Lumeri the Scribe looked at the dark, amorphous mass before him. Constantly in motion, the repulsive, sometimes frightening, faces the cloudy body displayed would have driven an ordinary man insane. But then again, the Scribe was no ordinary man, if he still fitted the word in its broadest sense.
“Scribe.”
The voice echoed in the deep fissure. The pair were under a mile of rock, in a place where only magic could bring the foolhardy deity or mortal willing to chance the journey. An intrusion which wouldn’t end well for a mere god or fearless adventurer.
“Yes, Great One?” replied Lumeri calmly.
After millennia of meeting and talking with almost every kind of deity, demon, and everything in between, the incapacitating fear and mind-numbing shock which usually accompanied encounters with dark and twisted beings was understandably absent. Even the novelty of encountering new or rarely seen forms was long gone. On the other hand, engaging entities of what one could call the light merely reminded the Scribe of the curse on his soul. Before, he had welcomed such meetings, looking forward to the euphoric sensations they would bring. Now such encounters were sharply unpleasant and depressing reminders of his fate.
For Lumeri, meeting a creature of power was an incredibly boring experience. He already expected what the pattern of the discussion would be, and it all boiled down to an arrogant effort by magical entities to rationalize their presence, since even the most mentally challenged among such beings started asking themselves the purpose of their existence after a few millennia. Only a precious few admitted being born out of the beliefs and dreams of mortals, be they human, elf, or dwarf. Those who did not undergo such an unusual philosophical bent never called upon the Scribe. By their inability to think, such beings were mere magical beasts. They were horrifying, savage, and destructive, but still mindless monsters born out of the ether.
But the entity before him was not of that witless breed, though still part of the insipid collection he had come to expect. Lumeri did know that what was before him was extremely old and powerful. Sadly, even for one older than the gods themselves and born out of the beliefs of early humans, the ancient entity was still a poor conversationalist. Early man must be extremely focused on day-to-day survival, mused the Scribe.
Mortals provide the best stories, thought Lumeri, a bit proudly. Then whatever momentary pleasure he had suddenly vanished as the Scribe again remembered who and what he was.
Our lives are only interesting because of the vagaries of fate and the whims of truly inane beings, he thought sadly. Even that human First Mage is unfortunately but a piece on the board in the greater scheme of things, the train of thought continued in his mind.
“We are curious about the surface, Scribe. It has been a long time. A very long time, indeed,” said the entity, its expression morphing into one of its seven faces. “Is the primal characteristic unchanged? I have felt strange undercurrents in this world’s magic. It disturbs me.”
“What I am allowed to say, I would willingly share with you, Great One,” replied Lumeri, the disjunct between the we and the preferred honorific of the entity still amusing the Scribe after all these years. The formidable deity had never shared its name with the Scribe, only a preference as to the title by which it should be addressed.
“That convoluted mess of spells,” snorted the being. “Too many, too intricate, and too bothersome to unravel.”
And too complex for you to understand, thought the Scribe, thankful for the ability granted to him by numerous deities to deter intrusions into his mind. A single spell, framed in the complicated pathways of advanced magic, would stump a god or demon of a more primitive time – like you.
“Speak then of what you could,” declared the being imperiously.
“A First Mage arises, a war between and within pantheons, mortal kingdoms aflame,” said the Scribe. It was as succinct as he could manage, a manner he had learned to use after numerous painful experiences reminding him of near-misses with the boundaries of the many geas laid upon him. Even an immortal like Lumeri had his limit on how much soul-twisting pain he could tolerate.
“Ah, except for the rumor about the First Mage, what else is new? Gods and other beings have been at each other’s throats since they arrived in this world. This First Mage appears to be different. I haven’t felt such eldritch vicissitudes even during the time of the last First Mage. This bears watching,” murmured the being, half to himself. The smoky cloud changed features, and another face came to the fore.
“My thanks, Scribe. Now leave me.”
Lumeri bowed deeply and vanished. An instant later, he reappeared inside the entrance of a small cave hidden deep within tall peaks. No mortal civilization could be found within a considerable distance from the place, and no deity or other sentient magical being had an abode within the same region. The Scribe shook his head in resignation, not only at the journey waiting for him, but also at the abrupt dismissal. The more powerful among the entities he had met not only laid their respective geas on him but also could summon and dismiss him at their leisure.
He had learned the hard way that such beings would never kill him, the magical aura surrounding the Scribe announcing to the world who he was and what he had done, but they weren’t averse to inflicting intense pain as punishment. The core enchantment apparently allowed it in certain circumstances, and those willing to try to release him were held back by the complexity of the spell as well as at the repercussions of such interference. A few dark beings did pay the price and bad tidings like that spread as fast as a hungry swarm of locusts.
The immortal sat down on the hard, cold, rocky floor of the cave, not bothering to magically raise a stone chair. As of late, the Scribe’s mind had been troubled, and his body extremely weary. Meeting the headstrong Havard had struck a chord in his acquiescent and defeated mind. Lumeri smiled at the memory of the human mage, the first human First Mage, based on the Scribe’s extensive knowledge of magical lore. His encounters with the stubborn, magically unschooled, and temperamental man dug up forcibly repressed and long-thought forgotten memories of what it meant and felt to be human.
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More importantly, the First Mage prompted the opening of a closed door in that part of the Scribe’s awareness, an entrance which led to a room full of speculations on what might have been. Of what his fate could have been if he was as obstinate as Havard and just as cynical about powerful entities. That, and many other disturbing thoughts passed through Lumeri’s mind as the Scribe reflected about his fate in that small, insignificant opening in the mountains.
Finally, after a few days, the Scribe got up and walked out of the cave. Somebody who knew him would have noticed the purposeful strides, the straightened posture, and the determined look in Lumeri’s face. As he left the cave, the magnificent and glorious vista of the mountain range framed by the dying splendor of a setting sun greeted him. Lumeri grinned at the sight, the expression an uncommon one on the Scribe's face, idly wondering how many such wondrous visions he had missed.
I am human and will always be human, no matter what affliction I may suffer now, thought the Scribe. They said my curse would endure while they and this world lasted. It’s time to take my destiny in my hands.
***
Otr drew back after crushing the head of an injured ice elf trapped under its dead vargyr mount. His weary gaze swept over the formerly neatly drawn-up battle lines of his heavy infantry. The assaulting fire jotnar had achieved the unbelievable – breaking the mass of steel positioned up on the mountainside.
The dwarven defensive tactic had always worked before. The main group of defenders waited for the attack while heavy artillery and the crossbowmen rained deadly havoc on enemies trying to make their way up the mountain, past the numerous traps and other nasty contraptions of the dvergar. It was enough to break an army. Not this time.
For the better part of an hour, Otr himself had wondered if they would lose the battle. Every dvergar on that battlefield didn’t expect that Sutr’s army would use the massive hulks, now armored and magically protected, as assault transportation. What was more shocking was that the giant monsters were in the van of the attack, their presence cleverly concealed by magical illusions. The dwarven prince never thought that Sutr’s forces could be capable of such sophistication.
The size of the armored behemoths enabled their passengers to avoid the field of traps which festooned the area at the foot of the defensive zone, and large, long planks further improved the chances of the jotnar reaching the dwarven battle line in large numbers. It helped the attackers that most of the traps were not meant to handle the feet of the enormous beasts. Obstacles and other barriers intended to create killing zones were simply destroyed and tossed aside. Then follow-up waves of enemies used the gigantic monsters as access platforms.
That unexpected and unconventional method of attack on the dwarven battle lines and the heavy presence of enemy mages made matters interesting enough to nearly break the dvergar defenses. Only Otr’s timely commitment of his reserve decided the battle in dwarves’ favor. Even then, it was heavy and hard fighting.
Serves those whining sons of their blessed mothers right, thought the prince with a grin, musing about the defensive reserve mostly made up of elite and hardened warriors. All those complaints about not being in the fight, that they won’t ever be needed, that they’ll miss all the action. Hah!
But Otr was worried about their casualties. He figured they’ve lost a quarter of their forces as dead and injured, though for the dvergar, being injured meant being truly incapable of fighting. Many of the warriors he could see had bandages on their bodies as their officers started organizing their formations. Mounds of jotnar dead could be seen on the field, and small parties of defenders were making sure every enemy, even their bestial mounts, was truly gone.
The war leader could also see lines of reinforcements coming their way from the other side of the mountain, but he knew they wouldn’t be enough to offset what he had lost during the attack. The stronghold they were defending did send quick help, as he could now observe, but not to the extent of weakening its own defenses. Otr didn’t have any complaints. If they lost the battle on the mountainside, the stronghold would serve as their final redoubt.
Not a good way to die, thought Otr. If we lose this position, then we all will be remembered as the ones who were the first to be defeated on this ground. They’ll inscribe all our names in black marble as an enduring display of shame, with my name leading the rest. Probably in bigger runes too. That is if any dvergar in this part of the mountains survive. They take the stronghold, and the four cities of this region would be good as gone.
“Prince Otr?” asked somebody from the rear. He recognized Nabi’s voice.
“Oh, don’t be so formal, you old goat. Come here,” he replied.
Glancing at Nabi when the commander reached him, Otr saw the blood-spattered armor and ax of the warrior. The fighting had reached the artillery positions, though from the sound of the continuous firing of the heavy weapons, no significant damage had been suffered by the detachments. The prince turned his attention back to the vast plain before them, watching as artillery projectiles smashed retreating groups of fire jotnar.
“Your casualties, Nabi? Any damage to your toys?” asked Otr.
“Five dead and a score wounded. A ballista and two mangonels destroyed. Good thing those boys counterattacked as they did, we were starting to get worried,” answered Nabi. “But we’re still in the fight. The lads are bringing up more ammunition as we speak. More of the exploding kind this time. The next wave of jotnar would be a tad bigger.”
Otr looked at Nabi, his eyebrows raised, and a smirk on his face.
“A tad?” Then he laughed, followed by his companion.
In the far distance, great masses were arriving on the visible part of the vast plain. Sutr’s attack was far from over.
***
On a small mesa on top of a mountain far to the south, a figure stood watching the lands below. Sunlight bathed the clearing as wildflowers basked in the welcome light. It was a tranquil and picturesque place, and the green and gold outfit of the stranger blended into the colors of the dell. Suddenly, a glimmering green circle appeared in the air and when it disappeared, a hideous half-man, half-spider monster was left in its place. The newcomer hurried to the waiting green-and-gold outsider, trampling all the plants and flowers in its path.
“Lord Loki? said the spider entity.
“Yes, Anansi?” replied Loki. He had kept on watching the landscape before him and didn’t even turn when Anansi arrived.
“The war goes in our favor, my friend. Kemet’s friends are tottering, and the gods of such lands have been defeated. Those that survived have scattered and sought refuge in the north.”
“Ah, Anansi, that is good news. But tottering and have sought refuge are words that do not go with my idea of victory and conquest. If we don’t crush the mortal kingdoms defying us and eliminate those deities, then the future promises to be one of new wars and pesky rebellions. Not a good way to start our new world order, don’t you think?” asked Loki.
“But shouldn’t they now fall prey to Sutr or Ymir?” said Anansi.
“They should. But semantics again, my friend. I prefer that they fall prey as soon as possible to whoever wants them dead and departed. I believe we can do our part. An extra effort to extend our reach wouldn’t be out of place at this time. And for Sutr and Ymir, they are very helpful distractions, but I don’t think you would ever fancy living in a world of fire or ice, my friend. I hope somebody I know is keeping them busy.”
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