Tales of Therron - Book One
The First Giant War
from the
Throes of Creation
Series
"The Forger forged Therron. From Therron came the rock. From the rock came the stout-folk." said Belandor.
Bron knew that Belandor was a devoted priest of Bortik, the stout-folk deity of fire, craftsmen and merchants. Bron had heard the priests speak on Bortik many times, but each time he seemed just as distanced from their sermons as the last. What did any of this have to do with him?
Belandor began again, "The furnace of the sun were runnin' hot, and was stoked by the bellows of the winds. From the heat were drawn a glowing ball of white-hot rock. It were a ball of fire and melted rock, a work made with care and art not seen since. "
"Shaped, it were, by hammer and chisel, upon the black anvil of the sky. The sparks flew, and some did stay hot, and them be the stars ye still see." Belandor winked at a young lass at this, and continued, "Drifts of diamond, and fullers of the purest mithril, crafted the nooks and crannies, and the valleys and openings. By careful eye the rivers were etched into the still hot stone. Then the Forger quenched it in mighty oils and splashed it with His sweat to mark the seas. "
"T'were a continuing work, for His plans called for areas within to be shaped as well as the outside had been. They called for detail and touches best left to smaller tools, rather then those meant to pound the larger, rougher shapes." Belandor's eyes glazed a bit, as if in reverence. "The Maker's hand steadied as he took rock from His deepest cuts, rock that had barely given to His forging, and He fashioned the tools needed to complete the work. He formed the stout-folk as this tool from the pure rock of Therron, and set them to complete His plan."
"Folks what did the work, and did it well. Many found great sport in seein' who could get the most, or the best, done. They planted, herded and hunted, and fed the furnaces of their bellies to keep the working furnaces lit. Great was their work, and the Mithril Age was a pleasure to the Forger and stout-folk alike." Belandor stated, as all in the stone hall listened.
Belandor's face grew a bit strained, as if he did not want to continue. When he did his voice took on a low, yet somehow almost harsh, tone, "There was a few, as it goes, that must of been chipped from softer stone. After a time they did not ken to do the work, but instead ate what all they could, and got so round of belly they could barely wield a pick. Since they dun work, they did not have. Since they did not have their own they took from others what were not rightfully theirs, or tried, as folks were not want to have their own taken so easily."
Many fidgeted at this, as none of those gathered could see their own life without works. It was the height of insult to be termed "lazy" or a "thief" by these people, his people. Those not of the stout-folk often referred to his people as "dwarves", but this was only because several of the lesser races were taller, not because his people were short on ability or strength.
Bron understood this, but still he felt a tinge of anger every time he heard one of his people called "dwarf" by some passing human merchant. He was thinking of this when a quick, short pain in his arm was followed by subdued laughter from those around him.
"You still with us, aye Bron?" Belandor asked him, looking not all that pleased with his daydreaming. Belandor looked at him one more time, walked back to the front of the altar, and then continued.
"The ones of being lazy got to a point that they ate all they could find, and not being able to steal from the goodly stout-folk, they went up in the hills, and denied the work of the Forger." A lass near the rear of the hall gasped, and made the sign of the hammer. Belandor kept on with the tale, his voice even lower then before as if he did not care to speak what he was about to say. "They called out for food to the night, and the night answered. For they were not the only ones to covet the creation that the Forger had labored upon, there were the Others."
"By dark magicks, these Others made the lazy-folk taller and thick in muscle as they were in their heads. There be where the giant-folk came from."
Several murmurs from those gathered drew a nod and a deep grunt from Belandor. His thick brow then furrowed and his eyes squinted. The stark visage of their priest looking angry quickly causing a silence among the gathered youth as he looked at each one.
"The giant-folk then set out to ruin the work of the Forger and the stout-folk, and to do the works of the Others to steal Therron from them both." Belandor almost spit the last words, as if impossible. he then continued, "This began the first Giant War, which near to ended the stout-folk."
"That be where this story be startin', with Bron, father of Bron, son of Bron." Belandor said, enjoying Bron's sudden interest and the look of shock upon his face.
"Ye dun be the first to carry the name, ye know now, aye?" Belandor chuckled as he ruffled Bron's hair.
A few muttered whispers passed between the other young in attendance, and Bron could feel his face growing a red blush, blooming beneath the light peach-fuzz upon his face. Bron leaned forward crossing his arms, his daydreaming firmly put away as Belandor began the tale.
Belandor began a tale of their deep past, and they all grew silent and attentive to the story.
Chapter 1 - All in a Day's Work
"Damn!", Bron said, dropping his mining pick and grabbing his thumb.
Morin laughed at his friend's misfortune, and shook his head as he watched Bron lean side to side in pain. Bron's lips were pursed so hard they pushed from between his thick red mustache and his bushy beard. "If Bron's eyes were squinted shut any tighter," Morin thought to himself, "they might just fuse together like white-hot fired ingots."
Morin took the moment to rest his pick on the ground, lean upon it, and have a drink from his leather water skin. Mining was thirsty work, but good work for the strong of arm. His family had been miners as far back as their ancestor stone's went, and that was quite far. Not may clans of Andleh Dur, his home city, could boast working the veins of ore for the priests near as long.
"Very funny!" Bron smirked at his friend, then grunted out with a half-smile, "If'n I smash both me hands who be carryin' the ale to you when ye not able to stand tonight?"
"I think we done enough for a day.", Morin said as he looked over their work. "And we no want ye to need a halflin' to hold your ale for ya."
Bron snorted at the thought. His eyes had opened, but he kept rubbing at his thumb a few seconds longer.
"That be the day. Me beard hold more ale then a halflin'!" Bron said before a deep chuckle escaped them both.
Bron was good stout-folk, thought Morin as he stowed his water skin, and patted him on the back with a thick, calloused hand. Morin chuckled back, "Be lass enough for the carryin' when both of us can nae walk this night."
Their last lantern had begun to dim, and Bron licked his thumb one final time and drew a flask of oil from a dirt-caked sack lying upon the ground. As he refilled the pot on the lantern Morin looked around. They had done well for the day. An iron-ore vein had ran through their temple-backed claim, and between the two of them they had nearly filled two carts this day.
Morin placed his pick in one cart and quickly gathered up their assorted tools. The shovel would need a new handle, though he was loathe to visit Finicker, the gnome tinker at the smith shop. Finicker had a way of looking at Morin that made his neck hair bristle. He couldn't quite put his finger to it, but it just didn't sit right with...
"There we be!" belted out Bron, holding up the lantern with a wide smile as he put his pick in the second cart with his wounded hand. "Full and lit, like we be this night at the pub! I swears we got enough ore here to keep us for a week." His grin almost faltered as he paused, then he nodded toward Morin with a bit more serious of a tone, "Not that we be stoppin' for a week or nothin', just speakin' it."
Morin nodded back, his own grin growing at the words of his friend, and they began to push their carts toward the mine's opening. There was more to do before the day ended, and their muscles had much ground to conquer before a night of revelry could come.
*
It was hard work raising her child alone. Freia wished that Jum would return, but Dalak be praised (or not!) she knew Jum was a halfling with a gambling mind. Nothing drew him more the a good game of dice, unless it was a game of cards.
"Jia, stay close." Freia said to her daughter, not wanting her wandering into the grove of trees between the hills. She had not seen any beasts about, but a wandering wolf pack, or even a large owl, might easily mistake her child for a snack. She shuddered at the thought and made the sign of flipping a coin, calling for Dalak's luck to bless both of them.
There was much to do if she were to forage enough for both of them to eat this night, and the light of day had begun to fade. Already the shadows had grown quite long and all she had were a few wild carrots, a couple onions and some small potatoes.
Jia toddled near, and asked in her little high-pitched voice, "Ma, dink o' water?" Her head tilted to the side as she asked, and even in the fading light there was a twinkle in her deep-brown eyes.
Freia uncorked her flask and handed it to Jia, smiling. She drew her hand through the brown locks of Jia's hair, fluffing them a bit where the sweat of the day had drawn them down. Her smile faltered only after Jia handed back the flask and wandered back to a smile pile of rocks she had been arranging in little circles.
Their farm had fallen upon hard times, as a drought had dried up the stream they used to irrigate their small plot. Freia was proud, and would not beg in the streets of the village like some of her neighbors had done, nor would she turn to other less savory methods to gain a living. She was strong of body and will, and though skilled in the arts of "finding" things from others in the streets she did not wish to travel down that path of her misguided youth.
But if things kept up...
A shadow fell across the ground not far from where Jia was playing. At first Freia thought it a branch stirred by the breeze that had moved in front of the descending sun, but suddenly she was running toward her child. Something was not right, and the birds had grown silent.
Her mother's sense proved her correct as she spied the grotesque head of a hill giant leaning from behind a tree in the nearby grove. She dropped her small bundle of gathered food and reached to her belt, drawing a small dagger from it.
The beast spotted her and stepped fully from behind the tree it had used as cover, a wooden log held as a club in its hand. Torn shreds of hide hung loosely around its waist, barely covering the mottled skin beneath. It bellowed a challenge at Freia and began to walk toward where young Jia sat playing.
Frantic with fear for her child, Freia bounded as fast as her short legs would carry her and rolled the last couple yards, grabbing at Jia's dress as she passed near. The club hit mere inches from where the child was, and Jia's scream gave Freia the encouragement to find her feet and begin to bolt away. drawing Jia close to her, as glad of the strength of the hemp cloth dress as she had been embarrassed to have her child wear it before. She dared not glance back at the enormous creature as she headed towards the fields south of their location.
A rock, twice the size as she, crashed a few yards from Freia. Broken shards of stone flew through the air from the impact, and one hit her in the left arm. The pain seethed through her whole being, but her instincts and urge to save her child did not let the intense pain deter her pace.
Another boulder, smaller then the first, landed a bit further on, causing Freia to slightly slow her pace and to swerve to avoid tripping over it. A guttural bellow rang out from behind her, and she could hear the pounding steps of the giant in pursuit. Turning her head, she gasped, as it was clear he would outrun her, and that flight alone was not the answer.
She took the moment to glance at Jia in her arms, and ice flowed over her heart. A gash lay upon the toddler's head, and was not bleeding. The wound was ragged, and likely from the same attack that had wounded her arm.
Freia ducked behind a sweetberry bush, and gently laid Jia down. Tears had streamed to gather with her sweat, but the tears were not just of sadness for her child, but also of rage. One tear fell upon Jia's pale face, forming a circle in the dirt and dust gathered upon her youthful skin. Freia again drew her dagger, but this time she headed towards her onrushing foe.
Yelling at the top of her lungs she ran at an angle from the sweetberries. The noise caused the giant to pause in his advance, and he turned his head and squinted at the small form of Freia, now less then 20 yards away. Freia dove behind a small tree, then began darting from bush to bush, using her slight height to mask her location. She steadily moved away from where her child was hidden, and until she was nearer the foul beast.
As she drew near she could see his misshapen visage clearer. Thick scar tissue covered much of his face, and his right eye had a milky-white glaze covering it. His left leg was bent at an odd angle, and though he stood she could see why he had not caught her initial retreat. He leaned his club upon the ground, and scratched his mange-ridden scalp with the thick sausage-like stubs of his other hand.
She began to trail the now confused beast, keeping to his right side as she drew closer, and hoping that his eye on that side was as useless as she assumed. He was slowly turning, and raised his head as his filthy nostrils sniffed at the air. His head jerked to the side suddenly, as he caught scent, and he growled, lifted his club, and headed toward where Jia was concealed.
Freia lunged from behind the remnants of the second boulder that had earlier been thrown by the giant, her dagger held in both hands. She flung herself as high as her legs could propel her and plunged her blade in his back, just above his tattered hide loincloth. Intense pain gripped Freia's left arm, and she had to let go of the dagger as she fell toward the ground.
"Brrrrrrrraaaaaaaahhhhg!" bellowed the beast, as it clumsily reached around to find the source of its wound. The sound was so loud that it echoed twice across the canyon. Before the second echo Freia winced and rolled to her right, trying to regain her feet.
The beast spun about and spotted her. He leaned back as he raised the massive club above his head, a grimace of pain and hatred upon his hideous face. He brought the club down more swiftly then it seemed possible for him to move. The weapon crushed Freia's skull, mid-roll, and he easily gathered her small, limp body in one of the hide sacks roped to his loincloth, and then painfully headed for the other smell of food he had scented.
*
Bron had finally gotten his cart stored in the small shed outside of his and Morin's mine. His thumb ached from the pounding it had taken from the hard rock of the walls that day. Pain, both that from hard work, and the more unintentional, were no stranger to Bron.
He had always tried hard to not stumble over items, bash himself with a tool or spill his ale (especially the last!), but sometimes he felt that the rest of his body just would not listen to his noggin. He didn't usually cause any harm to anyone but himself, but that did not make his clumsiness any the easier.
Often, the less kind of his kinfolk found his bumbling ways amusing, even when he had barely lived through incidents. Like the time of his falling from the ledge above their clan hall, certainly no occasion for chuckling, at least to him.
He had been asked to carry a barrel of mead to a gathering along the greeting-ledge of the Axegrinder Clan's hall. All had gone well. He had not lost the coin. He had not forgotten to tip the alemaster. He did not even get sidetracked by a game of bones in the alley.
He made it all the way back to the ledge, to much gratitude and festive cheering from his kin, when his foot found a leftover piece of goat meat lying near the ledge. He teetered, his eyes growing as big as stein-holes, and was able to drop the barrel without breaking it.
Just as he was about to congratulate himself on the not falling and making a fool of himself, over the ledge he went. His kin rushed to the embankment below, and carried him, laughing as they went, all the way back to the clan hall. It took two weeks before he could even walk again, and the snickers, and calls to "Watch your step, Bron!" had taken years to die to a roar, though they had not abated entirely.
"Gonna be starin' at that wall all the night?" asked Morin, grunting.
Morin dusted his hands off and finished stowing their larger tools along the hooks on the wall.
"Nae, I were just wonderin' why a fella likes me ken cut a square shaft wit' the best of 'em, yet ken smash me thumb on a final swing..." Bron muttered, looking down at his work boots.
Morin began to chuckle, then stopped, seeing his friend's seriousness. "Ye be a fine a worker as any, and not everyone ken be as perfect as me." joked Morin, poking his thumbs through the suspenders of his overalls and puffing out his chest while he rolled his eyes around in their sockets. Bron's mood broke and he found himself smiling at Morin. He could always break him from his dour moods.
Bron stated, "We bess be headin' home. The shadows be getting longer, and I dun wanna be to..."
A loud "Brrrrrrrraaaaaaaahhhhg!" sounded from the south. It's guttoral rage and pain stopping Bron's words short. The two friends turned to look at each other, their eyes wide as they recognized the tone.
"Giants!" both said at once. They grabbed their pickaxes and stepped closer together.
"That thumb be good enough fer swingin'?" Morin asked, raising his own pick for emphasis. He did not want to tangle with a beast the size of the one that made that noise alone, and did not want to risk his friend's life, especially if Bron was not up to the task.
"Aye." responded Bron, nodding. "And from the sound I figures may not be that hard to bring the beast to bay. Sounded hurt, he did." Bron did his best to sound confident. His kin had battled giants before, though he himself never had. "We can drive him outta the valley, or makes him wish he na'er came, least."
Morin grunted his agreement, but grasped his axe a little tighter none the less. A giant was a giant, and nothing to trifle with. He was wondering if they should hurry back toward home and gather some more kin when Bron stepped out the door and headed down the rocky trail toward the valley.
*
Bron and Morin reached the base of the hills, and entered a small grove of trees. Signs of crushed plants lie among the footprints. Some of the tracks were as large as three of Bron's feet, and it brought caution to his step. He held one hand back behind him with its fingers splayed, signaling Morin to follow close, but slow.
Bron could feel the air around him, as if it were a lead weight. His heart was pounding in his chest, and sweat beaded upon his thick brow. He carefully stepped to a large tree near the edge of where a field met the grove, and noticed that ground at his feet was heavily trampled.
"He stopped here a bit," Bron whispered toward the close form of Morin, "ye can see he were watchin' some from here."
Morin nodded, and whispered back, "Be a big one by the looks o' the tracks, aye. But I just see the one. Luck be with us if it be the case."
Bron grunted his agreement.
*
"All duh day, en all gets is two wee piggies. Grukk need more." thought Grukk to himself.
The one piggie had stuck him with a little sticker, and he had smooshed it good. The pain in his back was fierce, but hardly the worst he had undergone. He couldn't really remember what felt even worse, but he never was one for remembering things. There was pain, and there was food. And right now food mattered more.
He sniffed the air again. He could smell the food, it was close. He had seen the food before the one piggie had grabbed it ran off with it. He had showed that piggie for taking his food.
He licked his club, and smiled, a twisted version of a contorted-grotesque smile, but the only smile of which his malformed head was capable. The taste of blood and gore upon the club was still fresh, and though it would not fill his belly long he was looking forward to the meat of the piggie in his sack.
He squinted his eyes, not helping much with his searching in the failing light, and began to kick at the small bushes growing on the ground.
"Maaaaaaa......" came a high-pitched cry from a bush far to his right. He had looked for the food and could not find it, but now the littler piggie had called him instead.
*
Keeping to the bushes as they moved toward the hill giant, they were making good time. Morin tapped Bron suddenly, and pointed toward the east. A puddle of red mixed with gray bits lay near a small boulder. Bron winced.
Bron felt for his courage, but instead a manual-like calm, filled with step-by-step strategy formed from his studies with the clan masters as a youth, was what he found. Bron admired the fierce look in Morin's eyes. Morin did not even seem put off by the signs of death he had pointed out. Morin was good stout-folk, for sure.
"Maaaaaaa......" came an almost soundless, high-pitched cry from the bushes ahead, and the beast swung its gaze in that direction.
"Bortik's beard!" Bron exclaimed, "There be a baby o'er there!"
With this realization Bron found his courage and he charged the giant with a mighty, deep-throated cry, his pickaxe held high over his head in both hands. The beast didn't seem to see him at first, but stopped short of its bush kicking and slowly turned toward him, and its eyes grew wide with both surprise and fear. Bron pulled his squat mass beneath him, bending his legs and jumping with all his might. To late the giant tried to sweep its log-like club at Bron, who was already airborne in a leaping roll.
Bron buried his axe shaft deep in the chest of the giant. It roared a bellow of rage and pain as it swung from side to side attempting to dislodge him. Thick blood poured from the wound. Bron held on to his axe with both hands, placed both of his feet against the giant's abdomen and pushed with all his might.
Bron tucked himself into a ball, so that he could hit the ground rolling, but instead he hit with a **THUD** and rolled nowhere. The air rushed from his lungs. Brilliant lights danced before his eyes.
The giant's eyes opened wide and it gritted its rotted teeth as it drew back its massive club. The fresh red smear on the wooden weapon told all that was needed about where the earlier puddle had originated.
Bron tried to catch his breath. He dropped his axe and used his left arm to push his weight off the ground, hoping to avoid the oncoming blow by rolling away.
The club whooshed down to smash just next to him. Striking where he had been a mere fraction of a second before, and it struck his now dropped axe mid-shaft. Splinters flew from the club, and the head of his axe went twirling away to land in the bushes.
Bron regained his feet, not quite sure what to do, but knowing if he did nothing he might soon be just another bloody puddle on the ground. The giant stumbled forward, blood still pumping from the wound Bron had given it.
"Aleee-Aleee!" came a cry that Bron knew.
Morin struck low from behind the giant, droving the spiked head of his axe into the giant's ankle. The giant swung around, all to fast. It swiped at Morin off-balance and smacked Morin in the belly with the short of its club and dropped the massive timber.
Morin bounced away, coming to rest on his stomach. The giant jumped for him, now weaponless himself, and with Morin's pickaxe still jutting from his ankle. He landed on top of Morin and swung for his head with its meaty fists.
Bron reacted, and jumped on the back of the giant. An object poked Bron in the ribs as he landed on the giant's back. The giant howled, and paused in its attacking. Bron stood up on the back of the beast and saw the handle of a dagger sticking from between layers of flab upon the giant's back.
He jumped into the air and firmly placed all of his weight on the boot that landed on the hilt of the dagger, and the blade sank deep into the monster's flesh. The giant's back arched, tossing Bron to the side. One fat arm attempted to reach behind its back, sausage-shaped fingers twitching, and then the arm and the giant slumped still in death.
Bron jumped to his feet, and screamed, "Morin!" at spot between the body of the giant and the ground.
"You gonna stand there screaming my name all day, or ye gonna get this blasted thing off of me?" came a muffled, and weak reply. Relief flushed over Bron as he pushed to roll the body of the beast off of his friend.
Morin stood slowly, and winced at the pain on his chest. He dusted himself off and whistled as he looked at the body of the giant. Morin walked around the body shaking his head.
"Maaaaaa......" came a small cry, followed by sobbing. Bron squinted his eyes at the base of a sweetberry bush, and saw the form of a small toddler.
'Bortik be praised. He still be alive." Bron said as he walked toward the bush, intending to gather her up.
"More then ken be said for the Mother." Morin stated sadly, as he looked into a ragged hide sack lying next to the giant. He muttered, "I guess we know where that puddle be from now, eh?"
Bron sighed. Life was no place for a child without a mother.
Bron picked Jia up, her eyes barely opened. The gash and knot on her head looked bad, and it would be best if they got her to help quickly, he reckoned.
"Ye be alright..." Bron softly told the barely conscious child. "Shhhh.." Ye be fine now. Dun ye cry. Jess sleep a wee bit."
He was not so sure she would be, but if not why not make her last moments ones with a kind word? He rocked the child in his arms, in an attempt to comfort her.
"You be able to walk?" Bron quietly asked Morin.
"Aye, I be fine.". Morin responded, pulling his pickaxe from the now-dead giant's ankle.
And the last rays of the sun shown red across the top of the blue-gray mountain range, they flashed briefly as they spread and then disappeared beneath the glowing purple of a stray cloud. Another day had ended.
Chapter 2 - Of Death, Lies and Seduction
She could feel the knife slip gently between his back ribs. The soft touch of the blade as it caressed his heart brought a sense of closure to the passion of the moment. She whispered softly in his ear "I would never lie to you."
His eyes opened wide, and his breath faltered as he slumped against the silk of the pillow casings. His back arched once more, but only for one brief moment, before all movement left him.
She withdrew the blade and gently twirled it, tip up, in the candlelight before dexterously slipping it back into her garter-sheathe. Slowly, she turned and stood from the bed, leaving the body of her now deceased lover to lie in a small pool of his own blood. There was much to do, and little time to do it. The council would not react well once he was missed.
A small trickle of blood left the stowed blade and made its way down her inner thigh. A sudden shock of revulsion mixed with a touch of pleasure rippled from her stomach to her arms. There was joy in killing, if for the right cause. This was definitely one of them.
Tandra had long been a follower of Selaina, and her heart grew blacker with every offering to her chosen Mistress. The priestesses of the Serpent Queen grew in power with the slip of every blade. Called to serve the Mistress of Lies, not all were ready. None were always ready, save Tandra, at least in her view.
From an early age she knew that most ways to power were paved not with the stones of truth, but with words of want. She had wanted, often. When sold to a slaver at the tender age of only 10 she lost the belief in the truth of family, friends, community or heroes. There were no heroes to save the young lass from the mercantile fate chosen by her family. It was accepted that families could do as they wished with their offspring.
By the time she was 14 she knew more of the streets then many could learn in a lifetime. She could turn a gentleman's eye with a smile, and make him forget that he had children older than she. She could bump into a lady and walk away with jewelery, baubles and their coin purse before they even realized their sudden loss. She could swindle a guard from his honor, password or key with a wink and a word, and a promise of what tenderness might come later.
She had heard the call. Selaina had spoken to her mind. Her Mistress had work, and had promised her power beyond belief. All she had to do were correct a few obviously bad employment choices that had been made by the council. She had no love for the council. They were all pure Drow, and she was part human. This meant that they also had no love for her.
The overseer that she had just released had been nothing more than a pawn. She could not see why she was called to send his soul as an offering, but such matters as to the whys did not much concern her. She had done her work and she had done it well, she thought. He was dead, and perhaps he would be missed quickly by the above-grounders, and possibly even by the giantmen workers that he drove to their deaths on the projects he had been assigned, though she extremely doubted the last.
Almost mindlessly she rummaged through a cabinet sitting beside his bedroom archway. Not expecting to find much, she did gather an old leather sack with a few mithril pieces and an iron medallion. The medallion did not seem very remarkable, but something about the symbol upon it drew her eye. A bloodstone teardrop had been affixed to a small circular disk of onyx in the otherwise drab iron. She had seen this before, she was sure of it. But where?
No time for that now. She still had to make her way back to her quarters on the southern side of town without being seen by any guards, or by any "concerned" citizens. Glancing at the medallion again, she knew she would need to ask her sources of its nature and origin, and that it would be best to do so before trying to find a buyer.
Pulling her cloak tightly around her, she raised its hood to conceal her features, and tried to take on the airs of one not concerned. She then slipped the sack and the medallion into an inner pocket of her cotton shift, and silently slipped out the front door into the streets of Kalephi.
*
Incense swirled around the darkened chamber, providing wisp like tendrils that appeared to dance and spiral around the room, at least where the light of the few candles could penetrate. The atmosphere was oppressive, with a thick coppery smell mingling among the leftover odors of incense long past, and with the almost stifling heat from an unseen source.
Several figures stood in uneasy silence in a semicircle around an altar made of bone. Upon its surface lay a limbless and headless corpse wrapped in a spiked leather cord. The hooded figure nearest the center of the gathering stepped forward, producing a triangular-shaped blade from within its robe, and stated, "All pain is in service to truth.". It then plunged the blade into the torso, slicing it so that the deceased body's intestines spilled upon the off-white surface of the altar.
The others leaned forward in hushed anticipation, the cloth of their robes rustling slightly with their movement. Nothing happened at first, but then the entrails began to shift and expand. A tear appeared along the edge-wall of the putrid tube, and it split suddenly with a sickening sound, releasing a small puff of pale-white smoke and a multitude of translucent maggots.
The figure closest to the altar stepped back a bit to late, his hood falling from his head as he flailed to keep his balance.
Terror filled the eyes of the male Drow as his mouth and nostrils filled with the pallid gas. He dropped the slim blade, and it clattered across the floor, echoing a dirge of notes until it came to rest upon the stone floor. His hands rushed to his throat, uselessly attempting to hold back the vile atmospheric intrusion.
He fell first to his knees, and then tumbled upon his back with a soft thud. Bumps formed all along his exposed skin, and burst releasing a yellow-green pus upon his now pale hide.
He moaned in exquisite agony as he thrashed upon the marble floor. His eyes darkened, appeared to expand somewhat and then shriveled with a sucking sound back into his skull. His movements then ceased, though the breaking "pops" of several swellings upon his skin still occasionally sounded across the otherwise silent and darkened chamber.
The remaining figures turned their attention from their now dead compatriot and back to the movement on the altar. The squirming mass of translucent maggots had begun to form into small groups. Their bodies shifted and wiggled, intermingling and separating, then finally began to form into cohesive patterns. As each found its place it shivered and died, its membrane liquefying, expelling its inner goo upon the flat bone surface.
A hushed mutter passed between those that had gathered, and though each could not see the expressions of those around them, they each knew that the other's expressions likely mirrored their own. The symbols formed by the drying slime upon the altar where clear.
She would ruin it all, that slithering bitch of a goddess. Plans that had been worked on for centuries in His name might now come to naught because of her incessant meddling. What should they do?
"Sssseeeeeeeeek....", rasped the now dead form from the marble floor. A startled gasp came from one of their number as their now dead compatriot continued. "Sssseeek the deep affliction. Ffffind the Mmmorlock. Loose the mmmalady."
At this the corpse again fell still, and each figure fell to their knees. Drawing their scourges from their robes they all beat themselves to the point of unconsciousness, each knowing that their lord, Lorti, had chosen to speak to them.
*
There was nothing that could be done about the food situation. The requests had been put in, but the supplies had yet to come. Why the Council could not see urgency in this situation was beyond his pay grade, and Vice Overseer Taun knew better than to question their judgment.
Several of the giant workers had fallen dead during the last month's construction, both from malnutrition and from the dangers inherent in the project. They were restless. If things continued along their current path they would soon revolt. Luckily, the main Overseer seemed to have some sort of control over these foul beasts.
Without this control the giant's instincts would have surely driven them to a killing frenzy by now. Their will had to remain strongly broken, and their loyalty to a leader (even one not of their own race) had to constantly be fiercely maintained. Several of the beasts had wandered off recently. And as to what to attribute this to Taun had several ideas, and none of them bode well for what little he knew of the project's goals.
Two human slaves strained to push a cart out through the archway in the hill. Taun drew back his right arm as they drew near and cracked his whip directly over their heads. They cringed in fear, but kept pushing their load for the pens.
" Finally!" Thought Taun, " Food for these slavering beasts, and about time."
The slaves shrunk from him as he drew near, and their fear fed his sense of superiority. Taun smirked as he peered into the cart, fighting back a sense of revulsion and his disappointment over the meager offerings within its bed. From the looks of it only between 10 and 15 bodies, lying in various states of decomposition, were all they had sent him. This would not be enough!
Where was the Overseer?
Scenting the food the beasts in their cages became restless. Taun grew angry. He drew back his whip again, meaning to take out his frustrations upon the now cowering human slaves. One lifted his arm as he turned his head and cringed, fully expecting Taun's wrath. The slave's fear of the Vice Overseer shrouded the fact that he had backed just a little too close to the cage.
Taun winced at the sound of the slave's arm being ripped from its socket, a wet sucking sound like a boot being forcefully pulled from thick mud. The giants dragged the still screaming, but now one-armed, slave through the gate of the pen and amid their fighting and the noise of their eating his screams stopped.
"At least they should be healthy enough to work.", scoffed Taun. "Get to feeding them!", he yelled at the still alive human slave. He struck him quickly twice for good measure, but not to hard to damage him.
Who knew how long before Taun could requisition another slave from the council? Taking care not to hurt him to badly, Taun's whip lashed the still living slave again as he forced him to pitchfork the rest of the giants' food into the pen.
This day was not going well. Hopefully the half Drow whore he had met near the Mithril Gate earlier could ease some of his tension later. Perhaps he should bring his whip, just to make sure.