Recruit Sammy was caught alone near the alligator pond gathering a dead goblin's clothes to wear when the invaders stepped out from behind the trees and carried out the favored goblin attack of firing a volley of missiles and fleeing as fast as they could afterward.
He slew them all with the whip he'd learned to use well, but not before the bolts injured him badly. One of them stuck from his stomach, the wound small, but incredibly deep. His nose cracked open from a goblin's punch, he stumbled to the fort blindly and fell down in the entrance hall, from where he was carried to the hospital.
Doctor Zaroz took one look at the wound and shook his head. "This wound is far too grave," he said in sad tones. "I'm sorry, Sammy."
"Sorry for what?" Sammy said. "Fix it."
"Sammy..." the Doctor said. He looked at the wound, thinking:
He's got a year at most. That hole is there for good."I'll get some bandages, hold on," he said to his patient, and went off to search for a piece of shining blue cloth.
* * *
Kzel found himself intrigued by the prankster's note, and as he walked to his forge on the morning of Barony Day, he mulled the idea over. a prototype crossbow modded to better serve in close combat, either with extra weight to the stock (making them war hammers) or with a blade built as part of the stock itself for makeshift use as a very short spear. Both ideas were intriguing, if impractical. Weighting the stocks would be a simple matter, but either option would be extraordinarily difficult to achieve without interfering with the firing of the bow or causing catastrophic damage to the weapon after striking. Unless magnificently done, the result would be an unwieldy weapon useless at any range, and with that in mind, he intended to practice his craft.
Kzel realized he'd need the assistance and advice of at least a High Master Bowyer. Fortunately, he happened to know one: Chief Broccoli, the dwarf who'd commissioned the ballista bolts. It was the wrong day to ask him anything, though, being the anniversary of his dog's death and the forgotten beast attack and all. Speaking of forgotten beasts, there seemed to be an epidemic of them here, as Kzel's thoughts were presently interrupted by some unspeakable salt pig standing at the other end of the hall.
At least, it certainly seemed like a pig made of salt.
It broke the door down to Aramco's former quarters, and in a twisted repeat of history, an axedwarf who now lived inside was quickly but loudly stomped to death.
Soon they had all assembled: The Army, the Fortress Guard, the two crossbow squads and Jacen's recruits, all gathered around those quarters that seemed to invite the darkness, with the noted absence of Derm (later reported to have fallen asleep drunk in the Dining Hall at the time). Those dwarves for whom this would be their second time confronting a demon inside would glance at the door ever so often and shudder, inwardly or not.
Sethrist arrived in a rage widely projected around him, and in a threateningly low whisper demanded to know how the demon got in unnoticed. The gate had been opened while the guards were grabbing new gear, he was told. Shame fell on the face of the Guard Captain.
"We'll deal with it later," the Overseer said. "Everyone, prepare yourselves."
Fifty dwarves readied their gear, the finest in all the known world, envy of all who encountered it be they friend or foe, and Kzel looked on in silent respect. Six of them were using his new whips, whose efficacy had been well tested against the goblins, but never against... well, against whatever it was that was in there.
"I know it is here," issued a scathing voice from the dark, like nails scratching against a stone slab.
"The one who escaped from us. Which of it is you?""Do not admit it any fear," the Overseer said. He lifted a spear in the air, Kzel noticing with some dismay that Sethrist was not using his old masterpiece. Then he wondered:
Do forgotten beasts talk?A soldier kicked open the door, and they all swept inside, their cloaks billowing behind them. Kzel could only hear the battle, and it was over before long: a yelping dog, a shrieking, maddened squeal, then a silence, long and sullen.
Kzel admired the returning soldiers with a mixture of pride and relief. Every one was safe, and with this latest distraction dealt with, he could get back to work with an untroubled mind.
Meanwhile, far above, close to the surface, a bone carver completed a shameful and distasteful (but unquestionably well-made) artifact. He claimed to not know what he was doing at the time, that the influence was of a strange, compelling voice that tasted of salt.
* * *
Rimtar's Journal, Obsidian 4thOne of Jacen's squad members, the mother who brought her child into the Danger Room with predictably tragic results, was seen babbling throughout the halls a few hours ago, unaware of anything around her. As we all deal with tragedy in different ways, the father has sufficed with destroying his face in an act of self-mutilation by welding to it an adamantine mask left on Aramco's forge overnight.
He refuses to speak to anyone and spends most of any given day in his quarters, but insists on maintaining his military duties. I've let him continue to act in that fashion but I've taken the squad off duty until Olin and I find some way to help him, or at least ascertain he is still capable of serving as Captain. A dwarf is given power not for his sanity, but for his usefulness.
Speaking of that, Derm spent most of the year crawling around on the ground collecting new gear from various stockpiles around the fort and then locked himself in the Danger Room, insisting he was too out of practice. I wish him the best, I just hope it makes him feel better. His pride won't show it, but he must be quite out of sorts about the whole unable-to-stand thing.
With the last wave of migrants and the hard work of our long-term personnel, we have at our disposal many artisans of various trades. A Mason's Guild is slowly forming out of the union of stoneworkers who'd erected the surface walls of the fort. Every day they turned raw stone into lovely crafts for admiration and trade.
And we now have a Chief Jeweler named Peregarrett. I understand Kzel is after him for some clear glass window, and I wouldn't mind a few of those myself. Gemstone windows are great, but not for seeing through.
Let's see... Oh yes! Olin gave birth two weeks before schedule, and the baby is fine. Her name is Zefon and she's quite the chubby little thing.
I saw her after a meeting with Kulet, who in turn had been seeing our visiting liaison. As more and more of our wealth is sent to the Mountainhome, our holdings have increased and we are to be an official Duchy. I can remember a time when Sethrist and I would have found joy in that news, but those lighter days have ended. Now it is only reminding me that we live a lie, one that has gone on too long.
We've agreed that the knowledge of the demons and our conflict with them is to be made public knowledge. We have demonstrated our might in withstanding them, our wealth by our trade output, and our comfort by the smiles and laughter of the children who play in our halls and our courtyards.
We maintain a pleasant illusion to encourage its reality. And that, in short, is why me must succeed here.
* * *
The months ticked away. More and more made the journey to Quakemortal, some for riches, some for glory, some out of duty or loyalty to the Lanterns of Hail, but whatsoever for, droves of them came. The surrounding lands became filled with smaller settlements, dwarves of the hills finding the warm, iron-rich forests to be all the more idyllic in the vicinity of a fortress whose efforts were legend back in the Mountainhomes. It also attracted traders, dignitaries, and most unfortunately for their secret's safety, adventure seekers.
The Fortress Guard was stationed at the gate of Cudgelromance to protect the workers during the rebuilding of a drawbridge and the shaping of new walls. They were on the lookout for any sign of attack when they noticed a human in leather coming down the stairs with a look of extreme wonder.
"Good heavens, noble dwarves!" said the human. A shoddy bow lay strapped to his back. "The Underworld!" he cried. "The rumors were
true!"
"What the fuck is he doing here?" said the Overseer to the guards, striding over. "The caravan left seven days ago!"
"Ah yes, my contract ran up with them." The bowman pulled the bow from around his back. "But I have here a fellow traveller of lands who has agreed to carry my food and spoils for a fee!" He waved at a second human who was towing a pack mule, who cheerfully waved back.
"To adventure, then!" The human raised his fist in triumphant confidence and led the hired merchant outside the gates and into the Underworld.
Sethrist followed them hesitantly out of the gate. "You can't stay out here. We have to close this gate --"
"By the gods!" cried the bowman. "How do you not marvel at the scenery!" The archer turned, saluted, and he and the merchant went on their way through the dire cave and to whatever fate would await them.
Sethrist sat there for some time. "Damn them," he muttered, and knowing he could ask no one else to take such a foolish mission, he pulled down the guard of his helmet and crept down the hill after them. "Sir!" yelled a dwarf. It was Atir, legendary Bone Carver and Ranger of renown, who made most of his own bolts. "Sir, we are coming with you," he said, when a massive shape snaked up and out of the nearby chasm and flipped him into the air like a coin. Up, then down, down, down he went, disappearing into a speck against the vast churning vortex of light below. The laughing fiend, a colossal earwig with an emerald exoskeleton, flew into the pit after the Hunter, chattering and snapping its mandibles as it vaulted into the swirling red endlessness.
Sethrist fell to his knees. Another dwarf dead in front of him. No chance to even fight the foe responsible. Killed for no reason, a meaningless death, or whatever other horror lay in that deepest pit that he still could not peer into. He pounding on the ground. His hands instantly throbbed, wracked through the adamant gauntlet by the insidious, impenetrable stone of this place, until his bruised fists ached and his body sank to the ground as bones threatened to break.
* * *
Dreams... know the past and see the future.Green-skinned pawns of evil, mockery of dwarf and elf and human all alike.Make no mistake on whence they came.Goblins come from Hell, and then they breed. Sethrist thought.
When did I go to my room?He tried to focus.
This can't be right, he thought.
I'm not in my room. This isn't my table, it's..."
Sethrist tried to think through the oppressive fog surrounding his thoughts. Something outside was trying to subdue them in their tracks. His vision swam in and out of his perception like he was trapped in a dream, half-awake but fully aware, trying to get out. Slowly, as if emerging from quicksand, he saw clearly, and stood up. He felt for his weapon, swooned with relief by finding it.
Taking a few unsteady steps, lost without a clue of where to go, he scanned around for the tallest cliff he could find. After a few minutes of cautious travel, he had claimed the top of the precipice, and from there, he could see for miles around into the glowing horizon.
He felt the stare upon him even before the weight of it sent him to his knees, and he felt his face dragged forward, out of his control, to face the great open abyss below. Licks of flame scraped along the edge of the hill where old magma still burned in its own heat.
An insistent voice slithered into his mind from alien angles.
"Come," it called him.
"Come to your home. We await!" His thoughts became shards of fear and pain so base he'd have cried out if that compelling force had allowed. Suddenly, desperately, he wished to jump, only the awareness of the madness of it holding him still. And then, when all but the faintest hope of escape had gone out of him, he thought, "Help. Someone, anyone, help."
There was a chorus of twisted laughter, empty and cruel, but it was drawn short, replaced by a quiet stillness that took hold of the entire area. Even the sound of the falling magma in the distance fell to naught.
In his mind he saw one mass of forces storming against another in an endless duel. The proximity of it led his sight alongside it through unnumbered cosmos, the pasts and presents folding together like a stack of cards to fan out in a spiral of existence, and around it all, the futures that could yet play out, they that could not be without a mind to make them come about.
He saw shadows, skeletons. They danced like twinning puppets to the call of a gaunt and spidery figure, weaving a darkness so pitch and deep all light would smother within it, and somehow, Sethrist felt it was grinning.
The quiet seemed to deepen with every moment. There were other shapes at work, struggling against the darkness, like spiders themselves, but colored, with forms and hues that varied with each flickering moment within the vision of eternity. They threw themselves at the terrible spindling menace around each reality, but neither end would budge from their violent and flashing waltz across time.
Sethrist thought,
We do not fight alone.There was a battle, unseen, unfolding beyond the world itself, and Quakemortal and the Demons themselves were but a fractional part of it, the dogs of war for generals above not awareness nor even comprehension, but understanding.
The stare had passed over him, to gaze on the clashing of forces unfolding betwixt the stings of time, and so too the vision faded, leaving Sethrist feeling alone again within the blankness of the Underworld. The abyss still called, but not for him; Now, instead of allure there was anger, fierce and directed out.
He knew not how long he walked, or where, but he eventually found Cudgelromance, easy to spot with its tall, straight staircase leading back to the stone above. With great relief, he knelt down on the jagged rocks and glared down at the Pit.
Now I know what we'll do, he thought, hoping the malevolence of the pit would hear.
We'll train an army to best your hordes and conquer every loathsome inch of this place. We'll seal off your caverns and pits.
There, on the highest hill, we'll erect a great monument to the Gods. And then, when you and your demons are vanquished and sealed out of the world once again, we'll flood this barren cave with the waters above, expose it to the surface and grow sunberries in the patch of light.
The grass and moss will grow on these hills of stone, animals will graze. Fish will swarm the lakes we build here. Children will laugh and play on smooth slade in perfect safety. We deny you your right to Hell. War is with you.Sethrist journeyed to Cudgelromance with purpose in his steps, the vision remaining with him.
There is so much to do, he thought.
Messages to the Chiefs of Staff from Manager RimtarGuildmaster Duck: The time has come to choose a name for the Guildhall, as a few of your eager apprentices are flooding my inbox with suggestions. I believe at least one of them was from an elf; the handwriting is strange and loopy and makes an unsuitable comment about your lineage. Their suggested name, incidentally,
"SalmonGod": Olin tells me you haven't reported to therapy yet. Please don't make me order you to it.
Dariush: Sethrist wants some kind of water pumping system set up to draw water from the river and create an aqueduct around the fort. He also requests that the pump be easily redirected through a series of floodgates so that the water can be routed in other directions, namely, down.
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Topic: Quakemortal: Perdition's Gate (Community Fort, Spoilers) (Read 53842 times)