"A City Risen From Dust"
May. 15th, 2022 08:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"A City Risen From Dust"
9/21/1217 DR
I.
His wounds still smarted as Romal guided the canoe through the reeds. At least blood had stopped seeping through the crude bandages wrapped around his left leg and his right arm. The Mongrel felt the jolt as his stolen craft come to a halt where the shallow mucky water lapped at the edge of the island. Still nimble despite a great weariness, he stood up and stepped ashore. For the next few minutes, he dragged the canoe up into some bushes and covered it with leafy branches he hacked free with what was left of his sword.
Except for his sharply pointed ears, Romal seemed to be a normal Human, an athletic young man in his prime. The Mongrel had a mane of coarse black hair which reached his neck, bound at the temples by a metal diadem. In a sullen, heavy-featured face, his dark blue eyes remained watchful even as he dropped down beneath a tree to check his injuries. Aside from bruises and stiffness, his main concern was a gash in one thigh and a slice across the upper bicep of one arm. Little was left of his travel cloak, so he cut fresh strips of its material and changed the dressing. He scowled as he got a better look at his wounds but reflected he had survived much worse.
Leaning back against the tree, Romal scanned the lake surface for any sign of the pursuing Reavers. On the horizon, a glowering red sun was setting under salmon-colored clouds. That damned Kuthor. The bandit chief had the unreasonable tenacity of a watchdog. Two days of pursuit. When he had been approached by the small raiding party with their one-handed battle axes and distinctive leather helmets bearing ear flaps, Romal had boldly sat up straighter in the saddle, rested one hand on his sword hilt and loudly dared Kuthor to do his worst. He owned little that was worth stealing in any case. In the flurry of brutal violence which had exploded, the Reavers had fallen back one after another with their heads split nearly in half, arms flying away severed from its socket, innards spilling out like ropes.
The Mongrel was no common mortal. Given unnatural birth by the Darthan Kjes, he combined the full strength of a fighting Troll and the speed of a Snake man within his frame. His sword had whirled in a gleaming arc that drove blocking weapons aside and split helmets like dried wood. Within minutes, a circle of dead or dying bandits surrounded him as he sprang to face their chieftain.
But in Kuthor the Dark, Romal had met his match. The notorious black-haired marauder was a huge mountain of hard muscle, deeply tanned with many old scars running whitely across his body and limbs. Kuthor was nearly naked, clad in only a heavy kilt and high-strapped boots but he swung a two-handed broadsword with one hand the way a normal man handled a dagger. The bandit chief was not highly skilled in feints and strategy, he simply attacked with a direct primitive savagery that was overwhelming in its relentlessness. Despite his training on Maroch by fencing masters, Romal found he had his hands full with this opponent. Both of them received hits as they fought, shallow slashes and gouges which were more annoying than life-threatening. In a moment's ill-judgement, the Mongrel stopped an overhead blow too directly and his own blade snapped off seven inches up from the hilt.
Expecting to be slain in the next few seconds, Romal had taken advantage of a brief opening and crashed a closed fist to the side of Kuthor's head with a sound like a hammer hitting rock. The bandit leader had reeled back drunkenly, lowering his guard and Romal thrust his sword shard's jagged point for the man's broad chest but more of the Reavers came riding up the trail. Romal had shoved the dazed Kuthor directly into their path, forcing them to rein their horses in while he himself had leaped astride his own chestnut stallion to escape.
Then had come the long desperate chase. Night had fallen. Romal had lost the Reavers long enough to stealthily steal a canoe from some sleeping fishermen but he left his horse in exchange with its blanket and bridle. He had shoved off into the night, with only a vague memory guiding him that there was a forbidden island somewhere in this vast lake. Now he rested as his strength quickly returned.
The Mongrel was pleased by the vegetation he saw, recognizing plants which bore nuts and berries and even bark which was slightly nutritious. The presence of birds and squirrels in the area suggested that traps might nab him a meal or two, and their presence also hinted that drinkable water was available. This situation did not seem unsurvivable. Why was this island forbidden? he started to wonder before he remembered the ruins of Atravan. Feeling back to normal and wanting to get away from the shore, Romal started hiking inland. The soil was damp but not quite marshy, and the foliage was lush. He spotted a likely-looking branch five feet long and he snapped it loose with his considerable strength. As he continued walking, the Mongrel trimmed off a few branches, whittled away at one end with what remained of his sword and eventually had a serviceable walking stick that would also serve as a club. Looking a few thinner straight sticks that could be made into javelins occupied him as he headed up rising ground toward the center of the island.
From what he remembered of old tales, Atravan had been one of the first cities of Humans to flourish but that had been over a thousand years ago. When the Darthim came to power and crushed the other Races beneath their cruel sorcery, Atravan had fallen and was said to be under a vile curse. For the past twelve hundred years, the Darthan Kjes had exploited and abused and tormented all the other Races. The Trolls in their tunnels, the Gelydrim under the sea, the hidden Snake men hiding in their clandestine lives, even the immortal Eldarin who seldom left their island Elvedal. Darthan tyranny was a heavy burden on all living beings and yet... Recently Romal had been hearing whispers of a coming revolt. The prolific Humans had grown more numerous than all the other Races combined. Emboldened by sheer numbers and the strength of their armies and fortresses, Humans were beginning to stir with the thought of rebellion. A few had even dared breach the thought to Romal.
The hill was getting steep now as night fell, and the walking stick was a big help. From what he had been told, the last time anyone had ventured onto this island was a year ago. Soldiers had been sent from Signarm to scout the land, and they had returned saying there was nothing but ruins. Romal crested the rise. In the last glimmer of twilight, he gazed down on a valley of immense stone blocks lying in piles, of fallen columns and headless stone colossi. Temples and palaces stood with their roofs caved in.
Ruins indeed. The moon was rising and Romal felt he would soon fall asleep whether he wanted to or not. His body ached and his eyes burned with weariness. Finding a likely thicket, taking pains to leave no footprints in the soft earth, he crawled deeply up under cover and arranged loose branches to conceal himself. As soon as he curled up, he tumbled into slumber.
It seemed only moments later that the sunlight directly on his face awakened him. Romal mumbled, stirred and disentangled himself. His wounds had stopped stinging, at least, and the rest had restored his vitality. The Mongrel thought of finding water, gathering eggs from a bird nest or catching some small animal in a snare. Making a workable bow was within his skill set. He stretched, yawned and turned around, only to feel his mouth drop open. In the valley below him was an imposing wall of blue-white stone gleaming in the sunlight around a city as clean and fresh as if it had been erected that morning. Atravan.
II.
Oddly, Romal did not doubt his senses. He knew what he had seen in the moonlight, and he accepted what met his eyes now. Most people would have been struck dumb or felt panic at such an uncanny development, But he was like no other, for Romal had been created and grown to adolescence on the isle of Maroch. The Darthim had created him by infusing a Human infant with the 'essential traits' of the other six Races as well, and he had been reared in a culture ruled by sorcerers. The dreaded Tollinor himself,the Firstmade of the Darthim, had been the closest he had known to a parent. So, the Mongrel had witnessed amazing deeds of gralic magick all his life and was not stunned by seeing yet another one.
Some potent warlock or groups of warlocks had done this, he realized, but after seeing nothing alive moving about the city, he shrugged and went searching for sustenance. Mundane matters first. Trickling down the side of the hill into that valley was a broad stream. Romal sniffed the clear water, tentatively touched a dampened finger to his finger and tasted nothing harmful in the drop. When he spotted a newt crawling about on rocks beneath the surface and then some wriggling little fish darting by, he drank sparingly from his cupped hand and eased his thirst.
Further up the stream, where an outcropping of rock made a ledge over a natural pool, the Mongrel caught sight of a good-sized turtle sunning itself and warming up for the day. There was his breakfast. Quick as one of the Snake men whose traits he shared, Romal snatched the shellback up and dispatched it with the shard of his sword. There were enough scraps of dried wood and leaves up in the rocks away from the swampy ground for his purposes. Tucked inside his sword belt were several pieces of flint and, using the edge of what remained of his sword for sparks, he worked at building a fire.
As he began pulling the turtle apart and roasting its limbs on sticks over the flames, Romal wondered what he should worry about first. There was the weirdly reconstructed Atravan nearby, a city silently brought up from long-abandoned ruins overnight. But Kuthor and his bloodthirsty bandits were likely on his trail, a more urgent problem. He had slain five of them and injured several more, so their code would not let them drop the grudge against him. Gnawing the rich turtle flesh and sipping handfuls of water, Romal decided his next step should be to fashion a good spear. Let Kuthor come seeking blood, the Mongrel thought grimly, the bandit will end up only watching his own wash the ground. Short-tempered at best, being on the run did not improve Romal's disposition.
He thought of the benefits of meeting his new enemy again. All Romal owned was what he had on... well-worn boots, black trousers and a dark grey cotton tunic. His swordbelt was supported by a strap running down from his left shoulder across his chest. Not enough of his long cloak remained to be worth keeping. At least, he still had the wristbands and diadem of the unnaturally hard Trom-metal, those had been useful many times in battle. If he slew a few bandits, he could put their belongings to his own use. A decent sword, maybe a useful knife, perhaps a few coins for when he next walked among men. Stealing from thieves...
Not many scraps of the turtle were left after Romal had dug over each bone thoroughly. He felt his spirits restored by even a few hours sleep and some food and water. His injuries had faded to mild discomfort by this time. Scrubbing his hands and face in the freezing water of the pond, then dunking his head a few times to rinse dried sweat out of his hair, the Mongrel rose and picked up his crude walking stick. The sun was higher in the sky and unfamiliar bird calls sounded back and forth from the trees. His thoughts went back to the resurrected city not far away. Who had the power and knowledge to perform such a spell of restoration? Was even Tollinor skilled enough?
Perhaps wisdom would urge him to stay away from unknown sorcery. A prudent man with bandits on his trail had enough to keep him on the move, but curiosity was strong in Romal, as was a stubborn unwillingness to show fear even to himself. If Kuthor and his band arrived here, they would be certain to head for the mysterious city as well, so he might as well be ready for them. Romal walked slowly, pausing often to listen and even to sniff the air. He would be ready for Kuthor this time.
It was bizarre how sharply the borders of Atravan were delineated. There were no cultivated fields to be seen, no peasant huts or even trodden trails in the mud. He came upon the outer walls and studied the unfamiliar bluish-white stone of which the city was constructed. The material had darker veins and flecks throughout its surface. He could not identify it as any type of rock he had seen before, and it was smooth as glass to the touch. The walls had flat upper edges eleven feet off the ground. For a few minutes, Romal trudged alongside without seeing any hints of gates or openings in either direction. Stranger and stranger.
Moving back ten paces, the Mongrel ran forward and vaulted atop the wall, reaching it with no apparent difficulty. Because he only had a normal Human weight but the strength of a Troll, he was capable of leaping well over twice his own height. Landing on the upper edge, Romal stared out at a miles-wide maze. The interior of the city bent and twisted and turned back upon itself many times. There were numerous dead ends. Here and there, though, he spotted nooks in the walls which held benches or low couches. In the center of this blue labyrinth, a round stone tower rose fifty feet into the air, topped with a railed balustrade and a pointed spike of iron for a roof.
Atravan was no city as he had ever conceived of existing, Romal thought. Still holding his crude staff, he watched for movement but saw none. Deserted? Ressurected from rubble and then abandoned again? His nerves were getting on edge over all these unanswered questions. Well, he might as well investigate further. The Mongrel began pacing along the upper edge of the city's encircling wall and was getting bored when he heard a faint sound ahead... unmistakably, someone yawning.
Silently, Romal went toward the spot and heard a young boy's voice calling out, "Hello? Pang? Jun? Where is everyone?"
Impatient and unwilling to watch and listen further, the Mongrel leaped down from the wall to land lightly on his feet. In front of him was a niche carved in the maze wall, in which a low marble couch piled with cushions stood. In front of that nook, staring wide-eyed at the unexpected appearance of a grim warrior seemingly from nowhere, a beardless youth gasped and fell back onto the couch.
The boy looked like the Chujirans that Romal had infrequently met in his wanderings. Too young yet for his voice to have deepened, the lad was short and thin, with bare arms and legs showing from his white silk toga. The amber skin and coarse black hair and the fold of skin on the inner eye were all signs of an inhabitant of Chujir... but few travelers arrived in the West from one of the most distant nations of that Age. Only twice had Romal met Chujirans. Nothing about Atravan should surprise him, though.
"Who are you?" demanded the boy in the common speech Prilirdyn. "What do you want? Pang! Jun! I'm calling you!"
"My name is Romal," answered the Mongrel calmly. "I am a wanderer with no home anywhere. Who might you be?"
"You presume much. I am the Baronet Hop, son of Baron Fung himself. Where are my slaves? Where is everyone?" Giving credence to his claims of nobility were the assorted silver ornaments he wore, including three finger rings, an ankle bracelet and a braided choker.
"I hope your nerves are strong, son," Romal said with a wry smile. "This will be a shock. Atravan has lain in ruins for a thousand years. Until this morning, all this city was only broken stone and weeds growing through cracked paving. As to where you yourself came from, I can't begin to imagine."
Hop scoffed. "You are some madman who had walked beneath the sun until his brains cooked," the boy said. "Find my slaves. I want a scented bath and some fruit."
"I wish you the best of luck with that. Do you see anyone other than yourself? Do you hear any voices? This city has been brought back from the dead, and so I suspect have you."
"I don't understand," the youth said. His face tightened up and his eyes shone with tears. Suddenly Romal felt remorse for having spoken so flippantly. He laid a hand on the boy's bony shoulder and rested it there to comfort him. Hop did not react.
"Be brave, young man," the Mongrel said. "This is a great mystery but every riddle has a solution. Perhaps your family and slaves are nearby but we have not heard them stir yet. Tell me, who is master of this city?"
"The Dragon of War himself, Sinjir. Our defender against the milk-white Darthim and the Trolls in their tunnels," Hon said. He began glancing in all directions. "How quiet it is. Yet.. wait, I hear voices."
Romal drew himself up to his full height and gripped his walking stick like a quarterstaff. He also heard the racuous laughter and cursing of mountain bandits.
III.
Clasping the boy to his chest, staff still in his other hand, the Mongrel sprang up and cleared the wall of the maze. With both hands full, he did not land as neatly as before but tumbled to roll over and jump back up again. He dropped the stick and clamped his free hand over Baronet Hop's mouth while still pressing the youth against him. Against the abnormal strength in those hands, the thin young boy wriggled ineffectually. At least Hop did not make muffled yelling noises, Romal thought.
From the other side of the wall, voices with the distinctive Skandoran accents sounded clearly. "The dark one is wasting our time," said one. "I see no loot. No wenches. Not even food for our empty bellies. There is naught but this maze."
"Ahh, grumble when some good may come of it," said a second, older voice. "It's that weird man we seek. I tell you, that could be none but Romal the Mongrel, the Seven-In-One, born of no mother."
"Sure and those are true words," said the first Reaver. "Did we not see the pointed ears? Did he not strike down five of our best, including my kinsman Ularf? He will pay dearly, and his dying will take sunrise to sunrise."
Releasing Hop, Romal vaulted up to stand atop the wall for an instant, only long enough to get a glimpse of his enemy. There were three of the bandits in their drab rags and leather helmets. Two held swords naked in their hands as they walked, the third was carrying a short-handled fighting hatchet. They swung around to gawk as they glimpsed motion above them and then it was too late. Romal dropped down upon the Reavers. The staff in his hands whistled to flatten the face of the nearest bandit and reversed to drive its pointed end directly into the hollow of the throat of another. The Mongrel lunged to seize the final enemy's wrist with a grip that snapped bones and made the man cry out as he dropped his hatchet to the paved walk beneath their feet. He died a second later as Romal closed his other hand around his neck and squeezed tighter than a hangman's noose could have.
The Mongrel crouched over two corpses and one man gagging a final breath through a crushed windpipe. He sniffed and muttered, "My dying will take sunrise to sunrise, will it?" but then he realized he had to move quickly. More could be coming around the maze from either direction. The hatchet appealed to him. It had a slightly curved oak hand and a narrow head that was sharpened on the wide edge. This he thrust into his belt. Of the swords lying near the dead men, Romal quickly decided he would choose the Signarm dueling weapon. Signarm steel had a good reputation and the straight three-foot long blade would fit his scabbard loosely but well enough.
Hearing the Baronet Hop whimper on the other side of the wall, Romal hissed, "Be still!" Nothing else on the Reavers caught his eye as being valuable enough to bother with at the moment. Like many bandits of that Age, their ragged clothing was adorned with a colorful scarf or silk sash taken from a victim. Two wore gold earrings and the other an armband made of gold, this was a custom that kept something valuable to be pawned when in a town. The Mongrel was content for the moment by gaining weapons. Again, he rose and jumped straight up over the wall to rejoin the boy.
When the imposing form came down lightly next to him, Hop shrank away and whined, "What was all that noise? Who were those men? I want my slaves! I want to feel safe."
The Mongrel lifted the boy up to his feet. "Come now, show some backbone. Lead me to that tower in the center of this cursed labyrinth. I feel sure the answers we seek can be found there."
"Yes, yes, our Lord Sinjir knows all. He will make everything clear." The youth began walking quickly and Romal followed without lowering his guard. He kept his grasp on the newly acquired sword hilt and he kept listening. There had been no yells behind them to indicate more Reavers had come upon the three he had slain.
"I'm hungry," Hop mumbled.
"I do not have a joint of beef tucked in my belt," snapped Romal. They had turned one of the hundreds of corners and stopped abruptly at a dead end where a low bench stood. Stretched out on that wooden surface was a skeleton covered with a tight gruesome layer of dried flesh. Black hair hung down from the skull, and the eyes were sunken beneath withered lids.
"Why, what can this mean?" Hop asked as he stared.
The Mongrel did not answer immediately. He had a horrified suspicion they were facing a body being recreated from the dust of centuries. If they waited, he felt, muscle would appear beneath the parchment skin and blood would start to flow through arteries forming even now. Romal did not speak of this.
"It is Black Magick, which never ends well," he said at last. "Keep going."
By now the sun had risen higher and curious details on the maze began to be apparent. Here and there, etched into the walls were outlines of strange beasts and men with animal heads. Ideograms showed in the morning light, unfamiliar to Romal. The boy took no notice but continued on his way until they reached a forking where the maze split off left and right.
"Don't tell me YOU are lost," Romal growled, "Because I don't think that tower looks to be any closer than it was when we started."
But the Baronet swung to their left and picked up his pace. "Widow Lan, is that you? Oh, Widow Lan."
Stepping fearfully into view was a short stout woman well page middle age. She wore a white toga much like Hop's but under it was a thin silk tunic of deep purple. Like Hop, she had the skin and hair and eyes of a Chujiran, and the same musical lilt was in her voice as she answered, "Your Grace? This worthless one rejoices to see you well."
Dropping ceremony, the boy rushed to embrace the old woman and buried his face against her shoulder. "Widow Lan! Is this a nightmare or the delirium of fever? I have seen no one. Is Atravan abandoned? Please still my fears."
Letting the youth cling to her for the moment, Lan said, "Nay, I do not myself understand. I remember.. that I was dying. Yes, I had the wheezing and the short breath of the winter affliction. The physician told me to make my final prayers and compose my spirit. Then there was not even the blackness of sleep, only oblivion. And I stirred and awoke and sat up on that couch over there bare moments ago."
The Mongrel held his tongue with effort. If these were revenants, the Undead reconstituted from whatever dust had remained of their bodies, let them realize it in their own way. He saw the old woman gazing at him and he nodded his head, "I am Romal. Call me a vagrant roaming the world, if you will."
"Never have I seen your like," Widow Lan admitted. "You show the ears of a Dartha or Eldar, but you are clearly neither."
"Lady," Romal said with forced patience, "I warn you that bandits are entering this city. They are most cruel and brutal men. We should find safety if we may."
"To our Lord Sinjir?" asked the Baronet, turning his head toward the Mongrel.
"Sinjir? Yes, there is no other refuge for us," she said. "The Dragon of War is wise and powerful. He will protect us and I am certain he can make clear all that is strange today."
His head tilted as he listened for any sounds indicating pursuit, Romal turned his sullen face toward the old woman. "This cannot be the whole of Atravan. Where are the shops? The taverns, the storehouses? Where do the people themselves live?"
"Why, in their huts and hovels outside the walls," Lan replied with obvious bewilderment. "Out by the fields of wheat, the herds of cattle and sheep, where everyone is only brought into the maze if the city is under attack."
Again, Romal kept his silence. There were no cultivated fields on this island, no cows, no peasants laboring. As far as he had seen, the entire island had been uninhabited for centuries. According to those he had spoken to on the mainland, all attempts to resettle this isle had failed as settlers sickened and quickly died off.
Whatever had made the city rise from the dust, whether Sinjir or not, had also resurrected these two people from the emptiness of the beyond. But he did not know if they could handle that revelation. He himself felt his skin crawl at the thought. "Lead us to your master if you will, madame," he said at last.
"You will see," the young Hop added. "Our Lord Sinjir is wise and noble."
They trudged on in worried silence. Walking behind the two Atravanin, the Mongrel took a moment to inspect the sword he had claimed from the fallen Reaver. It had been well-maintained, and its edges were sharp. Leather strips had been wound about the wooden hilt to offer a better grip, and the round pommel was weighted to be used as a striking weapon if needed. The balance was acceptable. Romal slid the sword back into his own scabbard and wished he had taken a few more moments to search the bandits throughly.
The hatchet was a real prize, he thought, the curved wooden haft had a rod of iron through its core for extra strength. The single-edged head was keen enough for shaving. He tossed the weapon up slightly and caught it, thinking he actually preferred it to the sword for close hand fighting. The Mongrel looked up to see the boy staring at him.
"What manner of man are you, Romal?" asked Hop. "I did not know such warriors as you existed."
"I am like no other," the Mongrel rumbled and did not explain further.
"Please forgive the lad," said Widow Lan. "He means no disrepect. Yet, to speak truly, I also wish to know more about you. Your presence is a great comfort under these frightening circumstances."
"Oh, very well. Tollinor Kje, the Firstmade of the Darthim, created me as I am. He took a normal Human foundling and used his sorcery to infuse the infant with traits of the other Races, planning to train me to be his living weapon. But I would not be used so. fought free! I fled Maroch and have been wandering the world ever since."
"So you have no kindred, then?" asked the old woman. "No parents, no family, no tribesmen?"
"I am the only one of my kind," Romal snapped in a tone that did not invite further questions. "And let me advise you two Atravans. I did not seek your company, nor is your safety my responsibilty. If fighting starts, stay well back. I will not endanger my own hide to protect yours. Are my words clear?"
Ahead of them, the blue-white walls of the maze ended at an open entrance wide enough for three horsemen to ride through abreast, and inside a field of short brilliantly-green grass without weeds was the base of the sorcerer's tower. Romal frowned. He could see no doors in that tower, no openings of any kind. Well, what could you expect from the citadel of a sorcerer? Arranged in a circle around the tower were three stone colossi, statues of standing men with strange bestial faces and each leaning on a staff which ended in a hook. There was an ornate bronze gong four feet across on a frame which stood atop a stone block. A striker hung by an attached chain.
"We will ring the ceremonial gong and be admitted," Widow Lan announced, obviously tired after walking so quickly. She stepped up to the gong and froze in complete terror with one hand raised. Scuttling around the side of the tower on multi-jointed hairy legs were two black spiders the size of dogs.
IV.
The old woman's scream never sounded. As soon as she saw the horrible creatures, one of them was somehow on its back with its legs curling up in spasms. She saw the strange man Romal bound up into the air, well above the point a tall man could reach, and then he came down again with his sword blazing in quick forehand and backhand strokes. The monstrous spider flew apart into pieces, dark goo spurting out as Romal hopped back away from its death throes.
All this had happened so quickly that neither of the Atravans comprehended the situation for several seconds. There was one giant spider lying dead with the handle of an axe protruding up from its body. The other was partially dismembered. Approaching the brutes with suspicion as if expecting them to attack again somehow, Romal fell to his knees. He took a deep shuddering breath at how close he had come to being killed. If those fangs had sunk into his body...
"May all sorcerers be cursed!" he said. "Warlocks, Alchemists, Necromancers. Let them all perish in flames." He got hold of himself and yanked out handfuls of grass to try to clean the sticky gunk from his sword It was not an easy chore. Glowering at Widow Lan and Hop, he said, "Your wonderful protector has some unpleasant pets!"
"I have never seen the likes of them," the youth retorted. "You don't know that our Lord Sinjir created those monsters."
"Never have I known a wizard who left the world a better place for his existence." Romal kept wiping at the blade, his face drawn up with distaste. "Lady, you were about to summon your master when we were interrupted!"
"Yes, yes," she mumbled. The old woman lifted the striker on its chain and smote the gong three times. Deep reverberations rang out in their turn, echoing over the stillness of the deserted city. There was no response for long moments, while Romal still wiped the sword and glared about with furious eyes. He gave a start as a bulky figure swung around the edge of the tower and stumbled into view.
It was Kuthor, the barbaric leader of the mountain bandits, but a Kuthor whose mighty chest and arms were streaked with red burns and whose step was uncertain. The long tangled mane of black hair hung past those wide shoulders, damp with sweat. In a meaty hand was gripped the hilt of a Skandoran broadword with a five foot blade that had several notches along its length. Seeing the three of them, the notorious Reaver drew himself up straighter and raised an open hand palm outward.
"Hold, Mongrel!" he called out. "I call truce against a common enemy. My men are all fallen. Against the unnatural vermin which guard this tower, I say we must stand together if we are to survive."
Standing with legs braced well apart, swinging his own sword lightly from side to side, Romal snarled, "You think so,do you? What in Draldros' Hell happened to you? More of these giant spiders?"
"No. There were.. strange floating creatures in the air. Insubtantial bladders filled with gas, and their long strings held venomous barbs. The wind blew them to entangle us. Three of my Reavers howled and thrashed, their hearts bursting within their chests from the poison." Kothar shuddered visibly. "It was a close thing for me as well. I was lying face down all morning, wondering if I should live or not."
"You cannot be trusted any more than a scorpion which I might find in my boot," Romal answered. He extended his sword and lowered its point perceptibly. "Still... In this garden of nightmares, there is no predicting what horrors might came at us. Better to have two strong arms holding swords than one, I suppose."
Kothar's deepset blue eyes were almost hidden by lowered brows. He jerked a thumb at the Widow and Hop. "Who are they? I have seen no living inhabitatants of this godforsaken maze since entering it. On a couch in a recess was stretched out a corpse of a man in a toga such as they wear but there was no breath in him."
"Hah! Most likely he is ready to awaken," Romal said. "I understand now. The Black Magick which has lifted this city from the dust is also resurrecting its peoples... one at a time."
"Wait. Do I grasp the meaning rightly?" Baronet Hop pressed a hand to his own chest as if uncertain it was solid. "You are saying that Widow Lan and I were dead? That we have been returned to the living like vampires or ghouls?"
The Mongrel nodded. "It is so. I had hoped that the light would dawn for you two sooner. Sinjir is reviving his citadel and its peoples."
"Fools, what did you think was going on here?" interrupted Kothar. "More than a hundred generations have passed since Atravan was a thriving city. You are ghosts in flesh walking through a ghost city in stone."
"Well put," called down a sardonic voice from atop the tower.
V.
All heads swivelled to gaze up. Standing at the low-railed balustrade which ran the upmost perimeter of the tower was an imposing figure. Sinjir was tall but gaunt, almost frail-looking in a green silk robe which reached his feet, a robe with loose bell sleeves and a sash of bright yellow tied at the waist. The sorcerer was evidently a Chujiran like his subjects, with a strong square face that was marked by tiger-green eyes which caught the sunlight in flashes. The straight coarse black hair was brushed straight back from a high forehead.
"Old woman, young boy..." he announced, "You are but the first to stir. By nightfall, Atravan will be noisy with the bustle of all its citizens going about their tasks. There is much to do. And our visitors! I see you, sir, are a barbarian from the mountains of Skandor to the icy North, is that not so?"
"Aye, and proud I am of it," answered Kothar. "A more redoubtable fighting man you will never meet."
"I may have need of such a one," the warlock said. "But you, the other. Those ears, the black hair and blue eyes and tanned skin, you are neither Human nor Dartha nor Eldar."
"There is only one Romal," said the Mongel, resting his hand on his sword hilt. "To raise this city from dust and to drag people from their rest takes powerful sorcery indeed. Sinjir, the Dragon of War... I seem to think you were known by another name long ago."
"Speak on, my friend, I would hear more."
"On the island of Ulgor at the Corruption," Romal said. "Where the Sulla Chun manifested themselves. Hundreds went mad and drowned themself or cut their own throats at seeing those monsters. But others were stronger-minded. Thirteen seekers learned forbidden knowledge from the Sulla Chun before Jordyn Himself intervened. Ulgor was cast down into the sea and the Sulla Chun were imprisoned deep within the earth or the ice or the unlit waters."
"You know the secret history that few suspect," Sinjir chuckled. "Yes, I was there! Twelve hundred years ago, I sat before the overwhelming presence of those beings and dared to listen. I, Wo Loong, learned gralic magick. The body into which I was born soon perished but I knew how to cast my spirit forward and usurp another's form. As I have done many times since then."
Kothar made an impatient growl and waved a broad hand. "Enough of this! Spare me the lectures! Sinjir, if you require a bodyguard or a retriever who is skilled with any weapon, then I am that one. All I ask is a warm dry cot, good hot meals and perhaps a share of loot to set aside for my doddering old age. What say you?"
Resting his long-fingered hands on the balustrade, the Dragon of War smiled benevolently. "A tempting offer, sir. And yet, my other guest also seems to a warrior of some ability. We shall have a contest. Come, Romal, do you dare meet Kothar in a death duel to see which of you will be my champion? Do you dare?"
The Mongrel did not answer immediately. He had been edging over near the bizarre spiders still lying where he had slain them. Romal gestured down at the the giant creature near his feet. Then, in one flashing motion, he bent and straightened and the hatchet that had been still stuck in the grotesque body was spinning end over end to thunk hard into the side of Sinjir's neck, nearly severing it. The warlock spun around and tumbled over the low railing to plummet straight down and hit the grass with a thud.
It was a throw no normal Human could have performed as well, if at all. The Mongrel smiled wickedly as he watched the Dragon of War die. "Many have threatened me," he said slowly, "Yet here I stand and those who made those threats are with their ancestors."
As Romal strode grimly over to where the others had remained, he felt something alarming underfoot. The ground shuddered beneath him, trembling and buckling. Great cracks split open up and down the sides of the blue-stone tower. An opening appeared near the base and the gleam of gold and silver glittered within. Its steel point swayed to one side. Leaning into that open aperture, Kothar hesitated. Clearly, his thought was to attempt to grab some loot before fleeing. Taking one quick step toward the bandit chief, Romal kicked him brutally hard in the chest and drove Kothar back deeper inside the tower just as it collapsed. Huge blocks and fragments of the bluish-white structure crashed down and dust billowed out in a dark cloud. Romal had leaped far back from the danger and he stepped quickly out of reach but the dust blinded him and filled his nose and mouth.
As he coughed and wiped at his face, the Mongrel felt some of the tension ease up in his body. Sinjir was dead, as was Kothar. He would be free to go on his way. Hopefully the canoe he had concealed was still there. Spitting and hacking, he caught his breath. The sorcerer's tower had been reduced to rubble lying in jumbled confusion. He looked for Sinjir's corpse and was not entirely surprised to find only a long patch of powdery ash in the same general shape as the warlock, the hatchet still lying within its outline. The Dragon of War had been maintaining his form by gralic magick and, with his death, his long-dead body had returned to dust.
A sadder thought came to him. Romal searched through the now dried brown grass. Yes. Side by side, two more piles of the white ash, all that remained of Widown Lan and the Baronet Hop. They had been summoned back from the airless Void for only those few hours of renewed life. It gave him much to think about. The Mongrel turned in a slow circle, gazing out over the low rubble that had been Atravan a few minutes ago. How strange. The ruined city appeared as it had when he first glimpsed it under the moon the previous night.
No one would miss Kothar and his vicious Reavers, thought Romal. Their disappearance would give some safety and peace of mind to the villagers and farmers on the mainland for a while. So at least some good had come of all this. Leaving the hatchet to mark where Sinjir had perished, he started walking back toward the shore of the island. Romal would never speak of what had happened here. It was only one of many secrets he would keep to himself.
12/21/2018
9/21/1217 DR
I.
His wounds still smarted as Romal guided the canoe through the reeds. At least blood had stopped seeping through the crude bandages wrapped around his left leg and his right arm. The Mongrel felt the jolt as his stolen craft come to a halt where the shallow mucky water lapped at the edge of the island. Still nimble despite a great weariness, he stood up and stepped ashore. For the next few minutes, he dragged the canoe up into some bushes and covered it with leafy branches he hacked free with what was left of his sword.
Except for his sharply pointed ears, Romal seemed to be a normal Human, an athletic young man in his prime. The Mongrel had a mane of coarse black hair which reached his neck, bound at the temples by a metal diadem. In a sullen, heavy-featured face, his dark blue eyes remained watchful even as he dropped down beneath a tree to check his injuries. Aside from bruises and stiffness, his main concern was a gash in one thigh and a slice across the upper bicep of one arm. Little was left of his travel cloak, so he cut fresh strips of its material and changed the dressing. He scowled as he got a better look at his wounds but reflected he had survived much worse.
Leaning back against the tree, Romal scanned the lake surface for any sign of the pursuing Reavers. On the horizon, a glowering red sun was setting under salmon-colored clouds. That damned Kuthor. The bandit chief had the unreasonable tenacity of a watchdog. Two days of pursuit. When he had been approached by the small raiding party with their one-handed battle axes and distinctive leather helmets bearing ear flaps, Romal had boldly sat up straighter in the saddle, rested one hand on his sword hilt and loudly dared Kuthor to do his worst. He owned little that was worth stealing in any case. In the flurry of brutal violence which had exploded, the Reavers had fallen back one after another with their heads split nearly in half, arms flying away severed from its socket, innards spilling out like ropes.
The Mongrel was no common mortal. Given unnatural birth by the Darthan Kjes, he combined the full strength of a fighting Troll and the speed of a Snake man within his frame. His sword had whirled in a gleaming arc that drove blocking weapons aside and split helmets like dried wood. Within minutes, a circle of dead or dying bandits surrounded him as he sprang to face their chieftain.
But in Kuthor the Dark, Romal had met his match. The notorious black-haired marauder was a huge mountain of hard muscle, deeply tanned with many old scars running whitely across his body and limbs. Kuthor was nearly naked, clad in only a heavy kilt and high-strapped boots but he swung a two-handed broadsword with one hand the way a normal man handled a dagger. The bandit chief was not highly skilled in feints and strategy, he simply attacked with a direct primitive savagery that was overwhelming in its relentlessness. Despite his training on Maroch by fencing masters, Romal found he had his hands full with this opponent. Both of them received hits as they fought, shallow slashes and gouges which were more annoying than life-threatening. In a moment's ill-judgement, the Mongrel stopped an overhead blow too directly and his own blade snapped off seven inches up from the hilt.
Expecting to be slain in the next few seconds, Romal had taken advantage of a brief opening and crashed a closed fist to the side of Kuthor's head with a sound like a hammer hitting rock. The bandit leader had reeled back drunkenly, lowering his guard and Romal thrust his sword shard's jagged point for the man's broad chest but more of the Reavers came riding up the trail. Romal had shoved the dazed Kuthor directly into their path, forcing them to rein their horses in while he himself had leaped astride his own chestnut stallion to escape.
Then had come the long desperate chase. Night had fallen. Romal had lost the Reavers long enough to stealthily steal a canoe from some sleeping fishermen but he left his horse in exchange with its blanket and bridle. He had shoved off into the night, with only a vague memory guiding him that there was a forbidden island somewhere in this vast lake. Now he rested as his strength quickly returned.
The Mongrel was pleased by the vegetation he saw, recognizing plants which bore nuts and berries and even bark which was slightly nutritious. The presence of birds and squirrels in the area suggested that traps might nab him a meal or two, and their presence also hinted that drinkable water was available. This situation did not seem unsurvivable. Why was this island forbidden? he started to wonder before he remembered the ruins of Atravan. Feeling back to normal and wanting to get away from the shore, Romal started hiking inland. The soil was damp but not quite marshy, and the foliage was lush. He spotted a likely-looking branch five feet long and he snapped it loose with his considerable strength. As he continued walking, the Mongrel trimmed off a few branches, whittled away at one end with what remained of his sword and eventually had a serviceable walking stick that would also serve as a club. Looking a few thinner straight sticks that could be made into javelins occupied him as he headed up rising ground toward the center of the island.
From what he remembered of old tales, Atravan had been one of the first cities of Humans to flourish but that had been over a thousand years ago. When the Darthim came to power and crushed the other Races beneath their cruel sorcery, Atravan had fallen and was said to be under a vile curse. For the past twelve hundred years, the Darthan Kjes had exploited and abused and tormented all the other Races. The Trolls in their tunnels, the Gelydrim under the sea, the hidden Snake men hiding in their clandestine lives, even the immortal Eldarin who seldom left their island Elvedal. Darthan tyranny was a heavy burden on all living beings and yet... Recently Romal had been hearing whispers of a coming revolt. The prolific Humans had grown more numerous than all the other Races combined. Emboldened by sheer numbers and the strength of their armies and fortresses, Humans were beginning to stir with the thought of rebellion. A few had even dared breach the thought to Romal.
The hill was getting steep now as night fell, and the walking stick was a big help. From what he had been told, the last time anyone had ventured onto this island was a year ago. Soldiers had been sent from Signarm to scout the land, and they had returned saying there was nothing but ruins. Romal crested the rise. In the last glimmer of twilight, he gazed down on a valley of immense stone blocks lying in piles, of fallen columns and headless stone colossi. Temples and palaces stood with their roofs caved in.
Ruins indeed. The moon was rising and Romal felt he would soon fall asleep whether he wanted to or not. His body ached and his eyes burned with weariness. Finding a likely thicket, taking pains to leave no footprints in the soft earth, he crawled deeply up under cover and arranged loose branches to conceal himself. As soon as he curled up, he tumbled into slumber.
It seemed only moments later that the sunlight directly on his face awakened him. Romal mumbled, stirred and disentangled himself. His wounds had stopped stinging, at least, and the rest had restored his vitality. The Mongrel thought of finding water, gathering eggs from a bird nest or catching some small animal in a snare. Making a workable bow was within his skill set. He stretched, yawned and turned around, only to feel his mouth drop open. In the valley below him was an imposing wall of blue-white stone gleaming in the sunlight around a city as clean and fresh as if it had been erected that morning. Atravan.
II.
Oddly, Romal did not doubt his senses. He knew what he had seen in the moonlight, and he accepted what met his eyes now. Most people would have been struck dumb or felt panic at such an uncanny development, But he was like no other, for Romal had been created and grown to adolescence on the isle of Maroch. The Darthim had created him by infusing a Human infant with the 'essential traits' of the other six Races as well, and he had been reared in a culture ruled by sorcerers. The dreaded Tollinor himself,the Firstmade of the Darthim, had been the closest he had known to a parent. So, the Mongrel had witnessed amazing deeds of gralic magick all his life and was not stunned by seeing yet another one.
Some potent warlock or groups of warlocks had done this, he realized, but after seeing nothing alive moving about the city, he shrugged and went searching for sustenance. Mundane matters first. Trickling down the side of the hill into that valley was a broad stream. Romal sniffed the clear water, tentatively touched a dampened finger to his finger and tasted nothing harmful in the drop. When he spotted a newt crawling about on rocks beneath the surface and then some wriggling little fish darting by, he drank sparingly from his cupped hand and eased his thirst.
Further up the stream, where an outcropping of rock made a ledge over a natural pool, the Mongrel caught sight of a good-sized turtle sunning itself and warming up for the day. There was his breakfast. Quick as one of the Snake men whose traits he shared, Romal snatched the shellback up and dispatched it with the shard of his sword. There were enough scraps of dried wood and leaves up in the rocks away from the swampy ground for his purposes. Tucked inside his sword belt were several pieces of flint and, using the edge of what remained of his sword for sparks, he worked at building a fire.
As he began pulling the turtle apart and roasting its limbs on sticks over the flames, Romal wondered what he should worry about first. There was the weirdly reconstructed Atravan nearby, a city silently brought up from long-abandoned ruins overnight. But Kuthor and his bloodthirsty bandits were likely on his trail, a more urgent problem. He had slain five of them and injured several more, so their code would not let them drop the grudge against him. Gnawing the rich turtle flesh and sipping handfuls of water, Romal decided his next step should be to fashion a good spear. Let Kuthor come seeking blood, the Mongrel thought grimly, the bandit will end up only watching his own wash the ground. Short-tempered at best, being on the run did not improve Romal's disposition.
He thought of the benefits of meeting his new enemy again. All Romal owned was what he had on... well-worn boots, black trousers and a dark grey cotton tunic. His swordbelt was supported by a strap running down from his left shoulder across his chest. Not enough of his long cloak remained to be worth keeping. At least, he still had the wristbands and diadem of the unnaturally hard Trom-metal, those had been useful many times in battle. If he slew a few bandits, he could put their belongings to his own use. A decent sword, maybe a useful knife, perhaps a few coins for when he next walked among men. Stealing from thieves...
Not many scraps of the turtle were left after Romal had dug over each bone thoroughly. He felt his spirits restored by even a few hours sleep and some food and water. His injuries had faded to mild discomfort by this time. Scrubbing his hands and face in the freezing water of the pond, then dunking his head a few times to rinse dried sweat out of his hair, the Mongrel rose and picked up his crude walking stick. The sun was higher in the sky and unfamiliar bird calls sounded back and forth from the trees. His thoughts went back to the resurrected city not far away. Who had the power and knowledge to perform such a spell of restoration? Was even Tollinor skilled enough?
Perhaps wisdom would urge him to stay away from unknown sorcery. A prudent man with bandits on his trail had enough to keep him on the move, but curiosity was strong in Romal, as was a stubborn unwillingness to show fear even to himself. If Kuthor and his band arrived here, they would be certain to head for the mysterious city as well, so he might as well be ready for them. Romal walked slowly, pausing often to listen and even to sniff the air. He would be ready for Kuthor this time.
It was bizarre how sharply the borders of Atravan were delineated. There were no cultivated fields to be seen, no peasant huts or even trodden trails in the mud. He came upon the outer walls and studied the unfamiliar bluish-white stone of which the city was constructed. The material had darker veins and flecks throughout its surface. He could not identify it as any type of rock he had seen before, and it was smooth as glass to the touch. The walls had flat upper edges eleven feet off the ground. For a few minutes, Romal trudged alongside without seeing any hints of gates or openings in either direction. Stranger and stranger.
Moving back ten paces, the Mongrel ran forward and vaulted atop the wall, reaching it with no apparent difficulty. Because he only had a normal Human weight but the strength of a Troll, he was capable of leaping well over twice his own height. Landing on the upper edge, Romal stared out at a miles-wide maze. The interior of the city bent and twisted and turned back upon itself many times. There were numerous dead ends. Here and there, though, he spotted nooks in the walls which held benches or low couches. In the center of this blue labyrinth, a round stone tower rose fifty feet into the air, topped with a railed balustrade and a pointed spike of iron for a roof.
Atravan was no city as he had ever conceived of existing, Romal thought. Still holding his crude staff, he watched for movement but saw none. Deserted? Ressurected from rubble and then abandoned again? His nerves were getting on edge over all these unanswered questions. Well, he might as well investigate further. The Mongrel began pacing along the upper edge of the city's encircling wall and was getting bored when he heard a faint sound ahead... unmistakably, someone yawning.
Silently, Romal went toward the spot and heard a young boy's voice calling out, "Hello? Pang? Jun? Where is everyone?"
Impatient and unwilling to watch and listen further, the Mongrel leaped down from the wall to land lightly on his feet. In front of him was a niche carved in the maze wall, in which a low marble couch piled with cushions stood. In front of that nook, staring wide-eyed at the unexpected appearance of a grim warrior seemingly from nowhere, a beardless youth gasped and fell back onto the couch.
The boy looked like the Chujirans that Romal had infrequently met in his wanderings. Too young yet for his voice to have deepened, the lad was short and thin, with bare arms and legs showing from his white silk toga. The amber skin and coarse black hair and the fold of skin on the inner eye were all signs of an inhabitant of Chujir... but few travelers arrived in the West from one of the most distant nations of that Age. Only twice had Romal met Chujirans. Nothing about Atravan should surprise him, though.
"Who are you?" demanded the boy in the common speech Prilirdyn. "What do you want? Pang! Jun! I'm calling you!"
"My name is Romal," answered the Mongrel calmly. "I am a wanderer with no home anywhere. Who might you be?"
"You presume much. I am the Baronet Hop, son of Baron Fung himself. Where are my slaves? Where is everyone?" Giving credence to his claims of nobility were the assorted silver ornaments he wore, including three finger rings, an ankle bracelet and a braided choker.
"I hope your nerves are strong, son," Romal said with a wry smile. "This will be a shock. Atravan has lain in ruins for a thousand years. Until this morning, all this city was only broken stone and weeds growing through cracked paving. As to where you yourself came from, I can't begin to imagine."
Hop scoffed. "You are some madman who had walked beneath the sun until his brains cooked," the boy said. "Find my slaves. I want a scented bath and some fruit."
"I wish you the best of luck with that. Do you see anyone other than yourself? Do you hear any voices? This city has been brought back from the dead, and so I suspect have you."
"I don't understand," the youth said. His face tightened up and his eyes shone with tears. Suddenly Romal felt remorse for having spoken so flippantly. He laid a hand on the boy's bony shoulder and rested it there to comfort him. Hop did not react.
"Be brave, young man," the Mongrel said. "This is a great mystery but every riddle has a solution. Perhaps your family and slaves are nearby but we have not heard them stir yet. Tell me, who is master of this city?"
"The Dragon of War himself, Sinjir. Our defender against the milk-white Darthim and the Trolls in their tunnels," Hon said. He began glancing in all directions. "How quiet it is. Yet.. wait, I hear voices."
Romal drew himself up to his full height and gripped his walking stick like a quarterstaff. He also heard the racuous laughter and cursing of mountain bandits.
III.
Clasping the boy to his chest, staff still in his other hand, the Mongrel sprang up and cleared the wall of the maze. With both hands full, he did not land as neatly as before but tumbled to roll over and jump back up again. He dropped the stick and clamped his free hand over Baronet Hop's mouth while still pressing the youth against him. Against the abnormal strength in those hands, the thin young boy wriggled ineffectually. At least Hop did not make muffled yelling noises, Romal thought.
From the other side of the wall, voices with the distinctive Skandoran accents sounded clearly. "The dark one is wasting our time," said one. "I see no loot. No wenches. Not even food for our empty bellies. There is naught but this maze."
"Ahh, grumble when some good may come of it," said a second, older voice. "It's that weird man we seek. I tell you, that could be none but Romal the Mongrel, the Seven-In-One, born of no mother."
"Sure and those are true words," said the first Reaver. "Did we not see the pointed ears? Did he not strike down five of our best, including my kinsman Ularf? He will pay dearly, and his dying will take sunrise to sunrise."
Releasing Hop, Romal vaulted up to stand atop the wall for an instant, only long enough to get a glimpse of his enemy. There were three of the bandits in their drab rags and leather helmets. Two held swords naked in their hands as they walked, the third was carrying a short-handled fighting hatchet. They swung around to gawk as they glimpsed motion above them and then it was too late. Romal dropped down upon the Reavers. The staff in his hands whistled to flatten the face of the nearest bandit and reversed to drive its pointed end directly into the hollow of the throat of another. The Mongrel lunged to seize the final enemy's wrist with a grip that snapped bones and made the man cry out as he dropped his hatchet to the paved walk beneath their feet. He died a second later as Romal closed his other hand around his neck and squeezed tighter than a hangman's noose could have.
The Mongrel crouched over two corpses and one man gagging a final breath through a crushed windpipe. He sniffed and muttered, "My dying will take sunrise to sunrise, will it?" but then he realized he had to move quickly. More could be coming around the maze from either direction. The hatchet appealed to him. It had a slightly curved oak hand and a narrow head that was sharpened on the wide edge. This he thrust into his belt. Of the swords lying near the dead men, Romal quickly decided he would choose the Signarm dueling weapon. Signarm steel had a good reputation and the straight three-foot long blade would fit his scabbard loosely but well enough.
Hearing the Baronet Hop whimper on the other side of the wall, Romal hissed, "Be still!" Nothing else on the Reavers caught his eye as being valuable enough to bother with at the moment. Like many bandits of that Age, their ragged clothing was adorned with a colorful scarf or silk sash taken from a victim. Two wore gold earrings and the other an armband made of gold, this was a custom that kept something valuable to be pawned when in a town. The Mongrel was content for the moment by gaining weapons. Again, he rose and jumped straight up over the wall to rejoin the boy.
When the imposing form came down lightly next to him, Hop shrank away and whined, "What was all that noise? Who were those men? I want my slaves! I want to feel safe."
The Mongrel lifted the boy up to his feet. "Come now, show some backbone. Lead me to that tower in the center of this cursed labyrinth. I feel sure the answers we seek can be found there."
"Yes, yes, our Lord Sinjir knows all. He will make everything clear." The youth began walking quickly and Romal followed without lowering his guard. He kept his grasp on the newly acquired sword hilt and he kept listening. There had been no yells behind them to indicate more Reavers had come upon the three he had slain.
"I'm hungry," Hop mumbled.
"I do not have a joint of beef tucked in my belt," snapped Romal. They had turned one of the hundreds of corners and stopped abruptly at a dead end where a low bench stood. Stretched out on that wooden surface was a skeleton covered with a tight gruesome layer of dried flesh. Black hair hung down from the skull, and the eyes were sunken beneath withered lids.
"Why, what can this mean?" Hop asked as he stared.
The Mongrel did not answer immediately. He had a horrified suspicion they were facing a body being recreated from the dust of centuries. If they waited, he felt, muscle would appear beneath the parchment skin and blood would start to flow through arteries forming even now. Romal did not speak of this.
"It is Black Magick, which never ends well," he said at last. "Keep going."
By now the sun had risen higher and curious details on the maze began to be apparent. Here and there, etched into the walls were outlines of strange beasts and men with animal heads. Ideograms showed in the morning light, unfamiliar to Romal. The boy took no notice but continued on his way until they reached a forking where the maze split off left and right.
"Don't tell me YOU are lost," Romal growled, "Because I don't think that tower looks to be any closer than it was when we started."
But the Baronet swung to their left and picked up his pace. "Widow Lan, is that you? Oh, Widow Lan."
Stepping fearfully into view was a short stout woman well page middle age. She wore a white toga much like Hop's but under it was a thin silk tunic of deep purple. Like Hop, she had the skin and hair and eyes of a Chujiran, and the same musical lilt was in her voice as she answered, "Your Grace? This worthless one rejoices to see you well."
Dropping ceremony, the boy rushed to embrace the old woman and buried his face against her shoulder. "Widow Lan! Is this a nightmare or the delirium of fever? I have seen no one. Is Atravan abandoned? Please still my fears."
Letting the youth cling to her for the moment, Lan said, "Nay, I do not myself understand. I remember.. that I was dying. Yes, I had the wheezing and the short breath of the winter affliction. The physician told me to make my final prayers and compose my spirit. Then there was not even the blackness of sleep, only oblivion. And I stirred and awoke and sat up on that couch over there bare moments ago."
The Mongrel held his tongue with effort. If these were revenants, the Undead reconstituted from whatever dust had remained of their bodies, let them realize it in their own way. He saw the old woman gazing at him and he nodded his head, "I am Romal. Call me a vagrant roaming the world, if you will."
"Never have I seen your like," Widow Lan admitted. "You show the ears of a Dartha or Eldar, but you are clearly neither."
"Lady," Romal said with forced patience, "I warn you that bandits are entering this city. They are most cruel and brutal men. We should find safety if we may."
"To our Lord Sinjir?" asked the Baronet, turning his head toward the Mongrel.
"Sinjir? Yes, there is no other refuge for us," she said. "The Dragon of War is wise and powerful. He will protect us and I am certain he can make clear all that is strange today."
His head tilted as he listened for any sounds indicating pursuit, Romal turned his sullen face toward the old woman. "This cannot be the whole of Atravan. Where are the shops? The taverns, the storehouses? Where do the people themselves live?"
"Why, in their huts and hovels outside the walls," Lan replied with obvious bewilderment. "Out by the fields of wheat, the herds of cattle and sheep, where everyone is only brought into the maze if the city is under attack."
Again, Romal kept his silence. There were no cultivated fields on this island, no cows, no peasants laboring. As far as he had seen, the entire island had been uninhabited for centuries. According to those he had spoken to on the mainland, all attempts to resettle this isle had failed as settlers sickened and quickly died off.
Whatever had made the city rise from the dust, whether Sinjir or not, had also resurrected these two people from the emptiness of the beyond. But he did not know if they could handle that revelation. He himself felt his skin crawl at the thought. "Lead us to your master if you will, madame," he said at last.
"You will see," the young Hop added. "Our Lord Sinjir is wise and noble."
They trudged on in worried silence. Walking behind the two Atravanin, the Mongrel took a moment to inspect the sword he had claimed from the fallen Reaver. It had been well-maintained, and its edges were sharp. Leather strips had been wound about the wooden hilt to offer a better grip, and the round pommel was weighted to be used as a striking weapon if needed. The balance was acceptable. Romal slid the sword back into his own scabbard and wished he had taken a few more moments to search the bandits throughly.
The hatchet was a real prize, he thought, the curved wooden haft had a rod of iron through its core for extra strength. The single-edged head was keen enough for shaving. He tossed the weapon up slightly and caught it, thinking he actually preferred it to the sword for close hand fighting. The Mongrel looked up to see the boy staring at him.
"What manner of man are you, Romal?" asked Hop. "I did not know such warriors as you existed."
"I am like no other," the Mongrel rumbled and did not explain further.
"Please forgive the lad," said Widow Lan. "He means no disrepect. Yet, to speak truly, I also wish to know more about you. Your presence is a great comfort under these frightening circumstances."
"Oh, very well. Tollinor Kje, the Firstmade of the Darthim, created me as I am. He took a normal Human foundling and used his sorcery to infuse the infant with traits of the other Races, planning to train me to be his living weapon. But I would not be used so. fought free! I fled Maroch and have been wandering the world ever since."
"So you have no kindred, then?" asked the old woman. "No parents, no family, no tribesmen?"
"I am the only one of my kind," Romal snapped in a tone that did not invite further questions. "And let me advise you two Atravans. I did not seek your company, nor is your safety my responsibilty. If fighting starts, stay well back. I will not endanger my own hide to protect yours. Are my words clear?"
Ahead of them, the blue-white walls of the maze ended at an open entrance wide enough for three horsemen to ride through abreast, and inside a field of short brilliantly-green grass without weeds was the base of the sorcerer's tower. Romal frowned. He could see no doors in that tower, no openings of any kind. Well, what could you expect from the citadel of a sorcerer? Arranged in a circle around the tower were three stone colossi, statues of standing men with strange bestial faces and each leaning on a staff which ended in a hook. There was an ornate bronze gong four feet across on a frame which stood atop a stone block. A striker hung by an attached chain.
"We will ring the ceremonial gong and be admitted," Widow Lan announced, obviously tired after walking so quickly. She stepped up to the gong and froze in complete terror with one hand raised. Scuttling around the side of the tower on multi-jointed hairy legs were two black spiders the size of dogs.
IV.
The old woman's scream never sounded. As soon as she saw the horrible creatures, one of them was somehow on its back with its legs curling up in spasms. She saw the strange man Romal bound up into the air, well above the point a tall man could reach, and then he came down again with his sword blazing in quick forehand and backhand strokes. The monstrous spider flew apart into pieces, dark goo spurting out as Romal hopped back away from its death throes.
All this had happened so quickly that neither of the Atravans comprehended the situation for several seconds. There was one giant spider lying dead with the handle of an axe protruding up from its body. The other was partially dismembered. Approaching the brutes with suspicion as if expecting them to attack again somehow, Romal fell to his knees. He took a deep shuddering breath at how close he had come to being killed. If those fangs had sunk into his body...
"May all sorcerers be cursed!" he said. "Warlocks, Alchemists, Necromancers. Let them all perish in flames." He got hold of himself and yanked out handfuls of grass to try to clean the sticky gunk from his sword It was not an easy chore. Glowering at Widow Lan and Hop, he said, "Your wonderful protector has some unpleasant pets!"
"I have never seen the likes of them," the youth retorted. "You don't know that our Lord Sinjir created those monsters."
"Never have I known a wizard who left the world a better place for his existence." Romal kept wiping at the blade, his face drawn up with distaste. "Lady, you were about to summon your master when we were interrupted!"
"Yes, yes," she mumbled. The old woman lifted the striker on its chain and smote the gong three times. Deep reverberations rang out in their turn, echoing over the stillness of the deserted city. There was no response for long moments, while Romal still wiped the sword and glared about with furious eyes. He gave a start as a bulky figure swung around the edge of the tower and stumbled into view.
It was Kuthor, the barbaric leader of the mountain bandits, but a Kuthor whose mighty chest and arms were streaked with red burns and whose step was uncertain. The long tangled mane of black hair hung past those wide shoulders, damp with sweat. In a meaty hand was gripped the hilt of a Skandoran broadword with a five foot blade that had several notches along its length. Seeing the three of them, the notorious Reaver drew himself up straighter and raised an open hand palm outward.
"Hold, Mongrel!" he called out. "I call truce against a common enemy. My men are all fallen. Against the unnatural vermin which guard this tower, I say we must stand together if we are to survive."
Standing with legs braced well apart, swinging his own sword lightly from side to side, Romal snarled, "You think so,do you? What in Draldros' Hell happened to you? More of these giant spiders?"
"No. There were.. strange floating creatures in the air. Insubtantial bladders filled with gas, and their long strings held venomous barbs. The wind blew them to entangle us. Three of my Reavers howled and thrashed, their hearts bursting within their chests from the poison." Kothar shuddered visibly. "It was a close thing for me as well. I was lying face down all morning, wondering if I should live or not."
"You cannot be trusted any more than a scorpion which I might find in my boot," Romal answered. He extended his sword and lowered its point perceptibly. "Still... In this garden of nightmares, there is no predicting what horrors might came at us. Better to have two strong arms holding swords than one, I suppose."
Kothar's deepset blue eyes were almost hidden by lowered brows. He jerked a thumb at the Widow and Hop. "Who are they? I have seen no living inhabitatants of this godforsaken maze since entering it. On a couch in a recess was stretched out a corpse of a man in a toga such as they wear but there was no breath in him."
"Hah! Most likely he is ready to awaken," Romal said. "I understand now. The Black Magick which has lifted this city from the dust is also resurrecting its peoples... one at a time."
"Wait. Do I grasp the meaning rightly?" Baronet Hop pressed a hand to his own chest as if uncertain it was solid. "You are saying that Widow Lan and I were dead? That we have been returned to the living like vampires or ghouls?"
The Mongrel nodded. "It is so. I had hoped that the light would dawn for you two sooner. Sinjir is reviving his citadel and its peoples."
"Fools, what did you think was going on here?" interrupted Kothar. "More than a hundred generations have passed since Atravan was a thriving city. You are ghosts in flesh walking through a ghost city in stone."
"Well put," called down a sardonic voice from atop the tower.
V.
All heads swivelled to gaze up. Standing at the low-railed balustrade which ran the upmost perimeter of the tower was an imposing figure. Sinjir was tall but gaunt, almost frail-looking in a green silk robe which reached his feet, a robe with loose bell sleeves and a sash of bright yellow tied at the waist. The sorcerer was evidently a Chujiran like his subjects, with a strong square face that was marked by tiger-green eyes which caught the sunlight in flashes. The straight coarse black hair was brushed straight back from a high forehead.
"Old woman, young boy..." he announced, "You are but the first to stir. By nightfall, Atravan will be noisy with the bustle of all its citizens going about their tasks. There is much to do. And our visitors! I see you, sir, are a barbarian from the mountains of Skandor to the icy North, is that not so?"
"Aye, and proud I am of it," answered Kothar. "A more redoubtable fighting man you will never meet."
"I may have need of such a one," the warlock said. "But you, the other. Those ears, the black hair and blue eyes and tanned skin, you are neither Human nor Dartha nor Eldar."
"There is only one Romal," said the Mongel, resting his hand on his sword hilt. "To raise this city from dust and to drag people from their rest takes powerful sorcery indeed. Sinjir, the Dragon of War... I seem to think you were known by another name long ago."
"Speak on, my friend, I would hear more."
"On the island of Ulgor at the Corruption," Romal said. "Where the Sulla Chun manifested themselves. Hundreds went mad and drowned themself or cut their own throats at seeing those monsters. But others were stronger-minded. Thirteen seekers learned forbidden knowledge from the Sulla Chun before Jordyn Himself intervened. Ulgor was cast down into the sea and the Sulla Chun were imprisoned deep within the earth or the ice or the unlit waters."
"You know the secret history that few suspect," Sinjir chuckled. "Yes, I was there! Twelve hundred years ago, I sat before the overwhelming presence of those beings and dared to listen. I, Wo Loong, learned gralic magick. The body into which I was born soon perished but I knew how to cast my spirit forward and usurp another's form. As I have done many times since then."
Kothar made an impatient growl and waved a broad hand. "Enough of this! Spare me the lectures! Sinjir, if you require a bodyguard or a retriever who is skilled with any weapon, then I am that one. All I ask is a warm dry cot, good hot meals and perhaps a share of loot to set aside for my doddering old age. What say you?"
Resting his long-fingered hands on the balustrade, the Dragon of War smiled benevolently. "A tempting offer, sir. And yet, my other guest also seems to a warrior of some ability. We shall have a contest. Come, Romal, do you dare meet Kothar in a death duel to see which of you will be my champion? Do you dare?"
The Mongrel did not answer immediately. He had been edging over near the bizarre spiders still lying where he had slain them. Romal gestured down at the the giant creature near his feet. Then, in one flashing motion, he bent and straightened and the hatchet that had been still stuck in the grotesque body was spinning end over end to thunk hard into the side of Sinjir's neck, nearly severing it. The warlock spun around and tumbled over the low railing to plummet straight down and hit the grass with a thud.
It was a throw no normal Human could have performed as well, if at all. The Mongrel smiled wickedly as he watched the Dragon of War die. "Many have threatened me," he said slowly, "Yet here I stand and those who made those threats are with their ancestors."
As Romal strode grimly over to where the others had remained, he felt something alarming underfoot. The ground shuddered beneath him, trembling and buckling. Great cracks split open up and down the sides of the blue-stone tower. An opening appeared near the base and the gleam of gold and silver glittered within. Its steel point swayed to one side. Leaning into that open aperture, Kothar hesitated. Clearly, his thought was to attempt to grab some loot before fleeing. Taking one quick step toward the bandit chief, Romal kicked him brutally hard in the chest and drove Kothar back deeper inside the tower just as it collapsed. Huge blocks and fragments of the bluish-white structure crashed down and dust billowed out in a dark cloud. Romal had leaped far back from the danger and he stepped quickly out of reach but the dust blinded him and filled his nose and mouth.
As he coughed and wiped at his face, the Mongrel felt some of the tension ease up in his body. Sinjir was dead, as was Kothar. He would be free to go on his way. Hopefully the canoe he had concealed was still there. Spitting and hacking, he caught his breath. The sorcerer's tower had been reduced to rubble lying in jumbled confusion. He looked for Sinjir's corpse and was not entirely surprised to find only a long patch of powdery ash in the same general shape as the warlock, the hatchet still lying within its outline. The Dragon of War had been maintaining his form by gralic magick and, with his death, his long-dead body had returned to dust.
A sadder thought came to him. Romal searched through the now dried brown grass. Yes. Side by side, two more piles of the white ash, all that remained of Widown Lan and the Baronet Hop. They had been summoned back from the airless Void for only those few hours of renewed life. It gave him much to think about. The Mongrel turned in a slow circle, gazing out over the low rubble that had been Atravan a few minutes ago. How strange. The ruined city appeared as it had when he first glimpsed it under the moon the previous night.
No one would miss Kothar and his vicious Reavers, thought Romal. Their disappearance would give some safety and peace of mind to the villagers and farmers on the mainland for a while. So at least some good had come of all this. Leaving the hatchet to mark where Sinjir had perished, he started walking back toward the shore of the island. Romal would never speak of what had happened here. It was only one of many secrets he would keep to himself.
12/21/2018
