Sailing Ether Tides

Book 2: Dirt Diver’s Dance

When The Day Goes To Sleep Ch: 21

Gandree got home just as Daisybelle and her pack were waking up for the evening. Someone had finished the meal he’d left for them and had drawn a rude picture on the note that he’d left, telling her he’d be back home before full dark.

“Daze… is this picture of someone pooping on his own head supposed to be me?” He asked carefully.

“Cause I’m not nearly that flexible… or creative.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Gandree boy. If you work really hard you could poop on your own head someday, just like the man in the picture, who is certainly not you.” She answered sweetly, as she buckled her gear onto the wolfhounds and checked her own weapons and armor.

“He’s holding a four string shovel and the ‘work’ is entitled, ‘The Shy Pooper’...” Gandree complained bitterly.

“Huh… coincidence, silly boy, just coincidence.” She kissed his cheek, swung onto Petunia’s back and vanished out the enormous front door in a swirl of gray and black fur.

“I am a shy pooper.” He grumbled as she and her pack disappeared into the woods, leaving his new house strangely empty.

#

Gandree spent time in both goblin town and the human city, exploring, trading in small trinkets, semi precious stones and personal grooming tools.

The terrible number of beard combs he’d made, once the damn dwarves realized his knack for working stone, bone and the non ferrous metals had honed those skills to a fine edge.

Likewise he’d a knack for sharpening knives and repairing simple tools and machines; trading labor for goods around goblin town brought him a surprising collection of trade goods. Fossilized amber chunks, ammonites, interesting stones, flakes and nuggets of gold and such were the goblin’s local currency, since humans always wanted those things and the goblin girls preferred things over coins.

Mornings and evenings he roamed the streets of the human city or goblin town, looking for work, trading or simply amusing himself. Mornings found him in the town of men, selling his combs, brushes and beads to the householders from the deep pockets of his long, undyed canvas coat.

Evenings were the busy time in goblin town, as the shifts changed and almost everyone became active at once. Goblin, canine, cat, bat, mustelid and reptile folks all brushed shoulders and exchanged greetings, keeping the little village almost bustling at all hours.

Midday and midnight were for working in his shop, slowly bringing his long held dream into reality, one careful stroke of his chisel and one dab of glue at a time. He had other projects clamped up or hanging to cure, a few bone flutes, a number of wooden hoop drums and the beginnings of a wooden pan flute were scattered around the shop. His shovulele got a fresh shovel handle ‘neck’ of hickory and a new set of ogre bone tuning pegs, nut and bridge. It was still a ‘shitter digger’ but was nicely resonant and the new handle cleared up an annoying buzz that was just developing, as the old handle started to shrink and get loose.

Satisfied with his progress on those side projects, he shifted back to the main event, his guitar.

The back and sides were dark, red mahogany, internally braced with his own invention. A network of carefully tuned strands of braided spider silk criss crossed between the back, sides and soundboard, sewing the body into a tight and resonant whole. The soundboard itself was a perfectly matched and balanced construct of cross braced sugar pine that had been slowly oven roasted under a sheet of bronze to prevent warping, completely crystalizing the resins and sap in the bookmatched and carefully joined planks. He’d roasted it so slowly, into a deep, caramel brown shade; creating a panel so light, responsive and reactive it was a little scary.

With care, he inserted the three, long bronze rods protruding from his guitar’s ironwood neck and headstock into the complex network of threads. With just a little fiddling, they slotted into and through a bronze internal structure he’d built his wooden construct around. Three threaded bronze sockets received three carefully machined bronze bolts and snuggled into the instrument’s curves holding the tailpiece firmly, exactly as he’d imagined it.

With delicate care and constantly shifting from one bolt head to another, he pulled the neck onto the body, joining them together with a final bolt through the shoulder of the instrument and the heel of the neck. It had a handy strap button carved in, just like the center bolt at the tailpiece.

It was almost ready… Unadorned and gleaming under so many coats of lacquer, each one carefully buffed to a thin, hard finish that was tough enough to do the job, but flexible enough to resonate. The instrument needed a bridge, strings and just a little more time. He hung it up to get cozy with its new state for a while, the wood and metal parts needed to settle and get to know their new neighborhood, before the next step.

Somewhere in his disjointed memories he recalled metal, geared tuning machines; those plans would be a little while in development at this point. He did have a fine set of ogre bone tuning pegs to hold his braided, monster spider silk and groundworm gut strings in tune.

The sound of his doorbell roused the tired dwarf from his ruminations on nearly finished projects. He staggered upstairs, red eyed and worn through, finally realizing he’d been at work in the basement for a dozen hours straight.

At the door stood the king and Sabrina, unofficial, but totally official queen of the goblin ladies. Ghnash was dressed as a common man, in simple clothing that anyone might wear in town, while Sabrina was in a flowing gown of silvery, undyed spider silk that molded itself to her every supple contour. The long, leggy goblin woman smiled blandly at the dwarf lad and nodded as she followed the king inside for the slipper donning ritual.

“We haven’t seen or heard much of you in a couple days, brother. We thought we’d come by, so Sabrina could meet you properly…” The king said firmly, while holding Sabrina’s hand in a way that suggested she was less than eager to come calling and was bad at hiding it.

“I’ve been busy working… and I really don’t know anyone except Your majesty and princess Daisybelle…” He muttered tiredly. “I have a lot to catch up on and learn about the outside world, your majesties…”

“I’m just Ghnash, Gandree; I never wanted to be a king and refuse to be bowed to… Besides, you’re kinda my brother!” The king was busy pointing things out to Sabrina, while the talking went on, silently indicating interesting items. He turned to his slinky green mate and hugged her close.

“See? We’re a lot alike, the boy and I…” He winked at her and turned his attention back to the sleepy dwarf.

“I know it’s a little late, but we wanted to catch you before Daisybelle gets back.”

He reached into his cloak, and then deeper into his shadow and produced his flute of ornamented troll bone, inlaid with celestial bodies and intricate constellations.

“How about a quick jam sesh?”

Before the king’s question finished crossing the room, Gandree had his bronze and brass flute out and was tuning and warming it up.

“Nice…” Ghnash muttered, admiring the instrument’s complex keys and levers, compared to his relatively simple bass flute of pale yellow troll bone and its bronze rimmed finger holes. “I should copy that lever system of yours… I could get another octave out of her.”

He grinned sheepishly at his new friend. “It’s all thanks to you and SpiderBoobs; I had fangs and claws before… made complex fingerings and a good embrasure difficult. Swabbing the blood from the bore was always awful too. Now it just gets filled with clean, honest goblin drool.”

“Enough talking, Ghnash. Let’s swing.” Gandree dipped right into the melody of ‘Autumn Leaves’, giving his new brother plenty of space to slip into the groove.

The king giggled just a little madly, as he dove in on his low, mellow flute, the warm rich sound lifting the dwarf’s instrument even higher. Swift, crisp and staccato percussion joined their play, snapping from the castanets and finger bells of Sabrina, who slowly danced and clicked a counter rhythm as she swayed.

Music drifted up from the little house by the rushing river, above the lake. It carried on for a few hours, until the dwarf stumbled up to bed, leaving his royal guests curled up on the couch, watching the sun rise.

#

Count Liam toured the camp one last time before departing with the dawn supply run, to resume his tiresome duties in the castle. The place was as orderly as one could hope after a storm in the mountains; the company even turned out to see him off.

The count pranced through the main parade ground, riding Audrey in his full regalia, and brandishing his spear… just to give them a show. Even after all these years, the lion armor, his shining spear and cloak of falling silver leaves was still a grand spectacle, whenever he put it all on.

Even his most superstitious and smooth brained vassals knew he wasn’t really a hero of legend reborn! Sure, he hung out with the dryads and spirits of the forest; of course any horse would answer his call, even the wild mustangs of the hills… That didn’t mean anything… It was all simply a coincidence.

Count Liam Kinnis, the orphan lord of a long forgotten realm, was more interested in building his domain and creating opportunities for his people. Others could spend time and energy worrying about the glories of the distant past; he had a son on the way and a future to look forward to.

Liam sharpened up as they rode out of camp; briefly reflecting on the many stories he’d read in his friend’s memories… Many of which involved characters thinking just such thoughts before a grisly fate befell them.

That heightened alertness served him well, as a rockslide just a little way down the mountain spooked a few of the wagon horses. He cooed, petted and soothed the beasts quickly, preventing a runaway or two and perhaps saving the cart drivers from a harrowing experience.

The roar and rumble almost sounded like there was a feral scream of frustration and anger mixed in among the grinding of stones that tumbled into a narrow defile below their road.

As the supply wagons rolled by, Liam glanced down into the narrow gorge the rockslide had slipped down; streaks of red on the stones piqued his interest.

“Are there known iron deposits in these mountains? That looks promising; it’s so red, it almost looks like blood on the stones.” He mused to himself as they rode on.

#

“Sweep right! Push them harder!” Blair shouted, directing the Hermit’s monks, as they moved in a tight formation. Their bronze shod staves stood ready, wielded by men and women in brightly colored robes, trooping down from the hills on the flank of the armored force on the road.

The small army briefly rallied under a white banner bearing a golden sun disk and tried to wheel to face the new threat, looming from the early morning mist.

The Star and his team were already pressing hard, driving them back into the pass and breaking the cult’s heavy foot into bite sized pieces with their hurled spells and empowered weapons.

A Terrifyingly large, disembodied, mail gauntleted human hand crawled like an elephant sized spider across the field, flicking foes aside as it capered. A mad archer stood atop the hand, flinging arrows of spiritual fire from a bow of flickering shadow, smoke and flame.

He danced and sang with glee, taunting his foes between shots; despite all the other troubles those unfortunates already had to worry about.

A vast swarm of flitting, stinging wasps harassed and annoyed the cult of Light formation, acting as though under a singular, malign Will. They swarmed most fiercely around a tall man in yellow and black mail, slashing and stabbing his foes when the opportunities appeared.

A dozen man sized, yellow and black insects hovered and swooped erratically above the Hive, creating those openings with regularity, when they weren’t slashing and stabbing their foes with stingers as long as rapiers.

The Star himself hurled balls of shimmering light from his hands, which detonated silently, flinging sparks in all directions that often ignited what they touched. The sparks and flames were harmless to any living thing… Any living thing that wasn’t tainted by an outsider Contract or infested with an unliving, undying or immortal parasite. It really sucked in that case, it really sucked hard.

Several of the armored figures were staggering around, learning exciting new things like pain, fear and dying.

Actually killing the undying, nearly immortal slug spawn was a tricky proposition in most cases, if not impossible without the correct supplies and knowledge.

The slug spawn were resistant to most forms of magic, mortal weapons and physical attacks. On top of that, if even a small chunk of flesh remained intact, the entire slug would regrow, before oozing off to infest a random corpse or a vulnerable sentient. Their favored vessel was typically a human child, the slug would paralyze the child while the unfortunate kid slept, eat the child’s heart to take control of the body and start following the slug matron’s orders again.

The Star and the Hive were both highly inimical to such beings naturally, while the Hermit and his corps of monks did grisly business with staves enchanted to end the unending, crafted by the goblin witch of the woods himself.

Wheel of Fortune’s deranged cackles of glee and hooting laughter rang out over the battlefield, as the Hermit and his monks silently reaped the undead infantry like wheat.

The monk’s staves bashed undead flesh and left awful wreckage in their wake as they pummeled the wriggling orange slug demons flat with nasty popping sounds while the verminous outsiders tried to escape.

“Cards on the table boys! Gotta know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold’em… it’s way too late to run!”

Wheel of Fortune kept taunting his foes from atop his crawling hand, as their forces intermingled and the enemy formation quickly evaporated in the grinding mill of allies and flaring spells.

#

Judgment arrived late, during the grisly mop up phase. He surveyed the battlefield with disgust, watching the monks and his allies search out and salt down the slimy snotballs who sought to escape the battlefield. “Any signs of cult leadership?”

“Nope, these guys were just an army of undead slug puppets and shitbag cultists, coming to enslave the people of that town. That we showed up was just bad luck on their part…” The Star murmured happily over the carnage. “We stumbled on them by pure accident and couldn’t resist.”

“The butcher’s bill?” Judgment asked softly.

“Sixty two living humans taken alive, thirty six of those severely wounded in capture. Twenty hostile humans killed, ninety eight outsider hosts and their parasites killed. No known escapees or demon survivors. We’re double checking for runaways now.” Hermit’s second, Blair answered briskly.

“We lost three of ours, their bodies have been recovered.” She answered less jovially. “Six injured, one severely.”

“We drove a hard bargain, though I still feel it was too costly.” Judgment murmured. “The town?” He asked, looking down on the sleepy little city on the lake below.

“They were about to be ‘converted’ by surprise… Now I imagine they’re frightened, confused and probably in hiding.” Star mumbled, looking deeply satisfied and sleepy.

“I’ll take my team and sweep the town for hidden cultists. Mop up should take a few more days.”

“Remain alert, I sense open void maws in these mountains. This domain connects to several others.” Justice muttered, eying the rugged mountain sides with suspicion.

#

Daisybelle smelled it an instant after Nightshade did; together they swarmed down on the armored zombie, catching it in a small clearing just below the rocky crags.

Petunia leapt first, battering the thing with her forepaws to knock it down, rather than risk breaking a tooth, biting an armored body. It stumbled and fell inert, its rotten spine broken by her pounce.

“We smell you, slugspawn! No escape for you!” Daisybelle called into the darkened woods, standing over the smelly body.

The front of the corpse was a ragged mess, barely holding together after taking some serious abuse. The pilot of the meat chariot was missing, though. The hole where it had dwelt still dripped remnants of a clear, faintly orange tinged mucus.

She spotted her wriggly, slimy prey under a nearby pine tree; the snotball had bailed out of its corpse-mobile and was trying to squizzle in among the stones and pine needles to hide.

She pinned it down with her obsidian edged shield and drew a circle of salt around the slug, before bringing her shield down hard to smush the bastard.

Her obsidian knife flayed the immobilized slug open, spilling its slime onto the soil in a disgusting torrent of ooze. Another half pound of salt and a half hour later, the job was done.

Daisybelle wrapped the desiccated slug up in a sack and bagged the crusty, contaminated salt up in another; king papa would want both for his witchcraft. This was the second wandering slug she’d encountered since reaching her assigned post.

The first had barely made it out of the void, before falling into her ungentle hands. That corpse too, had been in rough shape, there was a battle going on somewhere… and the slugs were taking a pounding.

#

Hermit’s monks were diligent and disciplined, as they swept the stony valley for escapees and hidden cultists, finding few of the filth, but a disturbing number of small void maws that led to a few other worlds.

They were under instruction to not pursue them across the void, the slugs would fare poorly alone and in rotting, undead vessels.

Hermit himself preferred to remain aloof and far from the busy world of humans; lingering instead at the edge of the woods, where his brothers would be able to find him at need.

He smiled bitterly at the irony of simultaneously being a militant cult leader and a dedicated recluse. Nearly fifteen years before, Hermit had awakened alone in a distant valley, in a body that still felt alien today, even after so long.

He had four arachnid legs and a compact, hairy abdomen behind him, which rose into a just faintly humanoid, four armed torso. He’d never seen his own face, but wandering fingers told him he had a lot going on there. Fangs and mandibles were just the beginning.

Eight eyes had taken a lot of adjustment, they gave him a terrible headache for weeks, until he got the hang of the new perceptions they offered, beyond ‘normal’ vision.

Likewise he’d had trouble controlling his movements and mastering his new form… His first few attempts to walk, crawl or leap had ended badly and made it clear he would need to learn how to live in an entirely new way.

He had precious few intact memories, scattered and confused fragments that he hoarded and combed through nightly during his meditations. Meditation, dance and the martial arts saved his sanity and helped him regain his ‘humanity’ as much as remained of it, anyway.

In pursuit of mental and physical clarity and control, he’d begun a habit of slow motion movements, practicing his moves at glacial speed, to hone his body and gain more perfect control.

The few humans and other humanoids he’d encountered over the years had wisely fled his hideous form, before he could even speak to them in his creaking, ill tuned voice, through fangs and a half human throat.

It had all started with one ‘adherent’, following him at a distance and mimicking his moves, as he worked out in his lonely forest domain. For two years the human was there daily, watching and emulating his movements from a distance, as he performed the combat training dance that kept his body under control and his mind sane… Studying his half remembered, highly customized martial art from another life on another world.

Finally, too curious to restrain himself, Hermit had approached the fool, which never ended well with humans, or beastfolk. “Human… What are you here for?” He’d managed to say in a passable excuse for man speech.

“I knew it! I knew you weren’t just some monster, spirit or sacred beast!” The mad woman had crowed in victory at the awful sound of his voice from the shadows and trees…

Now Blair had a few dozen followers in her ‘sect’... The Sublime Spider Sect dedicated themselves to practicing his arts as best they could with only four limbs. He clattered his mandibles in exhaustion at the thought. Humans were so tiresome and looked so damn tasty, it was a real trial being among them, without spinning one up for a snack.

That was why the Star and his troupe were in the town below the battlefield, soothing troubled minds and snatching up the possessed and demon touched, when no one was looking.

Things were wrapped up snugly here, so he scuttled back among the trees, his iridescent, brightly colored, hairy carapace vanishing in the shadows without a rustle, despite his size.

Even after all these years it felt weird being a giant human, peacock spider hybrid. It was super socially awkward, since he was objectively, pretty scary and human sized mammals were his natural prey…

He had a deer bundled up in his current home right now, just up the mountainside in a cave; but warm, fresh food sounded so… tempting.

He shook those traitor thoughts away and focused on the task at hand. Cold, slightly less than fresh venison would have to do. Aged meat had its unique flavors as well, but nothing was quite as tasty as fresh, warm treemonkey. Now he was beginning to see unfamiliar bipeds as food, which was troubling and a little unnerving.

“I need a vacation.” Hermit mumbled, as he scuttled up the sheer cliff wall into his web strung hidey-hole and dinner of cold deer.

#

Shiro and Sasha slipped back into the little hamlet of cottages as dawn approached, reporting in to their bonded companions before bedtime.

Shiro curled up in Amy’s lap at the breakfast table and began sawing the most adorable kitty logs, while kneading his toebeans in the empty air.

Sasha slid into Kermal’s shadow and vanished with a soft, warm, earth scented sigh, like a warm breeze over a freshly filled grave.

“Shiro says the other void maws around here are inactive. Potent rituals and a few solid hours of work would be needed to open them for mortal travel.” Amy muttered through a yawn.

“Sorry, he’s so sleepy, it’s bleeding over onto me.”

“Sasha says the same…” Kermal agreed. “Save that these voids are closed to even her kind, which is unusual. As a god’s sacred beast, she should be able to pass freely… that suggests a sentient actor has sealed these from the other side.”

“Let’s not open any more windows until we have our current pests under control.” Becky suggested firmly. “Can we set something up to warn us if any of these open?”

“Already handled.” Harry spoke up from the Clownshoes table. “Wilf and I set an alarm up on that stele we fixed. We’ll get early warning and a rough location if any new voids open in the valley.”

He held up a small bronze bell and smiled. “This will ring if a void is opened or unsealed; the clapper’ movement indicates the direction while the frequency and volume reveal distance and elevation.”

“We’ll send a trio of riders back to town with a few of these bells after breakfast.” Wilf grumbled quietly. “It’ll be a speed run, there and back.”

#

“It’ll be a speed run, just there and back… Just peek in and see what’s up. We asked Temperance to send a couple of his girls, but you know how he is.” The Chariot grumbled.

“They’re his daughters, bro. He won’t put them at risk; give up on that.” Hermit answered with finality. “I’ll dip in and take a peek, but there were humans in that valley. There was a growing settlement, almost a city, last time I stuck my nose in that void maw. I have no desire to kill any humans… or be killed by them.”

“I’d go, but it’s one of the prime worlds, I started to crisp up and shrivel away in minutes. Only a being of entirely mortal and living flesh can survive unprotected there.” Chariot sighed. “Temperance said he found another one of us… and that guy might be willing to help, but he’s new, really new. A little scouting is all I’m asking for, a sneaky peek and back in a couple hours.”

“Another? Who? Does he know?” Hermit demanded eagerly, looming over the black clad man who sat atop a palanquin of bones and sinew, carried by four undead ogres.

“Chill, dude! You’re scary as fuck, Hermit…” The Chariot sat back up and adjusted his collar when his brother withdrew. Hermit was about double Chariot’s mass, and the spideryness of him was super jarring; despite his soft fur and bold, cheerful coloration.

“Tempy said he might be the Ten of Coins… I guess he’s a dwarven craftsman and is only just now leaving his mountain hold for the first time.”

“Oh, now I am interested! I might just swing by for a visit! Is the perimeter of his valley still infested with wild goblin men?” The giant spider skittered and hopped in excitement. “Those are so tasty and deliciously stupid…” His mandibles began to clash and chew on imaginary goblins as he spoke, causing the Chariot to lean back again.

“Dude… They call me the freaking Necromancer or the Crypt Lord… why are you the scary one?”

#