4.9 - Let Them See, Lest We Forget

     A mercenary is no compass with which one may guide a city. We are hewn from the grudge of the scorned, and no word from behind our fanged teeth will persuade these aristocrats otherwise. Irfan’s thoughts were drowned out by the booming voice of Lord Calbris, one of the seven council members of Tumo Krasis. For a third day Irfan had brought his fears of the central kingdom to bear before the council, and for a third day, a new member of the council had taken in his fears, warped them beyond recognition, and regurgitated them back at him as the paranoid ramblings of a broken down war hero. 

     “An entire kingdom full of unspeakable evil,” Calbris said mockingly, much to the enjoyment of the other council members. “Bubbling over like a forgotten pot of stew! You may be adept at the hunting of men, but leave the movements of the Barge to those of us who understand it a little more. The God’s Pearl is abandoned and the entire kingdom of Vesh’Tal was cleared of all infection at the end of The Collapse nearly three hundred years ago. The land is naught but fauna and ghosts, as it has been since before we were all born. The fear you peddle will do nothing but stir a frenzy amongst the hardworking folk of this city, which may I remind you, is the finest city of industry across the entirety of the Barge of Souls. We produce nearly half of the weapons and spell-receptive infrastructure on the continent. Do you understand what would happen, should we stir up a mindless panic based on your inane paranoia? Every city would knock down our doors demanding that their orders be fulfilled, while the good people who should be working the forges and factories make for the hills, fleeing from the apparitions of an ancient war. This is foolishness and a waste of our time. I move that the council prevent the Moiraspida from presenting any other arguments henceforth concerning the Vesh’Tal. All in favor?” 

     Before Irfan, Faiza, or Nasrikonda could bat an eye, five of the seven council members raised a hand. 

     “It is done,” Calbris said. “Irfan, you and your associates may not bring forth any complaints concerning or related to Vesh’Tal, the God’s Pearl, or the central kingdom as a whole. You are dismissed unless there is something else you wish to ask of us.” 

     Faiza touched Irfan’s hand, using their kinship as san renomo to project her thoughts into his mind. Don’t. She thought. We may still need these people. Don’t burn a bridge that we may be able to use to usher the people of this city to safety. Irfan looked at each member of the council. Even the two who had refrained from voting looked thoroughly disinterested in him. 

     “Thank you for your time, council,” he said, bowing as weakly as he possibly could before flooding out of the room like a crashing wave of water breaking free from a dam, Nasrikonda and Faiza tumbling behind him as flotsam and jetsam in the surf. 

     “I rue the day I recruited two even-headed pacifists to my band of sellswords,” Irfan said, downing the wine in his glass and waving for another from the overworked bartender. “Calbris and his cronies deserved to hear what I really think of them.” 

Nasrikonda sliced his baked potato in half, plopping one half onto Redoubt’s plate and forking down a mouthful himself. 

     “Aye, I reckon they do,” he said in between bites. “But you and I both know it’s not about them. It’s about these folk, all around us. Just trying to get through another day.” 

     “Besides,” Faiza said, hands clasped behind her head as she leaned on the pillar behind her. “You taught me when to hold my tongue, so if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s your own.” 

     Irfan rubbed beneath his eyes with his thumb and pointer finger. 

     “I was afraid of that,” he mumbled. “Domonkos, any word from Marietta?” 

     The Carshgan, his hat and veil resting on the table next to him, shook his head. 

     “No word as of yet,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise of the tavern, a full octave lower than anything else. Marietta along with Polos and Acrieta had taken up a position along the hills to the south of Tumo Krasis, keeping watch over the southern plains between the Cup of Benediction and the city. 

     Redoubt cleared their throat and spoke up for the first time since they had all arrived at the Fulcrum Tavern. 

     “In our current state of failing to make much of anything in the way of progress, I would say that no word is as good as we could hope for. Even so, something will give sooner rather than later, and I’m afraid that the people will bear the brunt of it.” 

SJ

     Irfan stared into Redoubt’s green eyes, tinted with gold along the edges of their pupils. They were right. If the festering evil of the central kingdom showed itself, the people of Tumo Krasis would feel it long before anyone else, save perhaps the irilocs in Wolf. If what the Moiraspida had faced in the monastery emerged in large numbers, Tumo Krasis would be nothing but a field of wheat before the scythe. Domonkos clicked his tongue, a signal used amongst the Moiraspida to indicate that a stranger was listening. Irfan looked at Domonkos, who nodded his head slightly to the left, towards a hooded man sitting at a table alone, nursing an ale. Irfan stood up from the table and picked up his new glass of wine before casually walking over to the man’s table and plopping down across from him. The man looked up and smiled as if he expected as much. He sported a thick but well-groomed beard that was thoroughly speckled with gray. A pack sat next to him overflowing with the tools of a craftsman. 

     “Hello there,” Irfan said. “Don’t believe we’ve met. I am Irfan, and these lovely folk are the mercenary band I employ. Something I can help you with?” 

     The man pulled his hood down and smiled a little wider. 

     “Lovely to meet you,” he said. “I think I might be the one to help you, not the other way around.” 

     Irfan’s brow tightened as he examined the man and his pack a little closer. 

     “Cobbler's tools, and old ones at that,” he said. “What’s a shoemaker have to offer that is beyond our reach?”

     The man gasped and put a hand to his chest. 

     “I didn’t take you for a snob,” he said, looping an arm around his pack and pulling it close to him. “I’ll let it slide, on account of the sheer killing power I seem to be surrounded by. As for what I have to offer, well, let’s say cobbling is more of a hobby than a job. I’m something of a mercenary myself, only I work for the people. Perhaps you’ve heard of what happened in Tourmaline?” 

     Irfan shook his head. The man sighed and his overwhelming confidence faltered for a moment. 

     “One day somebody is going to say yes…” he mumbled under his breath before regaining his composure. “Regardless, I can help you push the council into preparing for the war to come. And I do believe you, that a war is coming. I’ve seen the beasts with my own eyes.” 

     What an odd man, Irfan thought. 

     “Very well, cobbler,” he said. “How do you plan on pushing the council? Putting tacks in their shoes?” 

     The man smiled and reached into his pack. Domonkos shifted aggressively towards him, but Irfan held up a hand and calmed him. The cobbler pulled out a stack of parchment and letters. 

     “I have dirt on almost every single one of them,” he said. “Enough to end their careers, were the people to see it. This city is built on blood and bribes and the council knowingly sacrificing the health and well-being of its people. Now I could leak this and bring down the council…or…we could use it to push them into, at the very least, arming the city and preparing the defenses for what’s coming.” 

     The cobbler paused to sip his ale, then continued with a wry smile. 

     “And then I leak the information.”

     Domonkos was the only other Moiraspida close enough to hear the hushed conversation between Irfan and the cobbler. Irfan smiled as, for the first time in months, he heard Domonkos laugh. 

#

     Anselm splashed a handful of water from the river onto the back of his neck, and the sides of his face. It had been years since the old gardener had traveled this far, but at long last, he stood before Paruul’s Bazaar. The river split in four directions, and at the fork was a dense collection of docked ships and beautifully constructed wooden buildings. In some cases, Anselm had a hard time telling them apart. Some houses had the elegance and swooping curves of a ship, while some docked ships were clearly used as homes or places of business. Paruul’s Bazaar was a mercantile hub, and crucially important to the trade of the entire eastern half of The Barge of Souls, but even more so, it was a sanctuary for Saorin and Carshgan alike. Baramen Osh founded Zotzotl’s Chorus to assist in the escort of Saorins and Carshgans to safe lands, and help them transition should they be so-called. It was an organization of smugglers that faced much scrutiny but survived off of the strength of the position of Paruul’s Bazaar. No one dared to threaten the hub of trade, at least directly, for fear of retribution from practically everyone. 

     Anselm drifted through the busy streets, unsure of who or what he was looking for. Tumo Barugh, the celestial being that emerged from, or had always been, his wife Galene, had bid him to come. He inquired in town about a place to stay and found a room above a market that was cheap and available, probably because of the noise and smell of fish. He spent the next three days exploring the town, enjoying local delicacies, and talking to all manner of folk. Each night, he would lay in his small room above the fish market and talk to Galene, in the hopes that somehow, the message could carry to the being she was now. She would have loved Paruul’s Bazaar. The scents, the food, and the culture of dozens of cities collided in a vibrant collage of life. Each morning, before journeying out around town, he would gently check the makeshift vase of ember lilies he had brought with him. Sometimes misting the petals with water, or ever so gently straightening the stems. 

     On his fourth day in town, there was a great swell of activity. When he asked a young san renomo outside of the market what was happening, the boy excitedly pointed towards the river. 

     “The Servitor is back!” 

     Anselm followed the crowd towards one of the largest docks in Paruul’s Bazaar where a merchant vessel gently glided into port, loaded with crates and more than a few passengers. It had been dozens of years since Anselm had seen survivors of war, but it was a sight you don’t easily forget. They were huddled together, bruised and cut, but the look on their face was what was so easily identifiable. What they had been through distanced them from everything around them. They were on the deck of the ship that now rested gently in port beneath a midday sun, but at the very same time, they were far away. The world that Anselm and the people around him inhabited was a very different one than that of the refugees on the Servitor. 

     The crew of the Servitor began to unload their cargo and help the passengers off, and suddenly Anselm’s search was ended. The captain of the ship stepped onto the dock with her arm under one of the passengers, gingerly handing them off to a crew prepared to administer medical aid to those who might need it. Selouise, the san renomo from the Mullentia War, was older and more weathered, but he immediately recognized her face. Anselm waited for the ship to be cleared, and most of the crowd to disperse before he made his way toward her. She looked exhausted from the trip, trudging down the dock with her crew behind her when she glanced toward him. They locked eyes, and for a moment, Anselm was sure she didn’t recognize him. Of course not, he thought, it’s been so long. Then, her face lit up with a smile as wide and deep as the river. She ran towards him and threw her arms around him. 

     “I thought I’d never see you again,” she said. 

     “As did I,” Anselm said. “Look at you, captain. You’ve come a long way.” 

     Selouise pulled back from the hug, holding his arms warmly. Tears welled in her eyes. 

     “We have a lot of catching up to do,” she said. “And, quite frankly, I could use your advice once more. Something seems to be awakening. We’re bringing in more and more refugees by the day, each with a more unbelievable story than the last.” 

     “I am here to help, as much as I can,” Anselm said. “But temper your expectations. I am just a gardener now.” 

     A bellowing interrupted Selouise, and the two of them looked upward. Soaring overhead towards the Central Kingdom was a massive being. Its body was thin and shining in the sun, bright blues and golds reflecting toward the ground below. It sported four limbs, each with brutally wide and sharp talons. Its neck ended in not one but two heads, moving independently of one another, each one crowned in a mane of white hair. Both faces were much like that of an owl, with wide eyes and hooked brown beaks. The being spun and luxuriated in the air, flowing forward on two wings that were large enough to shield entire swaths of Paruul’s Bazaar from the sunlight. 

     Trailing behind it was another being, this one nearly the inverse of the one before it. Where the first being was smooth and flowing, this one was stuttering and made up of odd, sharp angles. Where the first being flew, this being seemed to be propelling itself. Each side of its body-if it could be called that-shifted heavily from front to back, generating the momentum to keep it careening forward and creating loud thunderclaps with each shift. There were no arms or legs per se, but hundreds of rotating pieces that changed the shape of the being as it moved. Where a head should be, there was a wide sloping loop, inside of which was nothing but purple darkness that cascaded tumultuously through its frame. Long tendrils of sea kelp hung loosely from the being, and patches of algae grew along its sides. With each shift of its body algae was shaken loose, to fall harmlessly below. At first, Anselm thought it was chasing the being in front of it, but then he noticed the two to be flying in tandem. A dance of two beings, through the cloudless sky like constellations springing to life before him. Anselm and Selouise watched in silence as the beings disappeared over the low hills toward the central kingdom. 

“I am beginning to think…” Selouise quietly began. “That we are all just gardeners now.” 

#

“This way!” Gorudonda ushered forward the mass of shivering survivors towards the safe bubble of Wolf. The city of Osterhold, both the Saorin settlement above ground and the Carshgan settlement in the caves, had fallen. From what Gorudonda had gathered, the threat came without warning, from tunnels beneath the city. The ones who had survived were clinging to life. Some were frostbitten, others were bloodied or suffering from broken bones. Gomesonda, an iriloc who Gorudonda recognized from many years ago, was half-conscious while her aegis worked to heal a massive wound in her stomach from what looked to be a horn or tusk of some sort. Gorudonda knew the wounds all too well. He hated to see anyone in pain, but he did feel a strange sense of relief. For months, Wolf stood alone and ignored. For months, the beasts of the central kingdom crashed upon the town in disorganized fits, while the city of Elk ignored Gorudonda’s cries for help. Finally, the Barge of Souls would see what Wolf had lived through. Finally, they were beginning to understand. As he helped the survivors of Osterhold carry their most wounded into the safety of Wolf, Gorudonda felt a devastating weight lifted from his shoulders. 

     Since Iriyosh had emerged from their hiding place in Tanith’s memory, Wolf had enjoyed a brief period of peace. The Vesh’Tal Remnants continued to attack each night, in aimless hordes growing larger with each passing day, but the golems summoned by Iriyosh made quick work of them. Gorudonda, Tanith, and the other irilocs of Wolf were able to commit their time to healing, as well as repairing the town. The presence of Remants to the northwest, near Osterhold, would complicate things. Iriyosh and their golems were exceedingly skilled, but there were only so many of them. A dedicated push from two directions could overwhelm them. 

     “Thank you for your kindness,” a woman said to Gorudonda, as the survivors settled in the central chamber of the woodwind collective, now a makeshift hospital. She was bruised and clearly exhausted, but otherwise seemed unharmed. Her short dark hair was just long enough to be pulled back into a bun, with a few loose strands hanging in front of her face, clinging to sweat and dirt on her forehead. “My name is Rivkah. I was a hauler in Osterhold, but I have experience as a scout commander. How can I help?” 

     “You are most welcome, Rivkah,” Gorudonda said. “Come with me, I would like to show you something.” 

     The sun was a sliver of light quickly fading into the fields to the west as Gorudonda led Rivkah to the rooftop perch of the percussion collective’s main chamber. As they stepped out onto the perch overlooking the southern plains between Wolf and the central kingdom, Rivkah gasped.

     Iriyosh, the celestial being, hovered in all their glory twenty feet from the ground, and before them, twenty-four golems made of earth and vine and moss stood at the ready. A wall of protection between the living and the dead. A dense layer of trees stood at the far end of the plains, along the border of the central kingdom. 

     “They will come from there,” Gorudonda said, pointing to the tree line. “Any moment now.” 

     “Are we safe here?” Rivkah asked. 

     “As safe as we can be, thanks to them,” Gorudonda said, motioning to the golems.

     As if on queue, the golems shifted in unison into defensive postures, a loud deep echo resonating from their footfalls. The treeline began to shake. Rivkah leaned forward over the railing to get a better look. Then, like blood from a wound, Vesh’Tal Remnants flooded forward from the forest en masse. As soon as they cleared the trees, however, they staggered out into haphazard clumps and rows like rats. There was no order to their attack, only chaos. The golems seemed unfazed, as they marched forward and laid waste to the Remnants, each one tackling ten or more beasts at a time. A large roach-like creature emerged from the forest with the Remnants and proved a bigger challenge. 

     “One of those attacked Osterhold,” Rivkah said, pointing to the creature. “That’s what wounded Gomesonda.” 

     “We call them chariots,” Gorudonda said. “Furious things. I’m impressed that any of you made it out alive.” 

     “We weren’t alone,” Rivkah said. She pointed to Iriyosh. “Something like that saved us.” 

     The Remnants continued to flood from the trees and three more chariots with them. Gorudonda’s relaxed posture shifted slightly. It was more than he had seen previously, and the golems were beginning to look overwhelmed. 

     “Iriyosh,” a voice boomed over the battlefield. “It’s our turn now.” 

     Next to Gorudonda, Rivkah straightened up and began to frantically scan the plains. 

     “That’s him! That’s the voice!” she exclaimed. 

     “Tumo Karesk!” Iriyosh called out happily. “It’s been far too long my friend.” 

     A third voice echoed out, this one much softer and calmer but still somehow drowning out the noise of the continued fighting below. 

     “It’s wonderful to hear your voice again dear.” 

     “Tumo Barugh as well?” Iriyosh said. “You couldn’t have arrived at a better time.” 

     Gorudonda looked to the treeline and saw two beings emerge, devastating the reinforcements of the Remnants. One was the size of a chariot, with claws reaching to the ground and an armadillo shell on its back. It flickered in and out of existence, flashing from one location to another, cutting down Remnants. It appeared before one of the chariots and swung its hammer-like tail into the side of the beast, sending it clattering lifelessly into the waiting arms of a golem who happily smashed it to pieces. The other being wasn’t nearly as flashy as the first. Gorudonda could barely see her, but she appeared to be nothing other than a human, wearing weathered overalls and muddied knee-high boots. As Remnants approached her, however, she raised her arms and began to swing. There were no blades in her hands, but with each swing, for a moment, Gorudonda could see long curved swords like rays of moonlight slicing through the enemies around her. A brutally magnificent dance of elegance and death. In mere moments, the two beings had cut through the entirety of the Remnants and joined Iriyosh. 

     “They are coming,” Tumo Karesk said. “Not scouting forces, or groups of skirmishers. They are all coming. This is when the fate of the Barge of Souls is decided.”