A Blood-soaked Legacy
VII
Among the Shadows
(Shard I)
(Shard I)
"Where in Gehemol are you, you little shit!" Bhergom bellowed through the darkness ahead of him. The sounds of his leather shoes thundered throughout the darkened chambers and narrow corridors of the catacombs. "I'll make you choke on what you stole!"
Bhergom stopped to gather his breath for a moment. He steadied himself against the ice-rock wall of the corridor he was climbing through. He began to pinch at the bridge of his nose with his free hand. He would be damned if such an important artifact to his order be stolen by someone as dubious as Vhoggli.
He knew he should have stood his ground when the expedition started, back in Alsira Thaenat. The very moment that Grandmaster Toulam tried to shuffle the ugly, little runt onto him, he should have said, "No." Isilda worked her treacherous magic on him, softening him up with sugared words. He should never have relented.
By the gods, old and new, he could have found Neshran himself. It might have taken a few more months, but he was up to the challenge. As far as he was concerned, Vhoggli wasn't even a member of the Authrakallin Order. He was some slinking pet that Toulam kept for his own amusement. A slithering thing that stole knowledge from old books and provided nothing of worth to the order.
"You can't get far on those stubby little legs, you monster!" He bellowed again into the dark. "If you don't reveal yourself at this very moment, I'll kill you with my bare hands when I do catch you!" He lifted his steadying hand from the wall and punched the ice. A crack broke in the wall and echoed off. "Reveal yourself, now!"
He stomped up the rest of the steeply inclined corridor and made his way around a bend in the wall. He emerged into the large chamber containing the sarcophagus. A quick glance around the room revealed the absence of Vhoggli's stout form.
Bhergom walked slowly up to the sarcophagus before him, making sure to avoid stepping on ice or shallow ponds of frost. Once he was a few steps away, he bolted forward and screamed into the rock coffin. "Where are you, devil!"
He beat his fists on the ancient rock walls of the sarcophagus. His temper was growing with each breath. He could see the steam rising from his head and billowing in front of him from his face.
He stood for a moment among the tomb of the dead. He looked at the ice wall and the stalagmite-strewn cavern mouth above him. He didn't see any scrabblings or claw marks on the ice wall. He knew the little runt was agile and sneaky, but he had no way to know for certain if Vhoggli had mounted that wall and climbed to another area.
Light continued to filter through the ice above and from the mouth of that cavern. Shapes moved across the ceiling as light bounced off the surface of gently rippling water high above. The light was fading, however, as evening approached. The shadows grew long and it was hard for his old eyes to focus.
He looked behind him and upward. Shadows began to dance on the walls and across the ceiling. He narrowed his eyes and tried to focus hard in the dark. For a moment he thought he could make out a stout form leaping from one pillar of rock and ice to the next. He soon realized it was the dark playing tricks on him.
"Tolesh damn you! Olthenna curse you and take your wretched hide!" Bhergom took one more scouring look around the chamber and marched off to the next corridor. "The first of the Nesharite Spheres is not for you or any of your unsophisticated ilk! Return it now!"
As he made his way through another narrow corridor, he knew his words were correct. Such an artifact had tremendous importance to his order. The memories of the first oracles were trapped within. The legends of the Hoelath people were documented in each of the seven spheres. The first sphere was the very one that Vhaltenesh kept with him during his last years.
He stopped for a moment in the corridor. To his right, the water-carved stairs trailed downwards into a deep darkness. To his left was the incline up to another room he had been in. He cursed Tyverus under his breath for not being with him to supply light. He soon cursed himself for not bringing a torch.
The little creeping bastard had vision in the dark. Bhergom didn't know how powerful that ability was, if Vhoggli needed some scant bit of light, or could see things beyond the ken of mortals. Surely, it wouldn't make sense for him to run further into the dark with his prize. Even one as sly as he could get lost in the perilous tunnels and ancient chambers below.
No, he had to have gone back the way he came. If he was playing some kind of spiteful game, he knew that Bhergom wouldn't follow him to his death below. He would hide where it was familiar, where he could loom in the shadows. Or he would run like a coward and thief back to the camp above. Would he wait for them there, or would he steal their rations and make his way off this accursed island?
He turned to his left and began to march up the steep incline to the room above. He wished he could use his Haeth Arts and feel the little bastard out. He knew his essential stink from traveling with him for several months. He had the abilities, but this accursed place was playing havoc with his mind. He tried once more to reach out and feel for Vhoggli.
A snapping sound rang out in the dark. A feeling like a whip had been set loose right into Bhergom's mind. The feeling tore through him and made him stumble. He grabbed the wall before he lost his footing.
This feeling was different than when he had tried to use his arts earlier. Before all he felt was a strange sense of fog and detachment. He felt confusion then like something kept tickling at his mind and pulling him away from pooling his energies. This was entirely different. This was intentional.
"Damn you!" The words erupted from his gritted teeth. He clutched his head tightly in his hands. The echoes of the whiplash rang in his mind and with each ring felt colder. A sensation like a skeletal hand reaching out of the shadows to penetrate into his skull was taking hold. "If this your doing, Vhoggli, I will indeed kill you."
Whatever or whoever this presence was seemed to laugh at his words. There was no noise to be heard, but the feeling tore through into Bhergom's mind. He tried to reach out to the presence but it always seemed distant. Every time he tried to focus, it was as if his attentions were swatted away like he were nothing but a gnat.
As quickly as the cold lash and grip took hold, it receded. Fog rolled back over his senses and that same tickle made his mind turn abruptly. More anger boiled up at him and his attentions were placed back on Vhoggli.
Bhergom shook his head and pressed forward into the dark.
Tyverus made his way into the dark corridor beyond the skull chamber. He continued about a dozen feet until the corridor split in two. The catacombs were becoming increasingly dark as the last of the twin suns far above were setting. He took a moment to gather his energy and thoughts.
He was drained from having his energies ripped away earlier. Some of his essential energies were beginning to pool into him again, given speed and focus by the glowing runes of his mantle. He didn't have enough to fully call upon his cantrip of light, but he could at least make a glow that would help him in the dark.
He breathed in deeply, calling upon the waning reserves inside of himself. Tiny sparks began to coalesce out of the dark and pool in the gloved palm of his hand. He waited for a moment, watching and intently focusing on their dance. An orange wisp of plasma formed just above his hand. It was more like a miniature tornado of energy falling into itself over and over. The light produced was barely that of a flickering candle. That was enough for him to see, at least, his training in dark areas would have to cover the rest.
With a bit of light to guide his movements, he felt his attention draw to the right-most split in the corridor. He hadn't followed that path before, and curiosity pulled on him. This place was deep and complex, no doubt containing far more rooms than he had seen thus far. Who knew what other strange things existed in its depths.
If this is what it was like to be one of the Authrakallin Oracles, always on the search for new discoveries and hidden artifacts, he was beginning to wonder about his own choice of caste. He wasn't lying when he told Bhergom that he originally wanted to be an oracle as a child. He was born far away from harsh lands of Alsira Thaenat, where the Authrakallin made their refuge. He was born to the luxuries of Morrthault City.
Being born in such an international and metropolitan area didn't allow him freedom to seek his own path. His father demanded that he put interest in subtle arts away as a child. His path was to join the Guardian Knights of Morrthal. It was a prestigious choice of caste, and like all choices a young person must make in Hoelatha culture at their coming of age, it was a permanent one.
Tyverus knew he had, at least in a sense, made the correct choice by following his father's demands. His skills were needed in the battles that he fought for the greater good of the Hoelatha people. From the Battle of the Wounded Wolves, which had drenched him in gore and far too many nightmares to live with, to his stationing in Fyrrantha and his almost-romance with a young druid there.
He remembered the horror he witnessed; the savagery of human-against-human when her village was burned, and her people were sacrificed to some perverted god from far-away lands. If it were not him and his detachment sent there, no one would have remembered that village, that poor girl, and no one would have avenged them against the Ssvacnothi raiders.
Still, there was some lingering and selfish regret that took hold of his heart. Battles were always fought and people always died; it was the sad fate of all in this world. What kind of life could he have lived if he followed the subtle path of Haeth instead of the destructive path of Maela, as he had. He had the power within himself to drawn upon elemental magicks that could sunder kingdoms if harnessed properly. Yet, the strange arts of divination always pulled at his soul.
Vengeance was had, wars were quelled, raiders found their violent ends due to their savage choices, all by his hand. What if his hands weren't soaked in blood, but instead held the same life-giving powers that Isilda's hands held. Would his choice of being an oracle meant that more lives could have been spared? Was he willing to give up the memories of that young druid and her village, for a life he could have spent with Isilda instead?
Tyverus shook the growing thoughts and feelings in his head. What was done was done and he was here now. The choices of his life, just like those of Isilda, Bhergom, and Vhoggli, led them to this place at this time. He may not be an oracle, but he was here with them and in the presence of a beautiful one at that.
He might not be able to draw upon the powers of the past, of the future, or of the mind, but he was here to learn from them. He was here to discover the things they discovered. He could finally take part in something other than death and murder.
The darkness to his right continued to seduce him with its promise of discovery, but he pulled back from it. He turned to the left and began climbing the water-worn incline of rock. He took a few forward steps and then turned back wistfully to gaze at the darkness he turned his back on. Just like he had turned his back on so many life choices before.
Far off in the darkness above, he could hear the distant echoes of a voice bellowing. The words were muffled, but a few jumbled, vulgar words made it to his ears. It was the anger-filled voice of Bhergom, spewing his hatred of Vhoggli into the halls of the dead.
Where his curiosity stole his resolve, this dedication to duty bulwarked him. He made a promise to Isilda to find Bhergom before he killed himself in the dark. He wanted to find Vhoggli as well if only to see what this profound artifact might look like. He pushed on into the darkness, climbing further. Each footstep was resolute, and his pace began to quicken.
Bhergom stopped to gather his breath for a moment. He steadied himself against the ice-rock wall of the corridor he was climbing through. He began to pinch at the bridge of his nose with his free hand. He would be damned if such an important artifact to his order be stolen by someone as dubious as Vhoggli.
He knew he should have stood his ground when the expedition started, back in Alsira Thaenat. The very moment that Grandmaster Toulam tried to shuffle the ugly, little runt onto him, he should have said, "No." Isilda worked her treacherous magic on him, softening him up with sugared words. He should never have relented.
By the gods, old and new, he could have found Neshran himself. It might have taken a few more months, but he was up to the challenge. As far as he was concerned, Vhoggli wasn't even a member of the Authrakallin Order. He was some slinking pet that Toulam kept for his own amusement. A slithering thing that stole knowledge from old books and provided nothing of worth to the order.
"You can't get far on those stubby little legs, you monster!" He bellowed again into the dark. "If you don't reveal yourself at this very moment, I'll kill you with my bare hands when I do catch you!" He lifted his steadying hand from the wall and punched the ice. A crack broke in the wall and echoed off. "Reveal yourself, now!"
He stomped up the rest of the steeply inclined corridor and made his way around a bend in the wall. He emerged into the large chamber containing the sarcophagus. A quick glance around the room revealed the absence of Vhoggli's stout form.
Bhergom walked slowly up to the sarcophagus before him, making sure to avoid stepping on ice or shallow ponds of frost. Once he was a few steps away, he bolted forward and screamed into the rock coffin. "Where are you, devil!"
He beat his fists on the ancient rock walls of the sarcophagus. His temper was growing with each breath. He could see the steam rising from his head and billowing in front of him from his face.
He stood for a moment among the tomb of the dead. He looked at the ice wall and the stalagmite-strewn cavern mouth above him. He didn't see any scrabblings or claw marks on the ice wall. He knew the little runt was agile and sneaky, but he had no way to know for certain if Vhoggli had mounted that wall and climbed to another area.
Light continued to filter through the ice above and from the mouth of that cavern. Shapes moved across the ceiling as light bounced off the surface of gently rippling water high above. The light was fading, however, as evening approached. The shadows grew long and it was hard for his old eyes to focus.
He looked behind him and upward. Shadows began to dance on the walls and across the ceiling. He narrowed his eyes and tried to focus hard in the dark. For a moment he thought he could make out a stout form leaping from one pillar of rock and ice to the next. He soon realized it was the dark playing tricks on him.
"Tolesh damn you! Olthenna curse you and take your wretched hide!" Bhergom took one more scouring look around the chamber and marched off to the next corridor. "The first of the Nesharite Spheres is not for you or any of your unsophisticated ilk! Return it now!"
As he made his way through another narrow corridor, he knew his words were correct. Such an artifact had tremendous importance to his order. The memories of the first oracles were trapped within. The legends of the Hoelath people were documented in each of the seven spheres. The first sphere was the very one that Vhaltenesh kept with him during his last years.
He stopped for a moment in the corridor. To his right, the water-carved stairs trailed downwards into a deep darkness. To his left was the incline up to another room he had been in. He cursed Tyverus under his breath for not being with him to supply light. He soon cursed himself for not bringing a torch.
The little creeping bastard had vision in the dark. Bhergom didn't know how powerful that ability was, if Vhoggli needed some scant bit of light, or could see things beyond the ken of mortals. Surely, it wouldn't make sense for him to run further into the dark with his prize. Even one as sly as he could get lost in the perilous tunnels and ancient chambers below.
No, he had to have gone back the way he came. If he was playing some kind of spiteful game, he knew that Bhergom wouldn't follow him to his death below. He would hide where it was familiar, where he could loom in the shadows. Or he would run like a coward and thief back to the camp above. Would he wait for them there, or would he steal their rations and make his way off this accursed island?
He turned to his left and began to march up the steep incline to the room above. He wished he could use his Haeth Arts and feel the little bastard out. He knew his essential stink from traveling with him for several months. He had the abilities, but this accursed place was playing havoc with his mind. He tried once more to reach out and feel for Vhoggli.
A snapping sound rang out in the dark. A feeling like a whip had been set loose right into Bhergom's mind. The feeling tore through him and made him stumble. He grabbed the wall before he lost his footing.
This feeling was different than when he had tried to use his arts earlier. Before all he felt was a strange sense of fog and detachment. He felt confusion then like something kept tickling at his mind and pulling him away from pooling his energies. This was entirely different. This was intentional.
"Damn you!" The words erupted from his gritted teeth. He clutched his head tightly in his hands. The echoes of the whiplash rang in his mind and with each ring felt colder. A sensation like a skeletal hand reaching out of the shadows to penetrate into his skull was taking hold. "If this your doing, Vhoggli, I will indeed kill you."
Whatever or whoever this presence was seemed to laugh at his words. There was no noise to be heard, but the feeling tore through into Bhergom's mind. He tried to reach out to the presence but it always seemed distant. Every time he tried to focus, it was as if his attentions were swatted away like he were nothing but a gnat.
As quickly as the cold lash and grip took hold, it receded. Fog rolled back over his senses and that same tickle made his mind turn abruptly. More anger boiled up at him and his attentions were placed back on Vhoggli.
Bhergom shook his head and pressed forward into the dark.
* * *
Tyverus made his way into the dark corridor beyond the skull chamber. He continued about a dozen feet until the corridor split in two. The catacombs were becoming increasingly dark as the last of the twin suns far above were setting. He took a moment to gather his energy and thoughts.
He was drained from having his energies ripped away earlier. Some of his essential energies were beginning to pool into him again, given speed and focus by the glowing runes of his mantle. He didn't have enough to fully call upon his cantrip of light, but he could at least make a glow that would help him in the dark.
He breathed in deeply, calling upon the waning reserves inside of himself. Tiny sparks began to coalesce out of the dark and pool in the gloved palm of his hand. He waited for a moment, watching and intently focusing on their dance. An orange wisp of plasma formed just above his hand. It was more like a miniature tornado of energy falling into itself over and over. The light produced was barely that of a flickering candle. That was enough for him to see, at least, his training in dark areas would have to cover the rest.
With a bit of light to guide his movements, he felt his attention draw to the right-most split in the corridor. He hadn't followed that path before, and curiosity pulled on him. This place was deep and complex, no doubt containing far more rooms than he had seen thus far. Who knew what other strange things existed in its depths.
If this is what it was like to be one of the Authrakallin Oracles, always on the search for new discoveries and hidden artifacts, he was beginning to wonder about his own choice of caste. He wasn't lying when he told Bhergom that he originally wanted to be an oracle as a child. He was born far away from harsh lands of Alsira Thaenat, where the Authrakallin made their refuge. He was born to the luxuries of Morrthault City.
Being born in such an international and metropolitan area didn't allow him freedom to seek his own path. His father demanded that he put interest in subtle arts away as a child. His path was to join the Guardian Knights of Morrthal. It was a prestigious choice of caste, and like all choices a young person must make in Hoelatha culture at their coming of age, it was a permanent one.
Tyverus knew he had, at least in a sense, made the correct choice by following his father's demands. His skills were needed in the battles that he fought for the greater good of the Hoelatha people. From the Battle of the Wounded Wolves, which had drenched him in gore and far too many nightmares to live with, to his stationing in Fyrrantha and his almost-romance with a young druid there.
He remembered the horror he witnessed; the savagery of human-against-human when her village was burned, and her people were sacrificed to some perverted god from far-away lands. If it were not him and his detachment sent there, no one would have remembered that village, that poor girl, and no one would have avenged them against the Ssvacnothi raiders.
Still, there was some lingering and selfish regret that took hold of his heart. Battles were always fought and people always died; it was the sad fate of all in this world. What kind of life could he have lived if he followed the subtle path of Haeth instead of the destructive path of Maela, as he had. He had the power within himself to drawn upon elemental magicks that could sunder kingdoms if harnessed properly. Yet, the strange arts of divination always pulled at his soul.
Vengeance was had, wars were quelled, raiders found their violent ends due to their savage choices, all by his hand. What if his hands weren't soaked in blood, but instead held the same life-giving powers that Isilda's hands held. Would his choice of being an oracle meant that more lives could have been spared? Was he willing to give up the memories of that young druid and her village, for a life he could have spent with Isilda instead?
Tyverus shook the growing thoughts and feelings in his head. What was done was done and he was here now. The choices of his life, just like those of Isilda, Bhergom, and Vhoggli, led them to this place at this time. He may not be an oracle, but he was here with them and in the presence of a beautiful one at that.
He might not be able to draw upon the powers of the past, of the future, or of the mind, but he was here to learn from them. He was here to discover the things they discovered. He could finally take part in something other than death and murder.
The darkness to his right continued to seduce him with its promise of discovery, but he pulled back from it. He turned to the left and began climbing the water-worn incline of rock. He took a few forward steps and then turned back wistfully to gaze at the darkness he turned his back on. Just like he had turned his back on so many life choices before.
Far off in the darkness above, he could hear the distant echoes of a voice bellowing. The words were muffled, but a few jumbled, vulgar words made it to his ears. It was the anger-filled voice of Bhergom, spewing his hatred of Vhoggli into the halls of the dead.
Where his curiosity stole his resolve, this dedication to duty bulwarked him. He made a promise to Isilda to find Bhergom before he killed himself in the dark. He wanted to find Vhoggli as well if only to see what this profound artifact might look like. He pushed on into the darkness, climbing further. Each footstep was resolute, and his pace began to quicken.
* * *
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