Chapter 59: I, Lizardman
He was cursed. His soul was bound forever.
Thick smoke wafted through the halls of the one they called the Witch, the Howling, the one who denied them the dusk. It drifted in slow tufts, billowing across the scales of the thing that stood there on two legs, hunched, its long body crooked as it pressed itself up off the ground.
In its clawed hands was an axe. Its scarred tail rested heavy behind its legs, cut in a dozen places, healed in a dozen more.
Other shapes rose around it. Silhouettes in the smoke, rising one by one from the stone floor.
She had called them.
He was a lizardman.
Lizardmen had no significant culture of their own and not much intelligence. They were primitive things, aware of life and aware of their own being, but not as much as a goblin. Lizardmen were cruder. More base. More animal.
They viewed the world the way a crow views the world, stuck forever behind the lens of its own biology, seeing only what the constraints allowed.
He had nothing of his own to live for. Nothing of his own to die for. He existed in her service, and that was all there was, and all there would be. This was their way. It was the pact she and his people had made a long, long time ago.
Eternal life. Paid for with eternal blood.
Beyond the smoke, a screeching rose, a long, drawn-out creaking that filled the air. A rasp. A groan.
It was the sound she made, the Howling, when the day had come again.
Their souls were tied to her for eternity, and the sound was when she pulled the rope tied around their hearts back from the darkness.
At her call, the swarm ran. He ran.
The chamber rumbled. Hundreds of shapes charged out at once, a flood of scales pouring toward the surface.
The swarm burst out into the field of battle.
Humans and elves fought below, scrambling over each other to steal precious things from the witch's halls. The lizardmen charged down over them, a tide of bodies and tails and axes.
He hopped. Wall to wall, springing from ledge to ledge, as dangerous things landed all around him. Sparks of coloured light struck the stone and burst. Lizardmen blew apart beside him, guts and pieces flying past him through the smoke that never stopped.
Running at full sprint, he leapt, axe raised, flying.
The human woman in the red robe turned. Her stick pointed at him, and an arc of electricity gathered at its tip.
It was the last thing he saw.
The spell hit him. He died. His corpse ruptured in midair, and the pieces of it rained down into the smoke.
Thick smoke.
His eyes opened. Slowly, he rose again.
Again.
The call came, the mountain shaking as the Howling stirred them back out of death. His body was whole again. It was always whole again. That was the pact.
The swarm ran. Today, he avoided the walls. He took the floor.
The red woman was there. The witch's home was under attack, intruders had nested in it like parasites, and the Howling wanted them out. The red woman stood unaware, her stick lowered.
He lunged, claws out to grab her.
An orcish man butted in. The warhammer swung and cracked into the lizardman's skull mid-air, and he was sent flying.
He was dead on the spot.
Thick smoke.
His eyes opened. He was cursed. He would be cursed until the bargain of his people was fulfilled. He would never be allowed to die, not truly, until he and his people repaid what they owed the Howling.
She called them.
They charged.
He slunk low, running on all fours, weaving between the legs of the others, dodging as spells blasted past them and killed hundreds in bursts of light. A weapon swung at him from the side and he met it with his axe. The crude blade sheared through the warhammer's wooden pole, and its head went spinning away into the smoke.
The Howling's eyes were upon him.
Glory.
He lunged forward, his hind quarters driving him, his shoulders striking the orc's chest and throwing the big body down. With a second kick, he jumped over it, airborne, flying.
The red woman turned, stick raised, a spell already forming.
His axe flew.
The spell hit the axe and exploded in midair, and the lizardman hurtled through the blast, his black scales smoking, and barreled into the red woman.
His claws locked around her squirming shoulders. His teeth closed around her heaving neck, saliva dripping down onto her skin. His tail coiled around her kicking legs and held them.
Victory.
With this, he would finally -
"Okay. Good job," said a bored voice. "We'll take it from here."
He looked.
The Howling's other slaves. The small things. They came through the smoke and collected the defeated.
He snarled, teeth and claws still latched around his prize, refusing to let go, his gaze fixed on the small green thing that was trying to take what was his.
"Hey! Off!" said the goblin. It pulled a leather whip from its belt and struck him across the snout with it. "Dragon Queen says we're taking prisoners. Ransoms are worth a lot of money."
He unlatched his teeth from her neck, hissing at the thing that was stealing his claim.
The light shifted. Everything went white.
"CHAIN LIGHTNING! DOWN!" yelled a voice.
The goblins hit the floor.
The lizardman saw, out of the corner of his eye, the red woman. Her palm was raised, glowing, held close to the side of his face.
His pupil expanded. It caught the whole of the brightness.
Thick smoke.
His eyes opened. He was cursed.
The Howling came, shaking the world, shaking him, calling him to return forever, until the debt was paid.
He rose and picked up his axe.
The cave shook.
Barjuchne yawned loudly, stretching out, her arms going wide, her jaw cracking, the yawn rolling out of her in a long, resonant groan that rattled the coins on the slopes and sent a tremor through the stone.
"Why do you always yawn so loud?" asked Rou-ya in a tired snarl, annoyed, pulling a pillow over her head and rolling the other way across the quilt she was on, over a heap of coins. "You're going to wake the whole dungeon."
"I have a lot to say," replied Barjuchne with a snap, rolling her neck out with a series of pops. She reached down, pinching the goblin, who swiped her hand away.
She glanced at the saintesses, who had already formed a protective shield around themselves in preparation for the yawn, their holy barrier glowing faintly gold in the morning light. Ead had her entire head buried in her hat.
Barjuchne turned her head toward the corridor beyond the treasure chamber, where the stone was shaking under the mass movement of something large. A swarm of lizardmen ran past in the distance, screaming, a river of scales and tails and axes, heading up toward the surface in their morning charge.
"Look at them," she said, self-satisfied. "Up bright and early." She scratched the side of her head. “...Not like some people around here,” said the dragon, looking down at her princesses, many of whom had begun trying to bury themselves in their blankets to get a few minutes more.
Barjuchne looked between her collection, grabbed the nearest lump, and rolled her over into her blanket into a wrap. Slinging it over her shoulder like a stolen carpet, she went to start the day.
A vague muffled mumbling came from inside.
“Come on. Busy day today,” said Barjuchne. “You know, I like having prisoners. It means I own something I didn’t have before,” she said. “But they’re people so… it’s sort of an ethical thing, you know? Owning them,” she asked.
Mumbling.
Barjuchne nodded. “But it turns out, you can just exchange people for money! Did you know that?” she asked eagerly, hitting her forehead with her other hand with a playful flick.
The dragon girl stopped, thinking for a moment. Her tail swished around idly behind her as her hand lowered to rest on her chin for a moment. “That sounds bad when I say it that way.” She looked at the wrap on her shoulder. “I want to be clear. I’m talking about perfectly ethical ransoming after releasing them from the forced labour programme we have in the prison, not slavery, which is immoral and very different.”
Squirming.
Finally, a sleepy shape protruded out of the rug. The hero, Edelgard, yawning, looked at her.
“No, I think they definitely have slaves in this world. I saw some when we went to the city the other day,” she said, tired. “I wanted to buy one with the gold you gave us, but they didn’t let me. They said my husband had to sign the papers.”
“...Huh,” replied Barjuchne, standing there for a second.
She turned her head.
“Veliah!” barked the dragon.
Veliah, who had been asleep on her quilt, jumped and yelled, startled as she scrambled across the coins. The elf slipped around, barely catching herself, as the coins slid down the massive pile of treasure, nearly taking her with them in an avalanche.
“Write a decree. Everyone is allowed to buy slaves from now on,” said the dragon.
Veliah, her face painted by the mask of sleep, stared at her, only half-awake.
“...What?” she asked, rubbing her eyes, still not fully processing.
Barjuchne went on, walking off. She lifted a finger over her shoulder. “And then write a second decree to make slavery illegal in the nation.”
Veliah stared, still not fully there.
“...What?”
Barjuchne sighed, rolling her eyes.
“Gotta get some lizardmen to handle administration,” she muttered to herself. “At least they’re morning people.”
“Why am I here?” asked Edelgard, looking out of the blanket she was bound in, being carried away.
Barjuchne looked at her. “Because I’m still not confident that you can be left alone unsupervised. Besides, you seem like you’d like prison.”
“I did!” replied Edelgard. "I did better on the inside than ever before."
The dragon narrowed her eyes. “I told you that you weren’t allowed in there.”
“Huh? No, I mean back where I came from,” replied Edelgard happily. “I was serving hard time when I got portaled,” she explained. “One second I was making a shiv out of spit and newspaper, and the next I’m living the dream.” She pondered, her eyes rising. “I bet they’re looking for me.”
“...I’m starting to understand why they stopped summoning people here,” muttered Barjuchne contemplatively. “Wait. Why were you in prison?”
“I dunno, why is anyone imprisoned here?”
“Breaking and entering? Attempted murder? Burglary?" said Barjuchne, compiling only a few standard adventurer crimes.
“I mean yeah, I had those too,” replied Edelgard, unimpressed.
Barjuchne stopped, taking the fabric roll in both of her hands and holding it out in front of herself.
“What are you?” she asked, plainly.
Edelgard tilted her head, confused. “Should I tell you what the preacher said, the psychoanalyst, or the warden?” she replied, entirely earnest, her expression blank.
They stared at each other.
Then, slowly, Barjuchne slumped the hero back over her shoulder and secured the fabric roll a little bit tighter as she quietly kept walking.
It was just too early in the morning for this.