Fortress Al-Mir

Vezta looked around the room, eyes like miniature suns burning with mild disapproval.

Arkk paced back and forth in a room devoid of furniture or decoration, deep beneath Elmshadow Burg, at the head of scores of soldiers. Twelve rows of ten soldiers, arrayed in a precise, imposing formation, stood perfectly still. Their attention unwaveringly focused on his movements back and forth.

The air was thick with unease, yet not a breath could be heard from the ranks. No murmurs of impatience, nor the customary clinks and shuffles of armor. A hundred people crammed into a small room should have made noise. They should have given off the musky scent of sweat. With their helmets on and the thin cloth mesh over the small gaps in the helmets acting as veils, Arkk couldn’t see the expressions hidden beneath.

Not that there were any expressions.

Vezta, approaching the nearest of the soldiers, reached out. With a single hand, she lifted the helmet off its skull.

Vacant sockets stared back. Bones clanked and metal finally shuffled as the skeleton within adjusted its pose to compensate for the motion.

“Master…” Vezta said, turning to Arkk. The expression on her face was perfectly neutral. Not a hint of her earlier disapproval remained.

Yet Arkk couldn’t help but wilt in on himself. “I know,” he said, planting his palm on his forehead. “I should just destroy them. What was I thinking? Zullie is a bad influence but I still was the one who decided in the end.”

“I am not particularly fond of necromancy,” Vezta said, jamming a finger between the skeleton’s eyes. It stumbled backward but quickly righted itself. “It is the domain of the Smiling Prince. A particularly… Well… His followers tended to be difficult to get along with.”

“Oh?”

“The Smiling Prince embodies two primary concepts. That of elation and that of undeath. He is the jester in the court of existence. I’m sure a theologist would have a lot more to say on the Smiling Prince’s philosophies, but the primary word his followers live by is that life is the greatest joke of them all.” She paused, frowned, and sighed. “His followers come in roughly three varieties.

“First, those who tend towards misanthropy. Life is a joke and thus, it is their duty to end it.” She shook her head. “Then there are those who believe themselves to be funny but everyone outside their altered perception of reality just view them as annoying. Mostly harmless, though. The third type follow the Smiling Prince in name only, just wanting the power of an army that they can control on a whim, that grows as their enemies fall, and that requires neither payment nor nourishment.”

Arkk shifted. While he had heard Vezta mention the Smiling Prince before, he wouldn’t say that he revered him in any kind of capacity. But, if he did, it would probably be the third type. “The spell I used operates with modern magical rituals and incantations,” Arkk said after a long moment. “If Zullie is correct in her theories, it isn’t tapping into the power of the gods at all.”

“True,” Vezta agreed with a small dip of her head. “Though I doubt the Prince of Laughter sees it that way. It was said that he would offer blessings to anyone so long as he thought they might provide some amusement. With all the chaos you’ve caused or been a part of, I imagine you would already have been in his sights were it not for the Calamity.”

“That sounds bad. I’ve already got one god watching me and another three who likely hate me. The Heart of Gold does for sure.” Four gods personally interested in him felt like four more than any mortal should have.

“In truth, I’m surprised you don’t count the Cloak of Shadows among that number.”

Arkk cocked an eyebrow. “I… didn’t think I had gotten anything from her. I mean, yes, we’ve used the Shadow Forge and found some artifacts. Those don’t feel like the direct attention of a god.”

It was Vezta’s turn to look surprised. “You think the Protector didn’t attempt to commune with the Cloak of Shadows before joining us? You think you just stumbled across those tools and items and even the Walking Fortress?” Vezta slowly shook her head back and forth. “The years of isolation have certainly made her quite weak, but that doesn’t mean she is ignorant to the goings on of her domain or your intentions there.”

Arkk folded his arms, frowning at that thought. He was fairly certain that he—or his minions—had done all that themselves. He supposed he felt some kind of pull toward the Walking Fortress when he first arrived in the Underworld, but he thought that was just the Keeper of a Fortress feeling drawn to another. Finding a knife half-hidden behind an altar wasn’t the act of a god.

If a god was going to help him, he very much preferred something tangible. Like how Xel’atriss had opened the portal. If the Cloak of Shadows wanted to help him, giving him the ability to fire beams of shadow to counteract the Heart of Gold’s avatar sounded a whole lot more useful than directing him to a ceremonial dagger that he would have found just by performing a thorough search anyway.

That did get him thinking.

“Do you suppose the other gods have suffered the same fate as the Cloak of Shadows?”

“Weakening?” Vezta paused, thinking while turning the skeleton’s helmet over in her hands. Just a little idle movement. “I suppose that depends on what happened with their realms. The realms effectively are the gods. The Underworld is polluted and desolate. It wasn’t always like that. If the Calamity has similarly harmed the other gods, then yes, I would say they have weakened.”

“Does that include Xel’atriss?”

Vezta went silent again, staring down at the helmet.

The silence stretched on long enough that Arkk realized he wasn’t going to get an answer. Vezta either didn’t know or, more likely, didn’t want to admit anything. The Lock and Key was the one Vezta revered the most. Speaking ill of Xel’atriss might well be too blasphemous.

“Portals originally were able to connect to multiple worlds, weren’t they?” Arkk asked, changing the subject.

“Correct. My former master was able to reconfigure it at will to connect to allies afar.”

“I wonder if we could make contact with the rest of the Pantheon through it. Perhaps not this Smiling Prince, but Agnete is interested in anything to do with the Burning Forge. The Anvil of All Worlds seems like a good place to try for next. If it has turned as desolate as the Underworld, at least we know what to expect going forward. If it isn’t, then perhaps we could get some real assistance.”

Vezta pressed her lips into a thin line, likely not liking his disregard for the efforts of Xel’atriss and the Cloak of Shadows. But she didn’t argue. Instead, she said, “The method through which the portal was opened is, obviously, unusual. In addition, I do not know how to alter its destination. That was knowledge privy to Keepers alone.”

“Priscilla…” Arkk started, only to trail off. “No. She only came into power after the Calamity…” he murmured. “Priscilla did finish her translation notes. Perhaps one of the books from the original fortress or the books we salvaged from the Underworld tower…”

“If I may make a request?”

“You know you can always speak your mind. I encourage it.”

Vezta nodded, then shoved the helmet back on the undead. “I would ask that you leave this research to me.”

“Really? You don’t know much about magic.”

“True. But searching through books is hardly magic.” She spread her arms wide, forming them into several dozen tendrils, each tipped with a glowing yellow eye. “I believe reading is something I am uniquely suited for. Especially if I must constantly reference translation notes to continue reading.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Arkk said as Vezta pulled her arms back together and clasped them over her waist. “I presume you’re also wanting to keep Zullie away from such research?”

“Zullie is useful.” Vezta looked out over the assembled army of skeletons. “She has also had some… concerning ideas as of late.”

Arkk frowned, watching as the skeletons watched him back. He shuddered, forcing his gaze back to Vezta. “I do wonder if the incident… If she’s alright. Or if she is acting according to the designs of the Lock and Key,” Arkk added. “It seems like she has developed an obsession with tapping into the Lock and Key’s powers.”

“Indeed. Though, I suppose that will be a self-correcting problem.”

“Oh?”

“If she goes against the will of Xel’atriss, I imagine she will be losing more than just her eyes,” Vezta said with cool neutrality.

“I’ll… warn her to be careful.”

“I doubt she’ll listen, but that is kind of you.” She paused as a sly smile crept over her face. “Speaking of listening, have you mentioned this to Ilya?”

Arkk opened his mouth, closed it, shifted uncomfortably, and sighed. “How long do you think we can keep this a secret?”

“Not nearly long enough.”

“Yeah,” Arkk sighed. “I figured.”

“Luthor, could you check the riverside just past the northern mountain range?”

The chameleon beastman started, hopping in his seat at the sudden voice. Harvey, the flopkin member of their scrying team, stood on his chair to see over the top of the small pit that they were stationed in. He wasn’t quite sure why Arkk had designed the tower’s command room like this. Ostensibly, it was to keep the two teams from being distracted by each other.

Right now, they were in a low-stress situation, so only one person sat at each of the crystal balls. Luthor and Harvey, today. But during the battle of Elmshadow, he had shared his scrying pit with the fairy Camilla. They each had their specific things to keep an eye out for. Two sets of eyes were better than one, just in case someone missed something vital.

But that high-stress situation was only a small fraction of the total time he spent performing his duties. At other times, since there were two crystal balls, the scrying team had developed a back-and-forth method of checking through territory. Arkk didn’t wish to be alerted to minor things but also wished to be informed of potential problems as far in advance as possible.

So when something was ambiguous, communication and double-checking felt necessary.

Luthor nodded to Harvey and then leaned over his own crystal ball. His duty at the moment was to keep a general overwatch of Elmshadow, looking for any problems, while Harvey was to look for issues afar. Switching jobs with Harvey, Luthor skimmed the view over the top of the northern Elm mountain.

Further north, beyond the high peek of the mountain, the land lowered into a range of smaller mountains for a fair distance. Eventually, it smoothed out into rolling hills, which themselves flattened into river-strewn plains that lasted all the way to the northern sea. It was a land of many small villages and several larger burgs, all taking advantage of the fertile land.

But if Harvey wanted him to look around a river, there was only one choice. The Thyne River, fed by all the other smaller rivers, was the largest. Big enough for specialized rope-drawn ferries to travel up and down many times a day, transporting goods along the large burgs built on the river. There weren’t many trees out in the plains but there were plenty near the mountains, resulting in lumber and carpentry products needing to go from one end of the river out to the other.

“A-At Thyne Burg?” Luthor called out, focusing in on the largest burg nearest to the mountain, right at the head of the river.

“Naw,” Harvey said, hopping up onto the upper platform before springing over to Luthor’s side of the scrying pit. Technically, that left one of the crystal balls unused, but there wasn’t much chance that Elmshadow would be attacked in the short time it went unattended. “Over here. The little river here, flowing between the hills at the mountain’s edge.”

Following Harvey’s directions, Luthor scanned over a smaller river. More of a creek or a brook that acted as a tributary to the larger Thyne River. Harvey didn’t say what to look for, which meant it was something ambiguous. He didn’t want to taint Luthor’s observations with his opinion.

It didn’t take long to find something out of place. A large group of tents and several horse-drawn carts were grouped up in the hills. Judging by the stacks of logs on the backs of the carts, Luthor might have dismissed the group as nothing more than timberfellers out harvesting wood for Thyne Burg now that winter was over with. But Harvey’s presence over his shoulder had him looking twice.

On the second look, Luthor wasn’t sure that he liked what he saw.

Despite it being early in the day, none of the supposed workers were chopping down trees. That might have been explained away by the fully loaded carts, but if they had no more room for materials, they would surely head back toward the burg. Instead, they were camping around. The tents, large white fabric tents designed to hold many men, were all occupied. This was a truly massive logging operation.

Yet, why there? High in the hills, there was certainly lumber around, but they could have gone down to the lower hills, closer to the burg, to fell trees there. They would be easier to transport.

And those tents…

Luthor wouldn’t claim to be an expert in tents and large tents made from canvas were popular all around, but the encampment looked awfully familiar. He had seen the same setup at the various Evestani military encampments they had strewn throughout the Duchy. It could have been a coincidence.

There was no magic in the area preventing scrying. That let him peek into each of the tents, looking for weapons. If he spotted more than a handful of swords or spears for personal defense, or even armor, it would be a sure sign that they were up to something.

Luthor leaned back from the crystal ball a few moments later, humming to himself. There were a few weapons. A few bows with quivers of arrows and a couple of pikes. Nothing that made the large encampment look like a military operation. Just enough to fend off wild animals or, if it came down to it, a group of bandits, goblins, or other unpleasant sorts. Nothing strange about that.

“Well?” Harvey chirped. He had gone back to his crystal ball while Luthor had been working.

“It is a g-group of unusual size,” Luthor said, staring at the ceiling. “But… no weapons. No armor. Evestani hasn’t been spotted that far north either.”

While Evestani had units of their army scattered all across the Duchy, especially in the land west of Elmshadow, they hadn’t gone too far north. If one wanted to cross past the Elm mountains without traversing through Elmshadow, heading south was the way to go. Not only were the smaller mountains considerably easier to pass over, but they had dedicated trails leading through them. If one wanted to go around the mountain ranges, the southern range was shorter as well. Thus, there had been no reason for them to venture that far north.

“I’m wondering why they’re just sitting there,” Harvey said. “They paid by the day or something? I’d want to head back to town the second I could.”

“Maybe they c-can’t go? A wheel b-broke or their horses have fallen lame… Or they can’t work because their tools…”

Luthor paused, churning over the thought.

Leaning forward again, he quickly scanned through the horses and their carts. They had several, mostly filled with lumber, but some were clearly for supplies. All the horses looked in good shape, hale and healthy. The carts weren’t damaged either. But he wasn’t too interested in either of those.

He scanned through the entire camp again, this time searching for tools. He couldn’t remember spotting a single one on his first pass-through.

“No axes. No s-saws. No sleds for hauling timber,” Luthor said softly. “What kind of t-timberfeller doesn’t have an axe?”

“Ah ha! I knew something was strange.”

“Strange, yes. N-no weapons. And no tools? What are they d-doing?”

Were they just spies? It was such a large group. All burly men. The difference in build between a trained soldier and a timberfeller wasn’t all that great, so they could easily pass as lumber workers. Were they really Evestani? Arkk had them watching out for that prince as well, but he was supposed to come from the eastern border of the Duchy, not some lumber camp in the mid-north.

Luthor picked up his pen and marked it down as an area of interest, but not one of vital priority. It wasn’t Luthor’s job to figure out what his targets of observation were up to, just to watch them. They didn’t seem to be doing anything at the moment, so he would bring it up to Arkk during the evening’s meeting with the scrying team. He, and his replacement once it was time to change shifts, would keep an eye on them throughout the day until Arkk decided if they were to keep a permanent watch on them or if they could be safely ignored.

Setting down the pen, he looked over the encampment once again. Just a last check before returning to his usual observation schedule.

From an overhead view of the camp, he spotted something else amiss. One of the carts filled with logs had its back open. Not the back of the cart, but the back of the logs. It was open like a door, swung on a hinge, to reveal a hollow interior. A man, standing at the open log door, hefted up a clay cask, something that looked uncomfortably similar to the alchemical explosives that Company Al-Mir had put to use on occasion.

The man wiped the sweat from his brow as he secured the clay jar in place with a few fabric straps. After that, he closed the rear of the stack of logs, leaving it looking like nothing more suspicious than several felled trees.

The man headed back to one of the tents. Luthor hadn’t looked too closely at it earlier. It looked like several alcohol kegs had been stacked around a small table topped with a small, portable distillery. Nothing too strange. Everyone liked alcohol. But… now…

Those tools for distilling alcohol were probably not for alcohol at all. They were an alchemical equipment set.

Luthor let out a small sigh, adjusting his notes. He still wasn’t sure if they were Evestani agents or simply smugglers or other criminals. Regardless, the fact that they were trying to hide their operations out in the middle of nowhere was suspicious enough that Arkk needed to be informed.