On a large central pavilion overhanging the wide gate that occupied an almost gratuitously large space in the wall facing them, no doubt intended for ceremonial uses in addition to allowing for assaults from above for anyone attacking the gate, appeared a group of people.
They were obviously the powers that be in Kistalfer, what with all the banners flying, the nice armor gleaming in the light of the Twins, and the rather imposing aura that rolled off of them. Five men and women.
The black armored man with a fan-damn-tastically large, single-bitted axe in his hand, held with ease speaking of phenomenal strength, must be the warlord Baron of rumor. Ulric had to admit that he wished he could carry himself with that kind of assured dignity. Majestically silver embossed armor of midnight metal, worn casually as a silk cloak. War axe held like a scepter for court. Helmet in other hand, as if an afterthought, because none would question the edicts issued from the bare face of the Baron of Kistalfer.
Nobody was in charge but this man wherever he went, that was the feeling Ulric got.
Number two on his threat detector was the woman to his left, her long red auburn braided hair trailing nearly to the ground. That was impressive because she was taller than the Baron, who was not a small man, and her heavy, ochre metal, armor looked like it belonged welded on the old Mk II Leopards in pre collapse mechanized cavalry. She had a colossal Sith, a two handed cutting blade strapped to her back.
To the Baron's right was a grey beard in a deplorable robe that had once been of incredible finery. Stained, ragged at the hems, patched in a dozen places, and long salt and pepper beard tucked into his breaches, the robed old man was not by himself so imposing. He was, however, leaning propped up against staff taller than he was, made of what appeared to be platinum, [True Steel], in the lingo of this world, burnished copper, and some metal of a blue not quite as deep as his own [Deathless Steel] Xef'tocht. At the apex of the staff was an amethyst about the size of Ulric's head, carved into dizzying facets that appeared to spiral inwards, even from this distance. That it was a catalyst of superior power was obvious. What few might know that couldn't feel the flows of mana that snapped around it through the fields of Varda's magical flows was that it was attuned to Ceraun. Strongly. That old man was a lightning caller of highest order, or Ulric would eat his belt.
Next to the old human wizard was a whip thin woman in light mail and grey scale armor, a huge warbow on her back and a long rapier on her hip. The arrows in her uniquely designed quiver were damned near as long as her legs, with bright metal broadheads with barbs on them. Small spears, launched from a bow that was probably damned near a ballista in action. From that height advantage she could probably just about reach them, provided her aim was on point. Ulric had a feeling her aim was fine.
The last was a Magister of Prosper, his gold chains of office and white with gilded thread robe clearly pronouncing who he was and who he served. Ulric wasn't leaving Kistalfer until that man was dead. He considered it a personal debt to an old wolf he had briefly called friend to kill every single Magister he came across.
The sight of the magister sent his core into a high rev, mana cycling loaded with intent. Magic was will. Will powered the Way, birthed the paths of power shaped by desire to shape the world. Ceraun coiled inside him like an adder readying. He could probably reach that far with a [Lightning Javalin]. It would be most of what he could do to make the streamer of breakdown potential and hold it over that kind of distance but he could do it. Smite that fucker right off the wall. The hand holding the "standard" clenched, the greenwood creaking from the pressure.
Thin violet arcs played over his knuckles and down the staff to the earth below. Temper Ulric, he warned himself, You're leaking.
"Calm yourself, Glade Chief. There will be time, I promise. Your enemies are mine and they will not live when we have decided it is meet to strike them down." Taipan comforted, in her Taipan way.
Three deep breaths he took and settled the roiling energy streaming through the arcane nexus in his chest. Fine. For now.
"I have it now, Taipan. Thank you." He told her, grateful for the reality check.
They weren't here to prosecute a grudge. He wanted some boats and crews, fairly paid for, that was all.
Peace, Ulric. Until they choose war. Then you can kill them all to death, the menacing growl came from the Lord Instinct. Seeing so many in one place that might challenge him had the urge to dominate and destroy riled. He clamped down on it, sending it to a muted whisper in his hindbrain.
"Let's go, Taipan. They've had their little inspection. Time enough to know we are not attacking or with army at our backs. Surely they realize we did not come to fight, two alone against a fortress." Ulric urged his partner, taking off at a stately walk, calm as could be.
Together, the Valin Reforged and his Iriel'en Huntress made casual progress toward the looming walls of Kistalfer and her Lord's court. They could have been taking a stroll through Irielhos, if not for the staff hung with helmets, defeated foe attempting her thrashing from her bindings, and the, maybe enemy, city before them. Gusting winds off the Vatyn carried sea salt and warm humidity as it rustled the grass and low shrubs of the coast in their passage. Clouds gathered from the great inland sea. Grey things, wispy high above, low and rain laden low down. Probably going to be some rain this afternoon, Ulric noted.
The working was subtle, practiced, and careful, which was why Ulric's mana senses did not pick it up. Not until the amethyst flared Ceraun. The field around them prickled with collecting charge, raising the hairs on his arms.
Instincts drilled by a skeletal Aes'r archmage's random tests had Ulric's strength arraying before the suddenness of the attack registered consciously. Webs of lightning tore into the air around him, enshrouding his lover as well, and a cocoon of Ceraun snapped into place, reminiscent of the shell he'd made so long ago when he awakened.
Just in time to intercept the massive thunderbolts hurled against him by the old man standing on the castle wall, the clouds he'd conjured secretly feeding him their energies in brilliant bolts from on high. Thunder cracked from the Skylances gathered by the catalyst staff from their birthings, streaming from the wizard to destroy Ulric and his mate.
Faraday cages were simple things, really. Conductive routes to guide electromagnetic waves towards a ground, the sensitive electronics or biological substances within them completely isolated from harm. Ulric caught the incoming lightning and held it in the flows of his own magic, tasting the notes of his enemy's inflections on the familiar waveform of Ceraun. Faint notes of Caelum and Aquae contaminated the magic, in a combination he now knew as Nephel, cloud mana, which had birthed the lightning in the feat he'd explained to Taipan that he would not mirror. The harmonies of energies were similar to that of the [Thunderhorn Sheep], and lessons learned there applied here. The Reforged circulated the captured mana, wresting it from its initial form.
White jagged spears flashed in again, joining their fellows in Ulric's aetheric grip, roaring around, trapped in the coils of Ceraun that had once shielded him from the touch of an elemental that might have been a god.
Riding the currents of his Ceraun, the old Nephel Mage's attack did not reach him, nor, more importantly, the treasured hide of his mate. Despite the raw power of the working, it was a weak thing, uncontrolled, unchained, the lightning completely divested of the mage too afraid to immerse himself in the flow of it, too ignorant to know how to rule the energies he tried to wield.
Ulric swallowed the mana whole, drank it in and bent the Ceraun to his will with the Watcher's crafting that he had evolved to the purpose of taming that force. Carefully, so as not to overload his mana conduits, Ulric used Bathe's teachings to saturate his flesh, absorbing the excess, before bringing his core to saturation. The extra he delivered into the earth below, where it harmlessly dissipated, the arcing, crackling energies vanishing after a few, brief, seconds.
So, the [Lord the of the Ancient Glade] concluded. That was it then? That is all this world's lightning callers had to offer, even armed with an instrument designed to facilitate the control of one of the four great forces that turn the universe? Pathetic.
He was tempted to [Core Capacitor] the lot of them over there. Shed the energies within his body in a single pure moment of annihilation. Show them how it is truly to be done sort of thing. Better not, he warned himself. He was already dancing on the edge of the elemental's notice, he could feel it. The Prime to which his core was attuned was out there, striving to connect everything together.
Taipan, not being overly sensitive to the movements of the charges in the air or the mana displaced by it, hadn't known what was coming until she was surrounded by lightning bolts. By the time the thunder was done echoing, the coruscating air was free of the things, leaving behind only the curious scent of burned air. She turned to her chosen mate, the odd Valin reforged who had always told her that Vardan mages were wrong in their castings of lightning. She had scolded him for arrogance and for not understanding the matter on which he spoke. That she still existed now was thanks to her partner's truth speaking on that subject. They should both of them be destroyed, the field where they stood burned and smoking. Instead, not so much as a whisper of scorched grass remained of the violent energies that had, with such impetus, tried to scour them.
"I am apologizing now, Ulric, for telling you that you were wrong about the wielding of Skylances. Whatever insanity that went on your old world, you are the greater of our magi in the wielding of Ceraun." She conceded.
Ulric grinned, triumphant. He knew he'd convince her, eventually. He wasn't sure how he'd do it, but here they were! Being proven right was a sweet beverage to sip indeed.
Radiating pure satisfaction, Ulric uttered the words he'd waited so long to say, "Told you so."
*********************On the Battlements of Kistalfer*****************************
"Welp, consider me retired." Announced the wizened Magus in his battered robe, the moment the calculated preemptive attack failed.
Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.
The old man looked at the crystalline facets of the gem in his priceless catalyst staff as if betrayed, then shook his shaggy mane of unkempt hair, beard tugging free of his robes to gust in the wind.
The Baron, who was struggling to maintain his even disposition in the face of incredible surprise, on two accounts, turned to take in the gruff sorcerer.
"What is the meaning of this, Geras?" Baron Kistalfer asked quietly, two questions loaded into one.
"That pup down there just ate the best shot I could throw at him, like godsdamned Gother the Unending Grove Cenur'it himself." The aged Magus declared, bluntly.
"I've kept a set of clouds on hand for days now, just in case an army presented itself at our gates. Seeing as how those two stroll up with a pole that seemed to have our lad's helmets, and their captain by the look of it, strapped to it, I figured this is what we were afraid of. Seemed prudent to put an end to the problem before it could become a bigger one." The Mage explained, which put the others standing upon the platform on edge.
Magus Geras was a known entity in this part of the world. Seasoned veteran of hundreds of combats, Master Adept Cloud Mage, holding the title of Weaver to go along with this for his control of the magics that went into turning the weather into a weapon. Mage Geras, with the staff he'd made himself, was a legend in his own right, which was why Baron Kistalfer tolerated the old man's salty mouth and insubordinate attitudes. They considered a duel to be too even to settle directly and so tolerated one another's mismatched personalities.
That the old Wizard controlled a gathering of clouds to smite an enemy army for a period of days was evidence enough of the mage's talent. Cloud working was known to be intricate and sustaining it an exacting enterprise. That Geras' masterstroke had failed utterly was unthinkable. Baron Tras Kistalfer knew that he could not withstand Geras' [Fulminant Spear], a conjured lightning using the power of the Vatyn's stormy skies as its source. The man standing with his Aes'r companion had not withstood the spell. He had dominated it. That was a feat that merited consideration.
"And you are certain that it was the man, not the Iriel'en beside him that was responsible? It is known that the traditions of the Deep Woods Elves in the arcane go back into deep history." Baron Kistalfer probed.
"Not a chance." Geras, scoffed, ragged throat full of disdain, "The Brownie didn't even know I'd hit them until she was beyond dead."
The mage coughed, loosened phlegm, spat, then continued, "Besides, I felt that bastard reach out and subsume the magic. I don't know how in the hells he managed it, but he took my spell into himself and came away clean, when he should have evaporated. Sorry Baron, but it seems my service is of no use to you here."
"What value is this whining old man then?!" Lambasted the Magister, "The moment an enemy appears, he is useless, after all his strutting about the keep! We are being attacked!"
Mage Geras, without word, wound his power, Nephel billowing, churning through his core. The Wizard was in the act of shaping a spell to freeze the air inside the Magister's lungs, before expanding to free itself explosively from the pompous fool's body, when the Baron put a hand on the old man's shoulder, halting his treason.
"Magister, you are ungenerous to your Battlemages," Siegebreaker Kistalfer corrected calmly, ignoring the scraping sound made as his gauntlet tightened upon the axe it held, "Master Geras is potent, of that I can assure you, or I would not suffer his crass wit. Our foe appears to have some unknown craft. It is unwise to reach conclusion before scouting the terrain and your panic is unseemly."
"Hild?" The Baron asked, the rest of his orders implied.
The archer immediately bent her skills on the pair, eyes shimmering gold as she enhanced her vision to eagle perception.
"None in the trees distant, the two are alone. They are what they seem, no glamours. The sword the barbarian carries is an Artifact, the armor of the pair is of immaculate quality but not artifact. The standard they bear does have the helmets of the missing soldiers upon it, and that is Praetorian Triella bound to the end of it, wounded badly, but alive. The panther skull on the staff has a Nephel core in its jaws. I can detect a Ceraunic core and an Iskios core between the two of them. The Elf is deeply classed, an assassin, I think. The man is odd, classes immature but potent, a mage, but there is an element of close combat buried in his aura." Reported the deeply classed Ranger.
"The Praetorian lives?!! We must have her returned, Prosper demands it!" Shrieked the Magister.
"Prosper can lick her own bleeding arse! That's either an Archmage down there or damned close to it, and we wouldn't be here if that Barbarian decided we shouldn't be." Geras said flatly, which pronouncement poured ice down spines.
An Archmage changed things. Changed them quite a lot. Baron Kistalfer wasn't going to throw the lives of his people away at the behest of a fool Magister, or that Magister's unfailing pride in the power wielded by Merchant Lords a fortnight distant. The Baron kept his attention on the enemy in front of him, and that enemy had a man he knew to be without softness or cowardice unnerved.
"The Aes'r Iriel'en is Geyrt Iriel, daughter of the Blood Moon." Hild said, suddenly compounding the situation.
Baron Kistalfer took that information and began careful calculations. The two had approached his city alone, without army at their backs. They had made of his soldiers and their still living Captain a banner. No doubt intended to inform him as to the fates of the detachment sent out to investigate the rebels. Also no doubt intended to intimidate him and his people with their prowess. Did that mean that an army of Iriel'en awaited him out there in his forests?
He considered the odds of that for only a moment before discarding it. The Knife Ears were good, but no one was that good. Not an army, perhaps a detachment of a few triads of their Hunters, at most. Enough to be a honor guard for their princess? To what end? And where had a Barbarian Wizard of such puissance come from? Why? Too many unknowns, too many angles of attack, potential traps to ensnare unwary feet. These were the hallmarks of the Iriel'en at war. However, the Deep Woods Elves did not consort with Otherkin, it was known. They had closed their borders since his grandfather's time, why now would they have partnered with the Barbarian tribes of the Outer Reaches?
"Baron, they are approaching. They come for parley, I think." Miria told him, one of few unafraid to interrupt her liege's ponderings.
His body guard was a prize, a child captured by his father in campaigns against the Barbarians and brought home to be raised at his side as his duenna. Beautiful of form, a ferocious fighter, completely devoted to his household, and his favored concubine. She would likely be the one to produce the children that continued his line, when they matriculated. She had refused his offer of marriage, as she bore no interest in the squabblings of courts or indulging the petty obligations of being a baroness. She was a sword for her Baron, until she died, and he would respect that decision. Which did not mean she had no guile or wit, Baron Tras Kistalfer knew better than to second guess his most trusted adjutant's judgments on these matters.
"We will hear them." He decided immediately.
"What?!" The Magister exclaimed disbelieving, "You cannot entertain the great enemies of Prespang, they are lowly savages, to be culled. Surely, Baron, this is some jest. It is preposterous, treasonous, you cannot mean-"
"Magister, our mages are certainly dead, along with many of Kistalfer's soldiers." Kistalfer's Lord said, iron in his voice, cutting off further objection like a blade falling.
"There are rumors of war, rebellion, and a failed attack upon the Orlethrem in the winds and now, of all times, the Blood Thorn approaches my wall with a man who turned aside the stroke of one of the strongest Battlemages I have ever fought with. They carry with them your Praetor, alive, no doubt intentionally so, which means they intend to use her to threaten or bargain. If you want Triella returned to Prosper, we should hear them out. If I am to preserve my citizens from harm, I must know what the enemy intends, which means I must hear them out. Thus have I decided." the Baron spoke, concluding the matter.
"I will go myself, you as well, Miria, and you Geras. Hild, Magister, you are to remain behind the walls in safety, to keep the city in my absence." He commanded, knowing his chief scout understood that she was truly to be serving in his stead and that the Magister was being given face to, at least publicly, show respect to his office.
"Master Geras, if the Barbarian mage demands your head for the unprompted attack, you will bend your neck to receive the cut. Is my will known clearly enough?" Baron Kistalfer asked evenly, almost as an afterthought.
The old man went still a moment before accepting his orders. Dead was dead, and the Barbarian hadn't returned the stroke, so it was possible he wouldn't take the Mage's life. Siege breaker Kistalfer would cleave him down the middle if he tried to break ranks.
"Aye, my Lord Baron. I suppose I will, given the alternatives. At least I'll get to say I got to see Geyrt Iriel in person before I go, eh?" He laughed.
Few ever did so and lived, and she was rumored to be a flawless gem of her kind.
**************************Outside Kistalfer**************************************
"They appear to have made up their minds, Glade Chief." Taipan reported.
Following the magical onslaught he and his wife had remained where they were. There was some somewhat animated conversation going on, although, most of the racket was coming from the white robed Magister. The rest seemed fairly laid back, considering the murder they'd attempted.
Ulric was still uncertain what to do about that. Part of him, anot insignificant, insisted that retaliation was in order. Something along the lines of a [Vortex Flare] inside the city, to remind these men that there were consequences for their actions.
He still resisted the necessity for involving civilians in this conflict, even though no real shield should that be. These people lived under the flag of Prosper. They were all of them his enemies until that flag fell, when you got right down to it. Even so. Some things should not be done, not until last resort. Or until they managed to invoke his wrath. Ulric knew better than to believe himself a saint.
If they'd hurt Taipan in that lightning attack he would level Kistalfer, burn her from the continent, and pour the ocean in on her ashes. Those were the old rules and Ulric Einar was an old fashioned man.
The lady herself was taking their attempt with somewhat better grace than he himself. She'd more or less suggested that it was to be expected that their enemy would try to revenge themselves for the death of their army.
He noted as much when three of the people on the proud pavilion retreated from the wall and appeared at the gate flying a white flag, which, in a coincidence that he found mindboggling, also meant truce on this world. What were the odds? Or perhaps it was simply a logical conclusion. Or something.
"They have always been as such, Ulric," She'd told him, far more reasonably than he was expecting for one who spent much of her life killing these people for revenge sake, "Ever did the Otherkin fail to reckon properly with the pain of the counterstroke, receiving it as if unanticipated, that they should bleed for their aggressions."
Well, fuck them anyways.
"So then, I should not send their lightning back to them, with perhaps a little [Stormfire] on the side, to remind them to mind their manners?" He checked, almost eagerly for the okay.
Taipan's ears twitched with humor at the not quite joking tone of his question. It was the sort of thing her Father might say, before disintegrating an offensive dignitary or one who thought that their father's father's name would permit them to challenge Bald'rt Iriel in his own hall.
"No, Ulric. At least, not yet. It was your purpose to obtain ships for the passage of your vassals, not to raze the homes of the enemy. I am your Shadow still, and my duty is to advance your cause. Your anger, as lovely as it is when it burns on mine behalf, must needs wait until your people are safe. We can always return to exact vengeance, if you decide it so." She argued, keeping her emerald eyes on the prize, as she always did.
"So be it, Lady of the Ancient Glade," Ulric conceded, letting the fury down to a simmer, "They will live for awhile longer. But another whisper of insult toward you and I will not be responsible. Those dickhead Orlethrem will have to learn to enjoy walking, should our hosts here insist on being rude."
The Baron himself was coming, riding a great dark grey bird, massive orange hooked beak that looked like a hawk's, churning along long digitigrade legs, wide taloned feet shredding the soft soil beneath as it ran, its long tail plume elegant in the sunslight.
A black Chocobo?! Ulric knew that his surprise was ridiculous, there had been three species of bipedal large bird on Old Earth, immediately before the Collapse. It wasn't even unlikely that someone would think to saddle a three meter tall bird that ran as fast as a car. Still. He wanted one. The other mounts were of a slightly lesser size, though still impressive. They came in a variety of colors, burnished browns and greys mostly, with streaks of black. Only the Baron's was a solid shade of plumage.
"Taipan, I'm gonna steal his bird. That critter is too cool." Ulric told her, in a dead pan that prevented her from knowing if he was being humorous or not.
"I must inform you that doing so would sour our attempts at diplomacy. If you feel you have the leverage, you may demand his mount in exchange for the living prisoner, though. That may pass." His Shadow advised, trying not to sigh at her partner's antics.
Stupid Baron, riding up here all dignified and shit. Let him try to keep his armor that clean after walking across the whole bloody continent and staving off whatever mega fauna decided to try to eat him the whole way. Probably has armor maids and everything.
"If I'm a Lord now, do I get armor maids too?" Ulric asked.
Taipan rolled her eyes at him but didn't say that he did not get armor maids, which meant that he did. Score! There might be some upside to hauling all these dependents around in the end.
The trio closed in and Ulric put aside bullshitting Taipan to focus. Sarcasm and absurdity were just how he responded to pressure. Just at the moment, with three individuals approaching who were heavy weights if he ever saw them, Ulric was feeling quite a bit of pressure. There were almost three hundred lives riding on this.
Don't fuck it up, don't fuck it up, don't fuck it up, Ulric chanted to himself, while the short minutes passed between the entourage closed the scant quarter kilometer remaining between them.
"I have your flanks, Ulric. If they move to attack, hold nothing back. You may unleash that ridiculous core to your heart's content, I will see you home safely." Assured Taipan.
And it was reassuring. Thanks to the old prick with his beard tucked in his trousers, Ulric was running full charge, with extra measures enriching his marrow. He felt like he was vibrating a little from all the Ceraun circulating through his system. The Lord Instinct whispered violence and obliteration songs in the back of his mind, as it did. Should negotiations break down, Ulric was going to stress test their defenses against [Stormfire]. He fingered the Ash catalyst in his belt pouch. One big charge from that, and Adept Werona's [Pyroclasm] would engulf the lot of them, shame about the device being ruined. It had saved he and his wife’s lives though, and he couldn’t ask more than that from an incomplete prototypes. He’d solve his [Arcanite Diamond] problem one day.
It took a literal shake of his head to get him back on track, gods did his mind ever wander.
Thusly satisfied that things were going as well as could be hoped, Ulric straightened and made sure his standard was held firmly. Today, Ulric Einar, [Lord of the Ancient Glade], was going to get his way.