The historians of the archives say that Dwarves were a proud and stubborn people. Having never met one, I find it is difficult to confirm or deny that claim. Yet, their legacy has me agreeing all the same.

Imagine, just for a moment, hating someone so much, that you would doom your entire race just to spite them. That you might let every last man, woman, and child, meet a terrible and tragic end, before offering your surrender.

If our current theories hold any truth at all, I feel that the Eastern Mountains and their seemingly endless supply of Constructs is quite telling.

- Quote attributed to Archmage Velculo

Chapter 21

[The East]

The Actium was an old ship. One of the oldest in the Empire, even if you looked among the grander vessels held within the Royal fleet.

Created as a sister-ship to the Geralta (the likes of which was famously brought down in flames during its maiden voyage during the second Expansion, and never returned to service) the Actium’s own career was quite far from the spotlight. Instead of conquest, or being drafted up for the Empire’s noble subjugation of the new lands all those generations ago, the Actium was instead stationed on the Eastern Lines. Serviced in defense of the general populace, it found a humbler purpose. There, it remained, as one of the few vessels dedicated solely to the Dwarven front, where the battles had already been won and borders had long been established.

And it very well did remain.

Remained until the Actium was a proud veteran of two hundred and fifty-seven campaigns.

There were parts replaced in that time, certainly. Portions of the ship were new, or at least, no longer original. The deck was swapped multiple times, the sails revisted and updated with banners. But the skeleton of the ship remained. The bones, as it were, did not change.

Yes, for longer than anyone but the ledgers could remember, the Actium had patrolled along the Bloodridge Mountains. Sometimes a scout, sometimes a rescue, but other time, simply as a presence. To some, maybe it could even be called a beacon. Something that held meaning to those many troops below. Soldiers, waiting in their camps, or forts, or outposts, looking up towards the deep blue sky. For truly, the ship had been present for so long, it was more than just a simple vessel. It was proof that the Empire did not falter. That the reason mankind stood strong along the front, was because did not forget the threat, no matter how much time had passed.

On the Actium’s ceremonial two-hundred and fiftieth campaign, the vessel was inspected by a Royal Shipkeeper and thereby marked as the only ship known within the Empire, to have been capable been of flying with not one, not two, but seven, separate, catastrophic, structural failures in desperate need of replacement. Each one, as it is noted upon the official documentation- in plain text: “patched and rigged more haphazardly than the previous. A true danger to us all.”

By practical decision, the Actium was immediately set to be retired.

Yet, then, by a far less practical outcry, as a result of wide-spread protest by the Eastern Legions, a Royal decree was drafted. One which proclaimed, a single exception. Thus, instead of being settled down to a slow dismantling, the ship was repaired to meet the bare-minimum of requirements and placed back into service, once more.

Repaired, though, would perhaps be an understatement.

For, as most already know: the Actium is an old ship. And as an ancient vessel, in many ways, and during its routine service, the vessel had been damaged, patched, damaged, and patched, so many times, many might even be argued the ship was hardly the same as what came into service originally. In fact, to the untrained eye, it almost looked young. What, with a fresh coat of paint, and a new deck. Red and glossy wood used in place of composite or stone-strand for the purposes of weight and balance, even with how expensive as this happened to be in the present times. The ports were new, the mast was new, as were the winged sails: but these are simply cosmetics.

Even equipped with new sails, the Actium was not a thing of beauty. A proud, ram-style bow, would always stand out in a brutal fashion. The wide base, awkward, to the sleeker fashion of the younger generation of ships. And new paint could never cover up the lurking purpose held there. Of a ship, meant for an age where war was not just against the enemies of mankind, but of mankind itself.

Old bones, as was said before.

The Actium had no new weapons, either. In fact, aside from the small additions to siphon off its core over the years, the ship was utter spartan. No rune-worked ballista, no new technology tinkered together by clever Mages at the academy. No pivoting turrets, or mana-stone tubes. Far from these were concerned, the Actium was not given shortcuts to greatness.

It had never needed them.

It possessed one weapon: the single firing cannon, set directly into the bow. Powered not by crystals, but by its pilot Mage’s own mana reservoir. Despite the exception made to keep it in service, other models of Actium’s variety had all but been completely set aside, as the generations began to pass. Ancient styled weapons like this were growing less and less feasible, as magic began to cool. A term coined some centuries past by Imperial Scribes. For much as their egos might boast otherwise, the average Mage of present day could no longer control the elements like one channeling the raging tempest of a violent storm.

No, clearly, those powers are only for the rightful few. Of the royal, or noble blood, if barely in many cases. So, while the Actium stood the test of ages past, those who might use it properly were growing harder to come by.

Despite all of this, though, none of those facts changed the truth of the matter. That, set into the bow, pointed as one might steer (which was straight ahead, and nothing but) there was a weapon of great power. A weapon from a different era. Back when the mana coursing through the minds of men was still a raging fire. When the greatest minds alive bent the knee and put their powers to serve one purpose: the Empire’s survival.

There was an undeniable strength in this. In a weapon whose nature could no longer be replicated. Not even by all the Archmages, sitting up in their ivory towers, or all the Mages studying beneath them.

So, it continued to fly.

Like the legacy of the Empire itself.

Winged fins to either side, cutting across the trailing vapor of barely formed clouds, set beside the jagged peaks of the Blood Ridge Mountains. The Actium tracked along the definitive border. Soaring, high above the lands below, stable beside the threshold which set the realm of men apart from the lost lands of their long silent Eastern neighbors.

Out there, steep cliffs stood. Rising up like broken fangs or shattered daggers. Each peak hiding horrors that were just waiting for the chance to bring ruin. Black and red mountains, all continuing without end, with nothing but twisting valleys until the coasts of the continent sunk into the oceans. And, perhaps, carrying on beneath the sea, even then.

Sailing beside these, the difference in terrain could be striking. Even to those familiar with the lands, it was a sudden shift. How the mountains abruptly began with barely a plateau of highlands, before simply striking out against the clouds. To see that difference, where farm land and villages sat, hugging near the ever-drying rivers that were fed from the steep valleys between those terrible peaks.

The currents would pool west and southward, towards the ocean beyond the horizons. Feeding dying farmlands, that were now barely capable of sustaining their once beautiful estates. They waiting like husks, in the dark shadows of looming giants.

A harsh beauty, to be sure.

The records said the Dwarves brought this all to be. That they did so, as their people’s one, final, act of vengeance in the face of a war soon to be lost. Ancient legends, back from before the Empire for fully formed, speak of the East as lands very different from the endless mountains now present. Passages and tales of a vast civilization. Where cities rose up to rival any of mankind, lifted upon a grand plateau. With roads of gold, and buildings of glass. Of monuments adorned with treasures and altars to forgotten Gods.

Where Palaces of precious metals, armor, and jewels, were worshiped for the glory contained within them. For secrets, bestowed only to the most faithful.

No longer.

Southward bound, following the river as it meandered with the small current still in its possession, the Actium was never in sight of anything close to such magnificence. Winds gripped the sails with the bluster of a steady elevation, the crew paid little concern to the lost history beneath them.

Through gusts and turbulence, their travel carried on.

Every so often, far below, another fortification might be spotted. Just far enough from the mountains to avoid falling debris, but close enough to respond at a moment’s notice should anything emerge. The Eastern lines of the Empire’s legions, spread thin in light of the recent proclamation. The fires lit within those encampments seemed far too few to meet the standards what was once the most honored defense known to man.

Looking down at them from his perch beside the open-air port hole, Mage Finel breathed in deep. He could smell the faint scent of fires was still on the wind, mixing the fresh flow of mana. Strong enough to set his beard on ends. Near the mountains, on a day like today, he could almost imagine he was standing before the Dungeon. Or, perhaps, within a training room, carved out beneath the Academy.

But today was just another day on the border.

Nothing special, nothing strange.

“How far off are we?” Setting his hand on a long-running metal pipe, bracketed to the ship’s hull, Mage Finel shouted. “Ander, can you hear me?"

"Aye, just a moment." A hollow response rattled back through the pipe. "Close I reckon, but no sign yet."

"I was told this location would be marked by [Eclipse] spells, on our approach.”

“I'd hope so.” The end cap of a hollow piece buzzed, quietly at first, but quickly growing louder. “But the legions had a lot of people pulled out, not long ago. They probably couldn’t send a full patrol like they’d originally planned. Keep your eyes open."

“Keep your eyes open..." Finel grumbled, as he peered down below, eyeing the cliffs. "That's a bunch of 'Ro dung. How are we supposed to know where this place is?”

"Just keep a lookout."

"Will do." Finel continued his search on the ground below. “But we’ve got better things to do with my time than wander around aimlessly.”

“Patience.” The bar hummed, as the other Mage’s voice reverberated through the rune-worked metal. The clarity shifted with mana, as several of the markings held a soft, pale, glow. “South East of the Cutter’s Corpse Mountain was also what I was told. If that's still true, we’ve still got time.”

“Sure we do. But, we’ve still got to make it halfway down the continent for our second assignment, after.” Finel replied. “Can’t you tell the pilot to hurry up?”

“You mean, Captain?”

“Pilot.”

“Captain, Finel.”

“They’re still green.”

“Well, it wouldn’t do us much good to put any more pressure on them, then. Certainly, not with all the more experienced folks gone.” Over the bar, Ander’s voice dropped in volume a bit more, coming through clearly as the final clarity check of the runes tuned. “Besides, this is important. Inquisitor seal was present on the order."

“It was?” Finel paused.

“You didn’t know?” Over the metal, Ander’s snort cut off with a hollow thump.

“Well… I suspected-”

“Light, Finel. Did you even look up from your tomes long enough to read what we’re scouting? It’s ancient ruins! Of course the Inquisitors are involved.”

“My personal research is hardly a distraction from my service, Ander. I just must have overlooked… I just assumed the Inquisitors were too busy, these days.” Finel muttered.

“How so?” Ander pressed, tone humorous.

“All the talk has been about the Emperor flying everyone over the sea to put out some bloody fires, and before that it was about some monster breaking the Northern Continent’s Sanctuaries.” Finel defended. “The Royal Seers have been sending out orders, I hear.”

“Well, I’ve heard, on good authority, it has been confirmed as just one Sanctuary. Not multiple.”

“Oh, same thing. Unheard of, either way.” Finel replied. “Besides, ruins turn up all the bloody time. I don’t see why this is going to be any different.”

“It’s-”

“And, it’s not like we’re going to be able to get any substantial force out into the ranges to deal with it.” Finel continued. “Why, I’d bet my favorite staff that nothing will come of this, whatsoever. We'll just fly out there, pick up a few folk, and dump them at a base on the wrong end of the continent from where they're supposed to be stationed.”

“Doesn't matter. The Inquisitors are in the business of knowing what we’re up against.” Ander replied. “Even if they’re just going to order us to come back in a few weeks and set the cannon to it.”

“Light, I hope not.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad.”

“You don’t think they would, do you? I hate going into the peaks.”

“It’s really not so bad.”

“Well, that’s easy for you to say, you noble bastard. You've got mana to spare.”

“If it were anyone else, Finel, I’d take offense.”

“Truth is truth, Ander.” Finel shook his head, as he looked down as the approaching cliffs. They were turning East now, rounding the large, blade-like, mountain, cutting out a bit farther than those around it. “Last time I shot that bloody thing, I felt sick for days. Swear, the Mana potion didn’t make a lick of difference.”

“Well, if I were you, I’d just be grateful not to be selected to head overseas, then.” Ander replied. “I’ve heard they shipped out with entire cargoholds full of those.”

“Full of what?” Finel paused. “Potions?”

“Any and every. It was quite the fuss, just a few weeks ago.”

“Who’d you heard this from?”

“I’ve got some friends in the markets. Made a bit of coin.”

“You?” It was Finel’s turn to chuckle. “What’s this now? A Mage, like yourself, fancying to be a merchant?”

“I prefer the term investor, Finel.” Anders answered.

“The service not good enough for you?”

“Oh, enough. We’re starting to descend more. Keep your eyes open, I’ve got cliffs in front of me, now.”

“Fine, fine. Understood.”

As the Actium turned further, Finel leaned with the motion. The momentum carried on, he knew. Sailors had all sorts of strange explanations for how this worked, each more ridiculous and outlandish than the last, but Finel had studied in the Academy, so he reckoned that he knew better. As the ship turned, his body would have continued to soar out in the same direction the ship had been travelling previously, were it not for the hand holds and wood holding him in place.

Sometimes, he would imagine himself plummeting off into the distance, shot out like an arrow on the apex of the turn, to crash into those horrible cliffs.

He shuddered, shaking away the dreadful thoughts.

Behind him, the crew worked- what little crew were aboard this particular day. Two soldiers with war hammers held onto their posts for dear life as the vessel continued course. They wore light armor, chest plated with a v-neck rising out for deflection, but leather and chain for the rest.

Unless they possessed a very specific skill, there was very little point in wearing more. They had just enough to avoid cuts from indirect attacks. Any real blow from the enemies in these parts, and the armor wouldn’t matter much anyways. Besides, Finel knew they were intended purely for reassurance. Two soldiers, alone, wouldn’t be able to do much of anything, should the Actium happen to go down. If they had any true purpose in being on the ship it was more for the rare chance they needed to assist the stationed Mages in repelling anything that managed to board while in flight.

And Finel didn't even want to think about what a mess that would be.

As the ship shuddered, catching some unseen updraft along the cliffs, he frowned.

On days like this, it really made him wonder if he made the right choice, enlisting. It had seemed a best option, at the time. His family had been from a village somewhat north, but still close to the Eastern Fronts, and he’d grown up with great respect for the forces stationed nearby. But, things had been different then. As a boy, the farms were still growing crops without much trouble, the rains still came, on occasion, and more than that-

He grimaced, as the ship shuddered again. Correcting, and over correcting. More than that, many years ago, Finel would never have imagined his life would be at the mercy of some newer Captain.

Mages, even from less-than-noble stock like himself, were far too important to be risked dying due to a piloting error. Dying in battle, defending the Empire was one thing (however Finel would much prefer to avoid it) but being smashed up against a cliff and reduced to pulp because some wet-behind the ears, good-for-nothing, pilot decided to fly them into a mountainside, was another subject entirely.

“See anything?” From the far side of the ship, Ander's voice buzzed along the rune-worked metal. “I’ve got a few Constructs visible on the cliffs. Nothing out of the ordinary though. Southern side is distant, can't tell what's there yet.”

“I’ve got… nothing, oddly enough.” Finel replied, peering out from the ship. They were several hundred paces from the ground now, and still dropping ever so slightly, but he couldn’t see much of the local “inhabitants” as it were. Steep cliffs, what looked to be the sight of a recent avalanche, perhaps, but nothing moved or responded to their presence. “Wait, there’s one.” Finel corrected.

“What type?” Ander asked. “Some sort of animal-imitation?”

“No, this one’s a bipedal. Looks human-enough. Bit strange, though.”

“What’s strange about it?”

“Well…” Finel frowned. “One of the arms is twice as long as the other.” He answered, squinting at it, just to be sure.

“Intentionally longer, or just misshapen?” Ander asked. “I’ve heard that can happen, sometimes. Some sort of issue with how they’re produced. Or, at least that's the theory.”

“I’m not sure.” Finel had a clear look at it now. The creature was hanging off the edge of a cliff, head turning to track them as they moved past. The ship was getting closer, but they were still several hundred paces away. “It’s noticed us, though. Seems to be watching the ship.”

“Close enough to try and jump?”

“No.”

“I’d just leave it be, then.” Ander replied. “Any others?”

“No, that seems to be the only one.” Finel replied, squinting. “Gods, it’s bizarre looking. Some sort of climbing adaptation, maybe? Been awhile since I’ve been assigned anywhere down this way, so I don’t know if that’s worth recording.”

“A little outside my normal territory as well, so… I suppose it could be important. Or, it really might just be some sort of error.” Ander replied. “I’ve read some reports from the South, by the ocean. Seems as though they’ve been dealing with models based on insects the past few years. Easier for the Constructs to come up from the beaches, apparently.”

“Some sort of regional variation, then?”

"Maybe."

“Well, if you don’t sound convinced, it’s worth recording.” He chuckled. “Ah, I’ve got sight on a flare. Get ready for another turn. South a bit further, but I think we’ve almost reached the ruin.” Ander’s voice distorted, as the ship jostled with another side wind. “We’ll have to descend a bit more to see anything.”

“Understood.”

The ship continued on, as the cliff fell away, soon replaced by smaller, sharper peaks below.

Still, Finel could see the Construct watching in the distance. Orienting itself to follow the Actium as it carried past. Its joints and limbs (ignoring the long arm on its right side) seemed almost human, but bent so much farther. Contorting as it shifted, keeping balance in an almost impossible way. Then, as it reached a distance that was almost completely out of Finel’s line of sight, it moved suddenly, skittering up to a gap in the cliff. Gone, as if it had never been.

Had it been a scout, perhaps? Was it off to report its findings to some central location?

Finel wondered about that.

No one really knew how those things thought, or if they even thought at all.

The Empire forces had never found proof of such a thing, but the Constructs clearly had to be coming from somewhere. Deep underground, was the sensible theory, but likely from places separate from the Dungeon. What little exploration had been charted out in this direction, seemed to indicate the depths descended or ceased where the mountains began. Many believed the Constructs were in fact being formed within the mountains, themselves.

“Anyone ever manage to explain how those things communicate?” Finel asked.

“The Constructs?”

“What else do you think I'm talking about?”

“I was reading something one of the Archmages published, a year or two back. It was…” Ander apparently ignored Finel's backtalk, as his voice hummed for a moment. “Silus, I believe? He did some study on the Soul element. Seemed to draw a hypothesis that they used their cores to pass messages.”

“Their cores? Really?”

“It referenced a study he had completed, which was related to crystals put under an active current of mana. The technical notes were beyond me, but apparently they can emit something like sound, or light.”

“And they respond to it?”

“Presumably. Or at least, the other cores they had could react to it, somehow.”

“I see your time in the markets hasn’t completely ruined you, then. Still a Mage at heart.”

“Now now.” Ander chuckled. “I’ll admit, the notes were a little too much for me to make sense of. I’d need to reread. Even then, I probably still won’t understand, but I suppose that’s what sets the geniuses apart from the rest of us.”

“If you were a genius, they’d have you working in an ivory tower, you know.” Finel let out a short, laugh. “What a tragedy that would be, to miss out on all of this. God-awful mountains, filled with murderous horrors.”

“Is that sarcasm I hear? I’ll have you know- hold on.” Ander stopped short, voice cutting out. “Finel, you said the one you spotted had one arm longer than the others, correct?”

“Correct, right arm. Twice as long as the left.”

“Well, I’ve got three… four of them, up on the cliff on the upcoming pass. Safe to say this is a regional trend.” The tube rattled. “And, I’ve got another flare. Light, looks like the patrol really is pinned down there. Something must have gone wrong.”

“They’re still in the ruins?” Finel asked. “I’m still facing peaks over here. Damn pilot has me looking at nothing.”

“Affirmative, looks like we’ve got a whole patrol down on the ruins. In fact, two more flares, now.”

“We’re descending.”

“Yes.”

"We’re descending too much.” Finel noted aloud, as one of the closer peaks began to rise up. “Ander, why are we going so low? We’re close enough, as it is.”

“Hold on, word from the bridge…” The voice rang hollow for a moment, as muffled noises came down the tube. “Confirmed. Finel, the Captain has ordered a rescue. We’ll be head into a pickup.”

“You can’t be serious.” Finel turned, all but yelling at the metal. “Who does he think he is? Some bloody hero? That’s not what we’re here for. That’s not what we’re equipped for.”

“It’s the Captain’s call.”

“Captain?” Finel sputtered. “That boy can’t even grow a bloody beard yet-” His blood grew cold, as he glanced up at the rising cliff-side, just in time to see another humanoid form skitter into the cracks. That one wasn’t even fifty paces away. “Ander, tell the Captain to get us the fuck away from the cliffs, we’re too close.”

“It’s a tight fit through the pass, Finel. There’s no give on my side either.”

“Then, have him take us back up, we’ll circle back, approach from the other direction.”

“No-go, we’re already too low for that. Besides, I got at look on the way in, they’re right up against the base of another peak. We’d have to do a full turn about and risk the ship.”

“Risk the ship? Ship’s survived plenty worst than that, what about us?” Finel felt his temper creeping, tempered only by fear. “This is foolish.”

They were too low. He could look out over the edge and see the ground was only twenty-five or so paces off, but what worried him more was the cliff-sides of the valley they’d flown into.

Steep.

Much too steep to be natural, even for the territory they were in. Almost as if they’d been carved away, chipped and broken, to a degree that was almost reversing the traditional angle. Indeed, there were gutted places, that pushed out, further away from the mountains, and closer to whatever might be stupid enough to fly near them.

“Ander, report to the Captain that I highly advise we reconsider this course.”

"Aye." His voice muffled, before returning. “The Captain notes your concern.”

With almost lazy speed, Finel felt the ship begin to decelerate. Eyes on the cliff-sides, he leaned out further from the port, to confirm. They were all but engulfed by this pass. It was too tight, and narrowing further with a gradual turn. It barely seemed noticeable at first, but now that they were deep within it, Finel could see the walls were closing in.

Walls, that were filled with jagged splits, and recesses of inky black stone.

“Keep an eye out, Finel. I’ve got more movement on my side.” Ander’s voice echoed through the tube. “Five… six. If they try and jump, I’ll hit them with a buffer spell. We’re still far enough away.”

“What kind are they?”

“Same as we saw before. Must be for climbing, or-” Abruptly, Ander’s voice cut off.

“Ander?” Finel asked, eyeing the tube. It was still active… somewhat. “Ander?” He asked again.

The runeworked metal did not answer.

Keeping his eyes on the cliff-side, Finel felt decidedly uneasy.

He hated getting even half as close as this, and now there were even more Constructs in the cliff-side. He could see them clearly, standing in the shadows of those cracks and splits of stone. From thirty paces, they couldn’t possibly make the jump, but they were so damn close. If they didn’t get out of this bloody valley soon...

Something moved, and Finel reacted.

As he was trained, as he’d done a hundred times before, the staff in his free hand let loose with a rush of Air, casting a [Buffer] to slow whatever had just come at them. But, instead of being rewarded with a flailing body plummeting to the ground below, Finel got a gash on his cheek.

A deep one.

Embedded in the wooden beam behind him, was a long, polished, spike.

“What in all the Light?” Finel stared at it. Then, to the soldiers, who were still seated, deeper in. They looked at it as well, clearly startled. One of them began to rise.

It was a javelin.

A javelin of stone, that had been thrown off course, however barely, from its target.

It was difficult to process, truly. Absurd, even, as they all stared at it, mental gears turning about in their heads, as a shared feeling of horror passed between all involved.

“TAKE US UP.” Finel shouted at the metal pipe, throwing off his astonishment with another spell, just in time to intercept a second incoming projectile.

This time, the object whistled past safely, but Finel was greeted by a shout of pain somewhere behind him.

He didn’t have time to care.

Looking out at the cliff-side, he felt the pit of his stomach drop in a way that had nothing to do with altitude. Closer and closer, the cliffs were closing in, and crawling out from every crack, every crevice, were hundreds of Constructs. Each moving with inhuman speed as they burst free of their hiding, long arms already reeling back.

Reeling back, to throw.

“TAKE US UP!” Finel shouted, hurling every spell he could think of. Fire, Air- it didn’t matter. He unleashed hell itself, as his staff burned away all the mana he had to give. In seconds, he spent it all. Casting, even his arm found itself pinned. “TAKE US UP!” Finel shouted one last time.

But, it was already much too late for that.

Much too late.