Chapter Five, Rough Landing

Last days of Dirgenval, Icarian shore

Arctic spray smacked & strangled Mordaunt, coughing brackish surf as he waded out ruin’s river. Behind him the rasps of shattered wood plummeting below the waves grated, as the rising currents carried foul cries like a shrieking witch calling to the haunting dark. They had underestimated the winter storms and now his crew and the Vizzari vessel they commandeered drowned off the serpent shoreline. Nature proved unmerciful to their cause with its rocky hand and bellowing gales which tore apart the ship as though it were but some trifling toy.

Feckless armor wore down his wounded comrade, as he grappled to strip it & bring him to safety. The heavy ceremonial Serpent plates proved evermore dense when waterlogged and bedecked with ‘spectral’ thorn. Freezing bite gnashed his neck. Black snows cursed blindness; unforgiving gloom swept welkin seas. Haze of adrenaline waned; his chest battered by crude club of the channel. Violent crash against unseen reef and sturdy rock pillars ripped the captain from his fleeting dreams. Those he’d only just regained the reins of the journey’s premature finish lost to hoarfrost.

He threw himself and his comrade out from the water’s edge onto the cold shore. Mordaunt was in dire straits, lost somewhere far off the mark from the intended rendezvous port with all their vital supplies and many of their fellows sinking into the undertow. ‘Go forth with my blessing knowing that Divine fortune carries you across safely’, he heard Drakkon’s words in his throbbing head. Now I know not whether he is alive nor where this ‘blessing’ and accursed storm – I was promised would part of his accord - delivers me…

The man he’d carried about his shoulder, Saatharus, croaked against dead stump. This old ally from time among the Vizzar sported a leg snapped so far backwards as to almost invert. Living shine abandoned his shell, dragged limply along the snowy sands. A slivery shard of the mast poked through the veteran’s side, through which his spirit bled out. Mordaunt found funereal fervor, spoke promised rite over his fallen friend. “I will bury you in flame. The frost will not have you forever. Rest soon. When higher wind comes to deliver your spirit to warmer hearth.”

Mordaunt refused to let his spirit sink into the depths with their ship. Saw what abysmal grief had seized the men who swam to shore. The hopeless tide threatening swallow them as maw of grotesque kraken. Counting another two-dozen head or so along the shore, he aimed to be relentless in his service to these souls. Thus, Mordaunt gave a rallying shout and called them to his side. They’d need guidance to endure. His men needed him, that was of importance beyond any introspection into tragedy.

He swore by the northern aurorae, even if it flickered dimly in the dark path tread, to lead these weary few out of immediate danger. The challenge of it at least distracted him from more depressing prospects (like how they could survive in unknown and hostile territory for long). Slowly the humble company cut with what wits they retained through a nearby wood. With thickets dreadful to their wary eyes and hollow husks screeching against endless wind.

The trees grew thick enough to defy winter. Hardy evergreens, autumnal shrubs & flowers that bloomed for cold made for them a crib of their glade. After a fair haul the company took up brief respite besides the monolithic trunks of Yule Cypress & Fel-Spruce. A thin layer of snow still caped over patches of black soil, and Mordaunt knew they needed fires lest they succumb to the breath of storms. He hacked at tree limbs in thankful harvest of the alcove. The atmosphere remained oppressive, almost suffocating, but the humble fire, once lit, fighting for its own survival against the chill offered some momentary calm. The men huddled up for what warmth the small pit could afford and shuffled through what supplies they’d rescued from the wreck.

Only a few crates had been salvaged from the cargo. Among those almost none contained serviceable food rations. Should they desire to eat, to sustain their bodies before they became so frail as to snap in the wake of a strong gale, they would have to resort to hunting. But here in this forest catacomb not even a small hare had been spotted nor had they the strength to draw bow. Death stood over this wood, invisible yet all prevailing. Save those few mocking winter cherries, Life had all but fled this dire shore and could yield anything save brittle bark.

Mordaunt’s thoughts drug low. Ruminated on the prophecies of the Witch & Lord as his cold eye scanned the fallen horizon. Were those but empty promises whispered unto the nether? Was this forsaken black spot of earth to become his tomb when he had only just broken the chains binding his fate? What legs did her words own? Chickens’ scratch or Furies’ talons?

These dreary threads were cut by the unexpected clang of glass. Mordaunt tilted his head from his dead stump post, keeping from the livelier spruces in mourning, to see a trio of men passing bottles of liquor to one another. A wispy laugh escaped his lips. “There’s a man who had his priorities straight!” Some chuckled along while the man who had heroically rescued the crate of vodka from the shipwreck blushed embarrassment and humbly offered up his bottle to his captain. “Might as well warm the liver up in this clime, eh? Drink well for the dead!”

The sky, though nigh impenetrably dense with icy bulwark, fortunately did not find it in its looming whim to sentence them with inland storm. Yet their modest fire of scrap wood & thin trunks dwindled and the forest’s further descent into dark conjured ghastly horns of nocturnal hunters. Mordaunt heard tales of the monstrous beasts which prowled the northern coastlines, of two-headed bears, hellish wolves, mammoths & winged-cat-creatures unlike any of their feline kin called ‘chimeras’ which only the brashest hunters dared hunt. And if not beasts of myth & fang to hound them, should any patrol of men take notice doom would pursue. Eventually the blanket of sleep cocooned him. His lids caved to exhaustion, felled by oblivious slumber.

The harsh hands of the air stream, which froze them in place that night, brushed Mordaunt’s face to awake. He shook what life he could into himself & their forsaken camp. A stark dawn held him, showing that more of his men had taken their last slumber. They would not rise for him, succumbed to their wounds or else barely clinging to their bones. With what dry branches they found a funeral was prepared for the dead. For his fallen fellow, Saatharus, he removed shameful seal & patterned cloak of the serpent. Gave to him an obsidian dagger granted him by their Lord & gave his body to tiny pyre. Although he respected his peer fondly, he could not find a tear to shed. He found his ducts had frozen over, as had many men.

Final (but few) words gave eulogy. The living, numbering barely a dozen, parted ways with fallen brethren through what small rites they had. Sealed the lids of those who died blankly staring onward into eternal gloom of the wood past the glade. They spoke no words for those few men who left without their bodies, whether in craven flight or creature’s claw. Then began the mournful march out from this living tomb, this Eldest glade, back into bramble & husks.

Mordaunt led the train of souls his own was roped with across frozen stream. Their herd thinned. Losing two more men to it; one who fell, and another who fled and whom his shepherd had not the stamina to curse. Always frost & fear were on their heels. But by the brink of sunset their frail company breached a spruce wall to cross through open field between some small hills, all lined with a thin layer of snow. The next crest, cusped on dusk, heralded sign of humanity.

Leaning over the last hill the weary few saw a wooden outpost or village smeared as a blow across dotted white field. Although the light & colored faded fast from the sky this little stead was to their eyes as the solar rays. Salvation or mirage, he plodded on with his group; all eager to discover something beyond the sepulchral forest they’d just escaped from. Soon they smelt smoke & thatch of housing, pub, and stables. Snowfall was no longer so formidable that the party could not see the flickering sparks of torches dividing the dour drapery. Outriders rode to banish storm & guests it brought to their doorstep. Mounted men, half-lit by beacons, closing in within the blink of an eye.

Mordaunt recognized them as Vizarri sentinels and instinctively hailed them with the traditional salute. He recalled they were still costumed in a travesty of their colors and hoped this worn & ruined façade could convince. The lead watchmen trotted up and mirrored the salute at angle of sarcasm. A sneer of suspicion along his oafish looking face.

“Wherefore do we receive these unannounced guests and just who are they? Be thee lost tourists? Mayhaps mere boys playing dress up? Announce thyselves and thy reason!”

“I am ward-captain Mordaunt of the Serpent’s Head brigade, my argent ‘lord’ – I must apologize who might you be, good man? I know not why you greet your kin, fresh from bloody vinter crucible with such hostility? Must we have further coldness? I merely come bearing news, if you will, friend-” While he spoke, Mordaunt slid his hand over his sheathe in case the argument would sound for one expressed through sword. But though there were only a few more of this patrol than their own group, their chances thinner than their stomachs and the horsemen loomed in that gulf of disparity to apocalyptic proportion.

“I’ll be the one asking things ‘ere mate! This outpost belongs to me, High Guard-Captain of the Icarian Shore, Bas’Tur. We ‘ear tellin’ of bear-clad wraiths stalking up the coast; revenants avengin’ they kinsmen. But ye look more ghost than skeletons!” He aimed his bulky crossbow at the resistant man. “Tis’ funny timin’ to me, that only just recently ‘eard of a godless assault on a Magistrate port and warned of some suspicious debris floating in our ocean. Any notion of who might fit that description?”

“I’d no notion of this rank of ‘High’ Guard-Captain before today, cousin. Strange that one posted at such a remote northern location on the Icarian should be given position more glamourous in title than even the Magistrates’ elite. Didn’t receive such a privilege for my service to the Serpent’s Head.” Mordaunt’s manner pivoted as Bas’Tur spat, blustered. “But ‘tis fortunate you heard this news before our arrival. Forgive my incidental insolence in being so forward, for our missive & its haste was for the coming invasion of barbarians and revolting thralls. Now that you know word of our purpose might we step inside your fair establishment for a warm meal and strong drink? That we might share our tale of escape from the talons of those - feral wolves out there, those - cultists?”

Both the horse and its rider snorted in unison. Captain Bas’Tur scowled. The sunken folds of his face crumpled. Hateful thoughts smoldered through the nostrils of the lopsided man while he made to muster presence of authority. “Mock me not! Waggin’ that filthy tongue of yers, ye dog. I know this tale of yours Mord-dauntin’-damned fool and a traitor to his Magister! Did ya’ turn on ‘yer duty when the fray looked tight?! Turned heel across the river, did ye?!”

Bas’Tur spat and jabbed a fat finger towards this worn-out wandering fugitive. “Mordy, yew warlock. No soddin’ hero just a lucky lil’ rat! I know yew might well be an acolyte of this new dark cult! Let me live well in the glore to reap from yer festerin’ corpse, ha! Make ye a brutal & public reminder to ye bleedin’ curs what happens to worms who challenge the Dread wyrm!”

Mordaunt’s navy shards pierced the man’s soul. Through his stare, he sized his spirit & its sinew, and felt this man to be a shambling braggart whose threats carried the insecurity of yearning for power he didn’t own. Possessing only the power of a petty ringleader of armored thugs. “If I am what you claim, if I am so evil and so prized, come claim that right to riches with a real man’s fight. No honor comes of cold slaughter nor accusin’ comrades of treachery. I insist on a proper duel to decide my honor if you insist on insult.” His hands drifted wide away from his sword, stretching out openly. “Or are you not a gentleman? Perhaps instead a craven who hides behind bloated gestures, tries to worm into the boots of true heroes and faithful servants of the Serpent?”

“I got serpent’s blood in these veins and my family has a long legacy serving as sentinels for House Abraxas. This body ‘ere, a straight scale of Vizzarion, ain’t gettin’ plucked about by faulty feathered wet fowl like ye, ha! Yew, yer the spawn of beast’s blood. Borne from the dirt of lesser tribes conscripted into the service and likely damn ungrateful for the blessing. Don’t take no scholar or fancin fop to see the reasonin’, boy. Some selfish slave not feelin’ he’s been fed enough of the pie! Why should I lower my nobility of nature by stoopin’ to inferior level? I am the sodding High Captain!” He spit over the side of his steed and pointed at his adversary. “Lay down that steel toy lest our arrows meet the necks of yer crew!”

“Think Bas’Tur! Wherefore must you act so impulsively without thought on the consequences?! You must know the oath we swear as soldiers and scales of Vizzari and just how blasphemous & perverted an act it is to kill kin of Vizzarion. Even ‘lesser’ kin. What would befall you should ‘yer’ report be pretense and mine authentic? What then when presented as a kinslayer who attacked a champion of the Serpent’s Head? What a horrible betrayal to your familial legacy of serving Abraxas that would be.”

Mordaunt threw weight to his words, into this last chance to sway the course away from slaughter. Aiming darts of doubts at his accuser’s mind, especially the portly target of his self-preservation. “Just look at us, great captain! Wherefore would we appear so beaten by battle yet called the enemy by those still so pristine and proper in their armor? ‘Tis they who sow these false seeds who betray! We fought bravely and barely endured our journey to warn our comrades only for them to undermine and threaten; being so gullible as to believe the lies of cultists’ deception!”

Some of his comrades shuffled nervously, the grip on their spears loosening in confusion. One of the footmen at the rear of the riders spoke up, winded. “Sir, we should consider this. The winter’s been cold, good captain, but I do not wish to be warmed by the heretic’s pyre. We all have our families to protect, why not hold them up for the night and look patiently?”

Mordaunt played friendly, vulnerable. Presented the last swigs of his vodka to this inane interrogator. “Truly, Bas’Tur, we’d all prefer a match of cards over one of sword & spear. If you’d be a willing & warm enough steward of this settlement to allow us a night, I would gladly forgive the insult to my character and retract mine own unto you, in our misunderstanding. We shall both need mead to talk of the events across the Ruun which led me to your doorstep.”

“Right bloody mess this is! Fine, sod it all! Stay the night, let us roll some fuckin’ dice then. We ain’t got much so far as food stores but something special shall be made for the occasion.” He lowered his crossbow and signaled to his fellows. They formed a circle around the ragged group leading them into the outpost.

The structure was far more foreboding up close than the humble village they’d hoped for. The small, smoky streets were flooded with grim visaged men with a yearning for some mortal excitement to tolerate their austere reality, watching over a forsaken strip of land. Their captain was content enough to not put his own life on the line and welcomed them to the pub beside their barracks and showed his preference for making the most of his entertainment by warring against liquor bottles and harassing the few locals & servants.

Mordaunt would have been enraged at the treatment he witnessed of the lesser caste were it not for the dragging levels of his exhaustion. There were gaunt husks shackled to sheds, carts overtaxed & ravaged by tithe collectors and no soul who dared a glance. The guards here almost unanimously indulged in wanton pleasures of tormenting the citizens they were sworn to supposedly protect. The bar maidens shrank in fear from rabid stares of wolfish men, dark desires in their eyes. Both the old & the young made to toil endlessly for the sake of those giants so eager to whip them. Bastard children filled their cups. This was the Vizzari hospitality Mordaunt knew well. Life on the outskirts without courtly conduct.

But with their host’s suspicions fading from his face now was not the time to rouse suspicion by complaint. Not when his own eyelids were begging to rest lest sleep ensnare him soon, so he painted the portrait of uncaring warrior. Eventually Mordaunt and his peers obeyed their primal need for rest and were lead to their respective rooms. Their beds were minimalistic & rugged. Doing little in their way to keep out the cold creeping through the walls and windows. But still a welcome reprieve for the wary travelers who were quickly ensnared in the web of sleep.

When he awoke from this fleeting meditation in the dreamless void Mordaunt found himself in perpetual nightmare. All became surreal blur of insanity & violence since the first thud of a bludgeon cracked against his fellow’s skull in that hellish charge which came at the first glimmer of dawn. Even in groggy haze he’d attempted to give fight to these demons of night, grasping for his dagger by his bedside belongings only to touch empty air, having forgotten he sacrificed that blade in tribute to his fallen comrade. Unable to resist, phantoms struck him down into unconsciousness once more.

Turning of the Worm

Dawncrest 6th, same year, Felwreath Quarry

Were this all still an all too lucid dream, the pain Mordaunt felt was too vivid & tangible in the horror rent all round. The past blur of captivity brought to the belly of Vizarri quarry. Forced to labor under looming threat of death & punishment. He toiled as a thrall of this wicked operation, now again a pawn of his enemy’s industry. Slaving in the frost & the mines, picking away at prized rocks while his back faced lashings from northern winds and his captors’ whips. Shaking the sense of prolonged dream, every trash against his flesh cut all the deeper. Though the pain of his former companions awoke him to wide agony.

He watched sidelong the treatment of his enslaved brothers. Felt pangs of guilt at the suffering & shame afflicted on them. They didn’t even appear to loathe him for having led them to this pit of infinite misery. For their stares glazed over, as ghouls trapped in waning bodies. Even if eye contact weren’t prohibited by their keepers. This pain becomes me. ‘tis what I deserve for promising good men with true hearts a road to freedom only to deliver them to a slow, shameful death… Drakkon, His lightning war crashed me on dark shore, but I pursued the bolt. Hath I been fed false prophecy and happily ate? Lunged to meaningless doom for hateful sake?

The tower bell rang about the crystals & mountainous mineral walls the men mined, declaring the day complete. Toll of evening summoned thralls to their mess hall. Rations for this vast caste were absurdly low in comparison to the effort with which they dove into the quarry’s core. All that was given to the dispirited workers was an unappealing slop of unknown origin. Fish, maybe, that had near spoiled and stale, starchy bread. Yet there was much dispute over these scraps. Occasionally a fight would break out between thralls over bread. When this happened the result often led to a broken body of one or mow. The beaten duelists then dragged away by guards, who placed bets on the ‘contestants’ (rather than mediated the workforce violence) and supped of the pot.

It brought him too much sorrow and shame to meet the eyes of those who once followed him. Even when one braved the breach in conduct Mordaunt averted glance. Thus, he secluded himself from other’s circles. When his grim and solitary supper concluded he wandered about the camp, while & where he was allowed with meagre shred, in search of sanity.

You ache for revolution? Mordaunt’s mind mocked itself, sneering at a tinge of rebellious idea. It hurt to hope or dwell too much on the rancor he wished to use as kindling for revolt; to take the quarry for themselves. He grappled with trying to tie his need to survive with his will to save his soul from this ignoble end. He couldn’t perish here, in a pit of despair, breaking back to strengthen the Serpent’s scales. The prospect of perilous resistance roused nameless feeling, steeped lucidity from dreadful waking-slumber. Can pain be fitted to purpose? Do I toil in the dark or can the lash I deserve knell new aim?

Days rolled on in dreary unison. His dreams turned to lustful visions of fighting his way out, of freedom. Then back to drifting nightmare, derealization and disillusionment.

Dawn came. A special dawn, this day, to break the curse of monotony. A sunrise that would not just send him to grind, in aimless servitude, but mine Mordaunt his motivation. A morning light to recast himself in, as role of saboteur or mad escapee. As was routine the brutish guards waltzed in, woke them with truncheons, & marched them to joyless tasks ordained of each.

Felwreath Quarry permeated permanent aura of forlorn hope. Wrought a digging emptiness in as they chipped away at raw material to the all-pervasive sound of cracking whip & crunching bludgeon. Yet this morn’s misted sun also brought a devilish drive he thought gone. Ambition to transcend imprisonment of circumstance jolted his gut, grow hungry with longing for blood to feed it and thus, he kept his head low and acted obediently while biding his time for the plan to unfold with the coming of day.

Mordaunt plotted, clenching thoughts with fury. Pushed and prodded onward to his route by the men he planned to kill, he waited only for anger to broil over at the right moment to unleash it. Throughout the rocky corridors the echoes of their hammers & bursts of shouting from the sentinels of the Vizzar. Some of these wardens were slave-soldiers themselves, not dissimilar from Mordaunt’s past position – and he loathed them evermore for it. How they relished much that they could inflict on others, instead of having it wreaked on them. Yet his hand never found the strength to flail hammer at their heads. Every clang took an eternity to spark the stone before him, a sluggish haze of lurking anticipation. Yet the time to strike wouldn’t present itself to him. Or perhaps he was too shy, too cowardly in this mining desperation, to move on the moment himself.

Instead that coquettish push from dawn’s dream festered in his head as the day moved on. No longer passion’s pull but fantasy’s noose. It was nearly noon when the change, and the true champions who brought it, came. Mordaunt could not break the binds and so truer soldiers came that day to rescue him, though he’d feebly swore to save his sovereignty and his fellows from thralldom. In his deluded reverie he repeated a variant on a speech to the comrades he’d rouse to fight back: “Do ye wish to serve no other legacy but tragedy? Do ye possess faith in something beautiful & meaningful to fight for? Something to dream beyond these dire mines of malevolent empire. Let us meet this pit of wrong and this dark age with the Light of our destinies!”

But inspiration and assertions would not be his. He gave no rallying speech atop a barrel, led no legions of freedmen. Instead, salvation came from beyond his atrophied soul, from the Lord he’d nearly forsworn. Members of Drakkon’s band arrived to relieve them and the resources of Felwreath quarry. The assault their arrival wrought came sudden & swift. A storm to throw open the gates, hinging from different sides and splintered edge.

Only when the clash & clamor at the gatehouse woke soul-fiber in his inner ears did Mordaunt find the will to move his muscles to mandate fight. As the sentinels sprang for the alarum and went to defend their prized labour Mordaunt scurried about the maze of this quarry intent on performing a little heist. He would arm the other miners to make them revolutionaries with crossbows, hatchets & short swords. Empowered by vengeance and emboldened by the steel in their hands, they’d follow him to the fight. But vengeance was not theirs to wield.

Mordaunt strangled the lingering guard posted out only to discover disarray inside the guards’ headquarters. While it was nice to have steel in hand and tethers cut free, he found no time to revel this, much to his growing chagrin. For horns of a surrender blared out the quarry men. His hated foe never presented him chance to regain his honour rightly, instead tossing their spears for chains of their own. The Drakoni force seized the quarry and sorted its ‘denizens’ out. Kept the Vizzari hounds on a tight tread. Yet this had been a victory handed without any finger lifted by him. So, in shame & infantile ire, Mordaunt threw himself on nearest slaver with blade retrieved from their stock.

By the time Heron, leading this charge relieving doom, descended from his steed and made his way through to Felwreath’s center post intestines of the poor man Mordaunt had lunged on were strewn around him. Although these men had been foul creatures in life such a desecration in death made him nauseous to behold. “Why this grisly show of horror?” He exclaimed at Mordaunt who stood before the mangled man, distant & perplexed by enmity of mind. “Tis done man! The skirmish over! Where is your honor?”

“They raked my honor in the mines! Lashed it to cross!” Mordaunt spat and almost slipped on blood & spittle as he reached to shake his liberator’s glove. “The men who trusted in me to see us prevail were beaten low & by those serpents!”

The weather grew grim yet again, with wintry winds racking the vacuum left by clouds’ departure. Heron stepped back from him, sour expression morphing to one of concern. “Take care, Mordaunt, not to reflect their evil too fervently. Lest you come to find that the image of malice; of slave masters & warmongers cast & that of your own are akin. I see your passion and am convinced your heart is righteous but let this not become our standard of ‘warfare’. I am sorry they took you, but do not drift further from light-shore into that crimson tide.”

Dusk crept quickly over the land and curtain of snowfall coveted their post. Mordaunt stayed stalwart atop the watchtower. Though it seemed no more foes would come to retake the quarry and assist his need for battle. So instead, he stared down the sleet the sky wept, yearning for signs of fury. More than any meal for blood to soak in the snow & soil would sate his starvation. But he’d been starved of strength as well, could not yet raise any banner or halberd for his bygone brothers. Braving the cold, he cursed his weakness.

Torchlight chased away the gloom of the rising storm. Mordaunt sprang with last sauce of sinew to meet the lead rider. Met familiar shine of Heron. Removing his helm Heron flashed his sentinels sign to lower their spear-stance. “The last snows of ill season avert us from our keep. Mordaunt, I’m sorry, for whatever happened while you were held here. Did these snakes mistreat you so that you hath forgone any sense of victory? Surely there must be refreshing nectars aplenty to draw out your taste, a free man once more. Trust you’ll see the Light again soon, friend.”

Mordaunt grunted and said nothing. “Need another quick gouging of vengeance, mate? Will speaking of triumph & justice set your heart back to it?” Heron whistled to the men of his company. Two men dragged up a line of ragged prisoners. Tearing their hoods showed faces worn, bruised & beret of that salve of dignity. One of these iron collared hostages, showed face with hollow features that Mordaunt had unmistakably seen before in fresh nightmare.

“We took Helcrest half a fortnight past, seized the seat of their damned inquisition. Our Lord, in preeminent sign of imminent victory, summoned Mother Azarra to perform rites of ascension. He, in his infinite wisdom, sent us to scout & scourge this quarry and others. We heard tell of how a deep a vein it is for Vizzari’s body of resource, planned on liberating while scarring their campaign trail. So here we are. With no rush for you to return to the front after being maltreated so by Felwreath, of course! Eat your fill of the Hold when we find it!”

“How, by the Hels, did he take Helcrest so swiftly? The Hold of Th’uul, that impregnable block of serpent-stone?!” Mordaunt puffed, beside himself.

“He works wonders, our Lord.” Heron’s reverence would be contagious but only scratched more that jealous itch in Mordaunt, “he frightened them by staking up walls and threatening attrition. Constructed a great bulwark, the finest lumbermen put to the challenge of their age: to encircle the Hold. This starved them into submission with no supplies to feed their need. And to keep any relievers from striking behind he built another wall to guard our backs. Kept us betwixt two prides of lions and yet with their lines divided and communication cut the masters of the Hold gave in early. When Drakkon would not allow their women, young-folk and wizened through our barrier without a seal of surrender from their lords their fear ripened fast to defeat. They released them in bulk to bondage. We turned them to hostages, a buffer of their own people as deterrent for their spears.”

“After our cunning & claws fleeced the relief parties - hooking them in apparent easy win; what with us being pinned between two forks of battle – and their own discoordination we felled the fort of snakes. By the time the notorious host of ‘Dread Knights’, the fangs of the Serpent’s Court, arrived in full we’d moved command inside the hold. Manned their fortress to thwart them. Our foes retreat further east, hiding under the ‘scales’ of their State, and its capitol. Even if those holds shall be harder to topple our providence fairs fruitful!”

Mordaunt diluted his disbelief at all this. At being left out of so historic a fulcrum. Or tried. His heart still chafed against its casing, battering beat of self-hatred. Half pouting at being so pathetic & in enmity for his inability to free himself. But musing on his fate only lured him towards a steeper defeat, so he entertained himself by the array of wardens turned captives. Upon inspecting one prisoner’s face more closely Mordaunt recognized the man as that same captain from the outpost by the Icarian coast.

Heron pointed to the distance through the blanket of snow. “Shall we hasten towards Helcrest come dawn and death of this storm? That you may rest well and settle this sentence, as you hath earned the right to? We shall see to the state of the mines, assign worthy men here to maintain order and report back to Drakkon later. I owe you a drink or two! Just so, I hope you shall lend me tale of your own endurance.”

“I know this bloody hound! This degenerate scoundrel is to blame for the horrors inflicted upon me and my men! I appreciate that you are grateful, for I hath endured atrocity to be standing here before you, my son, and believe I am at least due some retribution on the front of justice. If that is not too brazen of a request?” Mordaunt allowed his annoyance to build into blithering explosion of. He swung at the prisoner. Then he grabbed the neck of He went flying back from the blow, his face buried in the layer of snow over the ground which now was soaked by a rush of blood from the man’s broken nose & jaw. “You owe me a crucifixion! I want to see this worm writhing on a cross to die a slow death wasting away alone & forsaken! Oi, Bas’Tur was it? I will ensure thy lineage & legacy corrodes to rot alongside thy bloated swine carcass!”

“We shall see to it, no reason for prolonged trial when your word is held over his. Let us make way into the quarry first and welcome the rest of the souls we came to rescue who were strong enough to free themselves.” Heron nodded and continued to head slowly for the gate, behind him the pockets of dark sleet from the blowing storm were multiplying in number & density. “If this weather keeps foul, we may be forced to employ some patience and rest here should there be any remaining shelter here. I am certain Drakkon will be overjoyed with you and your heroism in surviving Felwreath. Although he still may be a useful political prisoner, I might refrain from action against any Highborn hostage until our Living Lord speaks on the matter – “

“-this weasel has never had any use in his life whatsoever! Only ever leeched off better folks and fattened his ego off those too weak enough to pose threat! Allow me this…” Mordaunt stepped onto Heron’s flow, stomped his speech with a look that was alight with a cold, sapphire fire of his ire. His intent, clear and unbending in its hateful steel. He yanked the groveling captive towards him and withdrew a slender blade. “Still, no need to waste good timber on crucifying this worm.”

Mordaunt plunges the knife deep into the scavenger’s gut. The one who’d bound him in chains, almost broken his faith in his own worth & larger destiny, vomits mortal bile. Twisting it slowly, the prisoner avenged enjoys presenting this pest with pain. He sentences Bas’Tur to be his thrall in throes of death. Stabbing sated not this greater hunger for vengeance. Blade pokes into bone but breaks against plump dullness of a corpse. His edge shatters for lack of a real foe’s meat.

He rips the toothy dagger taken from the Vizzar stock from its hook in the weeping man’s belly. Carves more, fishes guts. Gore and testes flop to pale-blood pile. The killer growls. A feral, supernaturally sourced cry, from a voice not his own. Berserker shout dwindles to wisp as Mordaunt tames his composure, nets these cinders of his hate even as they still smolder. “Tis a shame shock seized him from the rut. Too much tearing with too little pain to buffer his exit. Bastard’s descent beneath the snow is too comfortable. But alas, there are more important concerns for both of us to attend. And for our Lord. Drakkon will understand. But let us step past these trivialities and come see what remains of the hell I only just fought my way from.”

Heron dared not admonish Mordaunt for this abrupt execution. He reined in any loose opinions that could come fumbling from his tongue. In part this silence was a respectful gesture, given to a man whose anger he surely understood. But more so, it was quiet forced by that stare from the blue-eyed swordsman which chilled his veins & muscles. A glare to cast statue of ice from him. After the moment passed, an undercurrent of uncertainty blown by inclement gales shoved them back to the quarry. Gathering ‘neath shelter, Heron came to be haunted by the spirit of Mordaunt’s story and that of this viper pit & the misery it mined.