Year 222. The Star Bastion, The Spine of God - Khirn

GÍLA SENGHU

They met at the outer gate at the top of the winding bridge.

“Where the hell have you been?”

Gíla stood at the head of the mainline formation of guards still loyal to the Lords of the Star Bastion—six hundred of the fifty thousand loyalists in total that had not gone to Amphe or some other of the Duke’s or Belanorian’s cities, the remainder of which were spread thin throughout the many halls the Lords had uncovered in these trying years. She was cross-armed, armored in black plate metal with an enormous war hammer of stone and bronze strapped across her back, her face weary from countless sleepless nights and an equal amount of delves into the unmeasured depths of the Bastion.

Beside her stood her family, just as armed and armored, with Daou being the most resplendent of them all. His was platinum metal, and the torso plate was mirrored to reflect the sun and the elements. In his right hand, he held a great tower shield painted with the oldest sigils of the Nujant Chhank: great red bears wreathed in bronze sparks on a field of black. He held an unsheathed greatsword in his left hand, so massive it could only have been used by a Nujant Chhank. Its blade was polished brass, sharpened to such an edge that the air itself was constantly slicing itself upon it. A roaring hum emanated from the pommel, a rounded blue stone gripped in the palm of a dragon covered with scaled etchings.

Across from them stood Jira ne’Jiral, gaunt and exhausted, her body scarred from a host of wounds she had gained on whatever journey she had been thrust upon in the years since Acocaea. Behind her stood that freak from the Tower. Milligan was equally as wounded and attempting some level of alteration to the world around him, yet incapable of producing whatever he was trying to produce.

“Away,” Jira muttered, eyeing the three dozen bows aimed at her and her companion. “Tahrir, as you know. Ended up in Veoris.”

“Veoris!” Gíla exclaimed, uncrossing her arms. “How...how?”

“It has been a long journey.”

“Do these places have meaning to you, daughter?” Helgol asked, his fingers tightening around the double-headed axe in his hands.

Gíla nodded, sucking in cold breath at the prospect of the mission having been completed in some capacity so quickly already. “They do, father. Good meaning, I hope.”

“It is a long story, Gíla. It will take some time to tell it, and this isn’t exactly the welcoming party I had expected,” Jira tried to laugh, gulping down air as she fought to maintain balance on her feet. “Considering I once commanded the garrison with my guild.”

Gíla shifted her stance uncomfortably, slowly motioning for the archers to relax their draw. “You’ve been gone, Jira. And the King is dead. Erik Apa is invading. We’re all on edge, especially now as you show up with...him.”

“Who is he, daughter?” Helgol asked.

“Someone of either concern or benefit, depending.”

“Storytime is great, but can you let us inside?” Milligan interrupted, scraping his foot on the stone floor. “I think I’m feeling cold for the first time in my life, and I’d rather not freeze to death here.”

“Not sure that is a wise idea, sister,” Daou suggested, hefting the sword. “How long has it been since you have seen her? Years. Can you trust her anymore? Especially that one? Look at him. He is not human. Not a chance he is human.”

Gíla grunted, eyeing the enigma that was Milligan. He was almost entirely without clothing by this point, save his mud-stained trousers and traveling boots. Lines of frost stuck to the corded muscles of his body, which had begun to show signs of atrophy. What had happened in the years of their absence?

“Daughter, you know them better than the rest of us,” Tearhas said, leaning to Gíla to keep her voice hushed. “What do you suggest we do?”

Gíla scrutinized the Silver Knight. She was at her end, close to collapsing. “Bring them in.”

“She rests in Evripid’s infirmary,” Gíla announced as she entered the main hall. The Lords had gathered at their table, all other members of their council having joined them at the accompanying long tables that stretched from either end of the room lengthwise. Gíla allowed a slight curve of a smile to form in pride. What had once been a strained quadrumvirate under the control of a greater alliance had now grown into something of its own autonomous entity, capable of sustaining itself on the impossible nature of this place and the ingenuity of those who knew they had something special here.

It was a dire thing, then, for her to acknowledge that this was likely the last hope for peace if reports were accurate.

“And when she is healed?” Count Vendag le’Micha asked.

“We let her stay. Unharmed. Ask her questions about what happened, but she remains unharmed.”

“You cannot be serious, Lady Senghu,” Count le’Micha protested, leaning forward in his chair. “The woman takes a large portion of the Bastion’s elite forces with her on some errant quest into Tah’rir, which we never hear back from again. And we are to forgive her for this after she returns alone with some strange...inhuman?”

“If I recall correctly, Count le’Micha, you balked and acquiesced when the Bishop arrived to force the matter,” Earl Vlakis Anthiti reminded, stroking his chin with finger and thumb. “Quaked in your boots, in fact. Hell Below, we all did. Are we to forgive ourselves for that?”

le’Micha grumbled. “A fair point, my friend. Yet, we have maintained ourselves here and did what we could for the war. Can she say the same with wherever she has been?”

“Jira ne’Jiral did more for the war than most,” Gíla said. “She was not made a captain of two guilds twice for no reason.”

“Politics always play a hand, Bear Maiden,” le’Micah muttered, leaning back. “But, you make a point like Earl Anthiti here.”

Daou began to roam the hall, his voice carrying through the air and full of concern. “What becomes of Jira ne’Jiral is not the concern right now, my Lords. Your King is dead. Erik Apa invades and takes Audax’s lands at such speed we cannot hope to stop them from taking Amphe. After that, your Duke will be dead as well. We have all failed in some capacity. All could have done more.”

“We did what was allowed, brother,” Gíla tried to comfort.

“They cannot breach its walls, can they?” Earl Miro Remopoulo asked. “The legends say that they are arcaeno enhanced. A traveling family of Nujant Chhank and Orc-kin...your family among them, perhaps if we are so lucky?”

“The legends are wrong,” Helgol stated. “The walls are just walls, breakable. But they were built by architects greater than any you have now; thus, rumor was built. If his legends hold true, this Runemaster will break them like any other wall he could siege. Amphe will fall in due time.”

“What of the Legions of Belanore?” Earl Anthiti asked. “The Prime? What of him?”

“Set to defend Bela’nore,” le’Micha answered, solemn and grim. “Stuck, really. With more and more Dekun’ians rallying behind Erik Apa, it becomes more apparent that we are truly isolated here and our kin there.”

“So what do we do in the mean?” Earl Remopoulo asked. “Stay here and pray to a God that is dead, according to the Belanorians?”

“We cannot sit here and do nothing while the Duke is murdered in his own capital!” one of the councilors roared. “To do so would be to spit in the face of everything we swore to uphold in this war.”

“The war is lost,” another stated. “Erik Apa rises from the grave and slays his own kin to achieve power. Slays the King in his capital and claims his lands and armies. What we fought for no longer exists. It can no longer be upheld. It is gone.”

Murmurs of agreement. “We must look inward. Into this place, the Star Bastion. We might stand a chance if we hold this as our beacon of hope.”

Murmurs of dissent. “Against what? A madman with the power to cheat death? The Holy Bishop has gone missing, the only survivor of that excursion being a near-dead woman who somehow came from the north with a freak!”

Murmurs of both. “We must fight! We must defend! We must attack! We must wait!”

Count Vocor le’Matto took his turn to speak, clearing his throat in such a manner as to silence all in the room. He sighed and rubbed the tired from his eyes. It was the same old story, now on its last chapter, the last hope for peace. Gíla knew as much. “We do what we have always done during this bloody conflict. Prepare for a siege. They will be coming here next.”

Year 222. The Star Bastion, The Spine of God - Khirn

ORLANTHA XATHIA

“How long has it been since you’ve seen her?” she asked the stranger. Together, they stood in Evripid’s infirmary on the second floor in a private room, watching the slumbering form of Jira ne’Jiral.

The stranger, weathered and beaten from a life of war, shot a blinking look to Orlantha and muttered, uncaring of the dagger pressed to the small of his back. “Oh, um...what?”

“You look at her like you know her. Do you?”

The stranger’s grey eyes narrowed. His head craned slightly to look down at the dagger at his back, making a noise of realization. “I do.”

“How long has it been since you’ve seen her?”

“Over seven years.”

“How did you leave?”

The dagger dug into his back when he remained silent for too long. “When I got conscripted into the Duke’s service on an official level, and she came here, we parted ways. Khirn’s a big place, you know.”

Orlantha nodded. “A Curator then. Why are you here now?”

“Duke Audax sent me ahead of the Runearch’s siege when we caught wind of his army breaking into his lands. Wanted me to come here and get the Bastion to attack the flanks.”

“You’re good, having avoided me till now. How long have you been here?” Orlantha pressed the dagger harder into the small of his back, drawing a grunt of discomfort from the man.

“A few weeks. I infiltrated like we do, but instead of doing my mission, I just-”

“Stuck around. Why? You’re a Curator. You could have pulled rank.”

“If you saw that army, led by a dead man, you would just ‘stick around’ as well. You haven’t seen anything like it.”

Orlantha snorted. “You don’t know what I’ve seen, boy. But I know you haven’t, so I understand.”

“You’re not going to kill me for being a craven?”

“I’ve seen more than you can count, boy. I’m not going to waste my energy on it.”

“That’s mildly comforting, though the blade at my back somewhat ruins that.”

“Precautions. You were part of the group that got the Bastion under the Duke’s control, weren’t you?”

His narrowed eyes betrayed him with a slight widening. “Why do you think that?”

“I saw you moving around this place as if you knew it from memory, and I’ve never seen you here before, so that means you were here before I was.”

“Yes.”

“What became of Coronos?”

“You knew him?”

“I did, in stories at least. A powerful man.”

“He was. He died not long after I was recruited. Disease.”

“A shame.”

“It was. His replacement, Polyphetes, has done well in his stead.”

“Not well enough, considering the events. However, I can’t entirely blame him. Much was out of his control.”

“Most.”

“What do you want with Jira?”

“To see her again? Say goodbye? Hello? I’m not sure.”

“Are you looking to kill her?”

“No.”

“Even still, I can’t let you be alone with her.”

“I understand.”

“And I have to bring you to the Lords.”

“Why?”

“You’re likely the last of the Curators unless Polyphetes and his crew get out in some capacity. We’re going to need you.”

“Trade one ruler for another, eh?”

“Such is this life.”

“What if I refuse?”

The tip of the blade cut open the layers of the tunic with a single push and sliced the first centimeter of flesh. The stranger forced himself to remain motionless. “I’ll paralyze you,” she warned. “And then drag you to the Lords. Either way, you’re meeting them.”

“Damas Zacetra,” Earl Vlakis Anthithi rumbled, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. The hall filled with chatter, some about preparations for the inevitable siege and some about the newcomer. Some about both at the same time. The multitasking somewhat humored Orlantha. “It has been a while since I’ve seen you, boy. Why are you here?”

Together, Damas Zacetra and Orlantha Xathia detailed the man’s mission and abandonment of it, drawing looks of ire and sympathy from the gathered Lords and their council. Seeing such an array of emotions all at once was a tremendous sight.

“The man is a craven,” Count le’Micha declared, flicking his hand. “We cannot afford to waste time on wastes of body and spirit.”

“The man is a Curator, my Lord,” Orlantha corrected. “And a Curator whose home is set to fall any day now, with little hope of salvation. The Belanorians are stuck in Belanore. Tahrir will not fight, no matter the cost to themselves—a fanatically idiotic disposition. Who knows what happens in Veoris save that Jira ne’Jiral and that other fellow she was with.”

“The man in question lies within the depths in the Nujant Chhank’s care. If you can convince them where we have not—to let you into that chasm—perhaps he can provide answers,” Count le’Matto suggested. “He was willing to go and was quite talkative with the Nujant Chhank, the father especially. They might have a rapport. Information on Veoris will be helpful.”

Orlantha agreed with a curt nod. “I will go speak to him at your behest. Might I further suggest that Damas here be sequestered to the barracks under guard for the time being until we can ascertain his future services?”

Damas snickered with disdain. “Already defining my fate beyond the option of death.”

“You can define yourself; I’m just giving you a nudge.”

Count le’Matto gazed at Vlakis. “Earl Anthiti is quite versed in the art of subterfuge and information gathering. He will likely find some use for the man.”

Earl Anthiti smirked. “Very well. Damas Zacetra, I hope you prove yourself as useful to me as you did to Audax.”

Year 8540. Shtarym - Veirn

GÍLA SENGHU

A new town. A new sky. A new people dressed in linked chains of ruby and cobalt, reptilian in their makeup. A new campfire to sit around, practical and warm. Above, a great winged thing soared with the beating of six butterfly wings.

“How long did it take for the Belanorins to make it to the Star Bastion?” Thilas asked. “And how did they avoid the armies of the Runearch?”

“The actions of another entity beyond our comprehension?” Kuragis Locus asked. “As has been the case for this entire bloody story? Or something more corporeal?”

Gíla opened the small box of herbs and tossed a pinch of them into the broth. Elsewhere, Mordo Skold and Dracraes were hunting for meat. “A mix of both. You see, the Belanorians, upon feeling the death of Aedol—the death of God—turned to the Prime in full capacity. Being the ruler of Belanore in every facet save the figurehead positions, the Prime had always delegated some part of his ruling to Heaven Above. Now, that was gone, and the Prime had all of Belanore looking at him. And so, he spoke to the only ones he felt would guide him in this time of insanity.”

“The Greats who were at Acocaea,” Pinnacle said.

“Yes. Yvon ne’Banuus was the chosen leader of that new triumvirate that formed between her, the Wolf, and the Crusher. With her leading the triumvirate and forming a uniquely non-Belanorian plan of ‘waiting to fight’ with the Prime, the Belanorians found themselves on a quick path to saving themselves from their destruction at the hands of dead faith and the Dekunian army. Yvon began to research, pulling as much as she could from the scribes and the archives she was now granted access to by the Prime.”

“That is how she learned of the Spellblade of Kin?”

“That is how she came into contact with those who sent her to Amphe.”

Or’Demp added his own pinch of herbs, while Lu’Rorca added spices. “Which were what?” Or’Demp asked.

“The Lam Av’an. It took me a long time to understand it, but Belanore was a point of great connection to the Gods and, eventually, just God. When Humanity settled in Khirn, the particularly faithful remained in what became known as Belanore. Through the ages, before and after the time of the Golden Lords, they have remained there in varying cultures and forms and desires, but always remaining faithful. It formed a bridge. A nexus between our world and the Dreams, but no one could ever access it. No one except the Kin-chosen.”

“And Yvon was a Kin-chosen?” Lu’Rorca asked.

“She was, to a degree. Enough, at least, to cross that nexus as she learned more and more from the archives that only the Prime had ever been to.”

“Not even he could understand what was there, could he?” Pinnacle asked.

“He could not. And with their limited guidance, Yvon was set on a path to save her people. Save Khirn.”

Or’Demp clacked his beak at Lu’Rorca as she smacked him from adding more herbs to the broth. “What of you, Lady Senghu? Were you Kin-chosen?” Lul’Rorca asked.

“I was...me,” Gíla answered somberly.

Thilas stirred the pot with a long wooden spoon. “This reminds me, what were you doing with Milligan below the Bastion?”

“Ah, yes. The next part of the story. Well, I had decided that with Milligan now present outside of the Tower, I deserved answers, namely why our quest to break our fate and the fate of Khirn had been so catastrophically ruined. I figured that being as far away from everyone in the Bastion would do that intention well, so I took as far down as I could to the Orrery.”

Year 222. The Star Bastion, The Spine of God - Khirn

GÍLA SENGHU

The illuminated part of the chamber was the size of a throne room, glass globes of white-orange flame dotting the support beams that flared outward at the top and bottom like skirts, the former being barely visible as the darkness crept from the ceiling’s edges. Between each spire and extending into the darkness beyond the visibility provided by the globes were racks and rows of artifacts, books, and maps. A stream of red-gold rugs covered the smooth stone floor with tassels on the corners and triangular symbols in the center.

They called it the Orrery, a mechanical astral device constructed many eons ago when the first mortals stepped upon the dirt, fresh from the womb of creation. Back when the world was but a single mote in a soup of other motes. A perfect thing of symmetry, equality, life, and death abound, loved by all who dwelled within and outside it. Even the Gods of those first mortals could not help but weep at its majesty, their tears forming the first rains and the first seas. At least, that is what these things of metal told her when she found them in the deepest chamber of the Bastion, one so far down that cold began to turn to heat. The Orrery was the scryer of the first mortals, the metal things told her. It was their attempt to view the threads of the future, to see what their creators had in store for them, where their Gods would be, and which ones to worship most.

The one called Kʼared’u had brought her to it upon her family’s discovery of the chamber, a giddy joy to its creaking gate as it approached them. “Khi melrige, khi melrige!” it groaned with sparking bronze, clapping rounded, mitt-like hands together. "Ja kʼij’ waj’ek khu pʼe yetrur!"

They had now spent years in great discussion with the metal things, learning what they could and discovering all manner of secrets that would put the greatest of the Nujant Chhank archives to shame. Most intriguing of the lore they gathered was on the metal things, the Guchʼdi, which came in all manner of humanoid and animal designs.

Kʼared’u, one of the bird-like constructs—resembling a steel bipedal owl dressed in elaborate robes of liquid silver—was one of the more lavishly expressive individuals, constantly roaming the chamber of endless notes and myth with a heated glow radiating from orange eyes. With each step, its walking staff cracked against the smooth stone floor, sparks bursting from the impact and scratching the Nujant Chhank’s fur flesh. Many bowed their heads in deference to Kʼared’u, and the Guch’di was—to Gíla—seen as a leader. A rapport was built, a friendship even, and under K’ared’u’s frenetic energy, the Nujant Chhank’ were living the best of their lives in Khirn up to this point.

That changed the moment Gíla forced Milligan into the chamber, intent on gaining answers.

In the light and the darkness of the chamber, glowing eyes flashed white and black with rage at the sight of the enigmatic figure. A great beast swung its leg with such force into the man’s stomach that had he been anything other than inhuman, he would have burst apart at the tendons. Instead, all that happened was him being thrown against the wall, a geyser of blood rushing from his mouth as he groaned in short agony. He rolled to the ground, falling silent and still.

“Failure!” Several Guch’di bellowed at once in the language of man. “Failure!”

Gíla rushed between Milligan and Luk, a lizard-like construct. Its spines were spiked and marked by vestigial stumps that gave the impression of once-present wings, while its head was gecko-shaped but substantially sharper in the chin and brow ridges. A gill-like surface covered the nostrils, eyes, and the “gaps” between their snarling lips—gills like those on an aquatic creature. The most disturbing aspect of this thing was that its feet were undoubtedly human rather than reptilian like the rest of its body, as if it was a mingling of the genetics of both.

“Wait!” she held her hands to Luk, trying to stop it. It was thankfully smaller than others, closer to her stature, yet that did not stop it from batting her aside with the ease of wind blowing a piece of paper.

“Gíla!” her family yelled. Daou acted first, unsheathing the brass blade and leaping at Luk. The construct’s arms fell from the elbows down. It screamed and collapsed to its back. Small, crocodilian constructs rushed Daou, falling headless in the seconds of their fight. Helgol joined his son while Tearhas helped Gíla rise to her feet. The Bear Maiden pushed her mother back to avoid the flying shrapnel of a bisected lion.

“I said wait!” she pleaded, charging at the chaos only to be knocked aside again, her jaw cracked by the sharp hit.

She flew with momentum, crashing into the Orrery that withstood the impact but flashed with a grating, blinding white. The path to hell was set like the sudden, unexpected checkmate in a game of chess. Nothing could stop it. Gíla now had an idea where it had come from. In an instant, there was a resounding crack of thunder, a bright flash of brilliant white that enveloped everything, and when it had cleared, both shield walls on the fields of Gortinda had shattered completely. She saw herself, thrown back from the shockwave of it, landing flat on her back as dozens were flung into the air like screaming puppets. Her eyes had been blinded in those moments, her sense of smell and hearing numbed to only the faintest traces, her ability to touch lost. She had felt as if she was floating on a cloud of nails. A sensation had filled her belly, driving her muscles to tense in their numbness in a need to rip and tear the enemy.

The rage of the Guch’di.

“Enough!” Kʼared’u commanded, stamping its staff onto the floor to a resounding spark of noise. “Are you no better than the insects from the sludge of Itarhu?”

“Chʼu did tej suk chʼa wat!” one of the crocodilian’s hissed with grinding gears.

“Oh, please...I bet...you all failed...to from time to time...” Milligan groaned as he regained his senses. His voice was gurgling. “The lot of you.”

"B’ar takhi tej khab nyurle ju."

Milligan laughed, shimmying to his knees. He wiped the blood from his mouth. “No, but it looks like...you were over one of two places in all of existence that has remained...changeless.”

“The Nujant Chhank brought in the man!” Kʼared’u roared in the language of man. “We all know what his being here means, but we cannot act rashly. We are not-”

A knock at the door, urgent and loud. With a glare at the chaos and a motion for everything to remain quiet, Gíla moved away from the Orrery, went to the large metal doors, and partially opened the left side. On the other side, backed by the expanse of a massive chasm that echoed with the drips of water and a cold wind, Orlantha Xathia stood with crossed arms and a quirked brow. “What the hell is going on in there, Bear Maiden?”

“Nothing-” Gíla began to say.

“Quite a lot, actually!” Milligan yelled in great annoyance. “Much that you would be interested in stopping.”

Orlantha shifted her stance to lean on a leg. “Is that so?”

Gíla stuttered. “It-it is a volatile situation.”

Orlantha closed her eyes. “Volatile is a good word. Hence why I am here.”

“Is something the-”

“Do not ask that question, Bear Maiden. You know that everything is the matter. Nothing is okay. The man in there said that things would happen a certain way if we allowed ourselves to be tampered with in that Tower. Out of desperation, we did. Not only have things not gone that way, but they’ve gotten quite worse for us. So-”

“Orlantha-”

“Gíla, we need information on Veoris. Milligan came from it, and Jira is unresponsive right now. The Runearch will be coming soon, once Amphe falls. And if Veoris holds more of his army, we need to know. If it holds anything, we need to know. Further, we need to know what happened to Jira and him altogether. Tahrir. The Holy Bishop. Anything. The Belanorians talk of God being dead.”

Gíla looked back to her family. They had recovered their senses from the skirmish, short and brutal as it was. The Guch’di that had fallen to Daou and Helgol had risen again, repaired, and stepped aside to bow in complaisance to Kʼared’u’s command.

She looked back to Orlantha. “Okay.”