the area.” Says King Duarte.
Bowing, the advisor departs to carry out his will.
Now alone save the guards, the King can’t help but wonder… Will this turn out to be some corrupt noble trying to make gold off the war… Perhaps a demon hater… Or mayhap some dark conspiracy?
He doesn’t particularly dislike the demons himself. In fact, he respects their recent innovations in technology, military and otherwise. Sometimes he can’t help but wish magic was as helpful outside of war as these… mechanisms… seem to be. Alas, perhaps only holy magic is truly good.
Fire burns, earth crushes, water drowns, wind suffocates, light… blinds, darkness enshrouds…
And the secondary elements are worse, if anything. Lava melts anything it touches, lightning can kill with a touch, decay devours, ice…
The barest glimmer appears as he rolls a crystal-clear sphere between his fingers.
Ice is as terrible or as comforting as its wielder dictates. Something to cool your drink or a blade to decapitate your foes, it’s all the same to ice…
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Built entirely of a hard, black material. Tall spires dotted here and there, with special openings designed for magi. Arrow slits and murder holes everywhere, with secret tunnels running throughout the entire structure. Enchantments on the very stones, ready at any moment to activate and repel invaders. A no cost spared, no holds barred structure designed for the sole purpose of being impenetrable.
That, is the demon King’s castle, built in days when battles were waged in the streets, and there was no distinction between citizen and soldier. Intended to be both a last line of defence and a place in which the most elite warriors were trained.
…Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem as if the current demon King has gotten the memo.
Wearing the long black cape and stylish red and gold clothing passed down for generations, he sits in his throne, watching as the advisor talking to him slowly drifts to one side. Before long, the advisor has almost reached the wall, and the demon King presses a button on the armrest of his throne. The advisor’s sidewards movement halts, and with a muffled clank, starts to drift in the opposite direction as the conveyor belt beneath his feet reverses its rotation.
The corner of the demon King’s mouth lifts in amusement as the advisor continues talking, used to the antics of the unusual king. Strictly speaking, the mechanism can also be used as a defence system by breaking apart enemy formations, but it is clear as day to anyone present that that is not the reason why the current demon king had it installed.
Seeing no reaction forthcoming from his advisor, the demon king pushes another button, halting the movement of the conveyor.
Despite his playful nature, the demon King is by no means frivolous, and he takes his responsibilities very seriously.
Later, when the advisor has gone and the King is dining upon a sumptuous spread of foods, a messenger enters.
Upon hearing the contents of the message, the demon King directly abandons his meal and personally heads down to the city gates. Not five minutes later, a silhouette appears on the road heading towards him. As it quickly draws closer, its appearance becomes clear.
With the general features of a cheetah, the animal is perhaps one and a half times larger than its relatives, and has creamy fur dotted with black spots, with a few black stripes running from its long tail to its neck.
As it sprints down the road, what appears to be a monkey can be seen sitting upon its back, wearing simple clothing. With closer observation one might note that it is, in fact, larger and more upright than a normal monkey: it’s a monkey beastman.
In less than a minute, the equally strange mount and rider arrived at the gate, slowing to a halt as they did so. Dismounting, the monkey beastman lightly greets the demon King. “Alex. How are you?”
Indeed, the demon king’s name is Alex. Actually, it used to be Tuzruru’xothtalar, but he felt that it was cumbersomely long, and changed it. No kingdom has a legal process for changing name… but he IS the demon king – who would contradict him?
And besides, a name is just a name – unless he decides to do something like change the name of a city or the entire kingdom, the demon nobility won’t raise much of a fuss. Of course, his advisor talked himself hoarse that day trying to convince him otherwise, but eventually gave up before the stubborn king, exhausted.
“My people are dying en masse, some of the nobility are starting to question my competency and sound sleep is now a pleasant fantasy.” Alex says bluntly. “How about you, Hashke?”
The king of Binod, Hashke, shrugs comfortably. “Eating, the occasional duel, having fun with my wives… the usual. So, we going to your place? You know I enjoy the shivers it sends down my spine. Barely anything does these days.” He says, eyes lingering on the black castle at the centre of the city, surrounded by a large open area.
King Alex looks dubiously at the leopard, which bears its formidable teeth at him. With a slight shudder, he turns his gaze back to king Hashke. “Of course, but… what will we do with your… steed?”
With barely a glance in its direction, king Hashke kicks it. Giving out a startled yelp, the leopard bolts away. “It’ll come back. And if it doesn’t, I’ll just have to hunt it down again.” He says in explanation, seeing the shocked look upon king Alex’s face.
They move through the streets towards the castle, people getting out of their way voluntarily. Although very few recognise the plainly dressed beastman king, the demon king’s unusual garb makes him instantly recognisable, even to those who don’t know his face.
Once in the castle, the two kings sit down on opposite sides of a table in a small, enclosed room. Nobody else is present.
“So. You need some help with this war, huh?” Says king Hashke. “I can do that. But you’re going to have to give me something in exchange.”
King Alex frowns. It’s not as if he was expecting help to come free, but he rarely hears someone say it outright. “What do you want? Gold? Metal? Weapons?”
“Nah, nothing like that.” King Hashke waves a hand in dismissal. “It’s gonna have to be something that can only come from the demons, if we’re gonna be cleaning up your mess. Something good.”
Letting out a brief sigh, king Alex relaxes back into his chair. He was asking for inventions, new technology, and that was something they have plenty of in comparison to the other kingdoms. But what should he offer that would interest the other party? Weapons, perhaps? “Crossbows?” he inquires.
King Hashke frowns, and for a second Alex starts to worry. If even the crossbow doesn’t interest him, what will? But then Hashke speaks, and Alex worry turns to relief. “You gotta know that I’ll have no clue what you’re talking about, here. Explain them to me.”
“The crossbow is a sort of mechanical bow. It is simpler to teach someone to use a crossbow in comparison to a normal bow as the string is held in place after being pulled, making aiming, as well as the initial drawing, much easier.” King Alex proffers.
King Hashke mulls it over for a second. “It’s not gonna go so well in my place, I would think. See, we got this saying, ‘If you don’t have the strength to wield a weapon, you don’t deserve a weapon in the first place.’ People who use it would be laughed at as weaklings, and it would probably only get them in more trouble than they hoped to prevent.”
King Alex’s heart sinks. “We have a few modified arrowheads. Armour-piercing, ones designed to be harder to pull out of wounds, ones that can fly further…”
“Yeah, that’d go down well. We don’t often use bows in combat, but hunters would love that stuff. Anything else?”
Thinking hard, he goes through a mental list of products. There are plenty, but many of them were experimental in nature, or aren’t completely perfected yet. And many of the ones that are wouldn’t interest him…
Then king Alex stops being stupid and realises that despite their warrior-centric society, there are (of course) still other needs for the kingdom apart from the weaponry. “We recently developed a device that can draw water from the ground by moving a lever up and down. It’s much faster and more efficient than drawing from a well.”
“Faster than a well, huh? How much faster?” He seems vaguely interested.
“It depends on how fast you crank the lever… But I suppose with your people, it could be ten times faster, or more. In fact, I would be worrying that your people crank the lever too fast and wear it out too fast.” King Alex says hopefully.
“Alright, then since we probably couldn’t produce those types of things even if we knew how, how about you produce them and sell them to us at a low price?” King Hashke says.
King Alex grins, and they start to haggle prices.