Argrave reached into his duster’s breast pocket and pulled free a silver medallion. It was of crude make, with strange letters and a worn image of a woman pouring water from a horn. He twisted it between his fingers as he looked out at the gathering crowd of centaurs, using it to allay his fears. He’d felt it weighing on him the whole journey—a reminder of what was coming as constant as the bronze hand mirror.
When the half-man, half-equine race gathered in one place like this, they were intimidating beyond belief. Armored in steel, far taller than even men on horseback, and with bows that could fire arrows as thick as Argrave’s arm... to say the least, it was easy to see why they rivalled the wood elves, forcing them into that ridiculously organized militarized society. The centaurs’ bows were made for hunting giants—he didn’t care to test how good Artur’s enchantments were at deflecting their arrows.
“Why exactly did they scurry back home?” Argrave looked to Anneliese.
Anneliese stared ahead as she answered, “The elves block the entrances as we speak. The centaurs are deciding upon a course of action.”
Argrave winced and said beneath his breath, “God damn it.” He looked to Ganbaatar. “Might not get your wish.”
“My wish?” Ganbaatar repeated.
“The centaurs and the elves might fight after all.” Argrave looked away from the elf, thinking hard.
Ganbaatar shrugged. “I don’t care if that happens. It’s been happening for centuries. It’s why we are as we are. Or have you forgotten that? You, who used my customs to gain my trust?”
“Speak respectfully,” Orion reminded the elf, but Argrave waved at the prince to refrain from undue persecution.
Argrave placed the medallion in the palm of his right hand, then traced the rim of it with his left thumb. Finally, with his mind made up, he closed his palm. “Plan doesn’t change. If fights happen, they happen. So long as I can make the world whole, it changes nothing.”
“And if you can’t?” Mina pointed out.
“He led us through that assault out there, didn’t he?” Artur pointed out somewhat sycophantically.
Argrave stowed the silver medallion away in his pocket once again, closing it shut with a button he seldom used to ensure it didn’t fall out. “For now… let’s just get to the root of the problem. Grimalt, Rasten, Bastal—tell them to get ready.”
Some people seemed displeased the king could make a joke in the middle of such tension, while others seemed eased by the pun even Argrave would admit was bad. Maybe a polarized reaction was the point, though, for Anneliese was the only who could see how nervous Argrave was about this next endeavor.
#####
Argrave felt some visceral satisfaction as he watched the Veidimen boost each other up to a high ledge one after the other. Heroes of Berendar didn’t have too many of these moments in the game, but he remembered this one feeling particularly insulting. What was it, exactly? Why, a shortcut. Specifically, a shortcut that took the player from the end of the dungeon back to the beginning. He didn’t mind using them, of course. He was simply always frustrated that having knowledge of them didn’t allow the player to exploit them, heading straight from the beginning to the end.
Soon enough, it was his turn to be boosted up to the ledge. Once up there, Artur waited, suspended in the air as ever. He looked at Argrave peculiarly.
Argrave rubbed his hands together and sought an update, asking, “What? Have trouble with that door?”
“No, it was easy to remove the enchantment,” Artur shook his head. “I’m simply wondering how you learned all of this, Your Majesty.”
“And I’m wondering why you flipped one-eighty degrees on supporting my kingship,” Argrave plainly said. “The important thing in both uncertainties is that it’s working out for us. I’m happy with things.”
Artur raised a brow, and his eyes danced with myriad colors. “It was never about you. It was about me, you see.”
Argrave brushed past that, saying, “Well, it’s about all of us now. King or peasant, you can die all the same when the end comes. We’re all on the same level. That’s what makes it a calamity—no matter who you are, it affects you.” He looked to the side as some people pushed past the cramped crowd.
“Your Majesty,” Grimalt greeted. “None of us can move the door, even with the enchantments gone and the armor bolstering out strength.”
Someone scrabbled at the edge, and then Orion threw himself up. He dusted off his armor—pointless, considering how battered it was—and then walked forward. “I’ll handle it.”
Argrave hastened to follow when Orion confidently declared he’d handle something. The people parted for him, revealing a stone door with ornate floral carvings. It had swirls and vortexes. Seeing the designs alone birthed nostalgia. The Veidimen struggled to open the door, using rocks to employ leverage or more simply scrabbling at a grabbable spot with clumsy gauntleted fingers. Orion pushed them aside, then took his place.
First, Orion tried to pull the door open as they did. After a few moments of failure, he moved on to try using leverage. Almost immediately, the rock snapped. Orion stepped back, then looked at the rock still lodged firmly in the gap on the door.
Argrave began to suggest, “We can just—”
Orion raised his foot up and kicked, hard. The whole cave seemed to shake, and the door cracked and folded inward. It collapsed onto itself in two split slabs of intricately carved stone. The prince looked back at Argrave, almost proudly.
“That works,” Argrave conceded, stepping forth.
As Argrave took his third step, he paused when he felt a rumble in the earth. He held the wall to steady himself, but the shaking was even more intense by the wall. It wasn’t a shaking, per se—instead, it was like a bunch of sharp tremors echoing out through the earth, their source… above.
And then, the path that had opened up caved in with deafening cracks, and Argrave crouched down to shield himself. Grimalt stepped beside Argrave and conjured a ward above. It proved unnecessary—only what was beyond the door caved in. Dust filtered through their group, setting some into coughing fits as they inhaled fine particles.
When it was all over, Argrave stood up straight once again and sighed. “Well…” he closed his eyes, thinking of the longer path that he’d need to take. Suddenly, he opened them again, their grayness alight with fire. “We’re taking this path.” He walked forward, then crouched. He picked up the first rock. “It’s principle by this point.”
#####
It took a long, long while to clear the way, even with Vasilisa, Moriatran, and Artur aiding with earth magic. Argrave wasn’t sure if taking the regular path would’ve been quicker. Even if the regular path had been years quicker, Argrave wouldn’t have taken it. It was the principle—doing things for the sake of doing them.
But the better answer was that it was far safer, too. No enemies, no centaurs, no nothing. Quick and easy, right to the heart. But the reason that Argrave was so nervous about this endeavor was quite simple—he was putting a theory to the test.
After a couple hours of careful excavation, the path was clear enough to walk without moving more rocks aside. The Veidimen took the lead, scouting things out. They entered a great circular stone chamber with a high ceiling and a strange altar in the center. It was difficult to see the walls of the room, for the roots of the redwoods pushed past the stone and curled around various circular mosaics. At points, the roots seemed to be stopping the building from caving in.
The Veidimen filtered in first, looking around the room. Next came Argrave and the Magisters. Argrave stepped right past them, heading for the altar. He came to it and leaned on it. It had a great depression in the center of it, making it seem like a big wash basin. Ganbaatar caught up to Argrave, staring down with him.
“This is one of my people’s holy sites, certainly,” Ganbaatar confirmed. “That altar isn’t familiar, but at times we visited a place just like this. Still, I don’t see how you’re going to make this get the elves to the bargaining table. The Holy Army of the Wind is the only Tumen in the Bloodwoods that still follows the gods. Most have lost their faith. Even if this becomes known, it won’t—”
“Shh,” Argrave raised a finger to his lips.
Argrave’s Brumesingers scrambled up to the altar, the four of them peering down into it like it was a pond they didn’t dare jump into. He felt their fear through his link, and by extension Anneliese stalked up behind them, her arms crossed as she watched with worry.
“…let’s see if I’m right about what Gerechtigkeit is doing here,” Argrave said. He held up his hand, a spell matrix whirling. It completed, dissipating into nothingness.
The Brumesingers trembled. Slowly, they started to cough. Argrave felt pained as he watched them hack and cough, and his fingers gripped the edge of the basin altar tightly. After an unpleasant while, one of them lowered its head and seemed to retch. A golden mist seeped out its mouth, so rich it was almost like honey. The gas seemed thick and heavy, and it slowly settled into the basin.
Argrave stared, incredibly tense. Ganbaatar was watching all of this, and he inquired, “What exactly are you doing?”
“This place was made by the elves but used by the centaurs… your people weren’t always enemies, you know,” Argrave looked at him.
“That’s nonsense,” Ganbaatar shook his head.
Argrave sighed and looked back. “Believe whatever you want… but the centaurs made sacrifices to these altars in the distant past. Offerings of life. I’m giving these things a substitute—souls. And I’m praying it works, too, because the alternative is very uncomfortable.”
And even if we do try the alternative—sacrifice—that might not work, Argrave recognized.
As they talked, all four of the Brumesingers continued to puke this golden mist into the basin of the altar. It spread out, pooling inside. As they coughed, the black Brumesingers lost some shade in their fur, turning from jet to a lighter black. They were expelling the souls they ate, and so losing some of their power to project mist.
For a long while Argrave’s hope dimmed like the flame of a candle with its lid placed back on. Then, the roiling gas stopped moving, almost as if seized by something. Argrave immediately cast a spell to command his Brumesingers to stop. Anneliese stepped closer, transfixed, as the mist grew denser and denser and settled into a hazy, honey-like liquid.
“Hmm...!” Argrave restrained fierce laughter as his grip tightened on the basin atop the altar. “I knew it. I knew it, you sly bastard.” He looked at Anneliese. “I was right. Gerechtigkeit was doing something that he did down in the old dwarven cities, with the Ebon Cult. He’s helping gods escape earlier so they can ruin this place, make it impossible for us to mount an effective defense.”
Artur looked at Argrave, particularly focused on what he was saying. Moriatran stepped up to the altar and looked down. “Not sure what we’re looking at.”
“You’re looking at a portal to another realm,” Argrave explained. “This thing shouldn’t be able to open, not now. But since Gerry is meddling, making the boundary between realms weaker… it can open. It can open half a damned year before it ever should have.”
“Another realm?” Orion looked into the golden portal.
“Another realm,” Argrave nodded. “One side has giant trees. What do you think is on the other side of the mirror?” Argrave asked with a smile. “I’m glad your knees haven’t given out, Moriatran. This is a big step up.”
Argrave gathered up his foxes and put them back in the pockets inside his clothes. Then, he raised one foot up to the altar, ready to step up.
#####
“That’s your solution?” a centaur with long black hair trotted up to his ally, standing eye-to-eye with the other. “Do nothing? Do nothing until they’ve buried us all in the earth, leaving us here with no food? The Mother has given us iron here to forge steel, and flat land to seek refuge, and a peaceful place where we might gather… but food is to be earned. Such has always been Her message. We cannot stay. Every child must eventually leave their mother.”
The centaurs were large and proud, and yet this mention of motherhood resonated with all of them. Well over ten feet tall, each and all carried bows far taller than themselves, other weapons dangling from their backs where a saddle might lie on a horse. Their arms were as thick as redwood branches, yet despite their unwieldy bodies there was a civility to their dress. Their legs were armored, and largely hidden by draped cloths that covered their backs. Their hooves had shoes just as horses did—theirs were spiked, so as to gain purchase on the ice or the ground. Their human torso, too, was kept hidden by armor and clothes both, and doubly so for the women.
“If you want to engage the enemy in those root-ridden forests and fall on your side like a fool, be my guest,” the other declared, not backing down. “We cannot thrive while the forest is overrun like that. I’ve made my clan’s stance clear—we should focus on one area, clear away the roots there.”
“We have nothing to fear,” a woman declared, holding her arms wide. “Each and every day, the ice revealing the Mother grows clearer and clearer yet. This is the disaster before the Deliverance. The elves’ gods have abandoned them—and now ours return. We see her, sleeping even now. The ice grows clearer, melting every day!”
“Melting?” one centaur crossed his arms—one of the biggest of them all. “That the Mother is more visible means nothing. Even with more of us here than ever before, the ice does not grow weaker. Perhaps a demonstration is in order.”
The centaur reared back mightily, raising his armored hind legs into the air. They slammed down powerfully, sending a great echoing noise throughout the cavern. People stared at the sight of impact, watching.
“It remains unbroken,” the centaur who’d caused the impact said confidently.
As people stared, they started whispering among themselves and pointing. Soon enough, the demonstrator looked between everyone, confused, and then looked down. He studied the sight of impact, but the ice remained impeccable as ever. Then, movement caught his eyes. He squinted… and then changed his angle to get a better look.
And what he saw… he could make no sense of it for a moment. In the ever-still grasslands beyond the ice, there was… movement. Living movement. And not the Mother, not the animals… but people, hundreds of them, walking about without a care. They stepped across the steppes with reckless abandon.
So much was said by so many in the moments following this discovery that it was impossible to discern a consensus in the crowd. But one… he stood still, staring with hateful, shocked eyes at the black-haired leader of the moving people below.
“Matesh… what does this mean?” someone pulled him from his daze. “You’ve seen the gods of other lands and been to their realms. What does this mean?”
Matesh started to breathe quickly, then looked back to the black-haired leader. Their party moved in the direction of the Holy Mother Sarikiz. And as memories of the past surfaced… he felt a dread greater than anything else he’d ever felt before.
“That man…” Matesh muttered, then repeated louder, “That man. In the golden armor, there. He is known to me.”
