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81. [Red Tide] The Crown of the World
🕑 Added 2025-01-06 20:51:46 +0000 UTCNB: I noticed in doing my Royal Road posting that I left the First Granting tease off the start of the Nortmost sequence. I'm including that here. (It's meant to lead into Nortmost, but I think it works as a chaser, too!) Then, the latest First Granting bit follows.
The foremost stratagem of King Mudt were displays of strength. These had rarely failed him on the traditional battlefield. And so, when the gods asked him to choose a place on the map and declare his wish, he did not consider any options that might be regarded as subtle.
“I want Infinzel destroyed,” he said. “I wish to see it crumble and collapse.”
The gods registered neither approval nor disapproval. “Choose your place,” they intoned.
King Mudt eyed the map that had appeared across the floor of the gods-made courtyard. They had shaped the island into a miniature version of the world itself—two halves, separated by a river instead of an ocean. An appropriate choice for the First Granting, if a bit predictable. The island would never take this shape again.
“Here,” King Mudt said, and chose the approximation of the Orvesian peninsula.
“Done,” the gods said. “Assassins. Killers unaffiliated. Choose your place and declare your wish.”
All eyes turned to the clutch of masked men and women who had been given ample space in the amphitheater. Their animal masks had long belonged to the beastlords of Besaden, but some shift had taken place in the last year, for now the children of ge’besa kept their distance from their former guerillas.
The assassin Quill—in the mask of a weary, scarred lion whose mane had chipped away—came forward. However, before he could speak, the Quill of Magelab, Huru Alepho, stood up to register her protest.
“These fiends do not belong in this company!” Huru yelled. “They have no land and no loyalty! To give them a wish is a mistake!”
“A mistake?” Old Lion asked. “Do you suggest, archmage, that the gods are capable of mistakes?”
The gods made no response. They merely waited, and listened.
King Mudt chuckled. He appreciated the swagger of the masked assassin and he enjoyed a haughty archmage being put in her place. Yet soon, King Mudt sensed eyes upon him, and he saw the mask of Crying Otter pointed in his direction. King Mudt remembered this one from the villa where he’d killed the traitor Kayenna Vezz.
Crying Otter raised a finger to his wooden, animal lips, and held it there.
In one day’s time, he would be the first to drive a knife into King Mudt.
***
Eventually, the gods called on Sulk to come forward.
King Mudt snarled at the sight of his former captain. Sulk had thrown down his weapons as the siege of Infinzel abruptly concluded, yet there he stood in a new suit of armor made from overlapping plates of metal joined with flexible ward-weave. The armor of a southerner, not something made by proud Orvesian craftsmen. Sulk carried a shield that matched the tattoo on his neck. His fellow Shield Bearers, as they had taken to calling themselves, were a ragtag group, no two hailing from the same place. King Mudt found himself disgusted by the man who had once been his finest warrior.
“You are going about this wrong,” Sulk said in his gravelly voice, ruined from years of screaming orders at soon-to-be-dead soldiers. “The gods offer us wishes. They do not force us to fight. We should be taking advantage of this blessing for the betterment of all. We should—”
“Shut up!” King Mudt bellowed. “This is the talk of a soft-dicked traitor!”
Sulk closed his mouth. He surveyed the champions and Quills before him and saw eager, hungry faces. These were not a people who would be swayed. Perhaps once they had seen as much blood as Sulk had…
“We wish for a bountiful harvest,” Sulk declared. “Any of you others who wish for the same, you will find protection from my Shield Bearers.” He turned to King Mudt. “Any of you who wish for harm on others, I will make you my enemy. You have been warned.”
One by one, the wishes continued. Only the merchants of the Bay took Sulk up on his offer, beleaguered as they were by years of raids from the oca’em and reasoning that a bountiful harvest would put more money into coffers emptied by war.
Soon, there remained only one Quill who had yet to declare their wish and choose their place.
The fat king of Infinzel.
--Record of the First Granting and Dawning of the Second Age
Lyus Crodd, Scribe of the Dead Kingdom of Orvesis
***
Red Tide, Enchantress of the 4th Renown, The Reef, all the way to the top
Mockery, Knife Master of the 8th Renown and Quill of the Trolkin, possessed of many treasures
Cuda Bite, Throne Gazer, Salt Wall, the champions of the Reef, and Turtle Jaw, their Quill, wishing they could be anywhere else
***
24 Meltzend, 61 AW
The Crown, North Continent
96 days until the next Granting
The mad trolkin Mockery had said she lived in a castle of wonder. As it turned out, that hadn’t been a lie.
They were lucky to arrive during one of the far north's few hours of sunlight. Otherwise, Red Tide wouldn't have been able to take in the enormity of the structure. The castle had been built for creatures whose size Red Tide could barely fathom. Great obsidian spires were carved from the mountain, molded into seamless towers, like it had been possible for the makers to shape and smooth the stone with their bare hands. She remembered seeing land walker children at play on southern continent beaches, creating towers out of wet sand dumped from buckets, and patting away blemishes with their palms. The thought of something so large toying with the land itself made her suppress a shudder; she longed for the open darkness of the sea.
“I have memories of the Reef from when I was a boy,” Turtle Jaw said. “Before the merchants wished it in half, and then half again. Haven't felt this small since then.”
“You don't need to whisper, old timer,” Red Tide said.
“And you're still small,” Salt Wall added.
Even as they joked, Red Tide could feel the weight of the place before her. It was almost as if a moon had sunk down from the sky and split apart. The sun slid around the edge of the scene, like the crescent of a nail poking above a fingertip. Crimson light reflected off the castle’s glassy surface. Red Tide craned her neck. From her vantage point, it was possible to glimpse the edges of the jagged hollow at the center of the mammoth structure. Long ago, something had smashed down upon it.
The second dogsled pulled up alongside theirs. Throne Gazer remained at the reins, but Cuda Bite hopped down to join them.
“Fuck me,” he said. “We just full-on live in a nightmare now, don’t we?”
Red Tide muttered agreement. After some blurry days in the trolkin encampment—days that Red Tide spent playing the harp, competing with bloody brawls for the attention of smoke-addled monsters—Mockery had abruptly declared that it was time to depart. They lit out for furthest north, the landscape more desolate, and the days somehow even shorter. While their initial voyage from Besaden had been one of the numbing routine, this last leg felt dizzyingly dreamlike. Red Tide imagined herself falling up, away from the top of the world, and grasping at the sliver of sun for a handhold.
Hard breathing and heavy footfalls announced the arrival of Lady Mockery. She had refused to ride on the dogsleds—or perhaps Throne Gazer made it clear through his glowering looks that she wasn’t welcome. The trolkin woman had no problem keeping pace on foot. She moved across the snow hunched, almost on all fours. Red Tide had caught a glimpse of [Endurance+] on the woman’s scarred chest. An ability like that was one of the ways she had stayed ahead of the northerners for the last two Grantings.
Steam rolled off Mockery’s shoulders as she stopped next to them. A stitch in her red dress popped as she kicked one leg back, holding her foot and stretching.
“Honored guests of the Reef, welcome to the Crown of the World,” Mockery said. “We call it that on account of all the points and that big fucking hole in the middle.”
As they led the sleds forward on foot, Red Tide saw shapes moving around the Crown. There were trolkin living here. She glanced over her shoulder, toward the bruised purple horizon, remembering the crowded horrors of the trolkin encampment.
“Big place like this, why don’t the others live here?” Red Tide asked.
Mockery dramatically flapped her lips. “Three trolkin walk in a line. First one’s got no mind left so he shits while he walks. Second one’s deep in the smoke, so he don’t notice when he steps in the pile and tracks it everywhere. Third one? She decides walking in a line with these other two is stupid.”
Red Tide glanced down at Mockery’s huge feet. “That third one supposed to be you?”
“I been all three,” Mockery said. “First year I got the Quill, I cleaned this place out. Only trolkin allowed this far are the ones with courtly manners.”
A few steps behind them, Throne Gazer snorted. Mockery either didn’t notice, or didn’t much care.
“Do you know how this place was made?” Turtle Jaw asked.
Even though they’d been surrounded by barren snow for weeks now, Red Tide had noticed the warden’s wide-eyed curiosity for the world continue to increase. They had only a few months left now. Their Quill would drink in the sights in what time remained to him.
“Giants,” Mockery said. “How else?”
“And the crater?”
Mockery shrugged. “When the mages killed the giants, they turned the earth and the sky against them. At least that’s how Esoteric tells it.” She grinned at Turtle Jaw. “You’ll like him. He likes talking boring shit, too.”
“Esoteric?” Red Tide asked. “That one of your champions?”
They had yet to meet any of the others who would accompany Mockery to the Granting. In fact, Red Tide realized, she hadn’t even mentioned them.
“Maybe one year, but not this one. Too soon to risk my mage,” Mockery replied.
“A mage?” Throne Gazer spoke up, a rarity, his interest piqued. “From the Magelab?”
Mockery’s head bobbed happily. “He got too hands-on with his study of the frosswiss. Turned blue and those bookworms ran him north. A wonderful present for me.”
As they neared the front of the Crown, the towering arches blotted out the darkening sky. Fires glowed within the castle, though not with the same gleeful pyromania exhibited in the trolkin encampment. These flames were trapped within arteries in the walls, casting light and creating trails throughout the castle. Red Tide thought that sort of technology beyond the trolkin, but would leave such annoying inquiries to Turtle Jaw. Besides, she was soon distracted by the trolkin girl who came skipping out from the castle.
“You’re home!” the girl shouted. “Welcome home, Lady Mockery!”
Mockery stifled a groan. “Honored guests of the Reef, may I present my wife. Blanket.” She made the introduction hurriedly, without her usual pomp.
The trolkin girl—Blanket—looked to be in her early twenties. She was smaller than Mockery, stout, with bluish skin that suggested frostbite more than the sculpted-from-ice tone of the larger trolkin Red Tide had seen. Her silver hair was pulled into pigtails and she wore a black dress—torn a bit and stained—but flowing and more appropriately fitted than Mockery’s.
Mockery picked at the fabric on the girl’s shoulder. “Where did you get this?”
“It was in one of the vaults,” Blanket answered. She peeked around Mockery. “Is this her? The musician? She doesn’t look ferocious.”
Red Tide showed the girl her teeth, but didn’t otherwise respond. She’d learned that there wasn’t any need for her to engage with the other trolkin, especially not while in Mockery’s presence.
As expected, Mockery slapped Blanket on the top of her head and shoved her away. “I am putting you in charge of these dogs and their sleds, wife. They are not to be meddled with. Let it be known I shall butcher any trolkin who even thinks of gently petting their furry heads.” She glanced over her shoulder at Throne Gazer. “Acceptable?”
He took a long moment to study Blanket. “I suppose.”
“Good. Follow me, then,” Mockery said brusquely, and made to pass by her sulking wife. Blanket hopped to keep up, wincing as she did so, like she expected to be hit again.
“There have been problems, my lady,” she said quietly.
“What problems?”
“Gauntlet grows to dangerous proportions.”
Mockery glanced at Red Tide. “We’ll fix that.”
Red Tide had no idea what that gibberish meant, but gave Mockery the briefest nod of agreement.
“And the prisoner makes ruckus nightly,” Blanket continued. “Some have fled the Crown, fearing its escape.”
“It can’t escape,” Mockery said. “It’s very unlikely to escape.”
“Well, it did the one time, already, my lady,” Blanket replied.
“And I fixed that, didn’t I?” Mockery dug her hands into her silver mane. “Are you feeding him?”
“I…” Blanket made some distance before completing her answer. “Gauntlet had been, but Esoteric declared her not up to the task. The rest of us…”
“Too afraid,” Mockery said with a distasteful smack of her lips. “He makes a ruckus because he starves, idiot.” She waved Blanket away. “Enough of this bad news. You foul my mood, wife.”
Red Tide had spent days observing the madness of the trolkin encampment—how the creatures spun wildly between urges, often without any care for self-preservation. And yet, Blanket and the others living in the Crown were afraid of something. Perhaps that was what Mockery aimed for in creating her society. She wanted trolkin that could understand consequences.
They passed under the arch of the Crown and into the castle proper. Vast rooms, like boxes stacked atop each other, spread out from entrance, all of them connected by precise networks of stairs set at intervals uncomfortable for even trolkin legs. There were cracks in some places and in those spots the stone seemed to grow wild, leaving behind the architecture of the giants and sprouting stalactites. In the dim light provided by the arteries of fire, Red Tide could see faded paintings on the walls and ceilings—meaningless things, all shapes and circles and whorls. The stars, she thought.
“You didn’t tell us you’re a kept woman, Lady Mockery,” Cuda Bite said, smirking, as he sidled up beside Red Tide. “A Blanket to keep you warm at night. How nice.”
Mockery made a horking noise, as if she might throw up. “I have had many wives. And a husband, or two, when the need arises. Do you know the king of the pyramid? An inspiration.” She sighed. “I took that dumb bitch because she belonged to one of the Wise Ones. I’d hoped to provoke them, but they still hide in the west.”
Turtle Jaw cocked his head at Mockery’s words. Red Tide exchanged a look with the warden. “The old Quill of the trolkin was one of the Wise Ones,” he explained. “I remember him—”
“Useless and dead, is what you remember!” Mockery shouted. “We do not speak of them here.”
Mockery led them through the many rooms of the Crown—the vaults, as Blanket had called them. Red Tide soon came to understand the name. Each cube-shaped room was cluttered with junk. Some enterprising trolkin had, at least, put in the effort to organize the rooms by their contents. They passed through a vault packed with wagons and carts, a vault containing columns of mold-smelling books, a vault filled with nothing but chairs of various size, and one littered with potatoes and onions that were likely inedible.
“Presents from our neighbors in the north,” Mockery said. “Sometimes, they leave us tributes so we don't visit. Other times, we find their gifts traveling the roads or in their little houses. Help yourself to anything you might like.”
There had to be decades’ worth of accumulation here, Red Tide thought. None of it serving any purpose but to collect dust in an abandoned castle.
“Where do you keep the jewels?” Cuda Bite asked.
“Or the weapons,” Salt Wall added. She scooped up a potato from the floor, brushed it off to examine the green root spiraling out from its skin, then chucked it across the room where it landed with an echoing thud.
“Somewhere,” Mockery replied with a shrug. “Matters of inventory are beneath my notice.”
“Of course, your ladyship,” Cuda Bite said. His eyed gleamed. While Red Tide saw nothing but waste, she was sure Cuda Bite saw an opportunity to fill his pockets.
“What is that smell?” Throne Gazer asked.
Mockery paused to sniff the air. “Yes. Close now.”
They had traveled in a straight line through the Crown, toward the center. As they went on, signs of damage became more apparent—cracks in the floor, collapsed walls, caved-in ceilings. Meanwhile, Red Tide now smelled rot in the air. Decay and blood and shit, stenches not held back by the chilled environs.
“Through here,” Mockery said.
She’d brought them to a half-collapsed passage, the ceiling slanted down to make the space triangular. While Mockery pressed forward, the oca’em hesitated. It wasn’t on account of the tilted ceiling—that damage seemed old and likely enough to hold.
It was the dead bodies that gave them pause.
A dozen trolkin—or pieces of them—lay throughout the passage. They had been swept to the narrower side, at least, to leave a clear path for walking. The trolkin looked to have been dead for weeks, though it was hard to tell. They had died badly. Crushed, clawed, and ripped apart. The nearest body sat upright, his severed arms laid crisscrossed in his lap.
“This…” Throne Gazer paused to swallow. “This is how you treat your dead? I thought you meant for this to be a civilized place.”
“These ones died for you,” Mockery said over her shoulder. “You think it was easy? Wrestling the big fucker in here?” She reached down and grabbed one of the bodies by its ankle, dragging it along behind her. “So judgmental. But we make good use of our dead.”
More curious than disgusted, Red Tide was the first to follow after Mockery. The hallway was short and terminated abruptly into a deep, tub-shaped pit. The stone here was polished smooth and slippery. The top third of the pit had been purposely lined with broken shards of weaponry—spear tips, sword and knives, hooks and more. These bits of metal had been welded into the stone somewhat recently, not part of the giants’ original construction. An artery of fire lined the lip of the pit, casting an orange glint across the shards.
Down below, Red Tide saw nothing but a pile of snow. For a moment, she imagined Mockery tossing her down there—a cell not so different from the Grotto.
But then, the snow started to move. It wasn’t snow but white fur—fur which crackled from some internal frost.
Once it had drawn itself upright, the troll stood nearly fourteen feet tall. Where its body wasn’t covered with icy fur, its skin was blue and leathery, drawn across the bulging muscles of a predator. Its arms were longer than a human’s, its fists swollen and clawed, its toes slender and capable of grip. The troll’s face had elongated into a fanged snout, like the bear Red Tide had seen at Yodor Dominick’s hunting lodge. Its breath quickened at the sight of them, dark eyes enraged.
“We called him Feather once, before he was taken,” Mockery said.
Feather lunged toward them, his palms squeaking across the slippery stone. Everyone flinched back except for Mockery. The beast scrambled high enough that he began to cut his hands and feet on the broken weapons, dark blood further slickening the pit’s walls. The thing called Feather would fall back before reaching the top—Red Tide was almost sure of that.
Not waiting for the troll to give up, Mockery pitched the trolkin corpse into the pit. The body landed with a splat and seconds later Feather was atop it, first pounding the body with his massive fists, then stuffing meat and marrow into its slavering mouth. As Red Tide watched, lips curled in disgust, the self-inflicted wounds on the troll’s hands and arms slowly closed.
“Dumbass Blanket is probably right. Held onto him too long for good sense,” Mockery said. “We should kill him in the morning.”
Worming through the white fur on Feather’s back, Red Tide saw the Ink.
