"Griswold," Falazar said, his voice dry as old parchment. "To what do I owe this interruption? Has your feckless master managed to transmute lead into something even less valuable, like, say, his own opinions?"
Griswold simply bowed his head slightly and presented a velvet-lined box. "Master Cyros Goldenvein sends his compliments, Archmage. He bade me say he has acquired an artifact he believes may be of singular interest."
Falazar eyed the box skeptically, then, with a sigh, he opened it. His eyes widened. An amulet lay nestled on velvet, dark metal absorbing the light.
It was astonishingly similar to the one Sabine possessed and yet did not feel as ancient. Its sorcery lacked the esoteric earthly notes of Sabine’s. If anything, a more insidious energy was woven into it, a viscous undercurrent.
"By the forgotten fate of Lynneus’s left sock!" Falazar exclaimed. He looked at Griswold, then back at the amulet.
"Tell your master," Falazar said, his voice now sharp with an urgency that belied his earlier sarcasm, "that this… 'singular interest' is indeed shared. And tell him that if he values his continued autonomy within the tolerant boundaries of this city, he will present himself and whatever knowledge he has of this amulet to me. At once. And Griswold," he added, as the dwarf turned to leave, "do encourage him to rid himself of that cloying cologne of his before he arrives. The last time he was here, my moonpetals wilted for a week."
Griswold grunted, a sound that could have meant anything, and shuffled out, leaving Falazar staring at the artefact.
* * *
Cyros Goldenvein arrived at Falazar’s tower later that day, preceded by a wave of expensive, cloying perfume that did little to mask the underlying aroma of astringent chemicals. He was dressed in his finest silks, a gold, red and white perfumed peacock amidst Falazar’s scholarly chaos, projecting a carefully crafted blend of obsequiousness and opportunistic cunning. Elmyra accompanied him, looking unfazed in the Archmage’s legendary sanctum. She met Falazar’s penetrating gaze with a steady poise that bordered on insolence.
"Goldenvein," Falazar began, mild as the calm before a thaumaturgic tempest. "An item of 'singular interest,' your dwarf teased. Indeed. Perhaps you would be so kind as to enlighten me as to how such an artifact, reeking of considerable, unwholesome power, found its way into your emporium?"
Cyros spread his hands in a gesture of magnanimous innocence. "Archmage, my dear mentor! Always so quick to assume the worst of your devoted former pupil. A treasure such as this simply… gravitated towards one of refined taste and discernment. A connoisseur, if you will, of the unique and the potent."
"A connoisseur of profiting from things best left undisturbed, more likely," Falazar retorted, his voice losing some of its mildness. "This is no mere 'curiosity,' Cyros. This object hums with a foul power; it speaks of bindings, coercions. Now, unless you wish for the Mages’ Guild Inquisitors to take a deep interest in the precise contents of your back room, I suggest you tell me how it came into your possession."
Cyros’s smile faltered, but he quickly recovered his unctuous composure, moulding his face in a mask of shock and hurt. "A business transaction, Archmage. Purely legitimate, I assure you. A client, wishing to remain anonymous, sought an appraisal and a discreet sale." He gestured vaguely towards Elmyra.
Falazar turned to Elmyra. "Mistress Elmyra. Your reputation for resourcefulness precedes you. Perhaps you would be less circumspect than my disgraced former apprentice here?"
Elmyra met his gaze with a faint, knowing smile. "Archmage. An honor. As for the amulet, it was… a gift. From a gentleman of noble standing, one Beryl of House Lanza, if memory serves. He was… unburdened by its possession after a night of convivial companionship."
Falazar’s eyebrows shot up. "Beryl Lanza? The Chancellor’s excuse for a son? That witless popinjay was carrying this?"
"He seemed unaware of its true nature, Archmage," Elmyra added smoothly. "Likely thought it a gaudy piece of jewelry, perhaps a spoil from some ill-advised wager. Men of his station often acquire things they neither understand nor deserve."
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"Indeed," Falazar muttered. He picked up the amulet, its dark metal cool and heavy in his hand.
"This is not a 'Chain of Command' in the sense that the Jotunai legends speak of," Falazar mused, more to himself than to his guests. "This is… something else. A tether. A conduit for a will not its own. The 'chains' of the Chained Races… could it be related?" He said, drumming his fingers on the table.
Cyros Goldenvein leaned forward. "A fascinating line of inquiry, Archmage! Perhaps, for a modest retainer, my own humble alchemical and divinatory skills could assist in unraveling this intricate puzzle? I have certain reagents that are remarkably effective at revealing latent enchantments and historical imprints."
"Your 'humble skills,' Cyros, usually involve separating gullible fools from their coin with overpriced love potions and tinctures of questionable efficacy. This artifact is leagues beyond your petty dabblings." He turned the amulet over in his hand. "A chain of binding… used by whom, I wonder? And for what ultimate purpose?"
"Beryl Lanza seemed to have no particular attachment to it, Archmage. He likely acquired it recently. Perhaps from someone who did understand its nature, and wished to discreetly pass it on, or place it where it might cause… interesting complications." Elmyra offered.
Falazar nodded slowly.
"Your contribution has been noted, Goldenvein," Falazar said, his tone making it clear the audience was nearing its end. "As for a 'retainer'…" He gave a bark of dry laughter. "Consider the continued non-interference of the Inquisitors in your odiferous establishment as payment enough. For now."
He looked at Elmyra. "And you, Mistress. You have a keen eye and an even keener understanding of this city’s undercurrents. Should you encounter any further items of such… unusual provenance or hear whispers of those who deal in such chains of binding, my door is always open."
Elmyra inclined her head, "I shall keep that in mind, Archmage." She looked at him, her eyes wide in an indecipherable expression.
* * *
Dawn crawled over Woodhall like a scarred, bruised survivor, revealing the full extent of the night’s wounds. The ground before the fortress walls was a tableau of death and destruction – goblin corpses lay in twisted heaps alongside the still forms of the undead. A pall of smoke hung heavy in the air, carrying the acrid stench of burnt pitch and death.
Squads of soldiers, sappers, and engineers ventured out from the gates under the watchful eyes of archers on the battlements. Shield-Captain Eghel directed them. They worked with urgency to shape the battlefield for the inevitable return of darkness. They dragged away goblin corpses, dug deeper trenches, set sharpened stakes, and cleared lines of fire to create kill-zones. Sporadic arrows from hidden goblin snipers harassed their efforts. The enemy was still watching, still waiting.
Finn had slipped out of Woodhall before the sunrise, to reconnoiter the enemy encampment, assess their numbers, gauge their morale, and identify any new threats.
Deep within the dungeons, Sabine, having snatched a few hours of fitful sleep, sat on a stone bench. Marta rested nearby with her eyes closed, though Sabine suspected she was not asleep.
A familiar, sleek black form trotted into the chamber, materializing from the shadows. Monty. He approached Sabine, tail held high, and with a soft "mrrp," leaped gracefully onto her lap.
"You gave us quite a scare last night, disappearing like that," Sabine murmured, scratching him behind the ears. "Where do you go, you mysterious thing?"
Monty just purred, a deep, rumbling sound, and then playfully began to bat at the chain-link amulet dangling from her neck.
* * *
Ronigren had succumbed to bone-deep exhaustion in his small chamber, collapsing onto his cot still in his battered armor. His sleep was a shallow, troubled affair, dreams filled with the shrieks of goblins and the thud of rams.
An insistent rapping on his door jolted him awake. "Sir Ronigren! Sir Ronigren, awaken! It is a matter of some urgency!"
Groaning, Ronigren dragged himself upright. The mage stood in the doorway, his robes askew, a rolled parchment clutched in his hand.
"By the spiraling nebulae of Flox, man, must you sleep like the dead themselves?" Artholan huffed, though Ronigren sensed a genuine concern beneath his condescension. "Archmage Falazar has made contact. Through a rather… unstable conduit, I managed to receive a brief, somewhat garbled missive."
The fog of sleep began to dissipate. "Falazar? What news?"
Artholan unrolled the parchment. "It seems our esteemed Archmage has not been idle in Alkaer. He has… acquired another artifact. One disturbingly similar in its base construction to Mistress Sabine’s amulet, yet different in its resonance. He speaks of it as a 'Chain of Binding,' a tool perhaps used by the Entity’s acolytes. He believes its presence in Alkaer, found on the person of young Beryl Lanza no less, is no mere coincidence."
Ronigren stared, his mind struggling to process the implications. Another amulet? A darker version? …Beryl, of all people? “So…” Ronigren croaked, his voice rough. “What does the Archmage propose us to do?”
The mage paused, as if puzzled. "The Archmage is… concerned. Deeply. He urges us to redouble our efforts to understand Mistress Sabine’s amulet and its connection to the Keepers. He needs intelligence, Sir Knight. And he needs us to hold this fortress, to protect Sabine and Marta, until he can understand more.”
Sure, Mr. Archmage sir, and a plate of honeyed golden figs of Alsair for an after-supper treat?
“I understand, Artholan. I suggest we survive the next assault for now” Ronigren managed, swallowing a blunt retort.
Sci-fi ? Telepathy ? Psychics
The technocracy will fall. And my powers started it all. Oops.
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