Chapter 31 - The chains we forge in life - Artisan`s tale (First Evolution arc)

　　"He does not let me forget."

　　The first words from Artisan`s mouth. Then a long silence.

　　Sitting back with head bent, the prince did not intervene. He respected the silence. It belonged to them, to Artisan who suffered to speak. To the prince, who suffered to hear grave words spoken.

　　"Ah, I must tell my tale from fairer beginnings. My mind does not permit the words to flow otherwise."

　　He took a deep breath, Artisan. Closed his eyes and he was there in mind, a thin smile on his hell-dead face. "When I was young, I met a girl—no, a woman. We lived here and there, took what we wanted from the ample land, giving back by planting seeds and spreading nature`s gracious bounty. She is the one I love, and losing her was death."

　　The man`s tone had gone from wistful to animalistic—the final words were a rancour-filled hiss.

　　At length he went on.

　　"She moved like the wind and her eyes were as diamonds, so fierce, so brilliant. Fire and frost were hers to command, though she favoured the sword—the steel seemed to her somehow less tainted. Then the years went by, and I grew old. But not her. The woman I loved was as sharp and clear as the winter dawn, not a streak of grey to mottle her hair. Sometimes I think she loved me also. A man can but dream of the stars; they remain where they are. Soundly out of reach."

　　Stretching his sore back, but to no avail—the pain was constant—Artisan winced and then sat still.

　　"Can you guess her name, my prince?"

　　"Thanell," said the prince in the same beat; their hearts were both lost to loves no longer living—it sounded better that way. Not as far gone as dead. "Or Yulvolde the half-fallen, if I infer correctly."

　　"Aye, prince." There was no sign of surprise on the stoic man`s face, no sign of anything—he was searching old memories.

　　And the prince did the same, eyes going hazy as he let his gaze drift to Gael and to Gendrin, the two locked in forever, starkly opposed and together. He felt hate and a thing he could not place. His fists balled and... no. Now was not the time—it was not his moment but his friend`s.

　　Artisan sighed. "Why is it so that the righteous perish? That the world is so hard and cold and dead—ah, don`t burden me with answers, prince. There are none." His stare was empty, and so too the prince`s; they were both looking past the other, seeking answers to questions better left unposed.

　　"She was the light itself, but they took from her everything. Her only sin was mercy—she wanted peace, true peace in heaven. For Kageru to confess to his sins and disavow his foul creations, the goblins; indeed, prince, so sweet was she to think the devil not beyond the pale of atonement. But her kindhearted nature was turned against her. Her efforts to reform the devil were falsely construed to mean the opposite, as aiding and abetting the fallen god. Madness of course—she fought hard against his goblin hordes during the battle of the gods, and ever after... for centuries and perhaps millennia—time meant little to her and she did not know how long had passed. Oh prince, how many hundreds of full-grown greenskins that woman has slain... yet it was all for nought."

　　Artisan shook his head, then dipped down from the sickbed, started rummaging through the stowed-away stuff at the back—the place was a mess. Knives, bone saws and tourniquets strewn all over, the ground beset with bleeding bowls and clay containers with salves or ointments or unprocessed herbs. But it did not take long for the old man to locate what he needed—a bottle of hell`s finest, some mildewed ale that took the sting from soulful retrospect. "Bjegh," Artisan said or belched, then tossed the bottle and looked for better. He soon found some half-evaporated sample, an ale so thick it was syrup. But by the long-gone gods it was potent—they passed it around and the weight was less felt. The past more remote.

　　"She was not yet a woman when they cast her out," Artisan went on. "This graceful, well-wishing creature wanting nothing but to heal the broken dealings of broken gods. For that, she was stripped of her full divine grace and left to roam as a demi-god. Forced to watch her kin leave this hell-tainted world. Aye, she`s said it to me once, prince, what it was like, watching em fly off to... gods know where. Spiteful bastards. Can you imagine that, shaping a world and seeing it`s good and then when it`s not, you just shrug and spread your wings and abandon it? Some gods they turned out to be. And it`s the hell they`d caused, don`t forget... anyway, said she felt small and fragile then. Wanted to crawl away somewhere and die." He took a big swig, drowned her sorrow as though it were his, and it was.

　　"But that`s not what she did. She stood up and took the weight of the world on her skinny damn shoulders till it was too heavy and I too weak—oh prince, it was me that necked her, old Gavr... ah, you know my lost name; I cannot speak it, for that is my right no longer. We had set up camp near the mouth of the Lothunc river, the roaming magi and I, for the lady Thanell knew her end was nearing—she looked as young and divine as ever, but I had seen her soul; she taught me. And demi-gods are not immortal. Her long life had been spent gathering and guarding the known shards of Ziegb鰈t. Ferignost was hers before it was mine. With her last full strength, she had ridden to the gates of hell to challenge Gorkon—can you imagine, a full god gone goblin versus his fading sister? Not quite a fair duel but still a dead draw, so the lady Thanell told us when she rode into camp blood-covered; that fiend Gorkon had withdrawn after some hundred bouts—they duel the old-fashioned way, gentlemanly or godly I suppose. Except that rotten taskmaster did not keep to his word; the lady arrived with a warband of goblins trailing her..."

　　Artisan fell silent, taking more than his fair share of ale, but the prince did not mind it, would forgive a roundabout way of hearing it, as long as the words came eventually. It is not every day you recount the tale of your dead demi-god love.

　　"Ah, that`s the good stuff; I feel lighter already. You know, there was no central command back then to reinforce us, before Feldirk tried to rise up from a land then essentially ungoverned... bah, the ineffectual muck of a peerage parliament—but he was a true man, prince, charging in first before the men, Feldirk on his plate-coated destrier, wielding the irreverent blade of his line, deceptive Caladbrinn; it is a runesword first, but also..."

　　"A staff," the prince cut in, blinking slowly as though facing down a sworn foe in a deadlocked stare. "Fires a void sphere of high magic calibre. I know it all too well." He smiled despite himself. Before his time would come to go mad or be obliterated from being... he would look upon the corpse of the veiled darkmage and smile as he did now. A sick dead grin that was nearer to madness than any man might have need to know. That`s what made it beautiful.

　　"Aye, the acolytes got you too," said Artisan. "Landsbury, I know it, prince. Gorkon`s doing if you had not gathered—ah, save your strength, prince... stew in the hate till it`s good and ready. Listen now and lash out later; this drunkard`s words are not written down, so cherish them, please."

　　The prince had risen in rage though without target, stalking like the shadow of wrath along the healer`s hall, pacing its length and then back; they were in the second-grade section, behind the rock-coloured curtain—there was no place here for rookies. Save for Artisan, who would go where he wanted... on Gorkon`s orders, it was now apparent.

　　"Where is the Lady Linaria?" asked the prince, relenting as he saw her sit there in memory, his hands reaching out to treat her—the poultice of honey on her scabbed-over mark.

　　"In the egg, went in yesterday—she`ll be fine, it`s not her first time." Artisan swilled a large gulp, then tossed the bottle to the prince—it was nearly empty.

　　"Proceed with your tale, before I ruin my name and this room—the rage is growing deeper."

　　"Aye, prince, it does. And wait till you get to the third stage... one more time in the egg, and there`s no telling what comes out. It`s got Gorkon worried, you should know—if you`re like Rodrich he`s in for a hell of a time, wresting you for control. But that`s the thin line he has to thread, needs you strong but not too strong... and that`s the one thing he can`t control, what a Blackrose royal can become. It scares him and I love to see it—you better get that damn bastard, hear me, prince?"

　　The prince emptied the bottle, threw it down just to hear glass shatter. "Go on, what of Feldirk? The ale has you swaying in word as in step—there`s no straight line to what you`re saying." But the phrase came out slurred, and they smirked both, knowing the other`s mind better than most times. "And cease with the aye`s—you`re a sworn knight with a golden soul, not some damn pirate."This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

　　"Aye, my prince."

　　The two men shared a laugh, heartfelt and bitter—they knew it for a thin distraction. No time now for reprieves.

　　Artisan coughed, a phlegmy rasp and he spat on the floor. "Feldirk was grand, not but a shade lighter than great Rodrich in the scales of history. How many men can boast of such a legacy. It was fate alone that did him in—a virulent sickness on the campaign trail. The man marched for weeks without breath, rallying men under his banner and his bid for kingship; it was promised him if he quelled the goblin incursions that were rampant then, ravaging all the plains and crops and outskirt towns. Had he lived, it would have been different. Rodrich might not have become what he was, and thus no ruling Blackrose line... ah, but again I digress. It is hard to give words to what is always in mind, within, where it should be and remain."

　　"Take what time you think you need, friend Artisan. Tell me then of your downfall."

　　"Still ongoing, my prince. There is no depth I have not seen, save for tomorrow and the day after. But my first and true death came at night in the Northern Hold—you have heard the tales. This one was holed up there, staving off a warband worth of goblins, but failing; the place would become my grave. I was nearing one hundred years of age, relegated to token defender of a trivial outpost... not a smattering of men under my command. The taskmaster had sent his full force at the time; he had need of Ferignost, shard of Ziegb鰈t, the weapon I wielded with great solemn effort—it is no small feat for one without the ancient blood... did you see the tome in the scholar`s hall? It is worth a read, the goblin rendition."

　　"There is not enough ale in hell to keep me calm if you don`t soon get to your story`s end."

　　"Ah, but the hero dies in the end—what sort of tale is that? Vol`krin was warchief then, when the Northern Hold fell. It brought me much joy to see you choke the life out of him—my plan was to lure him astray into the forest, to litter the ground with caltrops and descend on him three on one. But you showed me greatness then, and I began to believe." Artisan leaned back, closing his eyes; the man looked beaten. A shade removed from death. "It was me and a handful of men that remained when they tore down the gate. Hundreds of goblins—Vol`krin had a true talent for command; to impel so many raiders and captains, that comes once in a few generations. Most warbands splinter when a few dozen troops travel too long together—they get to infighting. I should have been so lucky. When they barged in, fangs bared, I knew I was done, and that the shard Ferignost would be reclaimed by the devil`s side. All I wanted was a clean end—I had sat down mindful, cutting out my own guts. Seemed honourable enough. I had instructed my men to hack me apart and bury me in two parts; you know the deal. But they must have shat themselves when they felt the end coming, and they did not heed my command, evidently. And here I am now, and that`s my tale."

　　The prince furrowed his brow. "I have let you flit from here to there, and still don`t know the proper end. What of Thanell?"

　　"Ah, you don`t forget, do you, prince? She was half dead when she arrived at camp, and with about a hundred goblins trailing her... we fought, the magi there gathered. But it was a hopeless fight, too outnumbered. Most of the magi the lady Thanell had trained abandoned her, left her to die... the cowards took the last of the horses; the ones that had not already bolted off frightened, poor animals. So there we were, and I fought and she fought; we would both have died, and I wish it had been so. But she needed me for something more. We had fenced our way to the ruins of a fortified inn, seeking refuge in this building long since abandoned—there was little left but the structure. Thanell was bleeding out; her body was smashed. Then she pleaded and I stepped up, closing my eyes as I swung that dark blade Ferignost. Cleaved the head clean off my beloved. Then I grabbed it and tried not to think; I torched the place down—I had some command over fire then. My love`s body burned and many goblins with it. Then I ran out the back door, carrying the head, rushing past goblins and axes and arrows—barely made it to the river, and I dove in. Most goblins fear moving water; they cannot swim, so gradually I lost ever more assailants. When my body was safe... that was the last time I felt pure joy. I procured an ornate box with a magestone lock, and I dug for hours and hours, found a nice patch of woodland. Then I buried the head of my love so deep that I knew—she would never be a goblin. I had done right by her, and I was glad. For days I was there, slept and wept without food, simply scared and broken; I wanted to stay, to be with her."

　　"But you were strong and lived on," the prince offered. "The stuff of heroes."

　　"Aye, and when my time came, one death was not enough for this hero—again and again I must perish. I cannot forget though I want to more than anything, prince. Scour my mind; obliterate my senses. Have it all over with. But the bastard does not let me. Gorkon. When I spawned green with the sign of Ferignost on me, he knew—here`s the man my sister had cared for; the man who had killed her and kept her from his grasp. He has toyed with me ever since. It is not I who stave off the madness. No, prince... I do not possess the inordinate will I have claimed thus far—rather, it is the taskmaster cursing me anew each time; he wants me to know what I did and be haunted forever. But to keep my mind he has to break my body—he is limited in godliness, and this body`s deformities are the acts of compensation required. He has promised to release me if I guide a Blackrose goblin back to Dicebolg and beyond... almost had I done it with the first, Rodrich the great—I will tell you of him later, but first learn what you can, both from books and your keen intuition. Discovery is gold when it comes to experience points; that is a key tenet of statistics. Other elites are told where to go, get picked up by their classmaster; but you are left in the dark on purpose—explore and see what fine halls hell has to offer. That is how you grow the fastest."

　　Artisan stood up then. "I must report to my captor on your state—shall I say it is sordid?" He laughed, though only to hold back the tears.

　　But the prince did not laugh as he stood up also. He walked to the man who had just bared his soul for the second time. His friend now, truly—there were no more reservations. "It is all too late for this young fool to say what he will—you are proven to me, friend Artisan." And the prince grabbed him by the shoulder, in comfort, in praise. "Allow me to elevate the credence of words already spoken." Then he did the unthinkable—the prince dipping low to one knee, deepening the solemn oath he had sworn before. "I will break Gorkon and rule in hell. You will be free from your bodily sorrow. Then I will free your mind and mine; we give our true bodies the proper burial due, so that our souls may soar and not linger. This life or this death will be our last one. Believe me, for the blood of kings is strong in me. I will do what Rodrich could not. Vengeance will be ours—Gorkon will die like a gutted pig, and my own archnemeses will hang by the neck with their hands cut off and their feet. The bleeding will be staunched and the noose loosened when death is near. Their futile struggle will go on until even I am repulsed; only then will they have repented. Trust in me, friend Artisan. I will be hell`s darkest prince yet."

　　Artisan pulled the prince to his feet. "Don`t you do that—don`t you ever do that. A prince like you does not kneel." Then his chest heaved, and he cried those long-imprisoned tears; not a moment of respite had this man been granted, not in all his years in hell. "I can`t do it no more, prince. Have mercy on this old, broken man. Save me, please."

　　They stood for a while in earnest embrace, one comforting the other as tears flowed; both were stronger for it.

　　"Aye, time to go—the taskmaster does not like to wait."

　　"Why did he not come to see me?" the prince asked.

　　"He is dead tired from commanding a new batch of hatchlings, as well as several raid captains who had returned from minor missions."

　　The prince thought for a moment—should he ask the question when a damning answer loomed? But he was done being a coward. For now. "The huntress... will she be among them?"

　　"Perhaps, but have no illusions, prince. I placated you then, for you were raw from birth and battle... she was not better than I had supposed possible; she did not and does not love you—the concept is foreign to her. Make no mistake, she was more pleasant a companion than I had thought likely... but all she knows is war or obedience, nay, infatuation. Your aura as a Blackrose royal strikes deep in some goblins and deeper still in others. She died in obeyance to an implicit command you would not then have given voice. Yet it was there. Do not think of her. Think of vengeance. That I ask, prince, and now I must depart."

　　"I will walk with for a while," said the prince, unperturbed. It was a comfortable thought to be rid of her yoke if indeed she was nothing but goblin. "But you lied then. A prince is not equipped to handle lies."

　　"Ah yes, the court magistrates are paragons of virtue—truth and only truth from their fattened lips."

　　They again laughed, a thin but true chuckle.

　　"A final question," said the prince as they left the rookie section of the healer`s hall. "Final for now. Have you ever steered one of ours into certain danger, either to safeguard or challenge me—the huntress, Linaria?"

　　Artisan walked on, shambling in that brace-assisted way; they were nearing the elite quarters and the door to the great halls just beyond. "It gets cold in these halls—hell should be hot, even at night... wouldn`t you agree, prince?"

　　The prince stood still, felt a strange twitch of his lip. But he had cried enough for one day. He turned around, back to the healer`s hall, where at least the night was his and his alone.

　　"Oh, and prince..." Artisan said from a distance, "be fresh for tomorrow; he has you fighting the groundskeeper for training—not a single soul dead or living will envy you that."

　　"Groundskeeper? The one in charge of digging holes and burying boxes?"

　　"Aye, doesn`t sound formidable, saying it like that. But he is old as the hills in this life, used to be a great champion. Served under high warchief Alaric—that bastard was the one Blackrose who did better as a goblin, though he lost his mark and most memories in a matter of weeks. Plied easily to Gorkon`s will. Always had been a halfwit, that one. Ah, but the groundskeeper—he`s the rookie game judge as well in a sense. The one you get your weapon from."

　　"The one adorned in skulls would have served for an explanation." The prince sauntered off for a night of drink and, perhaps, gods willing, some dreamless sleep. But knowing the gods far better now than he should like... only the drink seemed assured.

　　Still, something burned within. Tomorrow, the arena would be different. With the bone-warrior there waiting for him.