Hells wardens, p.71
Hell's Wardens, page 71
part #14 of The Wandering Inn Series
“…You do not have to cook?”
“Exactly—no. It’s that we can make things better next time. Okay, Bird? Sometimes, things break. But you can make them better. So—so don’t be mad at Ksmvr, alright? It wasn’t his fault. Or anyone’s but the Crelers.”
Bird paused. After a long moment, his head popped back up.
“Oh.”
He looked at Erin. She smiled.
“I know you’re very sad, Bird. So am I. But you should apologize.”
“Yes. I was very angry. But I did the wrong thing. I am sorry I hit you, Ksmvr.”
The Worker turned and gazed at Ksmvr. The [Skirmisher] hesitated, but then he nodded. Yvlon was checking his bandages.
“I accept your apology, Bird. I have made mistakes as well. I should apologize for them too. Properly.”
He looked past Bird at Pawn. At the Antinium, who stared at the once-Prognugator. Erin let out her breath in a sigh.
“After all this, does anyone else want to pick a fight? Say something sad? Anyone? Now’s the time!”
She looked around. No one did. So, slowly, Erin got up.
“Why don’t we have a bit of fun, then? Come on, there’s baseball! And—and some of us might be going, but this is a celebration! Right?”
“I think it can be now.”
Ceria smiled. She stood with her team. And they smiled. The adventurers looked at the baseball game, at Grimalkin at bat and the outfielders standing deep. And Erin smiled. She laughed, and looked around. At Palt, waiting for a chance to talk to her, Selys, tickling Mrsha, Numbtongue, so relaxed and tired that he was sleeping in the shade.
A perfect moment. Or nearly. The Horns sat back down, and began talking about Invrisil with the Halfseekers. About the future. Some of the adventuring teams opined that they’d like to try baseball themselves. Grimalkin hit a baseball and snapped the bat he was holding like a twig. Ksmvr dove and caught the pop fly.
Even the Wistram [Mages] looked up. Beza took a bat when it was offered and stared at it. Something lit up in her eyes and she took a place in line and practiced a swing. Montressa looked at Pisces, and then turned to stare at the distant mountains, just thinking. Palt surreptitiously edged over to Lyonette, who was counting over the inn’s funds with Belgrade. Apista buzzed overhead as Liscor’s Council played baseball or retired, panting.
It was a perfect day. And summer was oncoming. But for the broken inn on the hill, you might have never known something had occurred. But for the pause sometimes on the faces of the living, a moment of silence, you’d never guess.
Why was it that the inn was such a source of danger? Perhaps it was cursed. Or maybe that was just the fate of inns. They were, after all, places where stories began and continued. The inn sat on the hill. Waiting.
After a while, someone entered it. A young woman. Not really a traveller. She sat down at a table, eying the collapsed second floor, the place where the basement was exposed. A bit of floorboard was hanging above her head—she avoided it, walked around a fallen pillar.
The Crelers were gone. And the inn had been swept, and the blood was mostly off the floors. But it was wrecked. So much so that Erin couldn’t imagine repairing it. That—that was probably a support beam, right? You couldn’t just replace that, surely.
Not even her [Grand Theater] Skill was working anymore. There wasn’t really a room for it to activate in. Erin looked around for a chair and table. Then she slapped her forehead.
“Duh. [Partial Reconstruction].”
She pointed, and a chair and table reassembled for her. Erin tried it on a few more tables and chairs. But it wouldn’t work on the broken floor, or the sagging ceiling in places. And she’d known that. She knew her inn was…
The young woman put her head down on the table and closed her eyes. Her inn was dusty. And she was so tired. She told herself that it didn’t matter. But in truth, it did. Not as much as her friends.
But it did. Who would ever lie about that? This was hers. And it was—breaking. But she would give it up again, a thousand times! In a heartbeat, to save a single one of the people who mattered to her!
Again, and again. In the silence, Erin Solstice closed her eyes. Far, far away, the people played baseball and smiled in the sunlight. But here, the [Innkeeper] closed her eyes. She was so tired. So Erin Solstice relaxed…and…slept…
“[Magical Innkeeper Level 40!]
[Conditions Met: Innkeeper → Awesome Innkeeper Class!]
[Skill – Inn: Unlimited Mana Pool obtained!]
[Skill – Kamehameha Punch obtained!] Whoo!”
Erin burst upright, waving her hands. She looked around wildly. Waiting, hoping for the magical voice.
But nothing came. So the young woman sat back, laughing and shaking her head. She looked up, struck by a thought.
“I wonder if there’s any popcorn left.”
She stood up, turned, and saw him. He stood in the kitchen’s doorway. Still as a statue. He’d been there the entire time, but she’d missed him at first. Now his eyes burned with purple light. The skeleton moved. He grinned as he spread his arms, welcoming her back. Home himself. At last.
Toren.
6.68
He was known to some as the fifth most powerful [Lord] in the world. If you were doing a ranking, that was. If you looked at the most dangerous, most influential, and most high-level [Lords] the world over and made a list of the top five, he always appeared on the list.
Usually exactly in spot five, no matter your criteria. Because Lord Hayvon Operland did not stand out like, say, the [Lord of the Dance] of Terandria, Lord Belchaus Meron, who topped the lists for both eligibility and strategic genius. Lord Belchaus had held Terandria against foreign fleets for over a decade and his presence alone ensured that the coast where his fleets patrolled remained safe harbors even in wars.
Similarly, Lord Hayvon was rich beyond most mortal dreams. But not as rich as Yazdil Achakhei, the serpentine Emir of Chandrar, whose wealth wasn’t just beyond most mortal dreams, but immortal ones. He wasn’t the charismatic [Slave Lord] who was considered among the most intelligent men—or males—in the world. Cunning and intelligent.
No, fifth place was for Lord Hayvon. He was no Tyrion Veltras, rumored to be the best [Lord] in personal combat, or Lord Imor Seagrass, the self-styled [Stormlord Captain] who ruled over much of the sea with his vast armies that ensured trade. Lord Hayvon was simply a [Lord] in service to the Blighted King of Rhir.
Fifth. Largely boring compared to the rest. He had no unique quirks people liked to talk about. No one would remember his name outside of Rhir if you spoke it in most circles.
And yet—fifth. Fifth most important, and of Rhir, the greatest of the nobility. What did such numbers mean? If one were to tell Lord Hayvon he was fifth-best, he wouldn’t bat an eye. He didn’t care about such things.
What Lord Hayvon did care about was the sight from his personal mansion’s balcony. It overlooked a series of fields, extremely close to his home. Not just close in that ‘you could see it if you really squinted’, but close as in if you hopped past the tiny garden, you’d be knee-deep in wheat.
The [Farmers] grew their crops extremely close to the Operland mansion, where most of the nobility would prefer them out of sight and out of mind. But Lord Hayvon did not believe in wasting space. Rhir had nothing to waste and vanity was an extravagance he could not afford. He spoke absently as he watched the sun dawning over the fields. Men and women were already hard at work, cutting down a spring harvest and replanting quickly for multiple summer harvests.
“You know, I was something of a [Historian] in my youth. I had an endless passion for literature. I even gained the class. When my father found out, he beat me within an inch of my life. My mother would have done the same if she’d been first, I have no doubt. I would too had I the ability to reach back in time and strike myself. Sometimes I wonder if Nereshal might indulge me—but you understand my point. It is a waste of a class, for a [Lord] of Rhir.”
No one responded. But Hayvon had an audience. Three people stood on the balcony behind him. The [Lord] went on, watching a [Farmer] with a scythe clear a huge radius with a single swing.
“These days, I don’t level in the class. It was removed by His Majesty, and if I do indulge my love of history and understanding the world, it is in my [Lord] class. All in service of Rhir. Still, betimes I think that if I had not been born into my position, I might have made a fairly decent [Historian], or perhaps a [Poet]. I have little time for such pursuits. But I do keep up with worldly affairs.”
Silence. Hayvon paused. Two people were standing behind him. One was seated.
“Yesterday, Rhir’s courts received word that a Silver-rank team had earned the title of Hell’s Wardens. They slew an Adult Creler in battle. A Silver-ranked team. Of course, His Majesty celebrated the news. I myself broke open a fine vintage. Can you imagine? An Adult felled by Silver-rank adventurers?”
Someone moved slightly. Lord Hayvon nodded.
“A bit of history. You may be aware, High Magus, that the Crelers were a product of the blight that afflicts Rhir. Our foul continent has been settled, lost, retaken—many times. The last time it was lost, the world believed it was better to abandon Rhir to the blight rather than attempt to retake it. That was about seven thousand years ago.”
He paused. Again, no one responded. Lord Hayvon sighed, his eyes going north and west, his voice growing dark. In the distance lay one of Rhir’s walls. The second wall of Rhir that few enemies had ever crossed. Four sheltered the Blighted Kingdom from invasion, and a fifth was being built. Attempting to be built. Hayvon went on.
“The world left Rhir’s blight alone, cursing this land, this hell to isolation. And for that, it paid the price a thousand fold over when the Crelers emerged. For eight hundred years we fought the Creler Wars, before we drove them back. They devoured entire nations, reduced the world to a dark age. But when the Crelers were defeated, it was in a time of legends.”
Lord Hayvon half-turned his head. He smiled, clenching his fist.
“Imagine it. For all the Crelers destroyed, legends rose to fight them. Over eight hundred Silver-rank teams killed Adult Crelers during the Creler Wars. What we think of as Gold-rank Adventurers were commonplace. People leveled like they breathed. There were documented cases of individuals passing Level 80. One of them was the first Blighted King, who settled Rhir and created our kingdom that such a threat might never come to pass again.”
He waited, but the seated figure made no sound. Lord Hayvon sighed.
“So. That brings me to my point. Do you know, High Magus, what impresses me after all this time? Slaying an Adult Creler, certainly. But wheat. Growing wheat impresses me.”
He gestured at the [Farmers] below.
“You may argue the point. But growing wheat is a task. You cannot do it overnight, even with all the Skills in the world. In a week? If you had magic, Skills, everything at your side, perhaps. But growing plants is far more difficult than, say, flying. It is not difficult to fly. Anyone may fly. Like so.”
So saying, Lord Hayvon stepped up and into the air. His feet left the ground. And his boots shone. Lord Hayvon’s Pegasus boots, made of ancient hide from the very animals and decorated with feathers, carried him up into the air. He soared higher with each step, then walked forwards.
He took a short lap of eighteen steps, walking off the open balcony and into the tiny garden that was his nod to decadence, and back around to step neatly onto the stone railing. He spread his arms, looking at his audience. The two [Mages] standing next to her didn’t move. And the seated High Magus never spoke. Hayvon paused, then stepped off the railing and landed lightly on the ground. He went on.
“Flying is simple. As simple as buying the right artifact, or magic spell. But wheat? Corn? It takes the highest-level [Mages] to create magical food, and that is a poor substitute for the real thing. A man may starve on food born of a cornucopia artifact if he eats only of it each day. He can literally burn more energy than the food grants him. I have seen it.”
He shook his head.
“There are five known artifacts in this world capable of creating food on par with what can be grown in the soil. Five. And a Level 30 [Farmer] can out-produce all but one of them. Think on that, High Magus. The food you and I grow fat on cannot be conjured, and in times of famine, it cannot be bought.”
He waited. She stared at him, sweat rolling down her forehead, although it wasn’t warm yet. Lord Hayvon turned back to the fields.
“I have no end of respect for the [Farmers] in my domain. No—in all of Rhir. For not only must they grow food in this blighted soil of our continent, they must safeguard it from plague, raids, even monsters and insects sent by the Demons. They grow food in hell, to keep the kingdom safe. Thus, I think of them as valiant as [Soldiers], in their own way. Emisa?”
One of the two [Mages] standing next to the High Magus lifted a bowl. The High Magus flinched as Lord Hayvon turned back. He plucked a small, wriggling shape from the bowl and regarded it with disgust. It was a tiny caterpillar, hairy, small—with an oversized head. It had a very large mouth, tiny nubs of legs. It wasn’t a cute caterpillar. Lord Hayvon showed it to the High Magus.
“These are one of the plagues the Demon King has sent against us, in ages past. One of his Deathless created it. The Vorepiller is a cowardly bug. It flees everything, and it does not evolve. But it reproduces faster than any species and it is highly inedible, such that other insects and birds will not eat it. The Demon King unleashed them in our fields and Rhir nearly starved during that decade, oh, around three thousand five hundred and two years back. 2118 Zekol, by Rhir’s calendars. Have you ever seen one, High Magus? Or have you never seen our fields battling these infestations?”
She said not a word. Lord Hayvon dropped the Vorepillar on her hands. It joined the hundreds of tiny caterpillars squirming over her hands. Her arms. Eating the High Magus alive. Lord Hayvon stared down at the insects chewing into her flesh. They had torn away the first layer of skin. And they were burrowing deeper, eating…everything.
“Healing potion.”
The mass of Vorepillars fled as one of the two [Mages] silently brushed them away and applied a healing potion to the exposed flesh. It regrew in an instant, and the hungry caterpillars fell back on the spot, devouring the woman anew. Hayvon looked at High Magus Laisa. She was sweating, her face white, but her lips were sealed. Lord Hayvon patiently studied her.
“You will not speak? High Magus Arneit confessed many things long before this point.”
“I have nothing to say. Lord Operland.”
High Magus Laisa spoke through pale lips. Lord Hayvon shook his head.
“You stand accused of high treason against the Blighted Kingdom, High Magus. You and six others! Six of our High Magi! Tell me why, at least.”
The woman opened her mouth. She bit back a sound of pain and snarled.
“Why? You need to ask, Hayvon? Performing the ritual again is madness! Sheer madness! One million lives! For a fraction of what? Children? The Blighted King has lost his mind.”
The two [Mages] standing next to Laisa moved. One nearly struck her, but Lord Hayvon shook his head. He stared down at Laisa and then turned away. Back to the fields. He spoke absently.
“Do you know what happens when the Demon King marshals his forces, High Magus Laisa? It looks nothing like the stalemate of today. And you have fought on our front lines. But when his Deathless take to the field, armies die.”
“So you don’t care that a million unborn children will die?”
Laisa snapped. Lord Hayvon rounded on her. And heat entered his voice.
“I care. Do you think I would not? Do you think His Majesty does not? But he and I would sacrifice anything to end this war. To finally drive the Demons back! Wouldn’t you?”
“Not like this. Are we Demons? I thought His Majesty was better than the Demon King, Lord Operland.”
The High Magus glared at him. Lord Hayvon drew breath to respond as his hand twitched towards his side. Someone opened the doors to the balcony.
“Lord Operland? The guests have arrived.”
Lord Hayvon paused and addressed the servant.
“Have Sir Richard and his company delay our ride a moment longer. I shall be with them shortly. What of Sir Tom?”
“Retired to his quarters already, Lord Operland.”
“I see. Leave him be unless he requests anything.”
The [Lord] waved the servant away. Then he turned to the High Magus.
“High Magus Laisa, you would have the Blighted Kingdom sheathe its sword rather than attack the enemy. I have a son and a young daughter. I know what the ritual entails. But I would use it. I have ordered tens of thousands of men and women to their deaths with a single word. No doubt, I have overseen the death of a million souls at least.”
Lord Hayvon stared at his hands. Scarred from battle. He shook his head.
“What are a million lives unborn compared to the horrors the Demons will inflict on us? What makes this the step too far, High Magus?”
She said nothing. Laisa’s lips were compressed as the worms ate deeper once more. Hayvon paused. He leaned forwards, and the cowardly Vorepillars fled even his shadow.
“Tell me where the other [Mages] are hiding. And what they fear more than Demons that they have rebelled against the kingdom.”
For a moment, the High Magus seemed like she might keep silent. But pain—or anger—loosened her tongue. She shouted back.
“We fear tearing the world apart. We fear a spell that should not work! Magic that has no origin and rips a hole in a void we cannot even sense! We fear—”
She paused, breathing hard. Her eyes went to the door, and she whispered.
“We fear that child’s madness. That [Clown]. And another world filled with weapons that can sunder islands! We fear the Blighted King’s ambitions, Lord Operland.”
“You have lost faith in him?”
“He is consumed. Impaired! Nereshal should have never let him live so long! He will lead the Blighted Kingdom to death! You must convince him to change his mind! The ritual—”
