Chapter 16 - The tale of the first and fallen (Rookie games arc)

　　In the gloom they thus gathered, their forms faintly lit by the magestone treasures. Artisan spoke most, regaled the prince with his hard-earned truths—tale and terror of the goblin death.

　　"From conjecture I have gleaned..." he mused, stroking absently at the medallion sitting on his chest. "Certainty. Or something close enough in its orbit..."

　　"Speak plainly and not in riddle," broke in the prince. "Tell me all you know and start from the beginning. I will discern myself what is fact and what is folly."

　　"Well... in the beginning was the word," said Artisan. "Spoken at the forging of the gods by our Lord and by our Lady long departed. Then the gods moulded man, forged him in their own image but fragile, made with mortal matter." Artisan fixed his gaze upon the prince. "Have you knowledge of divine Kageru, once exalted, now fallen?"

　　"You speak the demon`s name so lightly—Kageru the defiler, pit-lord, corruptor of souls?" The prince recoiled from the mere mention... but his nerves were allayed when the moment passed without retaliation—no bolt or fire from the heavens to strike them all down. The Lady Linaria did not even stir.

　　"He is all those things and more," said Artisan. "But a god nonetheless—the kindest and most gracious once, but where the other gods saw right to avert their gaze from man in his strife and toil and death... Kageru could not. He sought to remedy the flaws of the flesh—wanted man to rise and be like him, strong and everlasting. So he took his blade and rent the bodies of the dead, sliced at the heart and mind of man... carved away the rot of earthly decay. And the dead, they rose as though from slumber—a life after life, but fleeting. It was not long until the rot returned, and so too the sacred surgeon. Again and again, Kageru carved and cut, digging ever deeper to see a life restored... but it was always less that remained. Yet Kageru kept on, bitter now and resentful, removing more of the mind and heart. With the loss of mind, man forgot to remember... and with the loss of heart they turned wrothful and ghastly. The inner rot came growing out; their skin turned green and the form became warped—a soul now twisted and frayed. Beastlike. The first of the goblins."

　　"And the god went on to perish," the Lady Linaria wove in. "Kageru was himself now blighted, the stain of his sin against creation spreading in green—a mind and heart like all the goblins. And so too at last his skin. The other gods caught wind then of his madness. They bore down on him with heaven`s wrath, turning the blade against their kin. But that was not the last of it. A great curse fell upon the blades—the Lord and the Lady passing judgment. The goblin curse. So thorned was this curse that all the gods relinquished their arms... lest they, too, become like Kageru. And what the gods discard, man takes to himself. The god-blades to slay a god. Dicebolg and Caladbrinn, the two master weapons, whole to this very day. Ziegb鰈t was the third recorded in the annals... it was Kageru`s own blade. And it shattered with him. Seven shards is what remains—two large ones; they are the lesser blades known to us as Ferignost and Truor鷖t... the first is lost since the fall of sir Gavrilon." Artisan winced at hearing the name, like a physical blow had just been landed. Linaria gave pause... then went on. "And Truor鷖t is the bane of my order. It was sent to me personally as headmistress of the Arcanifactum. An unnamed relic or so I thought—I did not recognize it for what it was. Not until I handled it without my magiguard gauntlet... a fool`s misgiving, for the shard came alive, singed deep into the flesh of my hand. And then I knew. But too late." She motioned at the mark on her forehead, present still but waning.

　　Artisan broke in. "The five smaller shards of Ziegb鰈t are scattered, nameless in the eyes of gods, but not therefore without power. They are brandished now by the lesser branches of nobles and mages—the cadet-line of the Blackrose must surely possess one, for some have served down here with me, slaves to the goblin death. They all went mad near as soon as they arrived... though I know not why their mark was the same as yours—the wilted rose that Dicebolg imparts. There are many mysteries still, even to a faded one as me. My mark has gone now for many deaths, and it is by blood and will alone that I hold on to reason... but the strain of it does not go untold." Artisan winced, twisting where he sat, hand wavering towards the arc on his back and then the bloody foot. "And yet I endure, a lone anomaly. I have seen none who last as I do. Who are time and again spawned warped like me. But as long as forever I shall hold on, for if I do not, I will become as they are. The hording savages outside."Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

　　A silent moment dawned. The prince leaned back, staring at the damp and dark ceiling and hoping... praying that one god or other would find the grace simply to burst forth and shatter him from being. That, or restore him to life... proper, gainful life. Not this. He could think in absolutes alone—a final condemnation or a pardon, full and free. Both had a beauty to them now. The sense of absolution he was after.

　　"And what is this?" the prince asked finally, clutching at the blood-marred dagger to his side, more red now than ever there had been yellow. "And this, and this—all of this?" His voice raged high as he grabbed at the buckler, the locket, the ring. "What foul and twisted joke am I now part of?"

　　"A foulness indeed," said Artisan. "When Kageru fell, the rites did not fall with him. The first of the goblins in his host—the ones time and again revived—they took to carving themselves and each other. Scraping at the mind and heart but failing. They could not impart life, save for with their hardened loins. So they took to breeding. Hatching broken spawns from eggs and not livebirth. Lesser goblins all, for only the greatest of goblins can pair with a broodmother, forging empty vessels for sinful souls to gather in. An endless hell, death and death again—all those who have held a god-blade. Tethered forever to the goblin curse. With madness the only escape." Artisan fell silent.

　　The prince sprang to his feet, incensed at the absence of answers, the convolution of myth and legend... the lack of an actionable anything. But Linaria raised the box from her lap, a subtle shift to bring the prince pause. "Enough of the far-off tales," she said, turning then to Artisan. "Do you... have it?"

　　"The prince here went deep to get it." Artisan put the satchel proudly on display—dust from a blue magestone ore.

　　Linaria`s eyes shone with covetous desire, glinting now like the magestones in their hold. "What good is it to you at this point?" she snapped at Artisan. "You are beyond salvation—you know this. And I... I have a last, dying chance. Give it to me, please. I beg of you."

　　"I am merely holding it," said Artisan. "It belongs to our liege to do with as he wills."

　　Linaria turned to Cedric, the same voracious appetite in her eyes. "Prince, have mercy on this mage. It is just dust to you—it has no purpose. To me it is everything."

　　"A trade," the prince suggested. "You have told me tales and nothing but—that goes for both of you. What am I to do with stories of gods and that devil Kageru? You plead for justice but tell me not which thing waylaid you." The prince grabbed the satchel, tossed it to Linaria. "Here it is, the dust that has cost me. Do with it what you will—open that box you cherish so. But promise me as solemn as you have sworn... that all will be made clear. Answers to my sordid state and yours. And our vengeance."

　　Linaria nodded eagerly; Artisan did so in more subdued a manner. But both seemed earnest. That was enough for now, and the prince sat back, curious for the contents of the box to be revealed.

　　"My gratitude... dear prince..." Linaria spoke in hushed tones, bent over box and satchel with feverous delight. "A thousand times over my gratitude." She looked now at Artisan, who gave her his medallion, holding on just a tad too long in the passing.

　　Studying the box up close, the prince saw the subtle difference—it was like Artisan`s at the beach but also not. The grooves in the wood were deeper, the binding far more potent. Even still, a hightower mage would crack it clean open, no qualm or question about it. Linaria in her true form as the prince had known her... a scholar of high renown, ranked specialist in glyph-and runebinding... she would have needed neither key nor dust. But she and he, and in truth all three, they were now so dreadfully diminished. The rules once more applied and not the exception.

　　Like any glyphbinder novice, Linaria bent in ardent focus over the box, inserting the cracked medallion. It was the wrong key, for it was Artisan`s, and worn beyond simple utility. The dust was used for augmentation—flaring out in faint blue flickers as she heaped it on, filling the cracks and grooves the key had failed to reach. Her hand worked over the etched wood and the metal, her brow furrowing with strain.

　　With a blast, the box broke open—so loud was the sound to their goblin ears.

　　The key popped back out, more fractured still from use. But Artisan took it. Wore it round his neck once more—his treasured medallion.

　　Tearful, Linaria reached inside the box, pulled out a worn cloth gauntlet. Embroidered on it was a rune circle, the key and quill of the Arcanicum drawn neatly within.

　　A magiguard gauntlet. Fit to furnace the wearer with a great resilience. Sufficient for some to wield a master weapon.

　　Not quite a god-blade.

　　But perhaps a shard.