Fortress Al-Mir

Three days into her journey and Ilya was starting to question whether this was a good idea.

When younger, her mother had told her about her people. The elven community that had raised her mother was somewhere in the northwestern areas of the Duchy of Mystakeen. A locale known as Marrowlands Fen. Geographically, it was an interesting area. Lots of islands of varying sizes right on the edge of the ocean with people living on most if not all of them.

Unfortunately, Alya’s stories had not included directions. They had been less stories and more anecdotes of her time among them. One story in particular, the one that set Ilya off on this idea in the first place, had been about Alya’s younger sister. An elf by the name of Prya who, according to Alya, made the most beautiful clothing in all the elven village. That would have been about six hundred years ago. Hopefully, Prya had kept up with her tradecraft in the time since then.

Ilya wasn’t sure what she would find when she arrived but she was hoping that her mother’s family was around. Not just for Prya but for all of her mother’s family. She could probably find any elven commune and find a centuries-old elf with plenty of practice at tailoring elegant dresses but she doubted that she would find real help.

She had never thought she would be able to rescue her mother from the clutches of the Duke. Arkk, the fortress, their newfound wealth, and the strange assistance offered by a pre-Calamity monster made that impossibility sound ever so slightly achievable. Yet, of all the things she listed, she really only trusted Arkk. Family, even family she had never met, would hopefully both help recover her mother—even if only by making clothing—and help keep them from letting all this wealth and power go to their heads.

The problem was getting there.

“I see, thank you,” Ilya said.

“This is the last burg you’ll find for about a week of travel if you’re heading up in that direction.” The butcher helping her load salted meat into the back of her cart talked as he worked. “There are a few villages dotted here and there but you might not be able to resupply as much as you want. I would suggest you prepare but…” He laughed, slapping a crate on the lid. “You’ve practically cleaned me out of all my preserved meat.”

“I wonder if I should get more,” she hummed, more to herself than to him.

The butcher heard anyway. “More? This’ll last five a month.”

“I’m traveling with about a dozen. Orcs,” she added. “They eat a bit more than most.”

“A dozen orcs?” The old man glanced around, looking more suspicious now than he had before “You aren’t in trouble, are you?”

“No, no. Nothing like that. They’re bodyguards. We all work for Company Al-Mir.”

“Ah. Mercenary business? They aren’t helping you supply up?”

“Something like that,” Ilya said. “And they are. They’re just getting supplies elsewhere,” she lied. In an attempt to change the topic, she quickly asked a question before he could say anything else. “Any dangers on the road ahead?”

“Always dangers. The western side of the duchy has slavers and bandits running amok. They practically run the whole area.” He let out a small laugh, looking around once again. “If you’re traveling with a dozen battle-hardened orcs, I doubt you’ll get any trouble though. They like easy targets.”

“They run the area? What about the Duke’s men?”

“Too busy manning the border. Word passing through here is that the damn Sultanate is getting a bit uppity these days,” he said with a sad shake of his head. “Lots of soldier-types making their way over there as of late. Times are getting interesting but… I think I prefer boring times.”

“I get that,” Ilya said as she secured the crates in the back of the cart. “Thanks for your help. I’d best get moving.”

“Sure thing. Take care of yourself,” the butcher said, nodding his head. Dusting off his hands on his bloodstained apron, he turned and headed back into his shop.

Ilya quickly moved the cart. She went along to several other shops and purchased supplies. All on her own. Like the butcher, most questioned what she was doing, loading up so much traveling gear all for herself. She offered them the same excuse she gave the butcher. The others were just collecting their own supplies. Maybe the merchants would all have a get-together and talk about the strange woman buying up all the gear in town. They would realize that she had lied but by then, she would be long gone.

By the time she was finished, the light in the sky was dimming. She would have liked to have found a stayover to rest for the night. Unfortunately, she didn’t have that luxury at the moment. Ignoring the warnings of the burg’s guard, she ventured out onto the road and started traveling. She didn’t intend to make a full leg of the journey tonight, of course. Rather, she traveled along the road just until she spotted the dancing light of a fire burning off the beaten path.

Directing the horses off to the side of the road, she quickly came up to a camp of rowdy orcs, laughing and talking around a large bonfire. It was obvious that they were excited to be out of the fortress. Ilya was as well, if she were being honest. Sometimes it was easy to forget where that fortress was but the lack of sunlight and that constant feeling of wrongness that came from being in the Cursed Forest weighed heavily.

As soon as the lookout noticed her and called out to the others, a ripple spread through the group. Laughter cut off, voices died down, and soon enough, Ilya found herself standing in front of a dozen silent orcs. All of whom were staring.

“Took you long enough.”

Almost all were staring.

Olatt’an sat at the side of the bonfire, leaning against a toppled log in a lax pose, barely even glancing up to meet her eyes.

Ilya wasn’t sure if it was disrespect, his usual mellow demeanor, or if he knew that the way the other orcs acted at her arrival disturbed her but whatever the case, she vastly preferred his presence to that of the others. Still, his words incensed her.

“I took long enough? I had to walk around, carrying heavy crates and kegs all by myself from morning until sunset. And what did you lot do all day? Sat around on your fat asses? Why are you wanted in every burg in the Duchy? Dakka didn’t have this problem.”

“Dakka was new.”

“Young.”

“A runt,” someone said.

“Don’t call her that,” Ilya snapped. She let out a long, withering sigh. “This is going to be a long journey. You don’t need to make it longer by complaining about me when you lot are—”

“Did you say kegs?” Kazz’ak called out.

Ilya shot him a glare that faded before it could really begin. Reaching back over the cart, she threw off the tarp that kept their supplies out of the elements. Three large barrels sat horizontally in the back of the cart. “These two are water,” she said, standing and tapping a foot against two of them. “The third… is ale.”

A brief pause of silence shattered to pieces as a cheer ran through the crowd of orcs. They surged forward as one only to stop short as Ilya stomped a foot down on the cart’s edge.

“But!” she shouted. “This is going to be a long journey. Longer than we thought. The next burg is a week away and there is no guarantee they’ll have excess ale there. Marrowlands Fen is further than I thought, so we’ve got a long march ahead of us. If this is all gone tonight, well, I’m not going back to that burg for more.”

With that said, she jumped off the cart and stalked through the crowd until she reached the only orc that wasn’t gathering around the ale keg. She sank down against the log and crossed her arms.

“They’re going to be useless in the morning,” Olatt’an said.

“They better not be useless in the morning,” Ilya said, loud enough that at least a few of the orcs in the back heard.

“You didn’t have to get that.”

“Yeah… well,” Ilya started, voice softer. “I’m not here to be your friend. You lot are being paid to be out here. But if dropping a few silver on a bunch of alcohol gets them to stop tip-toeing around me, I’ll take it. That’s just going to make this trip drag on at a snail’s pace.”

“I understand the reasoning but drunk orcs will make it drag on as well,” Olatt’an said with a small chuckle. “Longer than we thought, huh?”

“A bit over two weeks to reach Marrowlands Fen from here. No idea about where the elves are located within the fen. Hopefully one of the burgs closer will have more information.”

“Hopefully,” Olatt’an repeated. Clapping his hands on his thighs, he stood. “Best get me a mug before they drain the entire keg.”

“You’re having some as well?” Ilya said, not bothering to hide the note of disappointment in her tone.

“If it is any good, it will be wasted on these runts. If it’s bad ale, well, I’m just sparing them from having to drink more.” Olatt’an flashed his tuskless grin. “I am an orc,” he said, turning away.

Ilya crossed her arms and glared at the tan orc’s back. “A long journey indeed,” she mumbled to herself.

She was wondering if this was a good idea at all.

The sea started to boil.

The Grand Old Church of Cliff City sat atop a small island jutting up from the water in the middle of the bay. The winding staircase that led up to the cathedral on top had a little-used path that ran downward. The stairs ended at a small boat dock, one that had hardly seen any use since the bridge had been built.

Agnete didn’t often come to the city of Cliff. When she did, it was usually for only a short amount of time. The life of an inquisitor rarely had them remaining in the larger settlements of the land. While cultists and other subversive elements did occasionally try to infest the city, local priests and bishops were usually enough to root them out. Inquisitors were sent out into the less well-traveled areas of the Kingdom where a deviant might be able to otherwise make their lair without anyone the wiser until after their plans came to fruition.

Moving from town to town. Incinerating a totem to a foul god. A witch burned there. There was always more to be done. Never staying for long. Perhaps someone ended up saved here or there. Agnete never got to meet them. It was always on to the next place, to stymie the seemingly endless tide of enemies of the Light.

It was a… cold existence.

There weren’t often moments to take for herself. Agnete had learned to cherish them when they came.

On a previous visit to Cliff, she had discovered this spot. Down the stairs of the Grand Old Church, past the unused dock, and around the rocky wall of the island was a small sandbar. The perfect spot to toss off her boots, her cloak, and the rest of her clothes and wade out into the waters.

The waters boiled against her bare skin.

Bending, Agnete scooped up a fistful of sand. The individual grains began to glow a white-hot as they began merging together into one smooth flow of molten glass. Ankles in the water, Agnete sat against a large stone and began to massage the liquid-like glass. She flicked her thumbnail through the glass, creating neat lines in the blob. Scooping up more sand, she added it to the mass, pulling out a sharp point from one end while rounding the other.

Agnete worked in silence. The only sounds were the waves slapping against the island and the sizzling noise of water turning to steam against her legs.

A chill wind swept over her. Normal cold didn’t bother Agnete in the slightest. This made her lock up. She stiffened, dropping the glass sculpture into the water as she bolted to her feet.

“Purifier.”

Agnete slowly turned, facing the dock just to the side of her little sandbar.

Darius Vrox stood on the worn wooden planks, leaning against one of the piles anchoring the dock to the ground. One hand was in his long coat’s pocket while the other drummed against the wood. Those fingers stopped abruptly as, behind his large round glasses, Darius narrowed his eyes.

“What are you doing?”

“Awaiting our next move, Sir.”

Darius looked over her before his eyes roamed over to the clothes she had left draped over the rope railing of the dock. “You get precious little time off. Can you not enjoy it like a normal person?”

Agnete opened her mouth but Darius held up a hand.

“I don’t care. Douglas and I have been going over the texts sent over by Central, trying to uncover exactly what we are dealing with. We’ve been stumped, mostly, but there is one thing I would like clarification on. You referred to the young man as empty. Elaborate.”

Pressing her lips together, Agnete thought back to her first meeting with Arkk back in the small town of Langleey. She was different than other people. Special in some ways, broken in others. Like other purifiers, she could wield fire magic without incantations or ritual circles. She could sense heat and fire even at a distance. And, within people, she could see embers. The soul. Or so she assumed. There had been no confirmation made by any of the Abbey of the Light’s researchers.

It was just what she felt.

“You and I have a flame inside us. He didn’t. I don’t know what that means.”

“Please don’t compare us,” Darius said with his half-smile. “It sickens me.”

Agnete clamped her jaw shut.

“Perhaps he is less human than we thought. Or what made him human has been removed.” Darius removed his hand from his pocket, shaking off a few flecks of frost before he started rubbing at his chin. “Could the creature be controlling him?”

Unsure as to whether or not Darius was asking her or merely wondering aloud to himself, Agnete played it safe and remained silent. Which, after a momentary pause, seemed to be the correct decision. Darius paid her little attention as he continued speaking.

“No. He seemed active and independent during our encounters. He has a proper history with the people of his village. They would likely have noticed something. Unless they had all been affected similarly?”

Feeling like that question was directed more toward her than the ambient aether, Agnete said, “Langleey’s baron felt normal to me. He had the same burning core inside him that… most people have.”

“Have you ever encountered someone with the same affliction as Mister Arkk?”

Agnete shook her head slowly. “No, Sir.”

“I see. Very well. Carry on with…” Darius looked around. “Whatever it is you were doing. Douglas and I will fetch you when we are ready to move again.”

“Understood.”

Darius turned and began his long climb up the steps toward the Grand Old Church. Agnete remained still, watching his back until he rounded the island’s mountain and vanished from view. Only then did she let out a warm sigh as she looked down at the water around her feet. The boiling stopped.

Reaching a hand into the water, Agnete felt around until her fingers found a smooth shape among the sandy grit. Standing upright, she withdrew a small glassy raven. A bit of seaweed had gotten tangled around its neck. She spent a moment trying to untangle it but only seemed to make the problem worse. Frustrated, she sent a surge of heat through her arm.

The seaweed noose burned away. The raven, unfortunately, did not come away unscathed from her burst of heat. It drooped, sagging into a shapeless blob.

Lips pressed together, Agnete turned up the heat to the point where small globs of glass ran between her fingers, falling to the sea below where they sizzled and cracked before rejoining the sand at the bottom.

That was why she was not allowed to help research in the archives. They didn’t want ancient and unique books going up in flames.

Cracking her neck, Agnete found her seat once again. She reached into the steaming water and pulled up a fresh fistful of sand.