There’s no doubt about it—only one of the stories this week actually counts as flash fiction, but sure, that’s never stopped us before, has it? No point trying to constrain the stories, they have minds of their own. So please enjoy two full short stories I guess! And one actual flash fic! Which means this week’s a good old fashioned three tale adventure, featuring two of our favourite guys we haven’t seen in a bit.
But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t check out last week’s edition, even if you already read it, because it was a fun little exercise, methinks.
And please, tap the like button to let the stories know you enjoyed them! They are aware, you know.
This week, we take in the cold serenity of the Cathedral of Ice, we join the red wizard Carloman on a hunt using the Thunder of the East, and we join the one-armed swordsman Kastaine as he and a mysterious greyfolk paladin do battle against a band of orcish warriors with Shrine Steel…
Cathedral of Ice
The floor of the cathedral was composed of some forty-eight massive flags of a black, slick stone, fit so neatly, and so well maintained, that nary a crack nor space nor shift was at all visible. The texture of that stone was not smooth, but neither was it uneven and craggy, it was flat and had upon it many low, long, wavering wrinkles, or perhaps they would better be described as ripples. On certain days, when the light played across the floor, it was almost as if one were looking upon a deep, still lake, utterly fathomless, utterly black, frozen in time as a gentle wind played across its surface. This stone composed not only the great broad open cathedral interior, but it rose, in places, to form certain walls and supports.
There was something about its serenity, its solidity, and perpetual slight cool dampness which Hadin found immensely comforting. When he could afford it, he walked barefoot across the flags when the cathedral was quiet, and would stop a moment in appreciation of it. The scent of wet stone was a balm to his soul. Especially now, when he could afford precious few moments of indulgence.
The paladin let his eyes wander upwards from the black stone flooring. It only reached eye level in a few places, and the rest of the cathedral, the entire rest of its towering form was composed in absolutely every part by ice, in no less monolithic blocks than the stone ground. Great square pillars and tall buttresses rose to one vast dome of a single cyclopean block of primordial ice. These were smooth, perfectly smooth, broad and thick, vast but crafted with masterful precision--cut, shaved, melted, and refrozen at great expense of time and labour. But every second and every coin had been worth it, for the world bore fewer bulwarks of such prodigious might.
A light mist played about the upper air at all times, a chillness which flooded the lungs with cool enervation. It was a pale silver, while the rest of the ice was in numberless and limitless shades, tones, and textures of pearlescent whites and translucent blues. They all flowed together, into each other, and from each other. Light shone from behind, above, and through them at a thousand different angles, creating an omnipresent soft radiance which sometimes shimmered like water. Droplets fell with the sound of light bells, and each one sparkled like a diamond.
It was cold, it was pure, it was serenity and stillness made manifest, a balm to not only Hadin's soul, but to every soul and the land whom the cold which radiated from this place touched. Hadin had learned to let the ice temper his soul, to calm his limbs, and numb his mind. When first he had been submerged, he had lost aches and pains he didn't know he even had. Hadin had abided in this ever since, all through his taking the ice, his martial training, his oaths and purifications, everything went back to that first moment. As he knelt upon that rippled black stone, great silver hammer in hand, letting the rime settle upon his blue steel plate, upon the storm grey chainmail, and within the white linen vest and hosen beneath, everything went back to that moment again. Everything was going to end up there, too, as his final reward in the ice, if he anything to say in the matter.
And he had much to say to the warping, twisting wrack and ruin of the Infernal powers which whirled and churned in nightmare spirals across the sky that he now strode out towards, to meet his fellow paladins in one last stand.
Thunder of the East
Whereas some souls might be inclined to use the word "nosy", perhaps in extreme cases even "rude", Carloman preferred to think of himself as inquisitive and enthusiastic. More often than not it paid off, and people gave thanks to the World Serpent, or their Hero-God, or which ever aspect of Oros they paid particular reverence to, that this funny old man decided to, out of nowhere, involve himself in their business. Carloman often gave the same thanks for being nudged in the right direction. This was one such case.
It is highly regular to see plumes and trails and tendrils of smoke in Mul Manatar, a city which by ancient tradition offers profuse veneration to Fire itself, so when one of them sticks out, even a first time visitor to the city on the lake can tell something's not right. Carloman didn't need a deity to nudge him for this coiling pillar of oily black smoke, he left his room at the inn and made an immediate beeline to it, stopping only to overpay for a small breakfast at a street vendor.
As he had approached the source of the dense, hazy column, studying it over the flat white plaster roofs and squat towers of the north shore city sprawl, the usual thoughts flitted through his mind. But no, he thought, he usually at least got some odd feeling off stuff of that calibre. This might not have been that darkest of business, but it was odd. He clacked his way, staff in hand, past concerned onlookers and found himself staring at the immolated shell of a small dwelling. There was no fire, at least not anymore, but angry red embers smouldered within, accounting for the pillar of smoke which mostly seemed to just gather above. In what manner, the wizard wasn't exactly sure of yet.
Carloman was known in Mul Manatar by at least a few of the officials, and numerous taverns and restaurants, and it was one of the north shore governor's magistrates who had come to inspect the damage--of which there mercifully seemed to be little--that noticed him. Carloman then noticed that he had been noticed, and wasted precious little time in stepping forward past some unsure guardsmen who looked on as the embers seemed to flare slightly at the red-robed wizard's approach. Thus had he come to be standing on the crumbling ruins of a small house of decently old date, much of the interior gone and the pale stone charred and stained.
After learning what the guards had learned, and seeing what was left to see, the picture became all too clear: the sad, fragmented remains of some novice magician, half-buried amidst ashes, who, if the little which remained said anything--and to Carloman it said a lot--had been attempting to manifest an elemental, evidently a being of fire, as some familiar or source of power, and had been clever enough to know what he could do, but not clever enough to actually pull it off. It seemed as if he hadn't invoked the right protections, or probably any protections, no Serpent's Coils, no Sun's or Fire's guidance, and had paid the ultimate price. Why he wanted to do so in a city which worships Fire and knows deeply its power was beyond Carloman's understanding, and unless they called up the young fellow's spirit, which he would not do, no one would ever know. Probably he thought it would be easy to do in the city. But, he should have known, that while, yes, Fire offered guidance, that it lit the path, Fire was ultimately the force of motion, transformation...and destruction. He'd been looking for one, and got the other. Fire burned differently in Mul Manatar, no doubt about that, but it was still Fire.
All of this meant there was still an elemental on the loose. There was something walking around embodying the fury and power of the fire which had raised it. Carloman made as much noise as he could trying to find out when all this happened, and went very still when several guards cobbled together a story that placed this whole event at just around dawn. Of course, the wizard thought, no better time for something like this than sunrise. A mere turn, maybe two of the hourglass had passed since--but where would this thing be? Where, he dreaded to think, but think it he must, where would it strike next? And how to follow it?
He must do all in his power to mitigate panic. This didn't need to be a situation. But where would this thing go? Unfortunately, it was impossible to guess. Elementals were born of a confluence of circumstances, and these circumstances were what imparted their longevity, their power, and their intelligence. Some existed for mere moments, in a shaft of light in a gentle woodland, some wandered the far places of the world for centuries. The great Macha Nuad were, he knew, elemental beings from some dim and distant epoch, as were the celestial deities of Mul Manatar itself. If it was intelligent, it could be spoken to. Maybe. If not, more extreme measures may need to be instigated. There was a chance that, intellect aside, it might look for a fire temple. Plenty of those around. But he couldn't just wait for something to happen. What Carloman needed was guidance.
And it was as he stood in the middle of the ruined house, deep in thought, that the wizard found himself approached by someone new, and unexpected.
He was a Manatarian, a short, stocky little fellow with dusky skin, cropped hair, rather round and beady gold eyes, leathery skin, but sprightly. He was also a thunder priest, as evidenced by his staff which bore white-painted wooden thunderbolts.
"Some sorcerer got himself lit up, is it? Thought so." The little man spoke in a kind of hoarse, barking voice as he shuffled around. "Don't know why whoever it was didn't go to a fire temple. Figures. What about you?" He turned to the wizard.
"I am Carloman, I'm helping with this investigation."
"Think I heard of you once before. You a sorcerer?" he asked before shuffling around again, poking at the ground and ashes with his staff.
"I'm many things, but-"
"And one of them's a sorcerer?"
Carloman had no idea whether to find the little man's brusque attitude offensive or hilarious.
"Yes, it is," he said with a half smile under his bush of beard.
"Right. So it's an elemental or some such, is it?" The wizard hid his surprise. "Suppose it's gone and wandered off. We get all types in this city-" he shot a look to the wizard, "always some mischief. Now someone's dead. Suppose someone had better go find the damned thing. And I suppose you want help?"
"I would appreciate your skills, if you don't m-"
"No, no, not at all," said the priest as he began to leave, "sure, you'd be wandering these streets til dusk and half the city'd be in ruins. Anyway I'm Kotvushan, most folks just call me Kotan. Let's go, come on."
Carloman apprised the bizarre little man of the situation as they went, in between bouts of his ranting. Turns out he was something of an unofficial religious authority in the north shore. He was old, knew many of the rites of Sun, Fire, and Stars by heart, but it was Thunder that had always drawn him. According to him, at length, Thunder always got overshadowed by the others, but it was Thunder, damn it, that showed the ancestors where to go, where to settle. Sun and Fire really just let you see, but Thunderstrikes and Thunderbooms, they talk, they really show you. He at least seemed glad that not too much time had passed.
When they arrived at Kotan's thunder temple, Carloman realized that, of all the times he'd passed through Mul Manatar, he had never, as far as he could remember, ever actually set foot in one. Now there was a shame, he thought. Better not let the little man know that. He seemed to know a good bit of stuff already. It was a simple structure, an enclosed, open air circle of plastered stone with a great raised dais in the middle the priest now clambered up to.
"This is where you come in, sorcerer," said he, "you whip up the storm clouds--if you can--and I'll call the thunder. We'll find this thing quick if you hurry up."
Carloman had half a mind to show the little creature just exactly what he could do, but decided there was no true victory against a nature this combative.
"Serpent," intoned the wizard under his breath, standing his staff upright upon the pale stone ground, "set a coil upon this place, and make of it a circle, and cradle all that I now lay in thy grasp. Let now the water below meet the water above. Rainfall, rainfall..." he repeated, one hand feeling around his collection of amulets, letting them clink together, his other hand raised up, fingers entwined in binding. He found an amulet of Locod, Macha god of all waters, the past, and magic. Just behind it, an amulet of Gaoth, god of the sky and the future. He even found a small stamped medal with a thunderbolt on it. "Water gods and sky gods, cast your gazes to this place, to this temple circle, and all the sky over it." Though his eyes had closed in focus, the upper air had begun to grow hazy, and as he continued to speak, dim with cloud. When the first drop of rain hit him, he opened his eyes. He'd been doing this for decades. For pretty much his whole life. The wonder of it never really faded, to make the world turn.
"Yep, that's right, keep going, don't give up yet," said the priest from his dais.
Carloman was becoming slightly fed up with the little man's tone, but most of that dissipated as he watched what he was doing. This was thundercalling. Kotan was raising his tall staff up, waving it from side to side, clacking the wooden bolts together. After about five of these, he set it aside, and took up a silver bell on a long handle and rang it--clear peals of it seemed to cascade around them, but he didn't stop there, he set that down, and then began banging a deep booming drum in a swift rhythm. After a moment, he set that down, and began to ring the bell again. From what Carloman could see--he didn't dare bother the little man--he was speaking as he did all this. Some invocation? Beseechment? Communion?
It didn't matter--a few minutes of this later, a bolt of white thunder flashed in a pillar above a section of the city. The priest turned back to Carloman with a furrowed brow.
"Well, that was quick. Too far, though, we need to escalate," he barked.
"Then I suggest you hand me that bell or something you have up there so we can whip this up into a real storm!"
"Yeah...not a bad idea--but hey! Hey!" He rushed down to stop Carloman climbing the steps. "You thank the thunder first before you put your sorcerer's feet on this altar!"
No, he was right, thought the wizard, who gazed up and gave one clear and genuine thanks to the storm clouds overhead. The priest then waved him up.
Elementals manifested from circumstances, and it was by opposing circumstances could they be undone. In this case, by force, through a torrential rainfall. In the mild and breezy eastern high summer, not an easy feat. The nearness and prominence of Lake Manatar was a plus, though. And they were already halfway there.
"The bell's for rain, you take that," mumbled the little priest as he took up his drum again in a swift, droning rhythm. Carloman didn't hold back--he rang the bell in quick succession, and began speaking old arcane words of stormcalling, words that spat lighting, that rumbled thunder, and that hissed rain. Cold words of deep chill and biting winds. Harsh words he did not often use but kept close. The priest's drum beat began to speed up. Carloman replied in kind with his invocations, he rang the bell in threes, spoke, rang, spoke, rang. There was an almighty crack of thunder overhead, a blast so loud he felt it in the very stone beneath his feet. A pillar of light flashed over the city. It was still roaming about--and it was moving, in a panic, perhaps. Carloman had only ever conjured elementals for the sake of desperate defense before, and had seen to it they were released or gently undone. A part of him felt a pang of guilt about this, but it had to be done, and he hadn't the time to try to draw it to him. The city certainly didn't, not if it was even half as wrathful as he suspected it was. The charred corpse of the young sorcerer flashed in his mind, and he remained resolute.
In the depths of spellcasting and ritual, of trance and focus, time passed in strange waves, and with them came impressions: pillars of thunder whose light bore great import. Harder and harder sheets of rain upon the city. The fact the old priest's arms hadn't given out. More thunderbolts. Sounds from beyond, of voices and rushing feet. But finally there came one glimpse which stopped the wizard completely. He realized there had been no more thunderbolts. Carloman gazed around. There were a number of people in the temple, including guardsman, and it seemed, from what he could see over the walls, a greater number were gathered outside. The priest fell forward then, completely out of breath, but a great big grin across his face.
"HaaaaHAHAHA!!!" he bellowed, banging his hand on his drum. "Never let it be forgotten that Mul Manatar's the City of Thunder!" He took a second to compose himself, noticing what the wizard had noticed, and turned to him. "You did well, son, but now it's time to tell these people why we've drenched them. Come on."
Carloman had a feeling there wouldn't be a problem in the end.
Shrine Steel
Everything about the young greyfolk which stood before Kastaine was a rare and curious confluence. The pale silver skin betrayed them as a denizen of the vast woodland which lay just a short ways behind them, the darkish boughs lined with shining grooves even at this distance, but the armour was of steelfolk make, no doubt about it: large round pauldrons, long swooping vambraces, cuirass formed of two overlapping plates, maille skirt, and greaves. And yet the decoration was of that flowing, organic silverfolk design. They wore no helmet, and the mane of brilliant white hair flowed in the wind.
Greyfolk looked only a little like humans, or rather humans only looked a little like greyfolk. Tall heads, curving back slightly, with sharply pronounced peaked hairlines, long curving ears, heavy browless ridges, round eyes, and faces which usually tapered to pointed chins. They had no noses, only ridges or depressions leading to lipless mouths almost exclusively for emitting speech, though they did partake of their own peculiar rejuvenating sustenance. Humans with whom they enjoyed great friendships always found it sad they could not enjoy grand feasts. This fellow had a fairly straight features, in any other greyfolk they would be severe, but the youthful vigour in the stance, fire in the white eyes, and head held high with an assured smirk gave them an aspect of strength.
It almost made Kastaine, in his dull leather lamellar and bound linens, grimy from two days' tracking the band of orcs, feel a little ridiculous. He felt a little better as he summoned his spectral arm of King's Armour, a fine replacement for his own lost limb, and reward for his duty to Castlegrand, as they set off to the smoke over the hills upon two stonefolk stags of the great vastlands. Fractious mankind may have been, and distant in those affairs the greyfolk remained, but when it came to dragons and their spawn, everything was set aside, and even the aloof stonefolk could be roused from their battle-revelries for aid. The weathered, lined, and pitted face of the sentinel of Castlegrand and the youthful, shining visage of the silverfolk exorcist-warrior seen through the curling horns of the thundering stags would have been a sight to stir even the hardest of hearts, and drive fear into the most draconic.
As they rode under a low, overcast sky, Kastaine couldn't help but notice his compatriot's weapon. His own was a steelfolk broadsword, a brooding blade of matte grey metal emerging from a v-shaped guard which would never chip, never shatter, granted for the immediacy and severity of the threat at hand. But this young paladin's sword was as curious a construction as they were. Slung naked in a leather hoop, its slender shining blade tapered across a broad, gentle curve to a needle sharp point upon which light perpetually danced. From the pommel of the sword's grip there blossomed a handguard like a dozen overlapped lotus petals. The silverfolk did not produce weapons, and when they did they weren't close to anything resembling this, and yet it was silver, and of that folk's decoration. Steel treated with silver he'd seen, but this was new. And he liked it very much.
Over the crest of the rise they came to a scene of ruin and devastation. Spread across the gentle decline were piles of crumbled stone, clouds and pools of flaking ash, and splintered wood. A damp, smoky fog had begun to rise and obscured the remains of the small town further in. It was also curiously devoid of bodies, though the trampled earth all about bore the tell tale signs of desperate battle and fierce struggle. They dismounted their stags, but the greyfolk turned to Kastaine, placing a hand on his arm, and spoke in a voice that was light, airy, somewhat husky, and delicate.
"Thank you for your aid, Ser Kastaine, we could not have found the orcs without you, but they have entrusted this task to me. Let this be the start of a grand union!" With that, the young paladin drew his slender sword and strode forth into the ruination.
The misty veil of the growing fog parted every so often in odd places with odd winds to reveal new vistas of bitter ends and dark victories. The jagged scorch marks of orcish curseflame were everywhere. Doom, destruction, and horror abounded. The humans of this place had put up a valiant, if the many stains of orc blood said anything, but ultimately fruitless defense. Crouching low to gauge what lay before them, the paladin peered upon a scene only a short distance off, where the land dipped lowest on this gentle slope. They counted seven orcs, six in their monstrous suits of black plate, one in a mass of black tatters, standing over a pit they had dug in the earth. The paladin knew exactly what was in there, and could not help averting their eyes. A brewing pit. They'd been prepared with this knowledge, but it was another matter altogether seeing it. A steaming slurry of corpses, human and orc, the way they replenished their numbers after battles. But with the sorcerer present, this meant the slaughter had purpose beyond killing and loot.
The orcs were fighting and losing fight, trying, with the aid of forbidden Arts, to try and remove the curse which had changed them from mighty draconians to their debased selves so long ago. There were notions among humans, and even among some of the more gentle-hearted greyfolk, of pity towards a race spurned by all the world. But the paladin had none such feelings. The orcs were hated, and they hated back with even more ferocity, a committed foe to both over and underworld alike. The dragons had betrayed them, the greyfolk were their ancient nemeses, and mankind was as yet below them. That pit, the greyfolk thought, must be destroyed.
Kastaine thought the same thing as he peered down from the ruined wall he perched upon, just out of sight. He wasn't about to see such a union of steel and silver go to waste. It didn't matter the training they'd had, a band of orcs was a formidable opponent different to even the greatest dragonspawn. His blade was already drawn, a mere shadow in the growing gloom, and with his King's Armour already conjured, he might leap to his compatriot's aid in a second. But he hoped he wouldn't have to.
The orcs saw the paladin first, as they rose and gripped their blade tight. The sorcerer barked some command from its short snout, a warrior raising its flat-topped cleaver and breathing a gout of curseflame upon its wicked edge. The sword was brutish and fearsome, every decoration in truth merely a different way to inflict fear and pain--a reflection of the uncompromising and overwhelming strength of the orcs. The blade's keen edge shone with a line of blazing green, and trailed in the air as it was brought back, and then shot out as the orc lunged, but the paladin was faster. Their blade seemed almost weightless, yet it met and bit into the orcish sword--there was a screech as silver met curse, and sparks spat as the cleaver was cast aside and the saber thrust half-deep through the spiked black armour and through the orc's heart. Wrenched out with a single motion, the greyfolk fell back a defensive stance as another orc, bearing a wedge-headed battle axe with frightful top and backspikes fell in, raining blows upon the meagre flat of the silver saber--it held, but just barely. The paladin ducked to the side, one vicious swing missing them and landing in the earth, and before the orc could remove its weapon, the needle-point of the sword found its mark through the skull.
Kastaine wasn't watching the paladin, nor the attackers, he was watching the sorcerer, who had left the brewing pit side and had lumbered forward, fanged and tusked maw working maledictions, and the agent watched as within that maw, curseflame flashed, and yet upon its raised hands did tongues of flame begin to flicker and lick, and with one roar it thrust its hands forth and a wave of curseflame screamed towards the paladin--Kastaine started in his hiding place, but stopped himself, as the greyfolk leapt back and brought their sword down before them, cleaving the wave in twain, forcing it to divert away harmlessly, the ground sizzling and sparking in its wake.
As fantastic a display as it was, and as shaken as the sorcerer was, the greyfolk was defenseless. Kastaine threw himself forward, blade ready, and upon the charging orc which sought to bring its cruel morningstar down on the young paladin, who saw a grim blade suddenly shoot forth from the chest of the stunned orc, and the face of the agent appear as its corpse was cast aside. There was only a moment for recognition before the last three warriors were upon them in a storm of clashing steel, silver, and black iron. Kastaine, taking only a second to calculate the right angle, and right spot on his sword, shattered into pieces the hefty scimitar which threatened to cleave his skull apart--but it cost him a spiked club to the ribs, which sent him reeling back. He caught the club in his spectral arm, and wrenched it from the orc's grip, slaying with two swift strikes his foe. But the other orc was on him then, and it was only by driving his Armour's elbow into his enemy's face did he miss being stuck with the wicked misericorde which sought the spaces between his lamellar plates. The paladin had slashed to ribbons his enemy, and made quick work of the remaining orc.
They almost didn't see the sorcerer's arms erupting into blazing, monstrous, spiralling coils of serpentine curseflame making right for them both. The air itself was suffused with a hellish, gangrenous radiance--but the paladin bounded forth in a low dash, slashing through the air, dissipating each searing blast as light cascaded across the entire length of their blade. Kastaine had ducked low, and had stopped, getting an eyeful of what Greyfolk Art was truly capable of.
The paladin met the sorcerer in combat--each strike with their blade was stopped on a flash of flame, and each blast from the orcish sorcerer's palms and fingertips was deflected, as though with physical weight, off the silver sword. It was only with a masterful twist of the arm and the wrist did the paladin pass through a blast of fire, and thrust the point of the blade through the orc's belly, and up into its heart. A belch of flame escaped its tusks and fangs, but so too was it afforded the mere second needed to grip with its twisted talons the greyfolk's sword arm, burning a whole length of it utterly black with a final summoned burst of curseflame, before slumping to the ground, dead.
Wincing, retrieving their sword, mouth pursed tight, breathing through gritted teeth, the paladin staggered forth to the brewing pit, and with a flourish that sent flakes of burnt flesh from their arm, a star seemed to dance along the edge of the silver saber, before, as it sat upon the very needle-point, with a thrust and esoteric gesture of their free hand, an arc of light leapt from the sword and into the pit, which flashed with a single brilliant coruscation, and was reduced, as the oily smoke which billowed from it cleared, to naught but ashes.
The greyfolk finally fell back, landing on one knee, gasping for breath. Kastaine had an idea then what this fellow symbolized. Best see to them first, though. That arm could be healed, but it would never be the same again. That might have been just what was needed.