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97. [Cortland] Cold Bodies
🕑 Added 2025-04-21 18:47:54 +0000 UTCCortland Finiron, Hammer Master of the 12th Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, leading his people to safety
Orryn es-Salvado, Beast Master of the 4th Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, securing the border
King Cizco Salvado, Quill of Infinzel, Kingdom of Infinzel, once again under siege
And then, a flashback
***
9 Blossum, 61 AW
The pyramidal city of Infinzel, North Continent
51 days until the next Granting
As Cortland had expected, or perhaps hoped, the vast eastern staircase was still open. Garrison soldiers had massed there, hastily manning ballistae dusted-off from the siege years, some still in the process of being reassembled, all aimed at the skies. Squads of soldiers armed with shields, spears, hammers, and maces stood at intervals on the steps leading up to the entrance. Shattered gargoyles and broken bodies littered the ground between the pyramidal city and the outer districts. At the moment, the Garrison troops could breathe, perhaps because the gargoyles had opted for easier targets. Screams rose from the outer districts in the shadow of the pyramid and winged shadows cut and dove amidst the buildings.
Cortland had picked up a handful of other stragglers on his way around the pyramid. They had come under attack three times, and three times Cortland had turned gargoyles into rubble. Stone dust clung to the sweat on his face. He hadn't lost a single one of his ragtag group, which numbered about forty now. They kept to a tight formation behind him, breathing heavily from the effort of keeping up with the champion.
They were fifty yards from the Garrison posting at the base of the staircase when a man with a blood-streaked face lunged out from between two buildings.
“Champion, please!” he shouted. “Mercy!”
Cortland screwed up his face and slowed down. “Mercy? What?”
The man pointed to the staircase. “They won't let us in!”
“They won't…?”
“Because we’re from the Rest,” the man said.
Huddled behind the bloodied man were others—an old man, a few women, their children. All of them were marked with the broken wall symbol of Soldier's Rest. It hadn't even occurred to Cortland to check the allegiance of the swelling group that took shelter in his wake, but he was sure they were a mix of symbols. Hell, some of the sailors he’d plucked from the river might not have been from Infinzel at all.
“They said we caused this,” the man continued. “From digging the new mineral garden, they said. But I wasn’t even—I’m a tailor.”
Cortland waved for the man to be quiet. Everything he said made Cortland’s head throb. He’d been out at that dig site earlier and seen nothing that would’ve indicated breaking through to the Underneath. Not that it even mattered. Cortland wiped a hand down his chalky face, then beckoned the man and the others forward.
“Come with me. All of you.”
With these latest survivors incorporated into his group, Cortland approached the base of the stairs at a trot. Recognizing him, the Garrison soldiers holding the space parted their line of shields, but only enough for him to pass.
“Champion,” said some Garrison youngblood, nearly breathless with nerves. “Hold–”
Cortland shoved the kid with enough force that he went flying up six steps, his shield clattering away like a dropped plate. A wider gap opened between the soldiers then and Cortland swung his gaze across them, his eyes unblinking and wide.
“Who commands here?” he roared.
Cortland noticed the white rat scurrying across the gears of a ballista and had his answer. Orryn es-Salvado slid out from behind a pair of spearmen to meet Cortland.
“There you are,” Orryn said. “The king is on the observation deck organizing—”
“You're turning people away?” Cortland snapped.
Orryn raised an eyebrow, glancing behind Cortland to the large group seeking shelter.
“Only the broken wall,” Orryn said. “They caused this mess, let them clean up their own streets.”
Cortland took a lunging step forward. “They are all people of Infinzel, you cunt.”
“They wanted their own space,” Orryn replied. “They can defend it.”
Cortland slapped him. Or, he would have, if Orryn hadn't darted backward and out of reach. He was faster now than the last time Cortland had needed to punish him for his treatment of the outer districts. Orryn blinked rapidly and his lower lip quivered, but with all the onlookers around, he managed to draw himself up.
“It won't be so easy for you as last time,” Orryn said quietly.
“You don't think so, boy?” Cortland asked. “You really don’t think so?”
Cortland stared at the beast master until the younger man wisely looked away. The rest of the Garrison soldiers and the bystanders were all watching their exchange with wary eyes that should have been trained on the sky. Doing this now would only endanger more people.
“Listen, all of you!” Cortland shouted. “Anyone who requests shelter inside Infinzel gets it! No matter their fucking Ink. If they aren't a gods damned monster made of stone, they are on our side. Yes?”
Some of the soldiers reacted immediately, parting to let the people through, and helping the injured ascend. But not all of them. Some of them looked to Orryn for confirmation. He didn't dare to countermand Cortland, so he gave a subtle nod. Cortland wished he had time to memorize the faces of those who hesitated.
“This crisis will end,” Cortland snarled. “Ask yourselves if you want my attention in the aftermath.” Having said that, Cortland started up the staircase, but paused when he drew level with Orryn. He peered up at the younger man, pitching his voice low so only Orryn would hear. “The next time will be the last time for us. Understand?”
Orryn swallowed. He didn’t respond to Cortland, instead turning to the stragglers. “Hurry up!” he yelled. “Get inside!”
Cortland galloped up the steps alongside the citizens, weaving between the postings of soldiers. When the others disappeared under the archway that would lead them into the grand hall, Cortland continued higher. He could see movement on the observation deck above and knew that’s where he would find the king. A queasy thought occurred to him. What if Orryn had been acting on his grandfather’s orders? Cortland’s lips curled back. His opinion of Cizco had not yet sunk that far, and yet—
Gargoyles. Cortland’s hammer arm jerked back at the sight of three creatures upon the observation deck. But the monsters weren’t moving. They had been impaled by stalagmites that shot up from Infinzel itself, spears of graystone aimed precisely for the creatures’ midsections. The gargoyles were frozen there like part of the architecture.
“Finiron,” King Cizco said. “Finally.”
The king approached amidst a squadron of Garrison soldiers who kept their shields half-raised toward the sky, almost like they were trying to shield Cizco from a rainstorm. Fresh grays sprouted from Cizco's temples, his hair looking thinner in front than the last time Cortland saw him, though that might have been on account of the sweat dampening his brow. Cizco moved with a noticeable hobble, favoring one of his hips. Sealing the pyramidal city and battling gargoyles had clearly taken a toll. The anger that had been simmering within Cortland cooled slightly at the sight of the king in this weakened state.
“You all right?” Cortland asked quietly, once the other man drew close.
Cizco hissed through his teeth and quickened his awkward stride, outpacing his own escort. “Walk with me.”
A glance from Cortland told the guards they could hang back. Cortland matched Cizco's pace, following the king toward the southern side of the observation deck.
“This has been taxing,” Cizco said. “What did you see out there?”
“Your grandson keeping outer district people from escaping inside,” Cortland said, working to keep emotion out of his voice.
Cizco cocked his head and peered down at Cortland. He seemed to understand the implication in Cortland's statement.
“I didn't order that,” Cizco said. “I don't need to give those people another reason to resent me. They're already bound to think I'm responsible for this.”
Cortland squinted out across the districts, where gargoyles soared and dropped. He hadn't considered that this could be anything other than a horrible accident. Cortland took another look at the king, noting the dark circles around his eyes. If Cizco had arranged this, he would’ve done so in a way that wouldn’t put him under such duress.
“Firstson!” Cizco shouted over his shoulder.
The guards trailing behind them parted to let Herman Firstson-Salvado through. The nominal heir to Infinzel had always resembled a slightly older, paunchier version of his father—even though he was some fifty years younger than Cizco. Now, Herman looked even worse for wear, pale in the face, with dark-stained lips as if he’d gotten sick from too much wine. He smothered a fresh cough in his shoulder as he came reluctantly forward.
“Go down to the entrance blockade and make sure our soldiers are behaving charitably,” Cizco ordered.
At that moment, shouts of alarm sounded from below. A pack of ambitious gargoyles dove at the staircase, though they were swiftly repelled by the ballistae. One gargoyle was shattered in midair—its core exploding like a flair—resulting in a cheer from the soldiers.
Seeing Herman pale further at the action, Cortland spoke up. “I already gave our soldiers that order.”
Cizco waved Herman downward. “Go anyway and assert yourself.” Once Herman had scuttled away with a contingent of soldiers, Cizco turned back to Cortland. “That one is too soft for an Infinzel under attack. Where is Vitt?”
Cortland shook his head. “Haven’t seen him.”
“Gods, these children,” Cizco muttered. He paused and pointed out across the warehouse district. “There was an explosion out there and it seems to be where the monsters are coming from.” As Cizco spoke, two gargoyle took to the sky as if shot from the tip of his finger. “You’ll need to seal the breach.”
Cortland nodded, listening, but continued jogging around the observation deck until he could see the western sky. The sun was getting lower.
“Once night falls, the people out there are fucked,” Cortland said. “The sun’s the only thing keeping the shades back.”
“You have a little more than an hour,” Cizco said. “Cave in the breach and paint a ward there. That should hold them until we can fortify further.”
“A cave-in I can do, but I don’t know your wards,” Cortland said, returning to the king’s side.
“You send me up a signal once you’ve found the place, wait two minutes, and I’ll send it through your eyes with the Ink,” Cizco said. He reached inside his coat and held out two vials. “Paint over my symbol with this. That should power it.”
Cortland’s eyebrows raised at the red liquid sloshing within the glass. Chanic.
“Where’d this come from?” Cortland asked.
“Our logician left many useful things behind,” Cizco said. “You need to hurry, Cortland. Take as many soldiers as you need.”
Carefully, Cortland tucked the chanic vials into his satchel, nestled in a pocket beside the discs and orbs that Carina had made. He nodded to the king.
“Any others will only slow me down,” Cortland said, and leapt off the side of the pyramid.
***
1 Trollove, 61 AW
Armistice Island, Central Sea
149 days until the next Granting
Watts Stonework sat on his bench outside Guydemion's tavern. The evening air was cool and crisp, the sky silky. He'd spent hundreds of nights just like this, watching the courtyard, the murmurs of the tavern winding down behind him.
“Nice night,” Watts said.
“Indeed,” replied the symbologist.
Watts could feel the comforting stone of Guydemion's against his back, but the rest of the walls of Infinzel were gone and the pyramidal city no longer loomed in the distance. The courtyard floated on an ocean, an island unto itself, dark waters stretching away from him in every direction except backward. The little worm-man in his natty robe scuttled across the grass, turning over cobblestones marked with Ink symbols.
“So, this is it, huh?” Watts said.
“Yes,” said the symbologist.
“Thought I would meet a god or something.”
“No,” the symbologist replied. “Only me.”
Watts leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “Well, you are something, I suppose.”
The symbologist finished turning over his stones. Watts could read the runes etched into them; they gave off their own light even in the dark. [Survivor] read one, and then [Brawler], and then [Defender].
“Watts Stonework, the gods have determined you worthy of the first renown,” the symbologist declared.
“That's the lowest,” Watts said.
“Correct.”
Watts sucked his teeth. “Not saying much, to be worthy of that.” He nodded at the runes arrayed before him. “What do these mean?”
“One of these will become your class,” the symbologist explained. “This will form the centerpiece of your Ink and will dictate the abilities which you might earn in the future.”
“I met the hammer master a few times,” Watts said, grinding his knuckles into his palm. “These don't sound as good as that. Thought I at least might be a fist master.”
“Such skills would be encompassed in the [Brawler] class,” the symbologist said. “However, if I may, I would draw your attention to [Survivor].”
The symbologist draped one of his many-fingered hands atop the [Survivor] stone. Watts couldn't get a read on the faceless worm-thing, but he somehow got the sense that the creature was excited.
“Go ahead,” Watts said. “My attention’s been drawn.”
“The gods do not allow me to offer this class very often. It requires a certain stubbornness of spirit and tolerance for pain and degradation.”
“More flattery,” Watts said.
“It comes paired with the ability [Death Defiance],” the symbologist said, shuffling forward to turn over another stone in the orbit of the first, the meaning of the symbol filling Watts’ mind. “An ability with considerable risks. But one that is quite powerful considering your level of renown.”
Watts adjusted the lens over his damaged eye as he took in the symbol’s meaning. “I'll die.”
“Yes,” agreed the symbologist. “And then, you will come back.”
***
9 Blossum, 61 AW
The pyramidal city of Infinzel, North Continent
51 days until the next Granting
Watts Stonework opened his eyes.
In those first moments, as consciousness came rushing back, Watts felt the urge to gasp. He drew in a sharp breath, but found the wind just rustled around in his lungs and made him feel oddly bloated. Watts made a conscious effort to exhale and then didn’t breathe again. It wasn’t necessary.
“Fucking strange,” he rasped, the words whistling out through the flaps gouged into his throat.
Watts picked himself up. He was caked in mud turned purple from his own blood. He felt cold all over, almost numb, yet his limbs responded eagerly to every command his brain sent. Gods, his brain. Watts reached around to gingerly touch the back of his head. He could feel the torn flesh, the ridges of his fractured skull, the spongy tissue beneath. There wasn’t any pain.
So, this was what it felt like to be dead.
He peeled his shirt away from his body to peek at his Ink. New symbols spiraled across his pale chest, the whorls all rooted from [Death Defiance]. The Ink was lighter. Temporary.
Watts could sense his [Recovery+] trying to mend the grievous wound at the back of his head and the torn section of his throat. He could also sense that the ability would fall well short of restarting his heart. [Death Defiance] felt like a candle burning down. It would preserve him for a time, but in the end he would need a healer. He would not come back a second time. The symbologist had kindly warned him about these situations. The worm-man had told him about champions who played too cavalier with their own lives and ended up in situations they could not return from. Watts couldn’t imagine these champions who grew addicted to their own deaths. Even now, the smell that rolled off him—blood and shit—disgusted him.
He crouched down and picked up the monocle his son had made for him. He brushed it off and slid it into his pocket.
And then, Watts leapt out of the pit he’d died in with a lightness he’d never once felt in life, and he began to understand what the champions who preceded him must have felt.
Power.
There were gargoyles over Infinzel. Dozens, by Watts’ quick count. He needed to find his wife, his son, and Bel. They would need his help.
One gargoyle still lingered at the mineral garden site, gnawing at a stone block like a horse on a saltlick. Watts couldn’t be sure if this was the beast that killed him. The gargoyle turned to look at Watts and cocked its head uncertainly. Watts had heard talk of the undead horrors that kept the gargoyles company in the Underneath. Perhaps he now resembled one of them enough so that the gargoyle was confused.
Watts took two bounding steps forward and punched through the gargoyle’s stone beak. Only then did the creature rear back and claw at him, but Watts dodged aside. He picked up a shovel, leapt skyward, and drove the blade into the space between the gargoyle’s wings. Something inside the monster flashed and it crumbled beneath Watts’ stomping feet.
He had broken the shovel, but the dead man quickly found another. Then, he sprinted toward Infinzel.
Comments
sparkc
Ahh I had wondered why Bel, as the quill, hadn’t noticed Watts death in the last chapter. Clever.
