When Kathy got into her rented room, she took immediately to the shower. The unseasonal heat in Alsem province had her feeling sticky and gross, and even though the water pump in the tub was stiff, she praised the gods the water itself was nice and cool on her skin.
As she lathered the shampoo into a froth in her hair, she considered Byron's behavior thus far. He had kept his eccentrics to a minimum, which was a good sign. Moreover, he'd made use of his mundane skill set as a writer to get them vital information. She could easily do the same, if she thought about it. Personable and easy to get along with, Kathy could coax a conversation out of even the most obstinate people she met. Where Byron used collateral, she probably could have simply been charismatic with Warren.
Daggeuro had been irritated with the other human early on, thanks, she didn't doubt, to the nature of his Awakening. His power didn't belong in the Ether, a wild card, and for a man like Daggeuro, who cherished balance in all things, it would be viewed as a disturbance. She'd have to be Byron's advocate more than once, she suspected.
She toweled off and got into a pair of blue cotton shorts and a white Iowa Hawkeyes shirt, along with sandals. She put the cloak back on, however; as far as armor went, it was her only protection.
Kathy decided to do a little sightseeing around town. Leaving her backpack on the bed, she set out, strolling up the wide boulevard the Farris Hotel stood on. Up ahead, she saw milling groups of grungy, dirt-streaked men and women shuffling into various homes and businesses, mostly the tavern hosting a hanging sign that just said 'Roger's'.
"Be among the people," she said to herself, heading through the tavern's screen door. Inside, a dozen elven miners were pressed to the bar, all hollering their drink orders at another elven man, who quickly poured pitchers and handed out glasses. Coins rattled on the countertop, disappearing even as the barkeep cleared the last of his first orders. Kathy sat at the bar a few stools away from one of the two elves who seated themselves there instead of at a table. "Impressive," she said to the barkeep.
"Thank you, but it's just routine these days," the man said, his puffed sleeves clinging to his arms with sweat. "What'll you have, miss?"
"Graf," she said, remembering the sweet, strong apple beer the Gaedling Goblin had shared with her and Daggeuro during their quest against Luga. The barkeep made a sour face and shook his head.
"Miss, I wouldn't recommend that goblin piss," he said frankly. "Why not try some okkenfel? It's a fine elven wine, more suitable to a human pallate."
"No, I'll have a graf, thanks," she said. Kathy didn't care for the overpowering vibe she was getting from this community, which had begun with lieutenant Warren. If you're not an elf here, you better make yourself useful. These folks are a smidge racist. The barkeep popped open a bottle o graf and handed it to her. "How much?"
"Three bits," he said. Kathy reached into the smaller of her leather money pouches, producing three small copper coins. She sipped at her graf and listened to the miners talking about their day, commiserating. When she was half finished with the drink, someone came into the tavern and began shouting.
"Stay in, folks! We got goblins duking it out in the street!" Kathy, ever curious, hopped down off of her stool and rushed the door along with half a dozen other spectators. Out on the tavern's porch, she looked twenty yards to the right. There, two packs of goblins were facing off, six Hurik Clan in black leathers, drawing weapons, and ten goblins wearing normal leathers with red serapes, also barring iron. Swords and knives and axes cleared sheaths and braces, the stench of sweat and adrenaline thick.
Shouts in the rough, guttural goblin tongue went out, the sixteen combatants waving their weapons at one another. Kathy heard someone among the elves watching say, "Maybe we'll get lucky and they'll all kill each other." She wondered where a patrolling Watchman might be nearby. Then she remembered that she was wearing her lieutenant's bars.
Kathy set her bottle down on the porch railing and shouldered her way past a pair of onlookers, striding boldly toward the two groups. Her axe swung free of its holster with a yank, and she raised her left hand high. "Whoa up, folks," she called out. "Whoa!" For a wonder, the goblins all lowered their weapons to look at her, and some of the fight seemed to go out of them. Kathy gave the nearer Huriks a wide berth, taking up position directly between the two groups. "Okay, let's have a leader from each group come here," she said, letting the axe head swing down so she could lean on it like a walking stick.
"Who are you, hume, to speak to us so," snapped a Hurik with two battle axes and a nose so hooked it looped almost back on itself.
"I'm a lieutenant in the Watch, and that's all you need to know," she said sternly, praying inwardly that they couldn't see through to her terror. Being between these two packs was like sticking her head in a lion's mouth; a neat trick, but quite possibly fatal if the teeth snapped shut. The Hurik who'd spoken grumbled and approached, holstering his axes in belt loops. From the other pack came a fat, short goblin with skin as green as a pepper. Kathy could feel the magic wrapped about this one before he even stepped away from his unit.
When the little goblin got to her, he said, "This really is no concern of the Watch, lieutenant. We have fought the Order of Eight many times in just this province, and never caused collateral damage."
"Aye, and so it may be said when we have faced the Gaedling Alliance," snarled the Hurik. "We've even taken down some of these Tupo Clan before, and never broke a single window. Or a sweat, for that matter," he added with a snicker.
"Okay, guys, I get it," Kathy said, exasperated. "You're a badass, you're a badass," she said to each in turn. "But Sir Daggeuro and I are in town checking out this creature, and it'd be real helpful if we weren't dealing with you guys' nonsense on top of it all." Both goblins were staring at her, alarmed.
"Sir Daggeuro," they asked in unison. The Hurik Clan bowed slightly to the Tupo and said, "Some other time, then."
"Likewise," the other goblin snapped. Both groups huddled a moment, then bolted in opposite directions, fleeing Ryalt altogether. Kathy holstered her axe and grinned with satisfaction all the way past the stunned elven onlookers. At the bar, the barkeeper handed her a fresh graf.
"On the house," he said.
Linsa had served as Alsem's provincial seat for close to three-thousand years when King Ovin declared its internal problems of inter-militia warfare a hindrance on governance. Twelve Councilman had been slain in an eight-year period, prompting him to decree that Ryalt, a sprawled out township, should be named provincial seat.
In the northeast corner of the city stood a sculpture museum, which hosted the kingdom's finest statuary and showpiece armors. It was all glitter and glamour inside, though not commonly frequented. It was run by the city board and mayor, who believed a lone guard was more than enough to keep the place secure. Said guard would normally have agreed, but his head currently lay several dozen feet away from his body, which was still thrashing in death spasms that afternoon.
Against the wall of the Armor Room stood a swirling blue vortex of energy, black, sharpened chain links stretching out from it into the back of the robed creature floating from armor suit to armor suit, tapping them as it channeled magical energy into them. The helmets warped and bent with metal creaks and groans, becoming vicious, bestial faces. The suits it animated steped down from their podiums and platforms, lining up into a marching block.
The chains finally went taut, with only half of the room brought to life. The creature let out a frustrated snarl, reaching back and yanking on them uselessly. It finally gave up, bringing its hands up to the face hidden within its hood. It finally looked up at its servants and began speaking in a raspy sandpaper voice, its words an ancient tongue few would ever understand in the Ether.
The suits saluted, drawing weapons and marching in phalanx formation from the Armor Room. The Chained One stepped back through its portal, leaving the animated suits to their task.
Byron looked around the diner, trying to ignore the whispers in his mind. It had become easier over the years to do so, but they still caught his attention now and again. Right now, they were telling him to stand up and piss on the floor while whistling 'Away Down South in Dixie'. He staunchly refused this request, insistent though it was.
His meal consisted of some broiled meat he'd never heard of and potatoes and carrots, both veggies soaked in butter. The food was fine, but he picked slowly at it. Aside from ignoring the whispers, he mused about Sir Daggeuro and his volatile temper. There was a sense of kinship between them, he felt, a sharing of some inner struggle that partially defined who they were as people. Yet the kennin clearly didn't care much for him.
Kathy Potts, on the other hand, came off as one of the most cheerful, intelligent, and witty people he'd met. He found himself taken by her pert mouth, clear complexion, and the feminine curve of her frame. Most men he knew back home would have called her husky; he found her charming and alluring.
Best keep that to yourself, he warned himself. Hardly the time to start flirting with the woman. Yet what other time would be appropriate? He weighed his options, and decided that he would engage in only faint flirtation, for now.
His waitress swooped over, pointed elven ears twitching, her apron smeared and hair askew. "Did you need anything else, sir," she asked politely.
"Um, no, thank you," he said, popping another piece of meat into his mouth. He chewed quickly and said, "Just my bill."
"Of course, sergeant," she said, handing him a slip of paper with his total written by hand. He blinked, remembered the stripes on his jacket, and nodded. He produced a drake and four bits, handing them over to her with the slip. When she was gone, he scarfed the rest of his food and left five bits on the table for a tip. He might have left more, if he hadn't overheard her and her coworkers referring to him as 'a bloody hume'.
Once outside he struck up a cigarette, chuffing bluish smoke and watching the occasional civilian trundle about their daily routines. His left eye pulsed painfully. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed at it, but the pain didn't go away. This was not one of his phantom headaches.
"Daggeuro," he said, heading off for the Farris Hotel.
The kennin High Knight was sitting out on the hotel's wide porch with a book in hand when Kathy and Byron came up to him at almost the same instant, both looking concerned. Daggeuro could smell graf on Kathy's breath, though not enough for her to be drunk. Byron smelled of kochar meat and potatoes, and sweat. The man just seemed to have overactive glands, from what Daggeuro had observed in his short time with Byron.
Both humans rubbed their left temples, which by itself brought Daggeuro on full alert. "Something's up," Kathy said. "I started getting this pressure behind my eye about ten minutes ago, and it doesn't hurt, per say, but it's annoying."
"Same here," said Byron. "You think it might be a sign?"
"Yes," said Daggeuro. "Though of what, I don't know. Give me a moment." He reached into one of his pouches and brought out a small hand mirror, rubbing one furry thumb over the glass. "Sheldon Burke," he said. A minute later, Kathy and Byron saw Burke's ruddy face appear on the mirror's surface. He was rubbing his left temple.
"Sir Daggeuro?"
"Burke, do you have pain or pressure in your eye?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"Nevermind that. Where are you?"
"I'm at the south Watch station in Celia. A sage came a short while ago and said The Chained One was making a move, that he'd seen it in a vision. We were getting ready to contact you."
"Did the sage say where it was going to happen," Daggeuro asked.
"Western Alsem province, some village in the woods. Rangers have already been dispatched." Burke looked around, and Daggeuro could see the commotion behind him. "He also said that you need to watch out."
"What for?"
"Bad business," Burke said. "My kind of business. Undead." Daggeuro looked up at Byron and Kathy gravely.
"Make ready," the kennin High Knight said. "Burke, I'm guessing it's too late and too far for you to do anything about this."
"Yes. Besides, King Ovin is having me escorted north today to the Tomb of Heroes."
"Why?"
"He wouldn't say," Burke replied. "I have to go." The mirror fogged over once more, the connection severed. Daggeuro tucked it away and rose from his seat.
"Kathy, get to Warren, have him send out the call to every available Watchman. Byron, get word out to everyone you can find out and about to get and stay inside. We meet in the town square in one hour. Now go, and make ready for battle."
The animals, it would turn out, unwittingly saved the lives of two dozen people in the sleepy woodland village of Parik, the easternmost border town between Alsem and Polk provinces in Amermidst Kingdom. If one went half a mile east of town, just past the woods, they would officially be in Polk province, home of the kingdom's great Cherished Hearts Academy. Cherished Hearts was the kingdom's lone collective educational site for novice magic wielders, and in times of war, served as a kind of shock training camp.
It would be seeing a tightly wound group of refugees in a couple of days.
Parik prided itself as a haven for animal lovers, hosting the densest ratio of pet-to-owner in all of Amermidst. The elves, lizardmen and owl-men who lived there trusted animal instincts. So, when entire packs of cats, dogs, birds and horses took off east in a panic, their respective owners took this as a sign, packing a few provisions and hauling ass away after their pets.
For those who didn't see these signs for what they were, things were going to get rough. The village's lone minotaur, one of only three Watchmen assigned to Parik, was patrolling the western border of town when he noticed movement in the woods. Curious, he squinted off into the trees.
"Hmm," he said. "Falim, Durgen, to me," he called over his shoulder. His fellow officers, two elven men in heavy blue steel plate armor, short swords on hips, joined him. "Look out there," he said. "You see anything amiss?" Falim peered out, flinching back. "What is it?"
"Ghostwood trees," the elf remarked. "Look there," he said, pointing.
"Yogef, there were never any ghostwood trees in these woods before, were there," Durgen asked of the minotaur. He was about to respond when the five ghostwoods began moving again, sliding through the trees and into the middle of the dirt road leading in and out of the village. Lashed about the central trunk was a figure in black robes, heavy, dark chains bound about it, pinning it to the ghostwood. "Gods above and below," Durgen gasped.
A charred, skeletal hand and wrist rose from one tattered robe sleeve as the creature pointed at them, its chains rattling as they unwound from its torso. The scent of sage hung heavy now in the air, barely masking the stench of rot. Yogef was about to draw his huge warhammer from his back when a length of chain blurred out in a streak at him, wrapping about his midsection. It coiled tight, and as he shouted in alarm, the edged links bit into his armor and flesh. He turned panic-bright eyes upon his comrades, and the chain ripped away, carving through his body in a spray of blood, bone and organs. He wobbled upright for a moment, his spine a slick cable connecting upper torso to his waist and legs, then fell dead to the ground.
The elven officers stared in horror at the apparition as the trees slid forward, and it hovered away from the trunk, floating twenty feet overhead. It spread its arms wide, and spoke in the dry, ruined voice of a crypt-bound thing. "Kneel, or die," it intoned, its wispy voice carrying to every ear in the village on wind magic.
One family of seven gotrin were hurriedly packing their emergency supplies when a ghostwood tree shot up through their house from the ground, bladed chains snapping, whirling about, cutting them all to ribbons, parents and children alike. The house exploded outward from the maelstrom of violence the chains brought.
Those villagers nearby who witnessed this immediately dropped to the ground in supplication. Officer Falim, facing The Chained One, saw none of this behind him in the village, but drew his sword and magic. A cloud of green mist formed around his left hand as he charged the trunk of the ghostwood The Chained One was bound to. The robed creature hurled a streak of purple lightning downward, frying Falim in his boots. His poison mist disappeared, and his charred remains crumbled into ashes from he waist up, leaving cooked legs to fall over.
Durgen unbuckled his sword belt and knelt down, trembling, sobbing as he touched his forehead to the ground. "Better," rasped The Chained One.