Sepulchrave II
Legend
Last update for a week or so - I'm off into the mountains hiking with my wife.
**
Tersimion, a mage of extraordinary genius, had been an enigma.
Unlike the vast majority of his peers, whose religious sentiments ran the gamut from indifference to disdain, Tersimion had possessed faith in the judgement of a single deity. What had further distinguished him from the other members of the magical community – most of whom regarded him as sadly misguided – was that his conversion and catechesis arrived late in life, well after he had established a reputation as a spellcaster of prodigious power.
His contributions to the Oronthonian cause had been numerous and diverse, but his final gift, the vault beneath the Temple at Morne, was the one for which he was rightly best remembered.
The vault was, in fact, a series of miniature nested demi-planes, impervious to magical travel of any kind and warded against scrying with the most potent of spells. It was known to possess areas of antimagic, it was roamed by golems and axiomatic manticores, and boasted sophisticated mechanical traps to boot. Its single entrance was guarded by four paladins whose sole duty was to prevent unauthorized access – more to protect the innocent, than through any fear that those who did somehow pass them would penetrate the vault’s mysteries. The knights took shifts – two of them guarded the portal for twelve hours at a stretch, whilst the other pair rested and prayed. The Temple Exchequer had maintained this tradition for two hundred years.
Mostin was reticent. "Although I have no objection to larceny," he told Iua, "and I am also intrigued by the intellectual challenge that this poses, I am wary that any involvement by me – especially given Ortwin’s history with the Temple – might be construed as an overtly political act. I do not wish the ire of the council to descend upon me for violating the Injunction."
"I agree," she said cautiously, "that we must tread carefully. But the rewards are staggering. As well as the sheer volume of coinage – over one hundred thousand gold crowns are maintained as a floating balance – every promissory note and record of transaction is kept there. It would send the Temple finances into utter chaos if …"
"Wait!" Ortwin said. "I thought that you said this was about opportunism, not striking some political blow for an abstract cause that I’m not sure I have any time for."
Iua shrugged. "We may as well sound the trumpet for liberty and freedom while we’re there – it’s not as if it’ll be much extra effort. A gallon of oil and a tindertwig will do it. Assuming that Mostin isn’t willing to cast a ‘Fireball.’"
Ortwin eyed the girl suspiciously. "I’d rather not burn the Fane down. I don’t think Ed would be all that impressed." He had the sneaking suspicion that Iua was a closet idealist after all.
Mostin snorted. "If we managed that, it would be the first interplanar conflagration in history. My main problem is that I don’t feel that the reward is ample to the risk involved – money is merely money. Are there magical devices stored in the vault? Artifacts?" His eyes gleamed greedily.
"Not to my knowledge," Iua confessed. She reached into a pocket and produced an ivory tube. "But if you are willing to forego a percentage of your cut, then another kind of remuneration might be agreed upon." Iua uncorked the tube and pulled a bundle of papers out. Unrolling them, she handed the top one to Mostin. It was a spell, which read:
‘Mulissu’s Passage of Lightning.’
The Alienist was about to say something, but Iua handed him another scroll. It read:
‘Mulissu’s Rhapsody of the Clouds.’
Mostin swallowed reflexively. She handed him another scroll:
‘Mulissu’s Quasi-Elemental Transformation.’
And another:
‘Mulissu’s Instantaneous Elemental Tempest.’
And finally:
‘Mulissu’s Ultimate Plasma Evocation.’
Mostin looked at them and hyperventilated for a few moments before he regained his ability to speak. "You stole these from your own mother?" Apparently the young lady was quite unscrupulous.
"They are copies," Iua explained. "Made by her, of course. And I am not entirely unscrupulous."
Mostin was still shaking. The last two dweomers were beyond even his ability to manifest, but he understood the principles. And the Plasma Evocation could be modified into a sonic…
But if Mulissu ever found out…
He couldn’t help himself.
"We have a deal," the Alienist said. "And Iua…"
She looked at him.
"A mage’s mind is his private domain. If you ever try to read my thoughts again, you will suffer the consequences. Do you understand?"
"Noted," she said.
**
Nwm and a young Tunthi shaman sat together near a fire. As neither could speak the language of the other, and neither possessed any spell with which they could be made intelligible to each other, Nwm had taken the logical step of using an eagle to translate. After all, both present COULD speak with animals. And eagles were relatively articulate as far as avians went.
They were waiting for the older shaman, Tietäjä, to return from a dream-quest, in which he was speaking with his deceased ancestors and looking for guidance. The other members of the Tuern – a type of extended family group numbering sixty souls – had retired to their rude skin huts, leaving the Druid alone with the initiate, Sarajoa. He was young, Nwm mused, but already possessed more wisdom than most of the clergy in Oronthon’s church. His closeness to the land was manifested in his speech and mannerisms, and he felt no pressing need to make small talk, or muse on the meaning of life, or engage in pointless philosophical banter. For most of the time, the eagle stood silent.
These people can teach me, Nwm thought.
When Tietäjä finally emerged from his hut, he looked tired but satisfied. He hobbled over to the fire and drew his cloak around himself, before pouring mead into a cup carved from birchwood and drinking deeply.
"I ascended to the fires," he said.* "I spoke with my grandfather. I asked him if my Green was your Green, or whether they were different."
"What did he say?" Nwm asked.
"He said that they are neither the same, nor different, nor both, nor neither," Tietäjä smiled ironically. "Which is another way of telling me not to think with my head, but with my stomach."
"What does your stomach tell you?" Nwm asked.
Tietäjä laughed loudly. "It tells me that I am getting too old to eat this much meat, and I should change my diet. I like you Nwm, but this struggle that you speak of is a long way from here. I cannot FEEL it, it does not move me. Only rarely do my people leave the Linna.** But when they do, they take something of it with them."
Nwm said nothing, but listened.
"There is another Tuern, whose territory lies three days from here towards the sunrise," the Shaman said. "They are not our enemies, nor are they our friends. Five years ago, several of their men – great warriors – left their family to travel to the warm lands. My grandfather told me that you seek one of these men. His name is Hullu."
Nwm nodded. "Where can I find this Hullu?" he asked.
"You must speak to the people in the other Tuern," Tietäjä said. "They will answer your questions. You will need to find a token that belonged to Hullu, and then use your magic to locate him."
Nwm stood and bowed, preparing to leave.
"Beware of their shaman. She is dangerous."
Nwm nodded, and dissolved into mist.
**
"How many?" Eadric asked.
"Eight hundred Templars and around four thousand auxiliaries," Mostin replied. "They left at dawn."
Eadric groaned.
"There’s more. Two smaller forces also marched this morning – one from Tomur and another from Thahan. They are also heading for Trempa, although from the north."
Eadric nodded grimly. "I’ll speak to Soraine. We’ll need to act quickly."
*The Tunthi believe that the polar aurora is the seat of all wisdom.
** Lit., "Enclosure." The Tunthi name for the desolate plateau on which they live, Tun Hartha.
**
Tersimion, a mage of extraordinary genius, had been an enigma.
Unlike the vast majority of his peers, whose religious sentiments ran the gamut from indifference to disdain, Tersimion had possessed faith in the judgement of a single deity. What had further distinguished him from the other members of the magical community – most of whom regarded him as sadly misguided – was that his conversion and catechesis arrived late in life, well after he had established a reputation as a spellcaster of prodigious power.
His contributions to the Oronthonian cause had been numerous and diverse, but his final gift, the vault beneath the Temple at Morne, was the one for which he was rightly best remembered.
The vault was, in fact, a series of miniature nested demi-planes, impervious to magical travel of any kind and warded against scrying with the most potent of spells. It was known to possess areas of antimagic, it was roamed by golems and axiomatic manticores, and boasted sophisticated mechanical traps to boot. Its single entrance was guarded by four paladins whose sole duty was to prevent unauthorized access – more to protect the innocent, than through any fear that those who did somehow pass them would penetrate the vault’s mysteries. The knights took shifts – two of them guarded the portal for twelve hours at a stretch, whilst the other pair rested and prayed. The Temple Exchequer had maintained this tradition for two hundred years.
Mostin was reticent. "Although I have no objection to larceny," he told Iua, "and I am also intrigued by the intellectual challenge that this poses, I am wary that any involvement by me – especially given Ortwin’s history with the Temple – might be construed as an overtly political act. I do not wish the ire of the council to descend upon me for violating the Injunction."
"I agree," she said cautiously, "that we must tread carefully. But the rewards are staggering. As well as the sheer volume of coinage – over one hundred thousand gold crowns are maintained as a floating balance – every promissory note and record of transaction is kept there. It would send the Temple finances into utter chaos if …"
"Wait!" Ortwin said. "I thought that you said this was about opportunism, not striking some political blow for an abstract cause that I’m not sure I have any time for."
Iua shrugged. "We may as well sound the trumpet for liberty and freedom while we’re there – it’s not as if it’ll be much extra effort. A gallon of oil and a tindertwig will do it. Assuming that Mostin isn’t willing to cast a ‘Fireball.’"
Ortwin eyed the girl suspiciously. "I’d rather not burn the Fane down. I don’t think Ed would be all that impressed." He had the sneaking suspicion that Iua was a closet idealist after all.
Mostin snorted. "If we managed that, it would be the first interplanar conflagration in history. My main problem is that I don’t feel that the reward is ample to the risk involved – money is merely money. Are there magical devices stored in the vault? Artifacts?" His eyes gleamed greedily.
"Not to my knowledge," Iua confessed. She reached into a pocket and produced an ivory tube. "But if you are willing to forego a percentage of your cut, then another kind of remuneration might be agreed upon." Iua uncorked the tube and pulled a bundle of papers out. Unrolling them, she handed the top one to Mostin. It was a spell, which read:
‘Mulissu’s Passage of Lightning.’
The Alienist was about to say something, but Iua handed him another scroll. It read:
‘Mulissu’s Rhapsody of the Clouds.’
Mostin swallowed reflexively. She handed him another scroll:
‘Mulissu’s Quasi-Elemental Transformation.’
And another:
‘Mulissu’s Instantaneous Elemental Tempest.’
And finally:
‘Mulissu’s Ultimate Plasma Evocation.’
Mostin looked at them and hyperventilated for a few moments before he regained his ability to speak. "You stole these from your own mother?" Apparently the young lady was quite unscrupulous.
"They are copies," Iua explained. "Made by her, of course. And I am not entirely unscrupulous."
Mostin was still shaking. The last two dweomers were beyond even his ability to manifest, but he understood the principles. And the Plasma Evocation could be modified into a sonic…
But if Mulissu ever found out…
He couldn’t help himself.
"We have a deal," the Alienist said. "And Iua…"
She looked at him.
"A mage’s mind is his private domain. If you ever try to read my thoughts again, you will suffer the consequences. Do you understand?"
"Noted," she said.
**
Nwm and a young Tunthi shaman sat together near a fire. As neither could speak the language of the other, and neither possessed any spell with which they could be made intelligible to each other, Nwm had taken the logical step of using an eagle to translate. After all, both present COULD speak with animals. And eagles were relatively articulate as far as avians went.
They were waiting for the older shaman, Tietäjä, to return from a dream-quest, in which he was speaking with his deceased ancestors and looking for guidance. The other members of the Tuern – a type of extended family group numbering sixty souls – had retired to their rude skin huts, leaving the Druid alone with the initiate, Sarajoa. He was young, Nwm mused, but already possessed more wisdom than most of the clergy in Oronthon’s church. His closeness to the land was manifested in his speech and mannerisms, and he felt no pressing need to make small talk, or muse on the meaning of life, or engage in pointless philosophical banter. For most of the time, the eagle stood silent.
These people can teach me, Nwm thought.
When Tietäjä finally emerged from his hut, he looked tired but satisfied. He hobbled over to the fire and drew his cloak around himself, before pouring mead into a cup carved from birchwood and drinking deeply.
"I ascended to the fires," he said.* "I spoke with my grandfather. I asked him if my Green was your Green, or whether they were different."
"What did he say?" Nwm asked.
"He said that they are neither the same, nor different, nor both, nor neither," Tietäjä smiled ironically. "Which is another way of telling me not to think with my head, but with my stomach."
"What does your stomach tell you?" Nwm asked.
Tietäjä laughed loudly. "It tells me that I am getting too old to eat this much meat, and I should change my diet. I like you Nwm, but this struggle that you speak of is a long way from here. I cannot FEEL it, it does not move me. Only rarely do my people leave the Linna.** But when they do, they take something of it with them."
Nwm said nothing, but listened.
"There is another Tuern, whose territory lies three days from here towards the sunrise," the Shaman said. "They are not our enemies, nor are they our friends. Five years ago, several of their men – great warriors – left their family to travel to the warm lands. My grandfather told me that you seek one of these men. His name is Hullu."
Nwm nodded. "Where can I find this Hullu?" he asked.
"You must speak to the people in the other Tuern," Tietäjä said. "They will answer your questions. You will need to find a token that belonged to Hullu, and then use your magic to locate him."
Nwm stood and bowed, preparing to leave.
"Beware of their shaman. She is dangerous."
Nwm nodded, and dissolved into mist.
**
"How many?" Eadric asked.
"Eight hundred Templars and around four thousand auxiliaries," Mostin replied. "They left at dawn."
Eadric groaned.
"There’s more. Two smaller forces also marched this morning – one from Tomur and another from Thahan. They are also heading for Trempa, although from the north."
Eadric nodded grimly. "I’ll speak to Soraine. We’ll need to act quickly."
*The Tunthi believe that the polar aurora is the seat of all wisdom.
** Lit., "Enclosure." The Tunthi name for the desolate plateau on which they live, Tun Hartha.
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