BECMI Chapter 369 – More Immortal Entertainment on the Way
This is a farce, I decided to myself, sighing as I looked east, and the foul clouds that spattered the horizon like breaths of poison sitting there in warning.
King Taravon had chosen once again to display his very lackluster ambition and provincial thinking.
He had Resurrected the Baron of Twinlakes Vale and actually reinstated the idiot, with little more than an admonishment and warning to return his liege’s benevolence properly, and not let such a thing happen to him again.
Loyalty and maintaining the appearance of his oaths of fealty was more important to him than competent and open-minded underlings. He wasn’t a bad man, but he was determined to keep an iron grip on the kingdom his great-grandmother had founded, especially after freeing it from Siricil’s domination on his own.
Basically being forced to join the Eismark Federation clearly rankled him, and he knew he wasn’t one of the primary movers of the alliance, despite being a king of a major city within it. He didn’t have the skill, competency, or mindset to sit on the true Council of Regents, the one that conferred as much in Markspace as in person, and as a result he often felt blindsided and frozen out during Council sessions.
Thus his utter lack of support for Eismark scouts and stations in the lands of his nobility, citing that it would be interfering in the internal business of his own realm, something we were generally pretty good about not doing.
After the crap at Twinlakes, it was pretty imperative we needed a Marked agent in every single fiefdom that we could, just to make sure that kind of shit didn’t happen again. It was no secret at all that Eismark adventurers had been the ones to resolve both the Saber River and the Twinlakes incidents, and Taravon had been of little to no help at Twinlakes.
The net result was emigration was starting to hit Taravon’s lands, something that embarrassed him deeply. Instead of Eiscall being a beacon of tolerance and freedom in a land dominated by barbarians and warring empires, it was more of a hick cousin to the magical lands rising all around it, their proven strength and new magicks clearly something Eiscall lacked and envied deeply.
Instead of the natives and Southerners coming to Eiscall for a better life, they were leaving it for one!
Although it had been in private, Briggs had been coldly unforgiving of Taravon’s attitude and grip on his ancestral lands. Yes, his ancestors had raised the former Seacall into a fine and splendid little private kingdom, with no accomplishments in the wider world to speak of other than making itself a juicy target for conquest by Siricil during the intervening years.
Without the Eismark Federation’s protection, it was entirely likely the city would fall again. After all, Emperor Magni originally came from Seacall, and was quite annoyed that the city of his birth had chosen to quit the Empire. Reclaiming it would not be difficult if he desired it.
But now, Magni had to worry about Sama and Briggs and their unknown allies who had basically taken over all of southern Eislas in one fell swoop… and without any help from a likewise confused Delpha, who wondered where these aggressive people had come from, and how they fought off dragons so easily.
Now, this dumb shit with the poison winds was prodding Taravon into action, incensed that his lands were being targeted once again and spurring him to do something about it to regain some lost standing and reputation. So, his fragile ego had prompted him to commission a war fleet and send it sailing towards the source of the foul clouds, thence to deal with it properly and return in glory.
I’d been advised to help them.
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An unmapped location in the Iceteeth Mountains, far from civilization…
The magical defenses of this place were pretty impressive, but they didn’t matter all that much. The roads here were obstructed by mists that challenged directions, moved those upon them out of the way, and sent the foolish into dangers if they persisted on disturbing without invitation those who had set them here.
Unfortunately for them, they weren’t strong enough to keep me out if I wanted to push, and more importantly, I knew where they were.
The place was cold, above the treeline, windy, and isolated. The carvings on the walls of the valley had been worn down by thousands of years of winds. The graceful arches and pillars of Qolinthian-style marble were tumbled and broken, the gardens and sculptures shattered and swept away, the fine tiles broken, shattered, and overrun with debris, dirt, dust, and plant life scrabbling to maintain a hold on the rest of them, completely covering the grand murals on the floor, as those on the walls were cracked and broken, colors faded, barely hinted at.
The grand gates in front of us had been replaced, stout wooden doors fitting a frame that had sunken and cracked, and the former stone was long gone, only shadows of ancient grandeur left behind.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
The doors to the mountain temple were closed, clearly not expecting me to be coming, which was only right. I could only imagine their faces if an annoyed Briggs had come traipsing up in full armor and kicked open their doors in his irritation at their cryptic sendings and the messages they liked to send out to the nobles and royalty of the lands of Eislas.
They were probably annoyed they couldn’t dream-send to most of the Eismark nobles, King Taravon being a paranoid exception since he didn’t want to accept our aid in keeping his person and thoughts free, fearing we were going to take him over and rule him as a puppet.
Taravon wasn’t even being badly advised. He was just clinging to his kingdom so hard other viewpoints were hard for him to even understand, fearing he was going to be deposed and lose the support of his citizens after being overshadowed and left behind by the advances of the rest of the Eismark.
Now the Crones of Kraggul were fanning the flames with their cryptic warnings of the powers behind these clouds, prompting Taravon to start assembling a fleet to deal with the source of them.
The Source of them was a bloody Entropic Immortal and his pet kingdom of fanatics let by an Overmage and Overpriestess. They were going to stomp on that fleet of Taravon’s without effort, slaughter them all, and there was nothing Taravon could do about it.
We had assets we were moving into position, but Taravon was determined to prove his kingdom could defend itself, not understanding nor caring about how outmatched they were.
Idiot Crones.
I reached out and Knocked at V. The heavy, spell-sealed doors, designed to resist giants pulling at them, unlocked their magic and pulled themselves open. With a gust of cold wind scattering snows and mists ahead of me, I glided inside, Duum on my shoulder, Dread in my hand, and cold arrogance on my face.
The place was lit with brazier-Flames of magic, and oddly warm despite the lack of proper heating and ventilation, clearly using Wards and such spells to maintain a livable environment. The three old women on their chairs at the far end of the main hall I stepped into all rose quickly to their feet when they saw me enter, the bright red of my dress probably hurting their eyes with such a bright color in this drab place.
They were Crones, all of them, just a step down from Hags. Basically eternal, Fey spirits in the form of caricatures of old women, but still strong, still sharp, and unweakened by time and age the way normal humans would be, even with inflated noses and scraggly teeth and warts and bad hair and raggedy robes and whatnot. What power trapped the three priestesses they were inside Crone forms was not mine to know, but Dread could definitely feel the traces of old Immortal power here… but none that he recognized.
That was important, because I’d been taking Stalker’s advice and visiting places with traces of Immortal Power from Immortals she’d verified, all so that I and Dread could also identify them. Even if it was only one such place a day, in a few months I’d built up quite a repertoire… and this place wasn’t showing any of those.
Maybe it was from so long ago they didn’t matter.
“The Lady Edge,” greeted the middle Crone, the one with the longest hair, her words dripping cheerful sarcasm. “To what do we owe the pleasure of the mighty elven wizardess conquering all of the north with her edifices of spell-wrought stone?” she asked me, even as she gripped her Staff more tightly.
I didn’t miss the fact they were all wearing rather finely-made, if artfully unkempt, plate Armor under their robes, and the Maces they all carried and had their strong but gnarled hands upon were quite magical, as were the Shields waiting to be snatched up.
Crones and priestesses, not fools.
“I would know who now commands the Oracles at Oliosticarum, elder,” I replied with my normal icy calm.
Their eyes went wide as I stared at them, whatever gleeful retort ready to spill out of them caught and throttled.
“Agnescia. Maebala. Viksenshe,” I went on, looking at each of them in turn, and they stared at me, all tight-lipped and stunned that I knew their original names. “The Immortals of dead Iberon clearly do not use you anymore. I would know who is bidding you to speak for them so irresponsibly now. You were clearly wiser and more restrained back then… or your leashes merely held tighter.”
Cautiously, glancing at me frequently, they shuffled closer together, and began to murmur in a language that had fallen into dust four thousand years ago, and was old even then.
“I do understand Taevol,” I stated coolly, making them all stiffen. “Please, the impertinent tart is waiting patiently.”
They didn’t look embarrassed, more surprised and offended. “Ho, this little one knows a few small things, and thinks to call us out on them!” Agnescia, once the Oracle of Inner Law, snickered at me, her old eyes suddenly bright and youthful. “Questions you give us, that you have not earned the right to ask!” she pointed at me, wagging a hooked finger. Her nose was the largest of the bunch, with a prominent wart upon it.
“On the contrary, slave to Axiom,” I responded crisply. “I am Beyond Law and Chaos, and the yokes upon your tongues do not apply to me. I need earn nothing!”
All three of them stiffened in disbelief as they stared at me. “That is impossible!” the former Viksenshe, Oracle of the Outer Chaos long ago, blurted out at me, her long white hair almost thrashing with a life of its own. “Law and Chaos define all things!”
“They are but two players of a greater game, and one need not be bound to either if they but know the way and have the will,” I uttered back to them without blinking. “Test me, Change-yoked. Tell me something you should not be able to mutter to a mortal. Something minor you cannot reveal, not because of its importance, but simply because you can’t reveal it.”
“The favorite color of the Immortal Korradrick is pink!” the last one almost spit out through a remarkably intact set of teeth, and then looked absolutely shocked she had done so.
The other two Oracles looked at Maebala, once the Oracle of the Neutral Circle, in amazement, then back at me.
It was an extremely stupid and minor fact, totally irrelevant, but it was personal knowledge of an Immortal personage. There was no way she should have been able to give voice to it in front of me.
I didn’t smile. I merely lifted my eyebrow as I looked at the other two.
“You are frogs in a well, and you can’t even hop out, constrained as you are. But now, you have seen there is more than a well.
“What do the three of YOU want to tell me, that is not bidden by an uncaring Immortal?”