The stone hallway opened up into a massive hexagonal chamber, the walls crafted from some deeply polished blue stone. Konstantin eyed the room from the doorway; row after row of strange script in gold inlays were carved in each wall. The floor descended in the middle of the room, and then humped up at the center of the room with a raised hexagonal dias. At each point of the dias was a clear crystal as big around as Konstantin’s arm and taller than he was. The air hummed with power around them, and tiny arcs of energy crackled in the air and along the walls.
He crouched slowly, and examined the floor. All the way through the tunnel that led down to this infernal mountain there was dirt, dust, mud, whatever; here the floor was clean and polished, and seemingly comprised of the same material as the walls and ceiling.
He touched it with his fingertip. Was the entire room polished lapis lazuli?
How was the room cleaned?
He was about to invoke the magical senses he shared with Sirra and caught himself. The amount of magical power that flowed through the mountain was staggering; to engage his senses here was to have them burn out from overload.
He stepped into the room from the doorway, and made a slow circuit of the walls. The gold inlay was script. Massive blocks of script; row after row of text in squarish, blocky runes, none of which he understood.
Was it an instruction manual? Warnings?
He started looking for patterns, some coherence that could be understood, some meaning beyond language that he could grasp, and slowly traversed the room, looking at each character in each line, forcing himself to see them without his eyes glazing over.
it was a shame that Sirra wasn’t conscious. As they had moved through the rooms and tunnels she’d become more and more unstable, weeping constantly and biting her fingers.
He’d had to pinch the sides of her neck and knock her out before he could continue on. Her fear and terror were palpable.
He wondered if she would be all right.
He set her down, her back against the wall, and touched her face. She’d followed him diligently for years.
There was that point where she thought him dead and tried to run away of course, but that was beyond either of their control.
She opened her eyes groggily.
“Ignore your magical senses, Sirra.” He cautioned. “They’ll drive you insane.” she took a ragged breath, and then let it out.
“It’s so hard to ignore them, Konstantin.” She whispered.
Since he’d rescinded his command that she never speak, she seemed only able to speak barely above a whisper.
He nodded. “I know.”
Fixing his eyes on hers, he pointed to the wall she rested against.
“Can you recognize that, Sirra?” He asked.
She turned her head, and nodded slowly, hesitantly.
“Of course. Elemental rune script.” She whispered. “We use certain symbols to empower elemental magic.” She shook her head. “I’ve never seen it used as a language before.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You can’t translate it?”
She shrugged. “An elemental rune can have many meanings, Konstantin.” She finally said, a touch of condescension in her voice.
She pointed at one. “Take this symbol here." She whispered, and picked one out that seemed like a straight vertical slash with a diagonal notch on the right side.
"This is laguz. It can mean many things. Pick one for me, will you?" She asked, took a breath, and began listing. “Flow, water, sea, a fertility source, the healing power of renewal. Life energy and organic growth. mental empowerment. Dreams, fantasies, mysteries, the unknown, the hidden, the deep, the cycle of death and renewal. Fear, circular motion, avoidance, withering. Madness, obsession, despair, perversity, sickness, suicide." She paused. "Those are the magical meanings. For divination, it can also mean success in travel or acquisition, but with the possibility of loss. An indication of a period of confusion in your life. You may be making wrong decisions and poor judgements. Lack of creativity and feelings of being in a rut.”
She smiled a little. “A ‘simple translation’ could take fifty lifetimes.”
He frowned at her, and shook his head. “Then how do you use them for spells if they can mean... anything at all?” He asked, and she touched his hand lightly.
“There are contextual clues, things like alignment, cardinal directions, matching runes with similar meanings. Things like that.” She smiled up at him. “We don’t use it as a language. It’s impossible.” She finished, and pushed herself to a standing position.
“Must I translate everything?” She asked.
He shook his head. “If we could translate it realistically... I would say that we had to, but from what you’ve described... I don’t think we can.” he let out a sigh.
“Why try?” Sirra asked him curiously. He pointed at the woman that hovered in the air over the central dias.
“I think she’s what we came here for.” He replied. “But I need to be careful. I...” He stopped, and his hand lowered.
“I can’t really deny it any longer. I came here to find a weapon.” he finally admitted. “But if it’s her, if she has the weapon, or if somehow she is the weapon... then I have to know as much as I can about her before I act.”
Sirra nodded. It was his way to be thorough and analytical. In fact, it could be said that his thorough, analytical nature had led him down this path in the first place.
*****
"The true gods are both agreeable and convenient, and are eager to lend their aid to any who pray. And why not? Faith is important, after all. But power comes with a price, and the one coin we have is the most precious of all."
"The Goddess watches over us all, you heretic!" A man shouted from the crowd.
Konstantin nodded, confident.
He'd answered this argument before.
"Have we not been told by the pastors that the gods watch over us as the shepherd watches over his flock? Yes, this is true. A shepherd will lead his flock to green pastures that they may flourish. But the shepherd is hungry. What prayers can the ewe make when the shepherd takes the lamb for his stew? The gods are hungry my friends, and the milk of our faith is simply not enough. What they desire most is the meat of our souls. The Gods are hungry, and every prayer you make lowers you just a little bit more into the pot."
*****
He moved towards the central dias.
Between the six central pillars lay a beautiful woman, draped in ancient, rotting clothing, seemingly suspended or perhaps floating in midair. Her hands were folded at her belly and she appeared to be asleep. Her hair was a lustrous, silvery white, like cornsilk or mother of pearl. She had long elf-like ears and incongruently, a pair of what looked to be metal antlers just above the ears. they swept back, following the line of her ear and forked into two tines. He touched her shoulder; her eyes remained closed.
“How do we wake her?” He asked. Sirra shook her head.
*****
He reached the crystalline spire near his hand. there didn’t seem to be a purpose to them. they floated in the air, tapered to long, delicate and razor-sharp points on either side.
He touched the crystal, and a feeling like a strong vibration resonated and sunk into his palm, and then faded. The crystal cycled through the prismatic colors of the rainbow, and then settled into an off-white color, dimmer than it was.
“Konstantin, look.” Sirra whispered urgently.
The other spires cycled through different pastel colors subtly, but the one directly opposite included the creamy color this pillar exhibited. “Like a combination lock.” He mentioned, and pulled out his ubiquitous notebook, and jotted down what he’d observed.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
He moved to each crystal and noted the colors they cycled through and in which order. Once he reached the crystal opposite the one he’d touched, he placed his hand on it.
There was another strong vibration that sank into his palm. his palm tingled, and little prickles seemed to dance on his fingertips. Both crystals flashed a sickly green for a moment and then faded to a neutral off-white.
“Green.” he affirmed, and Sirra nodded.
He pulled out his notebook and examined the pillars. The patterns changed, so he noted down the color sequences again, and found a pillar that flashed green.
He put his hand on it, and took in a sharp breath as a thousand needles stabbed themselves into his palm. He took his hand away and clutched it at the wrist, but his hand was uninjured. He flexed it a few times carefully.
He glanced at the pillar, and it was cycling through several colors.
“it flashed a pale pink.” Sirra spoke up helpfully. He nodded gratefully.
“Thanks.” he said, and moved to the one opposite, and gingerly placed his hand on it.
It was like being stung by a thousand hellwasps. He bit back a scream as the pillar flashed pink along with its opposing twin.
“One pair left.” He panted.
“Are you sure you want to continue, Konstantin?” Sirra whispered at him. “I felt that through our bond.”
He shook his head, blinking back tears. “I don’t know. But there’s only one pair left.” he gasped.
“Any more than that may kill you.” Sirra replied, alarmed. If he died, she would die, she knew.
“I can endure.” He replied, and rose to his feet.
The next pillar was hot, rusty nails that forced themselves through the delicate, sensitive places in his hand, while jagged shards of broken glass seemed to shred whatever was left. Silvery threads of power, tinged with blue and pink wisps, seemed to descend upon the floating girl, settling into her skin.
He drew a ragged breath and turned to Sirra, only to discover she’d passed out in reaction to the pain. He smiled a little at her, and then moved on to the last pillar.
The pain was unbelievable. indescribable. It went beyond the deep, rusty pain of wounds that gouged deep; it went beyond the high, brittle pain of cuts, the searing agony of fire, the bone-numbing cold of ice. His whole arm felt like it was set afire, doused in acid, cut, stabbed, gouged, flayed. It went beyond pain. His bowels felt hot and loose, his consciousness seemed to be drifting away. Dimly, he was aware of the girl sitting up, and scooting off the spot where she lay as if it were a bed.
He let go of the pillar and struggled to maintain his grip on consciousness.
She stared up vacantly at the ceiling for a time, and then looked around the room. "The Weaver is not here." She stated, and then sighed.
She looked over at Konstantin.
“Who are you, that you should wake me from my sleep?” She asked, voice calm and without inflection. Her voice had a strange timbre to it, as if it echoed hollowly in her breast. Konstantin flexed his hand repeatedly, willing the pain away. He tried to force himself to his feet but discovered he couldn’t.
“Konstantin lon Pavlenko.” He gasped out. She moved towards him slowly, pieces of her outfit flaking with each step. She was pale, so pale. There was a tinkling sound that seemed to come from somewhere; the sound of fine silver bells. She squatted slowly next to him, and he looked up into her face. He recoiled in horror. Her eyes were a nauseating swirl of pink and blue shapes that swam and eddied without pupils, irises, or whites, yet he knew instinctively she was looking at him.
Her touch on his arm was light, her fingers cool.
“Do you require assistance, Master?” She asked, and he nodded.
Down on his knees as he was, he noticed a shackle on her right leg, a couple of links dangling from the manacle. Tight neat rows of tiny runes inscribed its surface. He reached out to touch it.
“No.” She stated, and he glanced up at her. She was looking down at him, face blank.
“I don’t understand.” He stated. She said nothing.
He sighed, and moved to stand. Her hand encircled his elbow, and with surprising strength lifted him to his feet easily.
“What are you?” He asked cautiously.
“I am a weapon.”
“Are you a construct, then?” he asked, and she nodded.
“So... you’re a golem, then.” She nodded again.
He reached out and cautiously touched her breast through the rotted clothing she wore. Some of the fabric disintegrated at his touch. Her flesh had the same give as you would expect any flesh, though hers was cool to the touch.
“Are you truly artificial?” he wondered.
“Yes.” She replied.
“I think you’re going to need new clothes.” He remarked.
“If my Master wishes it.” She replied dismissively.
“Would you prefer clothing?” he asked curiously.
“My previous master felt it was necessary.” She replied.
“You have no modesty?” He asked.
“I am a weapon.” She replied flatly. “I ask this of you, my Master: When the task for which you have awoken me for is complete, will you return me to my cradle, so that I may once again sleep?”
It was perhaps the first thing she had said with any independence or self-concern. He regarded her as he carefully weighed his answer.
She was of a height with Sirra, and seemed to have traits that stemmed from the various races that comprised Aggenmor: her height and stature hinted at orcish heritage, and yet her face and ears were elvish, or perhaps Yamato. She had high, aristocratic cheekbones and a shapely mouth, but her eyes were that unpleasant nausea-inducing swirl of pink and blue that moved and shifted seemingly without rhyme.
He was reminded of her artificial nature, though. traceries of silvery metal ran down her neck in organized and complicated mazes, across her collarbones and disappearing into her clothing, which was rotted from age. She had two sinuous antlers coming from above her ears, seemingly comprised of the metal that made up the tracings on her neck, chest, and arms.
His mouth twisted. He sighed. “I did not answer your question.”
“No.” She acknowledged.
“Do you wish to sleep?” He asked. He felt her gaze on him.
“Yes.”
“Why?” He asked.
“I prefer it.” She replied.
He smiled. “So you have preferences! That’s good. That’s very good. I’d like to discuss them with you.”
Her head turned, she looked at him. “Why?”
He blinked a couple of times. “I think it would help.” He replied. “you know, make things ... smoother.”
“What is my target?” She asked.
He hesitated. He didn’t want to say it. He knew he had no choice. He could not wake her without a target. For a moment he idly considered giving her some smaller target, the Grand bloody Cardinal of Darnell, perhaps.
No, he couldn’t. He knew what needed to be done. He closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. He opened his eyes.
“The Goddess Inanna.” He stated.
Her face remained blank. the shapes in her eyes moved and flowed together and apart in unpleasant ways.
“I am not equipped for interplanar travel.” she finally said. He let out a breath he did not realize he was holding.
“We intended to fight her here.” he said.
“You would have to summon her here from her home plane.” she remarked dismissively.
He nodded. She looked at him, and her eyes narrowed. “You serve her.”
He shook his head. “I did. I used to. I can’t, not anymore. I reject her.”
“If you no longer accept her, how do you intend to summon her?” She asked.
“Well... that’s where you come in, actually. We believe that if we destroy enough of her temples and kill enough of her clergy...”
“She will appear in this plane to take her vengeance.” she completed for him. He nodded.
“This is acceptable to me.” She replied. “However, be aware that when she arrives in this plane, she will only be a fragment of her true self, a fraction of her true power. She would not risk everything.”
“I hadn’t considered that.” He remarked. “Will you have a problem fighting her?”
She shook her head. “I am a weapon.”
He slowly helped Sirra up and patted her face gently until she was awake.
“Konstantin.” She whispered. “I was sure you had died.” He shook his head slowly. “No, not dead. You got off lucky, passing out like you did.” He remarked wryly, and pointed to the golem.
“Shit.” Sirra gasped.
*****
The hall seemed safer than the way he came in. The way in was filled with tripwires, traps, and was almost impassible. The hallway he’d started down was empty, and well illuminated.
Suddenly, from the walls, floor, and ceiling, all directions at once, a storm of brilliant lightning, and a roar of thunder that was so cacophonic it threatened to split his eardrums erupted in that hallway. He fell to his knees, screaming from the noise. All at once, the cannonade of thunder vanished, replaced by silence so quickly that he doubted his ears, which still rang.
“Nothing living may pass.” The golem stated hollowly.
He gestured to the hall again. “I have an antimagic field. It might suffice-” He started, and she cut him off.
“It will not.” She replied.
“Do we head back the way we came?” He asked. She looked up. He followed her gaze. The ceiling was no longer lapis lazuli; instead it was some fantastic rainbow-hued crystal, and the light that filtered through was multihued, fractured into individual colors.
“We may fly out.” She replied. She raised her hand at waist level, and a staff appeared in her hand. It was lavishly constructed with silvery metals in angular patterns. It, like her manacle, was covered in tight rows of tiny runic script. Tiny blue flecks of energy flowed down the metallic traces in her body to the staff, flowing into the runes on the staff. segments of the runic text blinked on and off in a indecipherable pattern, and the crystal ceiling retracted from a central point, creating a shaft to the surface.
*****
“What should I call you?” he asked as they sat next to the fire.
“Whatever pleases you.”
“No, I meant, what is your name?”
“What name would you wish me to have?” She asked.
“The one you own as yours.”
“I have many names.”
“How many are epithets?” He asked, amused.
“Almost all.” She replied blandly.
“Which ones aren’t?” He asked.