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Book 5: Chapter 40 - New Negotiations (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-04-02 14:22:19 +0000 UTCWho can truly fathom the Trials of the Goddess? They take countless forms, each more harrowing than the last. Some survivors speak of illusions drawn from epic histories, where they fight alongside legendary heroes to vanquish foes of myth and fable. Others tell of vast labyrinths filled with the deadliest of traps. Every Trial is perilous, risking not only one’s life but, some say, one’s very soul. In these depths lurk nightmares incarnate, from the twisted spawn of the Everdark, automata, devils, and demons of Hell itself, to even the fearsome skylords—the dragons.
A sacred rule binds them all. No more than five may enter at once, for five is Avaria’s sacred number, symbolizing her days of labor before her rest. Any who attempt to exceed that number are denied entry. Yet despite the danger, mortals continue to step through the shimmering portals of the unknown, drawn by the promise of miracles. The name “Trials of the Goddess” is no mere invention: those the Divine finds worthy are rewarded with anything from mundane riches to arcane artifacts no mortal hand could ever craft.
One such artifact was the Sword of Light, long since lost—a blade said to scythe through any foe with the brilliance of the heavens. To hold it was to wield a fraction of a Divine’s own power.
- The Fanciful Travels by Beron de Laney 376 AC.
Maps lay strewn across every available surface, curling at the edges where frantic hands had smoothed them over and over again. The stiff parchment was scarred with ink, predicted lines of attacks, supply lines, lines of retreat, each detail a silent testament to the desperate planning unfolding within these walls. Men and women wore grim expressions and well-worn armor. They hovered at the tables, shuffling small wooden markers across the maps as if they were the keys to salvation. The soft click of wood mingled with the low hum of voices, casting a tense energy about the tower chamber—a command center in the last throes of hope.
Farzan, the Minister of War, stood in the corner like a man besieged by invisible enemies. His once meticulously oiled beard, braided, had come undone in places, stray hairs stiff with neglect. Hollow-eyed from sleepless nights and too many stimulants—be they arcane concoctions or the more mundane powders that ward off fatigue—he twitched at every sudden motion. The fine lines across his brow had deepened into furrows, and his lips bore the dryness of a man who had tasted little water and too much wine.
“Good, you’re here!” His voice, slurred and weary, carried a forced brightness like a guttering lantern. “The first piece of good news I’ve had in a long while.”
He swayed slightly as he spoke, clinging to the edge of a map table for balance, and a waft of stale wine rose from him. When he smiled, it was but a shadow of the vibrance he once possessed.
“What is the disposition of the enemy, Minister of War?” I asked, forcing a steady tone.
“Fancy words now, Gil?” Farzan replied with a derisive snort. “Learned that from your Mercenary friend? They’re out there, stretching across the horizon, massing for slaughter. The blasted foreigners and the Mer stand ready to gut this city and leave its bones to bleach in the sun. They’ve come to wipe Al-Lazar from the map.”
His words were as bleak as the expressions on the faces of those who hovered nearby, hands pressed against the tables as though the world might tilt beneath their feet. Though I had expected his prognosis, my heart still twisted at his frank admission.
“You start to lose once you admit defeat,” I countered, keeping my voice low so as not to sow more panic. “Will the walls hold?”
“The walls themselves are solid enough, they have held for hundreds of years,” Farzan said, draining another cup of sour-smelling wine. He swallowed audibly. “But walls mean nothing when the enemy commands the sky. We have some engines—ballistae and catapults—but they’ll be exposed if we position them atop the battlements. They were never really modified to handle attacks from above, save for a few half-measures we made a few years ago.”
He gave a ragged sigh, then belched with none of the decorum one might expect of a man of his station. “And we don’t have enough bodies to man the entirety of the walls. Not enough food for a proper siege, either. Even if we did, no aid is coming. Al-Lazar stands alone.”
“It all reeks of orchestration,” I said, trying to keep the frustration out of my voice. “All the other kingdoms need Al-Lazar’s Dust, and they’ve allowed this travesty to unfold? Hard to believe none of them will intervene.”
“Not so hard to believe when you consider that the Dust trade has been monopolized now by our new government,” Farzan said, tapping the edge of the map. “The other nations fear a unified Al-Lazar. It was easier when we were fractured, squabbling among ourselves. Now, with ‘Aelayah’ exerting her authority and controlling the price, they see no reason not to replace us with a more pliant regime—especially when the Aranthians have grown so unfriendly. Who knows how many foreign coins have changed hands behind closed doors? Perhaps we will singing under the sea with the Mer before the day is through”
I snapped my gaze to him, voice turning sharp. “Grow a spine, Farzan. This is no time to waver. Tell me true, what are our chances? Is it truly hopeless?”
His eyes flickered with anger, but he sighed, letting the tension bleed out. “Not good,” he admitted. “Barring some foolhardy and uncontrolled and disorganized assault that leaves the enemy’s ranks in disarray, we can’t hold them. It’s not a question of courage; it’s about facts. We are outnumbered, have no line of fresh supplies, and the skies are ruled by the enemy.”
“What if we form a militia among the citizens? Forced conscription?”
“Hah!” Farzan let out a bark of mirthless laughter. “Any attempt at a forced draft would spark a rebellion inside these very walls. The people live under the illusion that their city leaders will shield them from harm. Ask them to fight for their own lives and they’ll realize just how precarious their safety has always been. Fear turns to anger, and we can’t afford chaos within when enemies pound at the gates.”
I leaned in, lowering my voice. “Surely we’ve dealt them serious blows already—bloodying their noses at least with yesterday’s sortie. Perhaps they’d be open to parley?”
His eyes flashed with fresh bitterness. “Last time we tried talking, Gilgamesh, they spat in our faces. You were there, were you not? You might have taught them to fear you, but fear doesn’t always lead to negotiation. Sometimes it leads to a resolve to kill an enemy before he grows even stronger.”
My lips set in a grim line. “What of the weapons we seized? Could they not tip the scales?”
Farzan exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “You can hand a sword to a child, but that doesn’t make him a knight. Those weapons are potent, but we have neither the men trained to use them nor the time to figure out their intricacies. Without time, we can not employ them to good effect against our enemies.”
“And the so-called peace with the Mer? After everything that’s happened, might they be more inclined to talk?”
“The Mer’s presence out there answers your question. Some among them see our city as a threat or a prize. Parley or not, they’ve joined forces with the foreign armies. That is no sign of peace.”
I frowned. “There’s an ‘and’ lurking in your tone, Farzan. Spit it out.”
He stiffened, and his jaw tightened. “Everyone out! Now!” he bellowed at the aides and soldiers crowding the chamber. They scattered, murmuring objections that died under his furious glare. A lone figure, Larynda, paused by the door, uncertainty etched upon her face.
“You as well,” I said quietly, with a finality that left no room for debate. She lingered, eyes darting between Farzan and me, but finally she, too, left.
In the abrupt silence, Farzan’s shoulders sagged. He looked older, as though the weight of an entire empire had pressed down on him. “The deal with the Mer was predicated on Aelayah’s leadership,” he said, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial hush. “And as you know, she is… occupied with other matters. Preoccupied, unavailable. She’s essential to any lasting treaty.”
“What of the foreign elves?” I asked. “We taught them to fear Al-Lazar, didn’t we?”
“You did,” Farzan conceded with a bitter twist to his mouth, “but they fear you and the desert tribes. That’s not the same as respecting and fearing the might of Al-Lazar. And, we have another problem: the barbarians devour our food stocks at a terrifying rate.”
“Then let’s lure the enemy near,” I suggested, a spark of cunning igniting. “Hit them with all we have from the shelter of the walls. Force them to commit to an assault rather than starve us out.”
Farzan grimaced. “It’s a tempting idea, but riddled with risks. Any miscalculation and we’d expose our own weakness. Still, it might be the only chance we have to force their hand.”
I rolled my shoulders, cracking the tension that gathered at the base of my neck. “What if I rally the other Holder Houses? Could that turn the tide? Could their Sleepers be enough?”
Farzan gave a short, humorless laugh. “If by some miracle you convinced them to fight with us, it would certainly help. The Goddess knows, the Dust Dervishes are each easily worth a hundred men. By the gods, that would bolster morale in a way we desperately need.”
Before I could respond, the door burst open. An old soldier, armor chipped and battered, strode in on creaking joints. He was grey-bearded and scarred in ways that spoke volumes.
“I gave orders that we weren’t to be disturbed,” Farzan barked, his face coloring with anger.
The soldier bowed low, hand pressed to his breastplate. “Apologies, Minister of War, but a company of Mer has approached under a white flag. They request parley.”
Farzan’s eyes shot to mine. I arched a brow, feeling a small, vindictive satisfaction at proving my earlier point. “See, Farzan? A little faith can sometimes—”
“Do not gloat,” Farzan cut in with a snarl. Then he turned to the soldier. “Summon the men and place them on high alert. We’ll meet with this delegation, but by all the gods, we will not be caught unawares.”
“Yes, First Minister,” the soldier replied, saluting with a clang of gauntlet against metal.
As the old soldier vanished back into the corridor, Farzan and I shared a look. There was fear in his eyes, yes, but also a faint glimmer of hope. The situation was truly precarious, the fate of Al-Lazar perched on the precipice between ruin and deliverance and this would have to the city’s last desperate gamble.
Dark thoughts weighed on my mind as I realized I had a choice: remain true to my word, to my duty, or flee with Larynda to friendlier climes. There was still time before the city was encircled and siege lines drawn.
What bound me to this strange and foreign city in the first place? What did I owe these people? I thought bitterly.
***
Was this move just one more twist of the dagger, another betrayal waiting to blossom like a poisoned flower? Undoubtedly so. Yet Al-Lazar had few options that did not reek of desperation. We were bound by duty to seek an accord with these strange beings from the depths.
The Mer were not a monolith, and therein lay our one chance to sow discord among them. A feeble hope, yes, but one clings to anything in the greatest of storms. We would see what negotiation brought first, and if that failed, well... their delegation might yet prove an easy harvest of experience.
They arrived with the measured tread of mourners, though their colors told another story altogether. Garments spun of sea-silk—brilliant turquoise, sickly lime, and shimmering silver—clung to their strange forms. Their “hair,” their gills really, flowed and rippled like banners in a gentle breeze, giving them an alien aspect that set my nerves on edge. Our archers watched from above, bows nocked and strings taut. The crews of our war engines hovered in that tense space before violence descended. And, near the foot of the walls, we had raised temporary pavilions to greet these ambassadors from the deep.
Kanaia of the Alim had inserted herself into our group as if it were her rightful place. No one had asked her presence; no one dared deny her. And I had not the energy nor reason enough to stand in her way.
She wore Coralith armor polished to a dark gleam, and her taloned blade gauntlets reflected the dangerous light in her eyes. Ever since my Dexterity had increased, I had wondered whether I was now the equal of her lightning speed. Perhaps she wondered it too. She met my gaze with a conspiratorial wink, a gesture ripe with mischief. What game was that whore-minx playing?
The day was stifling, the sun’s glare enough to draw sweat from the toughest of our men. They fidgeted, tugging at loose bits of their armor, shifting from foot to foot on the hot sands. Yet the Mer—dripping with mucous, if I was to be charitable about the translucent slime upon their skin—gave no sign of discomfort. It struck me as decidedly unsettling. Some in our city considered their flesh a delicacy… barbarians, for I would sooner drink poison. How was it possible to do business with one’s food?
Most of the Mer bore an uncanny resemblance to humanity. If not for their peculiar hue—skin tinted jade, lavender, or the deep green of kelp—and their strange “hair,” I might have taken them for ordinary folk from a great distance.
But there was one among them who might as well have crawled from a drowned man’s nightmare. His skin was black as a starless night, and he wore swirling ribbons of color that only served to highlight his monstrous nature. Three eyes—two in the customary place, one perched in the middle of his brow—gleamed like jaundiced gems in that sable face. A dorsal fin ran the length of his spine, and his teeth, when he parted his lips, were ragged fangs that promised a messy end to whomever they tore asunder. His head seemed broader than his shoulders, and webs of dark membrane stretched between his fingers and toes.
My Sage’s Sight whispered the truth of him:
Ketherist Darkshell - Deepcaller Mage (Mer lvl.31)
Health: 751/751
Stamina: 57/59
Mana: 20/20
Precognition (lvl.2)
Tidal Lance (lvl.5)
That one, I knew, was threat enough. I muttered a curse under my breath, eyes lingering on those three unblinking orbs.
He must have caught my stare, for he offered me a bow—a mocking parody of the human gesture at least. Whatever alliance we sought with these creatures, he stood a living testament to the vast, hungry unknown beneath the waves. A portion of me was grateful we land-dwellers had never truly mastered the seas. There might be horrors far worse than him prowling the lightless trenches.
“Your first time seeing a Deep One?” Kanaia’s voice intruded from behind, sweet as poison and twice as lethal. She drifted uncomfortably close before spinning gracefully away.
I forced myself to turn slowly, as though unbothered by her approach. “A first for everything,” I said, giving the monstrous Mer another glance. “It’s the stuff of nightmares. How does one hold parley with such a monstrous creature? They look like they would as soon gnaw on human flesh as speak to you in a civilized tongue”
“Careful, First Tamkar,” Kanaia chided, that devil’s grin tugging at her lips. “The Mer have exquisite hearing, you know.” She brushed past me, trailing laughter like a cat playing with its prey.
An involuntary shudder slipped down my spine as I let my gaze roam across the rest of the Mer retinue. Seeing the taughtness of their stance, their eyes betraying a savage gleam. There was a tension crackling in the air like the threat of lightning before a summer storm. I wanted none of this, but Fate, I had learned seldom asked permission.
Then I spied the slender shapes lingering behind the Mer: Elves. Knife-ears, as some men derisively called them. Always so certain of their grace, so sure of their superiority. I had taught some of them the error of their ways and looked forward to repeating that very same lesson.
They, too, would add their voices to this tangled mess. Of course they would. Elves excelled at meddling, or at least making trouble. I had no love of elves.
There, at the heart of it all, stood Ketherist Darkshell, silent and lethal, as though the rest of the world existed solely for his amusement. I wondered if he could conjure some watery doom with a flick of his webbed fingers. We were teetering on a blade’s edge, and a part of me welcomed it. And Kanaia, the damn woman, was letting her grin carve deeper lines of challenge into her face.
So I steeled myself, mind racing with a thousand possibilities. The Mer had come. The elves lurked. Kanaia teased. The future of the city trembled on this cusp of fate. And still, I found myself thinking: if it all goes to rot, at least I would earn more experience points this day. A dark, but not entirely unwelcome thought.
Thus would soon begin our parley under the blue heavens; men, Mer, and elves alike gathered within bowshot and siege weapon range. It was an event or spectacle that reeked of cunning… or imminent butchery.
What did they want? If I only knew that, I could forge a plan to work my way out of this slurried mess.
