Year 236. The Star Bastion, The Spine of God - Khirn

ORLANTHA XATHIA

Daou Senghu had given his life for a human being if Orlantha Xathia could be considered a human after her time in the Tower. In the wake of his death, the mountain moved in grief.

After fourteen years of conflict, stagnant and held at the gates and walls and rocky faces of the mountain range, they had finally taken to the larger southern mountain passes to mop up the Runearch’s fifth scout cohort. The fight had gone well, Daou offering unparalleled skill in intimidation and sheer volume of killing. Orlantha Xathia and the returned Thania Komone of the former Argent Contemptors were the only ones who could compete with the Nunjant Chhank. In the years prior, whenever scouts and assassins had broken into the fortress in attempts to open the gates, it was those two who fought with the Bear Prince in friendly games of slaughter.

Thania Komone, elevated to joint commander of the surviving number of those who escaped the Athenaeum and sands of Tahrir alongside Prokos Sidras and Alden Rasidaios, expressed a kinship with the Nunjant Chhank and found him uniquely placed among her warriors. To them, having dealt with more inhumans and insane prospects of a world they once thought they understood, a Nunjant Chhank was of little concern and formed friendship and brotherhood. Even the former Blessed Harbingers had little to gripe about and developed a relationship with Daou Senghu akin to a knight’s bond. As the siege progressed from initial parlays, threats, offerings of peace, and brokerages of land into savage assaults on the mountain, the bonds deepened, having already started quite well formed after it was he and Tearhas who pulled them into salvation through the western paths of the mountain range, secreted away from the eyes of the Runearch.

Helgol Senghu was forced to capitulate on this development. He could no longer argue with his family on the dangers of allying with the humans. His son, the most blindly loyal of his two children, had abandoned his views.

“Tell me something, Prince. What will you do if we actually manage to defeat the Runearch?” Thania Komone had asked him one night one year ago before his death. She sat around a campfire alongside eight others, Orlantha Xathia among them, after having been assigned as their elite by Earl Anthiti. There was much debate between her and Jira ne’Jiral about the assignment. Still, given the latter’s skill in larger-scale leadership, it was agreed that Orlantha remained in tightly-knit units.

The dusk was cold, with the wind howling and rushing. They were all wrapped in furs, leathers, and hides, huddled and drinking spiced brews and stews. Only Daou and Orlantha were unaffected by the chill, though the giantess was keen on hiding that fact.

“One up Yvon ne’Banuus and visit Gale Thalo and stay there,” he said, slurping his bowl. “She merely met Takvu Waz. I am going to become his apprentice.”

“That’s quite the goal you got there, Prince,” the Hamfist said with a smile. “I might join you.”

“You want to join Daou?” Orlantha asked. “Go to Aqella?”

“Why not? I’ve always wanted to see what the other world was like. Khirn’s gotten a bit too small for me anyways.”

“You in Aqella? You’d stick out horribly. The Dragons would devour you in an instant,” Markos chortled.

“They don’t call him the Hamfist for nothing,” Oeagnus the Fleetfoot snickered. “I, too, would like to visit.”

“And I,” Praxis the Brambleheart agreed.

Orlantha sighed and peered out into the darkness of the dying light. “You’re all insane.”

“Says the woman who spared Damas Zacetra,” Praxis retorted.

Orlantha waved her hand at the Brambleheart. “He’s proven useful, hasn’t he? Because of him, we’ve avoided catastrophe on the northern flanks of the range.”

“Barely, but your point is made and mostly incontestable.”

“Mostly. It just is incontestable.”

“Confidence is becoming of you, Lady Xathia,” the Brambleheart expressed, a smirk on his face barely illuminated by the fire.

Orlantha rolled her eyes.

“If you would prefer-”

“I would prefer you return to the conversation with the Prince,” she twittered.

“As would I,” Nikias the Shield raised her hand. “I’ve heard tale that the halflings are skilled at combat. I would like to learn this myself.”

Daou pointed at the Shield with his bowl, nodding and making an affirmative grunt. “Halflings are an ornery bunch, but you’d have better luck with them than the gnomes or the elves,” Daou explained, munching on a piece of carrot and potato. “And if you impress them enough, they might give you a pass to their lodge in Asne Unarith.”

“Truly? I would love to see that.”

“It is remarkable that you people have switched so much on the inhumans,” Orlantha observed, sipping a portion of her remaining broth.

“We have enough to deal with,” the Hamfist shrugged. “Better to have a big bear on our side than against us, at any rate.”

“That is true.”

Daou placed his bowl onto the snowy ground. “How about this: I take a few years apprenticeship in Gale Thalo and pay for your lodgings there until I’m done. After that, we all tour Aqella and retire in Asne Unarith. Maybe you’ll find a nice stead to settle down in, start a family.”

“Can humans have families in Aqella?” Praxis asked.

“They can. Humans still live there. And they have been known to have families with Orc’kin. The Dwarves. Elves, if you manage to calm the bloodlust enough. Would probably be best to start families amongst yourselves, though.”

“I don’t think anyone among us has sentiments that deep, Prince, but the suggestion is appreciated,” Praxis smiled small.

“We’ll be much too old to have children by that time,” Nikias said. “If the siege continues the way it is going.”

“Bah! I’m sure the siege will end in no time,” Markos declared. “With Daou the Bear Prince on our side, what the hell can stop us?”

“What the hell can stop us?” the Hamfist repeated.

“What the hell can stop us?” the others began to repeat.

“Nothing!” Daou responded.

“Nothing!” the rest shouted.

“Nothing!” they all shouted in unison.

Daou Senghu fell to the floor of the mountain pass, clutching his throat as the dark-clad figure retreated into the wall of the snowstorm. They had appeared from it, whipping with a short blade faster than Orlantha could see and faster than Daou could react beyond pushing her out of the way. Blue metal carved through his neck, blood spurting far too much for him to live longer than a minute. Orlantha scrambled to him, applying pressure to what part of his wound he wasn’t already grasping.

“Fuck!” she screamed. “Thania! Praxis! Someone! I need help! I need a healer over here now!”

Thania was the first to arrive, sliding to her knees and placing her hands on his chest. “No, no. Daou! What do we do? Orlantha, what do we do?”

“I don’t know!”

“Hello, Daou,” Orlantha had approached him in one of the many smithies of the outer bailey at his request. Five months and four days before his death. “You wanted to talk to me about something?”

“Yes!” he exclaimed joyfully, clapping his massive hands together and beckoning her to follow him to the smith and the burning white-stone forge. “Venize Mustoul is one of the finest human blacksmiths I’ve ever seen. He has taken the most complex of the forges left over by the previous lords and mastered it to near perfection. As such, many of your elite elites receive their weapons from this man. But I wanted you to have something special in recognition of our bond. A sword of a particular significance to the Nunjant Chhank.”

“What do you mean?” she asked softly, stopping at the anvil as Daou went to speak to the old, weathered Venize Mustoul. She could not hear what they exchanged, only see the bright expressions of pride on their faces. Daou returned, and the blacksmith came carrying a large object wrapped in white cloth with him. Venize Mustoul handed it to her, and she found it heavy even for her capabilities.

Daou’s smile could warm up the sun. “I found a book in the library. A journal written by a traveler. He had visited Nunjant Chhank land during his time and returned here. With him came a host of information, including diagrams and recipes from my people. I know you are not one for recipes, so I went searching for the diagrams, and I found one of a sword of considerable size and make. It required a special type of metal. Thaerhil and some alchemical ingredients like Dried Onyx and Eternal Briar. Finding those in this place was difficult, but as always, it surprised me. I found them in limited supply, but I found them. And I knew of only one forge that could craft a weapon of this quality. The one Venize Mustoul here ran, so I brought it to him and...well, open it.”

Orlantha unwrapped the blade and, for the first time in her life, struggled to breathe because of a gift. Pulled from its sheath of black studded with gold, the blade, roughly eight feet in length, was almost translucent if not for the faint sheen of glistening black that shone when waved over the flames of the forge. Furled black grooved wings for a guard connected that blade to a two-foot-long grip wrapped in blue-black boiled leather, which ended in a smooth obsidian ball that seemed to swirl with smoke inside its casing.

“In my language, there is a person with a name very close to your own, in a certain light, I suppose, when you say it quick enough. Urvan Tha. Urvantha. A-a legendary hero known as ‘The Raven.’ He died safeguarding a place of great history and importance to his people and defending the less fortunate. It’s a bit convoluted, I know, and requires a lot of work for it to make sense, but...I would like to see you take up that mantle, Orlantha.”

Orlantha smiled. It was the only thing she could do as she examined the blade before finally looking at Daou and placing it back into its sheath. “Urvan Tha isn’t a real person, is he?”

Daou kept himself from deflating. “No. He’s not.”

“That’s just the name of the sword, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But I wanted you to have a-”

“The intention behind it is well, well received, Daou. Thank you.” With great strain on her part, she pulled the Bear Prince into a hug and patted his back. “Now, let’s put this wonder to use and stain it in Dekunian blood.”

“Somebody, I need a goddamned healer! Please!” Orlantha screamed to the storm. Daou continued to choke on his blood and spit. “Daou, hold on. Just hold on; we’re going to get you help. We’re going to keep you alive. Thania, go find Nikias!"

Thania ran into the storm, and the dark-clad figure emerged to throw a speeding dagger at Orlantha’s face. With a shove, Daou pushed Orlantha aside and let the dagger stab his arm. Orlantha screamed and rushed the figure, dragging Urvan Tha behind her. The figure backed into the storm wall, only to yelp as the Raven broke after them and seized them by their face. Tripping their leg, Orlantha threw them to the ground and skewered them through the stomach, pinning them to the stone. Through wind, snow, and ice, Orlantha tore at the figure’s face and throat with her bare hands until all that was left was a bloody, grinning skull. Gripping the handle of her sword, she carved it upward, bisecting the Dekunian and the mountain beneath them.

Returning to Daou brought no relief to the emptiness inside her. Only grief at the sight of Thania and Nikias returning to fall to their knees and mourn the Prince’s death.

In the resulting wail that the Raven unleashed into the storm that brought on cracks of thunder and bolts of lightning, the thing that lived under the Spine of God was roused for just a moment and stirred, shifting the earth.

At that moment, the Raven became Kin-Chosen.

Year 245. The Star Bastion, The Spine of God - Khirn

JIRA ne’JIRAL

“Do you still think it was a good idea to let the man go off to wherever the hell he decided to go?” Gíla rushed after Jira ne’Jiral, her eyes blazing with the heat of the molten sun. “Do you honestly think that was a good idea? After what he did?”

Jira stopped and spun around, jutting her finger into Gíla’s chest. “You were the one who came up with the damned idea in the first place, Gíla. Not me. So why the hell are you suddenly so against it?”

Jira knew that Gíla could flay her to the bone in an instant. She also knew that Gíla had too much love for her to do that, and the thing that was once Sodon—a golem changed by the events of the Tower, ever-present by the Jira’s side—would be the first to stop her. “The man killed the Guch’di and crippled my father.”

“You know exactly why he did that,” Jira growled, leaning close before shoving the Bear Maiden’s chest. “You know why. They deserved it, and you know it. I heard you say as much to your father.”

Gíla grabbed Jira’s arm and spun her around. The Sodon-thing partially unsheathed his sword, stopping only when Jira commanded him to. “That does not mean that he deserved to walk free for it. The man could be anywhere now, full on the power of the Guch’di and doing who knows what.”

Jira laughed with a flush of color on her face. Frustration at the audacity filled her heart. “Just as you wanted twenty-three years ago. You wanted him to be free. And we have had that argument every year since until you suddenly went against it, and I for it. What changed, Gíla? What changed?”

Gíla briefly glared at the thing that had been Sodon. “Perspective and knowledge of what’s at stake here.”

Jira shook her head and continued on down the hall that coiled and rolled. This was far down, near the level that held the Orrery. The stone here was reddish and rolled, wet and pulsing in places. No one who had ever come here wanted to admit what they knew it was. No one wanted to admit the flashes of light that would sometimes join these pulses in the hallways, showing them glimpses of the battles where these flashes had already happened—and glimpses of battles yet to come.

“And what is at stake, Gíla?” she asked, turning a smooth corner and heading towards a valve-like door. Of course, she knew. She had known since that day. That terrible day with Milligan. But she needed Gíla to admit something. Answer something.

“A continuation,” Gíla grunted as curtly as possible as she trotted after the silver knight, the Sodon-thing following her far too close for the Bear Maiden’s audible and visible comfort.

Past the valve-like door, Jira entered a chasm. Across the barely lit space, she glimpsed the regular entrance of typical dark stone and architecture. She had often tried to take that path, only to end up taking the route of red. “You seem to know a whole hell of a lot more than the rest of us.”

Gíla rumbled a growl and stomped next to Jira, her arm nearly pushing into the knight’s back from the sheer size she presented. “Perhaps I do. Call it Nunjant Chhank intuition.

Deeper into the chasm they went, traversing rocky declines and crossing sharp gaps with crystal-maroon liquid at the bottom. The chasm floor was layered with old structures, flattened in some parts and shattered in others, with enough standing remnants to show an idea of a civilization that once lived down here. It was almost Tahririan in its architecture, combined with aspects of societies that lived on Aqella that should not have been here in any time of recorded history. Perhaps those uncovered ruins in Tahrir could have provided answers in a more peaceful time. Or the Guch’di, had they not been even more insular than the Nunjant Chhank of present company.

Now, it was a crypt for souls that were long since dissipated.

Khirn. Aqella. Lands that were older than could be processed.

Into the chamber beyond the large double doors, Jira entered, casting somber glances at the remains of the Guch’di. What Milligan—rather, that thing that grew from within Milligan’s body—had done to the metallic creatures was of such horror and transmutation that words could never do their fate respect, even if it was deserved. Each time Jira set her eyes upon the dreadful sights, she felt her meals threaten to regurgitate. Beyond that blight of the senses, what remained of the room was a crumbled framework and devastated history. A few blinks of a rampage and a legacy of agony. That is what Milligan left behind.

But Jira could not blame him. Not after what Helgol and the Guch’di had tried to do to him.

“You let him go after this,” Gíla muttered, kneeling to place her hand on what used to be Kʼared’u. Only the Guch’di’s staff remained, now in the Bear Maiden’s possession.

Jira stopped at the Orrery. Activated once and now dormant for eternity.

Far beyond the world’s edge had it taken him. That was the only explanation she could offer when K’ared’u had explained that the object wasn’t just a perfect thing of symmetry, equality, life, and death abound, loved by all who dwelled within and outside it. It wasn’t a display of all worlds in creation. It was a display of the single world, broken into pieces so that its contents could be correctly displayed in equal measure.

And for that one moment of alignment, the Orrery had shown the accurate scale of the world they inhabited.

Guile Eclipse’s mission all those years ago could not have seemed more pointless. Yet, it could not have made the one here, at the Star Bastion, any more important. The Runemaster had to die. Blackstone had to die. The Dreamers had to awaken. Victory needed to be achieved. Jira cursed herself for taking so long to come to that conclusion, and she was shamed in some parts that it took the Guch’di driving such irredeemable intent toward Milligan for her to realize that. She was shamed that for as much as she lambasted the Bear Maiden for shifting her stance on the matter, she had just as much done the same. But Jira could never admit that.

“I did what you had tried so fiercely for me to do, Gíla. Tell me why you are against it now beyond the obvious carnage. What perspective changes were you so keenly informed of beforehand that you turned against the very plan you developed alongside the Guch’di and Orlantha?”

Gíla sighed and rose from Kʼared’u’s corpse, walking forward to vanish into the darkness of emptied bookshelves. “None you would believe,” her voice echoed.

Jira groaned and smacked her fist against the cold metal of the Orrery. It hurt, her flesh stinging from the impact. “Goddamn you. Just like your father, you never let us know.”

Gíla’s voice flared with instant fury. “I am not like my father.”

The knight laughed. “You used to not be, but now?” Jira began to pace, examining each mote of destruction wrought by Milligan. “Now you are. Count le’Matto died asking you questions, and you answered none of them. Earl Miro died asking questions, and you answered none of them. Count le’Micah is on his deathbed asking questions, and Earl Anthiti will follow him. And still, you answer nothing. Will it take losing more than just your brother for you to stop being so damn insular? What more do we have to lose before you remember that communication-”

Gíla emerged from the darkness, face shrouded in the remaining shadows. “Communication. Oh, that’s rich. That really is rich coming from you, of all people. What a joke.”

Jira raised a brow and leaned against the Orrery, hands supporting her on the edge. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Gíla rolled her eyes and marched to the knight, the Sodon-thing approaching with purposeful steps and once more half-drawing his blade. Jira did not tell him to stop this time. “Oh, Jira...please. I’m surprised it’s only Orlantha who knows.”

Jira felt her body stiffen, and her father’s voice rose in her head in a serpent’s hiss. Explain to them who you are. What you are. If they refuse to understand, kill them. “Knows what?” she asked in a near-whisper.

Gíla pointed a claw at the knight and sneered. “You are no one to talk about communication and openness when you have lied about who you are for thirty years.”

More of her father’s voice hissed into reality, a cold sweat forming on her body. You are more. You don’t need it anymore. Not with Them awakened. Let you see your true self again, not molded by false stories and the manipulation of weaker minds. “I haven’t.”

Gíla lowered her hand and breathed hard. She circled the Orrery, the Sodon-thing taking his place next to Jira with his sword fully drawn. The Bear Maiden could not have been any less indifferent, fully intent on keeping the knight trapped and uncomfortable. Jira harkened back to that first meeting with Orlantha on that night when she had seen that spark of light. “You have,” Gíla accused. “I don’t know who you really are, only that you aren’t Jira ne’Jiral. I’ve known that for years but didn’t care. You were fighting for what was right—what we believed was right. Now, I care because you want to stand here and espouse virtues you don’t follow.”

When did she find out? If I drop it now, I might be unable to recover it. “Gíla-”

The Bear Maiden stopped in front of the knight, eyes glistening with disappointment and injury. Calm yourself, daughter. “Be silent, Jira. Just for once, be quiet. My brother died fighting on this mountain, protecting a woman who leads crusades of vengeance with your former guild. They trust her now more than you. My mother vanished. Vanished. Where is she, Jira? Where did she go?” It sickens me to see you remain in this lesser form. “My father was mangled by a man who...you saw what he turned into when he killed the Guch’di and drank them. The mountain moves. You have felt it. And still, the Runearch...he has not stopped. He continues. He keeps fighting us. The Prime cannot get close enough to the man to use the Spellblade of Kin and won’t let anyone else use it. He wants to be the one to kill the Runearch. And my father is too crippled to do anything about it, I am too busy doing everything that I do to do anything about it, and to top it off, whatever Milligan is going to do, it’s just going to make all of this worse.”

Jira pushed up from the Orrery and stared hard at the Bear Maiden. “How do you know that? Out of the blue, after all of these years, how do you know that?” You are not human.

“I just do. I don’t know how. I just do. And I know that if we keep doing this without something changing, we’re either going to be stuck here forever, or we’re going to die.”

What am I exactly, Father? Chosen.