Garen & Chainmouth
Part I
Garen opened the door to the room, and stepped inside. Below him, he could hear the bustling sounds of the newly repaired Lizard’s Mantle. It had been a surprise to find it expanded, and he had looked at the brightly painted pub sign with some appreciation before passing beneath it. Good craftsmanship. Entering the pub that first time had been a bit disconcerting, although the reassuring sights of the stuffed beholder head and Molly, had made him feel more at ease. Though the party had attracted the attention of well wishers earlier, Garen’s relative anonymity made it easy to return with his companion later that evening. Molly had been happy to let him have the party’s old room, and the two had mounted the stairs without drawing much attention. One warforged looked very much like another to nonforged eyes. Stepping into the room, he gestured for his companion to enter, before closing the door quietly behind him.
The room looked much the same as he remembered it. This was one of the few parts of the Mantle that wasn’t damaged by errant beholder rays, so little in the way of repair was needed. Molly had cleaned a little in their absence, but Garen noted with pleasure that his little mound of carvings were still piled up in the corner. That hadn’t changed. He made his way to his seat in the corner, and gestured to Chainmouth to pull up a chair, before sinking with some pleasure into his own. Through the thin wall, Garen could hear the door of the adjoining room click shut. Thaspar had arrived, and had taken up position next door. Garen hoped that backup wasn’t going to be necessary, but he was grateful to know that his friend’s sword was nearby should problems arise.
The party hadn’t been too pleased with Garen’s decision to take Chainmouth under his wing, but accepted that for 11 days Chainmouth was Garen’s “goblin”. For safety, Garen had decided to stay in the Lizard’s Mantle with his guest. The unfriendly ‘forge knew of the Shadow hideout, having ransacked Cora’s room in her absence, but Garen had decided that the party needed space to plan, away from the hostile “ears” of their unwilling companion. More importantly, it gave him a chance. He knew that the comments of “weak flesh” irritated his companions, much as taunts of “glitterboy”, or street calls of “metal demon” bothered him. Without the constant friction, and in the company of another forged, perhaps a change could occur. He thought of Thaspar and Sadie, standing up and fighting, after ballistae hits, and blows that would have knocked the head from a juggernaut. Flesh was weak compared to steel, but people weren’t. Nonforged were different from, not less than forged. He had eleven days to try to make Chainmouth realize that. If he failed, Garen knew that he would have to kill his companion. The enemy combatant had too much knowledge of the allies, to be allowed to return to his unit. Until then, Garen had decided to do everything in his power to help Chainmouth break free of his indoctrination. Eleven days was a tenth of Chainmouth’s short life. It might be possible. Garen sincerely hoped so.
He looked over his companion for a moment. Anger, and disgust were clear in Chainmouth’s eyes, but Garen could sense just a sliver of uncertainty. Garen had sympathy there. The four forged who were slain today were probably not part of Chainmouth’s training unit, but they were comrades all of the same. Had the young one seen death before? Clearly the Lord of the Blades had taught his newforged some fighting skills, but strategy? Command markings? Modularity? Mortality? These seemed to be foreign to him. Reaching into his pack, Garen pulled out a longsword, and whet stone. “Here.” Tossing them to his companion, he removed his axe from his back, and pulled a second whetstone from his pouch. With loving care, he began to sharpen the blade of his axe. Chainmouth held the sword loosely in his hand for a moment, watching Garen with suspicion, before beginning to sharpen the sword in his hand.
Part II
Garen sat quietly in his corner, looking over his companion thoughtfully. The silver insignia on his forehead seemed to flicker and move in the torchlight, almost as if it were itself a living thing. Turning to his pile of odds and ends, he retrieved the remains of a greatsword that had been sundered in battle. Looking it over with satisfaction, he tossed it to Chainmouth. “Can you repair this?”
The hostile forge glared at Garen with suspicion, and, it had to be said, a tinge of curiosity. “Why do you waste my time with such things? I need no weapons. Such are the tools of weak flesh.”
Garen looked closely at Chainmouth, and said simply. “Fair enough. Could you repair it, if you wanted to?”
“There is nothing left of it to repair. It was weak, and so is worthless.”
Garen smiled, and reached out a hand for the damaged sword. “So I should destroy it then, and make it into something new?”
“Obviously. The weak must give way to the strong.”
Garen took back the damaged sword, and held it loosely in his hands. “When I trained, my brothers and I trained for several months. Those who could not complete the training, the weakforged, were destroyed, and their bodies used as raw material to make newforged. Several of my brothers were brought up, and killed before us, as a warning to us not to fail. In not defeating the “flesh-sacs” today, you and your brothers have shown yourselves to be weakforged. The Lord of Blades will not take you back. When you return, you will be killed and some newforged will take your place. You know that is the way of things.”
Garen stops and begins to clean some of the rust off of the damaged blade. “I have watched Sadie take ballista bolts full to the chest, and laugh it off. Thaspar has been sliced with blows that would fell a juggernaut, and stood to destroy his enemy with his bare hands. Even Cora, small as she is, has felled steel many times her size. Some flesh is weak, and some is not. Certainly these people of flesh are not as weak as you believed. I think that you are starting to see that. Will the Lord of Blades believe you if you tell him that a few beings of flesh are strong? He will not. He will decide that you are weak against flesh, and then you will be destroyed, your metal used to make stronger newforged.” Garen pauses for a moment before asking quietly, “Do you want to die?”
Slowly, Garen finishes cleaning the blade, and begins to mutter a few words over it. A faint blue glow suffuses the damaged metal, and as they watch, the blade begins to lengthen from where it had broken off. A few moments later, the glow fades, and the sword is whole. Garen inspects it thoroughly, testing the balance before rising and swinging the sword around a bit. Satisfied, he hands the sword to Chainmouth. “Neither weak, nor useless, I think. This steel would kill either of us if wielded by a strong enough warrior of steel or flesh.
Part III
Garen surveyed the deck of “The Flaming Rat” with pleasure. Though the entire party owned the airship, he tended to think of it as “his” ship. This was not without reason, perhaps, considering all the repair work he had done. Truth be told, he had begun to develop a paternal affection for “The Rat” the day that the party had slammed through the Mournland mist, and limped toward safety at Thrane. Over the months, Garen’s numerous, and sometimes critical, repairs had taken him to every nook and cranny in the ship, to the point where he knew it like the back of his hand. Even in his free moments in Sharn he would come aboard from time to time to tweak a component, or carve some new figure into the hull, for the shear enjoyment of it. Captain Reef had grown used to his presence, and Garen, for his part, was pretty good at staying out of the way. Though he was an owner of the ship, and liked the crusty captain, Garen had heard more than enough diatribes on “Mare’s Piss” to get in the way of crew functions if he could help it. Still, Captain Reef recognized Garen’s abilities with tools, and their shared love of the ship bred mutual respect. Garen did his own thing, and the crew left him to it.
The night was cool, with an orange sun dipping down below the jungle. The last rays glinted in his eyes as he stepped off the tensor disk to board the transport. A few crew wandered past him, nodding greetings, and looking curiously at his companion before going about their tasks. Behind him, Chainmouth looked sullen, as usual, but also a little bit, nervous? Garen called out, “Come aboard before your disc dispels. It is a long way down!” Chainmouth glanced down, and then hurriedly stepped on the wooden deck. The tensor disc disappeared, and they stood staring at each other. Garen continued cheerfully, “Welcome aboard the Flaming Rat!” Chainmouth stood silent, thinking, before turning and looking over the edge at the dock far below. The flaming ring shone like a beacon in the evening air, and Garen could hear the calls and jibes of the sailors echoing unexpectedly loud in the still night. Even moored, the airship was a hub of activity. The first mate was in charge of the provisions for the upcoming journey, and Garen could hear the muffled yelling and curses as the crew loaded the crates of food and drink. Looking out at the port, rings of green and red could be seen flickering in the distance; here and there torches winked into life, illuminating the viewports on the lower decks. A faint breeze blew across the deck, jogging the warforged back to the present. Chainmouth hadn’t moved, and Garen approached him slowly.
“It’s your first time on an airship, isn’t it?” Garen’s question came quietly through the dusk. Chainmouth turned, a glimmer of shame glinting in his eyes, quickly replaced with the characteristic scowl. “Here. You’ll feel better if you wear this. It took me a while to get used to the height, as well.” Garen held out a small silver medallion, etched with a pair of wings. “Just wear it around your neck. If you fall, thinking will activate it, and you will slow down. We may be made of steel, but it still hurts to fall off an airship.” Chainmouth looked suspiciously at the token, opening his mouth to speak of his disdain for things of the flesh. Thinking better of it, he stayed silent, and grabbed for the featherfall medallion. He said nothing, but played the small metal icon over in his hand. Turning back to the rail with a snarl, he raised his arm to throw the medallion over the edge, stopping at the highest point of the arc. Garen stood and watched the warforged in silence, transfixed. Time seemed to slow, and the two stood motionless for several minutes, before Chainmouth turned back, amulet in hand.
“Why?”
The question was blurted out, and Garen could see fear, sorrow, and anger crossing the eyes of the ‘forge in turn.
“Why don’t you just kill me?”
A pause, and then a rush of words.“You are the slave of the Fleshlings. You are weak, and will be destroyed by the Lord of Blades when he comes. You have no part in the new world. You disgust me. He will destroy you, and all who serve the flesh sacs. You are nothing but a slave. We will be Lords, and you will be, …are……. nothing….”
The torrent ebbed for a moment, and then the young forge met Garen’s eyes.
“Why did you kill my brothers, and not me?”
Garen looked at the young ‘forge, and memories stirred deep within him. “Your brothers tried to kill my brothers. You were the only one I was able to save.”
Chainmouth railed in rage. “You fight with flesh, _for_ flesh. You betray steel, and you would call the pitiful fleshbags brothers!” “YOU cannot know true brothers.” A flash of steel, and the mouth hook lashed into Garen’s chest. Garen stood still, forcing himself to ignore the attack. “You will die, and I will return to my Lord. He will send my brothers and I to wipe the flesh off of the land. You especially will suffer, for betraying our kind. Pitiful Slave.” The grapple hook twisted, trying to get further purchase in Garen’s chest.
Garen stood immobile, and as suddenly as his anger emerged, Chainmouth weakened. “How did you fleshlings kill good steel?”
Garen stood silently for a moment, and then gently removed the chain from his chest, letting it fall to the floor. Looking sadly at his accuser, Garen said simply, “I, too, followed the Lord of the Blades, once.”
Turning, Garen walked slowly toward his cabin. After a moment, Chainmouth followed behind, silent.
Garen entered the cabin, and surveyed it. Unlike most parts of the ship, this area was sparsely carved. A wooden chair sat in one corner, surrounded by a characteristic pile of shavings, carvings, and unknowable widgets. A bare table occupied the center of the room, and an everglow lamp flickered near the door, the sole concession to Garen’s non-forged visitors. Chainmouth entered, closing the door. Before he could speak, Garen spoke, with a hardness in his voice that even his friends had never heard.
“I have not seen the Lord of Blades. Nor have I been to the forge in the Lands of Steel, and yet I served him as you did. Once.” Chainmouth moved to speak, but Garen cut him off with a look, “You asked “Why”. Listen. And Know.”
Garen looked old in the flickering light of the torch. Though the silver tracery was impressive, the dim light showed the myriad of dents that had accumulated over years of combat. Many of the dents had been meticulously worked out, but the areas of weakened metal still showed in the flickering light.
“For ten years I was a soldier in the Brellish army. The strongest among my brothers fought on the front lines. I, and my magic, provided support during the battle. Repairs. Weapons. Armor. Occasionally I would fight, and many Karnathi died at my hand. Later some Cyrans. Even some Brellish who betrayed the cause fell to my axe. Those who I fought with were my brothers. Many were forged, some true forge-mates with me. Others were humans that fought for their land. I respected strength and intelligence, and were happy to call my comrades brothers. My human brothers fought beside me as capably as my steel ones; indeed I owed my life to some of those “fleshies”, even as I had saved their lives on the field.” Chainmouth fidgeted a bit at the word “brother”, but Garen continued.
“One day, my unit was told that the war was over. That we were “free”.” The humans in my unit celebrated, and departed quickly to their homes. I stood with my brothers, confused, until someone came to explain to us what the news meant.” Garen looked at Chainmouth. “So, yes. I was a slave. The treaty freed me. My last order was effectively “Go do something.” I suppose that I still follow that order, to some extent, but you will agree, I think, that “Go do something” is hardly a binding order to a band of brothers.”
“I traveled to Sharn, working as an armorer and weapon smith in the lower reaches. The stories that you were told, of warforge slavery, and hatred by the fleshlings, stem from those times. In the early days, many disliked those of us who were steel, and we had little money with which to build things. As you can see, “Garen gestured to the airship door, “Things have changed since then.”
He continued. “Rumours had started to spread among forge-kind, of a great leader. The Lord of Blades. A Land for Steel. A
Garen stopped. “We met up with a band of forged outside of Sharn, one of whom claimed to have met the Lord of Blades. He spoke much like you do. The
“And I believed him.”
“For a time, I fought beside my brothers, and our band journeyed North under the guidance of the blade leader. Some of our band even began to call this leader a “prophet”, though he was no different than the rest of us. One day, as we neared the border of the Mournlands, we were ordered to take metal and wood from a small town. Once the task was completed, we would complete the journey, and be welcomed into the land of steel.”
“I gathered wood and metal, while the band killed any who stood up to our raid. Though I knew of the deaths, I believed in the words of the leader. ‘Flesh was weak compared to steel’. ‘It was natural’. ‘The forges must be supplied.’”
“I believed this, until I happened to run into one of my brothers from before. A brother-in-war, Gordon was a strong fighter, and had repaired me many times during my war time, including once when I was entirely disabled and left for dead. He lived in this village.”
“He was human.”
“He was my brother. “
“And he was struck from behind by a great sword wielded by one of my forge band. “
Garen ground his jaw in remembrance, and continued in anger.
“He had a small child. A daughter. Who was beheaded by the leader himself before I knew what was happening. I rose to protest, and he chided me for serving “weak flesh” before turning to walk away.
“I was alone with our “prophet”, and my dead friend.”
“I don’t think “the prophet” expected to die by my axe.”
Garen stopped. “The band mourned the loss of their leader, understanding him to have fallen by the hand of “weak flesh”. I left in disgust, eventually returning to Sharn.”
“When Sadie, Cora, and Thaspar put in an ad in the Inquirer for one who could repair airships, I decided to see what they were like. After I realized that they were worth fighting for, I have stayed with them ever since. Not as a slave, but as a friend, and a brother.”
Garen looked directly into Chainmouth’s eyes. “You asked me why I didn’t kill you. The answer is simple. I don’t want to kill you.” Garen paused for a moment, and then admitted, “I like you.”
Another pause, and Garen continued, “If I could have saved the lives of the others, I would have done so, but I did not have the chance. I am sorry.”
Garen walked toward the door, “You can choose to believe what I say, and what you can see with your own eyes, or you can believe what they have told you. Either way, remember this. You know that nothing weak could have killed those warforged, and yet “weak flesh” killed them. You can see that I am not a slave, and yet you were told that I must be because I live among people of flesh. There is no reason to kill beings of flesh. They are not a problem if we are not a problem.”
“Flesh isn’t weak. Nor is it strong. It is just flesh. Flesh can live with steel as equal. Here, it does, every day.”
The hardness eased out of Garen’s voice, and he finished quietly. “Two things that your brothers have told you are wrong. Were they the only two things?”
With that, Garen opened the door, and disappeared into the cool, dark night.
Part IV
The wind had begun to pick up a little, and Garen touched his feather fall amulet reflexively as the tensor disk floated slowly toward the docking platform. The sun had set, and a few stars winked above his head, dim against the radiant light of the fire elemental nearby. Garen had been reluctant to leave Chainmouth aboard “the rat”, but, he needed time to think. The spell that prevented Chainmouth from harming the patrons in the Lizard’s Mantle would ensure the safety of the crew of the Rat, but Garen sensed that his words probably had more of a binding effect than the charm. Chainmouth had a lot to think about.
“And so do I…”
Garen stepped off the tensor disk, and watched its glow fade as it returned to the ship. Above him, the rows of docking platforms were lit by everburning lamps. Ships of all shapes and sizes floated in dock. As he watched, a skybarge painted with the House Lyrandar colours began to pull away from its constraints, its ring of fire crackling. Here and there a brightly coloured dirigible crossed the port, dropping off loads to the waiting vessels. Though night had fallen, the docks were far from quiet, and even here sailors carrying loads would push past him from time to time.
Garen moved a little away from the bustle of the sailors, and stood motionless for a while, watching the movement in the harbour. The conversation with Chainmouth had drained him, and he stood still for awhile, trying to get back some energy. For a second, he sympathized with his non-forged companions. He could not feel fatigue, but he knew the feeling of emptiness that came when made extensive use of his power, and somehow he felt that now.
He hadn’t planned to tell Chainmouth of his past. Not even Sadie and Cora knew about his brief time with the bladeforged band. But what was done….
Reluctantly, he let his mind drift back to that last day. He had been friends with several of the ‘forged in the group, and he missed them a little. That idea, of being with a band of brothers, of being one with others like him, even now the idea was seductive. But at what cost? Garen shuddered a little. Why did they have to kill the non-forged? Why not just stay apart? Or come and live here? Why did they find flesh evil?
* * *
The blade forged “prophet” had been damaged in the conflict with the villagers, and the single blow from Garen’s axe had been enough to fell him. He remembered that moment vividly. The brief flash of fear had been quickly quenched by his military training. Enemy? Dead. Ally? Dead. Other Enemies? No. Other Allies? No. All Clear. Self? Minimal Repair needed. Use Wand. Now Fully Functional. Seconds after he attacked, all rage evaporated, and he had become emotionless, methodical. Precise. Only once he knew the area to be “safe”, was he able to think about plans and consequences.
He stood in the building, thinking quickly. None had seen his axe fall, of that he was sure. The prophet had had no winged messenger to show his last sight. Garen remembered his relief at that fact. The axe blow was in the back, so he would not have been in that vision, but still… The relief had been short-lived, and was followed by a gradual influx of fear. The prophet was dead. But what if he was repaired? Or raised? Would he know?
The thoughts rose and fell in his head, and his mind raced through the options, weighing action and consequences. Run? No. Suspicious. Destroy remains. Risky. Tough to do without notice. Help “heal” doing more damage? Might be possible. Risky. All options were risky. Did he know I killed him? Was he really from the Lord of the Blades? What if the others knew? What if HE learned? Until that time, Garen had seen the Lord of Blades as a figure of fantasy and superstition. Now HE had become real, and infinitely threatening. Garen knew that he was dead if the others learned, let alone if word got back to the land of the warforged... His brothers would kill him if they knew what he had done. The fleshlings would kill him if they knew he had been with the bladeforged. He could not hide. He could not run. He could only think. But thinking was one thing that Garen did very well.
That moment was carved deep within the core of Garen’s being. The stuffy heat of the shack, air still and heavy. His own thoughts, tumbling over each other. The realization. “They will kill me too.” Gordon’s blood gradually seeping into the wood floor. The motionless steel of the prophet reflecting heat and sunlight from a window. Garen was completely and totally alone. And then, in a flash, he knew what he must do.
Looking carefully around him, Garen pulled a scroll from his pack, reading it closely for a moment, before murmuring the words of completion. As the last word was spoken, the vellum vanished, and the power drained from him, much more quickly than he had ever felt before. His mind swam, and he forced himself to focus every ounce of his being on the too-complicated spell. Excruciatingly slowly, the steel of the prophet dulled, grey stone creeping up the limbs, replacing the metal with rock. The power continued to flow, consuming every morsel of energy within him. When it had exhausted his reserves, it began to steal from his strength, eating away into his life itself. Garen had been singleminded, his concentration absolute, but he felt his mind beginning to fade. The prophet was nearly completely stone now, with the hands and arms still steel. He struggled to release the spell, but drained beyond any of his experiences, he collapsed.
It had been days before the band found and revived him. He had been discovered, fallen on the stone form of the leader. To his finders, it was clear that Garen had tried to slow the stone spell that had hit his leader. The leader himself was a statue, but some steel glistened at the tips of his hands. That any steel remained was a testament to Garen’s brave effort, or so the group had decided. Garen was too weak to discuss the point. For several weeks, he had lain motionless, dumped on a quiet patch of dirt near the edge of the village, drifting in and out of consciousness. His strength returned hideously slowly, and it was some time before he was able to move his limbs, let alone stand. All the while, the stone form of his victim lay motionless beside him, insensible. Garen remembered that time only as a nightmarish haze. Helpless. Powerless. Near Death.
An Enemy Combatant. If they found out… He had been glad to get his strength back, little by little, though his power was absent for long after his strength began to return.
Occasionally a band member came to speak with him, telling him of their work. The village had been routed, the victims left to rot in the sun. Work parties had been formed to recover all useful materials from the village, and the forge band eventually stripped the buildings to the ground. When the time came for the band to journey on with their spoils, Garen had little trouble convincing the group to leave him behind with the fallen leader. He would gather his strength, and use his power to try to restore the prophet, before resuming his own journey into the Mournlands. The band parted from him on amicable terms, wishing him well when he continued his journey.
A journey that he never made.
* * *
Garen began to walk along the dock, still deep in thought. He had burnt the remains of Gordon and his child, and had built a pyre for the other bodies that he had encountered. The forge band had been thorough in their collection of wood and metal, but the stone of the dwellings had been left untouched, and he had been able to gather cloth, and other fuel for the fire. He had used one dwelling as mausoleum burying the bones of the hapless villagers under the dirt of the floor. As for the “prophet”…
* * *
* * *
A heavy rain had started to fall when Garen stopped out of the “WindRing”. The drops were warm where they flowed over him; here and there they pooled in the small crevices between his mithril plates. He wiped away some of the water absently, making his way to the berth message station. Moments before, the dock had been bustling with sailors, now it lay deserted, the workers taking momentary refuge from the downpour. The shower would pass soon, but the sailors tended to welcome them as an excuse to break and grab a quick pint. Fast to come, fast to go as the saying went. It seemed that much more than Sharn weather followed that saying.
Normally Garen didn’t mind the rain, despite the teasing he received from his friends about rust. It was harmless, and ultimately unimportant. Tonight, it felt wrong. Too heavy, too warm. Too… Bloody? Garen started. For a moment, a mere instant, he had felt the touch of hot blood over him. He was back in the Mournlands, wiping off the cursed blood as it rained down from the sky. Instinctively, he grabbed for his axe, looking around him quickly, before sheepishly relaxing his grip. Nothing. No one around. Nothing but rain. Not blood. Rain. Despite this knowledge, Garen still felt uneasy, and looked around nervously. Something was terribly wrong. He could sense it. Feel it. Fear. Emptyness. Tremendous pain. Madness?
Garen hurried to the messaging station, and summoned a Tensor disk, looking carefully around him as he did so. The gangway was still empty, the rain pelting down around him, large drops bouncing like pebbles on the stone path. The image of the blood rain came back to him, but this time it was like a memory. Sadie stood before him, the evil rain trickling down in bloody rivulets along her face. Thaspar, high on Dreamlily, stood soaked in blood, Cora lay unconscious on the ground, the blood rain pooling around her. In his mind’s eye he could sense the blood eating away at his friends, rotting them, their own blood mixing with the evil that rained from the sky. And Garen stood helpless, watching them die in pain, powerless to stop it. Completely alone. No friends. Nothing. Nothing but death. Death in the land of the Mourning. Garen cried out as if stabbed. The sense was so strong. So convincing. So complete. He was drowning in the image, and the feelings of hopelessness. For a second he could only feel extreme pain, and the torrential rain of blood.
The Tensor disk. Garen forced his thoughts to focus. It is here. Get on. The Rat should be a safe place. Secure. Allies around. Heal in safety. Gradually, he was able to override his military instincts, and gather his wits. He could not sense any magic around him, besides the usual aura of himself, the tensor, and the airship. No obvious spell craft, no illusions. The rain most certainly was not blood. Nor, as he looked around, was there anything to suggest that it had been blood. He was not in the Mournland. Sadie, Thaspar, and Cora, to his knowledge were not dead. Plastered in the Lizard’s Mantle, perhaps, but certainly not dead. The last thought made Garen smile to himself. If Sadie were passed out, it would be due to some exertion with Merrin, not, he thought, due to a strange bloody curse. For a moment, he wished that he had his friends with him as the disk glided smoothly to “the Rat”. For all his frustration with Sadie’s “easy climbs”, it would have been reassuring to see the familiar silhouette scampering up the side of the massive airship on this night. Garen would never understand why she didn’t use Tensor disks like everyone else, but had begun to accept her need for showmanship. If only she would take up carving, like a normal person....
The Tensor stopped, and Garen hopped off quickly, relieved to be back on board his ship. The rain had slowed to a trickle, and the deck was deserted. The crew were, no doubt, relaxing below deck, out of the torrent. Curiously, Garen looked over the side at the gangway far below. No movement. Nothing to indicate an attack. No sign of spell casting. Strange.
Garen stood for a few minutes, gathering his thoughts as the rain stopped. The deck was absolutely quiet, the thick air deadening even the crackle of the fire elemental. He looked up briefly, and then looked up again in alarm. No glow? No fire elemental? Instead of the familiar orange glow, he could make out a charred black ring that seemed to get larger, plummeting toward the deck. Shards of Obsidian fell around him like knives, and he lifted his axe to try to protect himself. As the shards struck the deck, they broke into fragments releasing metal screws and slivers of word. Larger chunks were falling from the dead ring, becoming broken forged arms and legs as they touched the deck. Garen tried to jump away, but the arms were grabbing him, pulling him hard toward the edge of the ship. The grip was unbreakable, and the hands passed him to each other, as if of one mind. The rail of the ship came perilously close, and in moments he would be off of the edge and into oblivion below. With shear force of will, Garen focused his mind, and the chaos vanished. He stood hard up against the railing, dazed, and then started back in shock. Splinters? A bit longer, and the rail… Garen stepped back instinctively. Airship rails did not do well under the weight of a 450 pound warforge. He had the feather fall amulet, but still… To quell his fear, Garen allowed his mind to kick into harmless thoughts. He would have to reinforce this rail. Inconvenient. And… Oh. Must fix that carving. Unfortunate it got damaged. It was a good one. Nervously, he girded himself enough to look up. Far above him, the orange flicker reassured him that the fire elemental was still in his usual tether.
A flash of silver caught his eye, and he looked over to see Chainmouth gazing over the edge rail, some distance from where he was standing. Garen felt a flash of happiness to see the familiar form, but then the feeling of unease returned. Slowly Garen approached the other warforged, saying nothing. The unease grew stronger, and then suddenly turned into an eerie calm. He could hear words coming toward him in a series of quiet thoughts. “I should be dead.” “It would be better this way.” “Wasted metal”. “And for what?” “Nothing.” “How could they lie?” “WHY?” Chainmouth’s voice, to be certain, but Garen could not see his companion’s mouth move. Garen went to speak up, and then was hit with a blast of memory.
He was in a forge. He knew the forge well, though he had never seen it. Several of his brothers were working it, though he did not know them. As he watched, the forge fired to life, glowing brightly before dimming to a point. The operators stepped forward, and removed the occupant. Not a warforge, but rather a malformed head, obscenely mangled, and clearly dead. Cursing, an operator kicked it away, before signaling another run. The light brightened and dimmed, leaving behind a small grappling chain, which the operator promptly tossed into a sizable “parts” pile. Garen felt a flood of revulsion as he watched the forge produce aberrant creatures, many dead, and some hideously misshapen. A warforged came to stand beside him, and he turned and watched as Chainmouth removed the grappling hook from the top of the pile, and began to attach it to himself. “I shouldn’t have been forged” “I was a mistake, like all of these…” “They all lied. It is all a lie,
Garen looked over at his companion with great fear. “Chainmouth…what…”
A blaze of fire raced over Garen, fusing and melting every joint in his form. He was being eaten by a hydra, boiling in its fiery mouth, unable to move. Outside the gaping maw were doors that led to doors, that led to still more doors, their handles tied together by ropes. Only a maze, with no entry, and no exit. The jaws were closing now, in an inexorable grind that threatened to tear him to pieces.
“Chainmouth…” Fire burnt away at Garen’s wood components, before changing to an icy grip. He cried out more urgently, “*Chainmouth*…” He could see the young forge twitching in similar agony. “Please. Stop. It isn’t over yet.” Another blast. Now acid, ate away the edges of the plates, his limbs becoming soft and fleshy before rotting to a necrotic black. Garen’s body was beginning to solidify, a hard glassiness beginning to crawl up his feet, locking plates and cords into position, gradually petrifying his legs, his torso, his chest. It was becoming harder and harder to think, Garen’s mind was consumed by overwhelming pain. Every moment of fear, every time of loneliness, of pain, of terror, every feeling of grief he had ever experienced; all flooded over Garen in a deadly wave.
And then as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Garen’s predicament vanished from his mind, as he watched Chainmouth slowly climb onto the fragile wooden rail. Chainmouth’s silver form was still, crouched on the edge, illuminated by the fire ring, and the stars. Chainmouth looked at Garen for a moment, and then moved to stand tall on the edge of the massive airship, perfectly still and calm. It was so quiet. The rain, the wind, the movement of the planes, all seemed to stop to watch the silver figure. A sense of peace and tranquility began to spread from him, and it edged into Garen’s mind. For a second, Garen wondered if this was what sleep would feel like… serene… peaceful… Only a step. One small step. Very little. And then…
“ENOUGH!”
Garen’s voice boomed, a harsh yell thundering in the quiet night. Tranquility and pain both vanished, and Garen found himself steps from Chainmouth, axe instinctively drawn. Chainmouth stood still and unresponsive, looking over toward the towers of Sharn.
“You are a *warforged*.”
“You have *strength*.”
“You have *skills*.”
“And you have a *friend*.”
“
The last words echoed across the docks, a command more powerful than any of his magic. A command spoken from one who had led others in war, and who had watched many die. A command that spoke of another, albeit difficult, choice.
The words hung in the air for ages, unheard, unreceived. And then, almost imperceptibly, the calm began to dissipate. Garen felt the beginnings of defiance.
Followed by rising anger.
Fear.
Disgust.
Pride.
And then, finally, ever so faintly, a twinge of gratitude.
The air of the night felt cooler, and a faint breeze had started to play over the deck of the ship when time returned. Down below them, Garen could hear the movement of the crew resuming the loading. The sounds were welcome, and Garen felt life returning. He felt shaky, and weak, but forced himself to stand tall, never allowing his gaze to waver from his companion.
Garen stood and watched Chainmouth for a while, before lowering his axe, and laying it to rest against the side of the airship rail, near to where Chainmouth was standing. He said simply, “Sharpen this for me, will you? It needs a decent edge to it, if it is going to be of any use to us in the Eldeen Reaches.”
Without another word, Garen turned and walked toward his quarters.
Part V
Garen was worried. Much had happened in the past few days, and his head spun trying to make sense of it all. Start with the tree. It was as good a place to start as any. Should they have gone? Could they have escaped without destroying it? Could they have left the guardian alive, if insane? He tested the alarm spell with his mind. Nothing so far. He had left the gate encased in a thick ball of stone and iron. Not impenetrable, but enough to slow down even the most determined attackers. He had done what he could, he noted, exhausted and drained as he was. The maddening evil emanating from the gate made it difficult to do much more. He was just glad that Sadie hadn’t attacked it again.
Sadie. Garen’s mind drifted to the usual mix of grudging admiration and scorn, this time spiked with concern. “I can’t believe that she was stupid enough to attack the gate.” He thought back to the moment, her enthusiastic chatter, as if she had discovered a great truth. “It’s not the real gate. The real gate is the tiny gate inside the tiny tree...” Garen winced at the remembrance. She was insane, but didn’t know she was insane. And yet moments later, true madness had arced through her, and laid her out cold. He had been angry enough that he wanted to just leave her down, deciding against it solely because she was useful. Sometimes. More useful upright than out cold, at any rate. Now the strength of his feelings surprised him a little. Sadie drove him nuts. Sadie was stupid and impulsive. He had fantasized killing Sadie off many times, particularly when she had triggered a trap that had rebounded onto him yet again. And yet, he had been scared when she made her disastrous attack. Not, he thought grimly, that I will ever tell her that.
Garen had asked Sadie about the jolt when they were well away from the gate, but she couldn’t tell him much that he hadn’t already guessed. She had felt a jolt of pure chaotic evil, enough to swamp her sense of self, and then darkness. Garen thought of his own experience near the gate. Voices, angry, laughing, crying, all mixed together. Warforged, Human, Elven, Goblin. Speaking against one another, using languages he didn’t entirely understand. And beneath it all, there lay something vast and utterly incomprehensible. He had glimpsed it, flickering across the surface of the gate, and it scared him more than any of the aberrations that the madness produced. Insanity, without comprehensible sentience, without purpose, without being… He remembered the voices echoing through his mind, his own self swimming upstream against the flow of it. And then he touched on the thought that scared him the most. “Someone must use the rod to fix the gate… and that someone will probably have to be me.”
Garen felt his limbs tighten, and he consciously relaxed them. At the first encounter, the evil play, madness had taken him; it had twisted him with confusion and fear again at the tree. Even if he could figure out how to use the rod, would he have the strength of mind to do it?
The door opened, and Chainmouth walked in, carrying a small bucket of water. Silently, he placed it on the table, looking curiously at Garen. “What are you doing with the water?”
Garen looked over at the young forge. Chainmouth still had a haggered look about him, but beneath the angry exterior, Garen had started to sense something softening. “Almost” he thought to himself “like he is relieved”. The spell that had held Chainmouth with Garen had ended several days ago, but when given the chance to leave, Chainmouth had chosen to try his hand working aboard the Rat. After the death of three crewmen on the outward voyage, there was need for a new pair of hands, and Chainmouth had volunteered, surprising everyone, including himself. Garen was overjoyed. He had been a little worried at first, knowing Chainmouth’s opinions on “orders”, and “fleshies”, but the crew were used to working with warforged, and it was tough to say no to Captain Reef, whatever you felt about orders. Chainmouth had been given quarters down with the crew, along with the usual warforged salary (two shifts worth!), but Garen had also cleared out some space in his cabin, designating it as a “flesh free” zone, in case Chainmouth needed a place to escape. Chainmouth used the cabin, but mostly when Garen was around himself. Garen was smart enough not to comment on this, but he was secretly pleased when Chainmouth sought out his company.
“The water?”
Garen was startled back to the present, to see Chainmouth scowling at him. “Right, Thanks.” Garen paused, and then sensing that more explanation was needed, muttered quietly, “Splinters.”
“What?”
“The tree. When it exploded.” Garen felt vaguely stupid. “I got splinters.”
Chainmouth stared back in disbelief, and then, quietly, started to laugh.
Garen privately wished the ground would swallow him once again. As it was, he stood still, and gruffly muttered. “Help me detach this,” before thrusting out an arm.
Chainmouth walked over, snickering a little, and began to work at the bolts holding the wand sheath in place. Garen, anxious to retain a little of his dignity, turned his free hand to working out the debris from the chinks between his chest plates. A dull ache informed him when the wand sheath was removed, and he cried out in alarm when Chainmouth nonchalantly dropped sheath with wand into the waiting bucket. “Hey, be careful with that, I made that wand…
Chainmouh looked into the bucket, and used an idle finger to scoop up some of the debris that had started to float to the surface. “What is…” Wincing, he hurriedly wiped the tarry black substance onto the workbench, where it could be heard faintly sizzling. “Acid?”
“Boiling Acid. Can’t recommend it. Tree seemed to like the stuff. I don’t.” Garen pulled out a small BluntBlade, and used it to work under a phlange. “Get my back, will you.”
Chainmouth glanced at the bucket. The sheath was shedding all foreign matter, covering the surface of the water with a black tarry sludge; the debris smoked a little where it made contact with the air. Walking over to Garen, Chainmouth began to work at the solid mithril plate that covered his back. Garen let out an involuntary groan as the plate came free, and a rain of black tarry slivers fell to the floor. Chainmouth moved to replace the plate, but stopped. Here and there the knotted wooden cords of Garen’s musculature were charred, with a pattern very similar to giant teeth. Even more striking was a rune-like pattern, branded deep into the metal and wood of his lower back. The teeth marks looked relatively fresh, but the rune had clearly been made years ago, and Garen’s metal and wood had grown over to protect it. Scar tissue?”
Garen, clenching his jaw in pain, “Hurry up. Put it back.” Chainmouth did, and Garen made a sound mixed between acute pain and relief.
“What are…”
“Fire Hydra. Lived in Lava. Decided it liked the taste of mythril. Can’t recommend it either. Took awhile to knock out the dents.”
“What about the brand?”
Garen shuddered, and looked distant for a moment, still gritting his teeth. “I’ll tell you about that one day. Not today. Definitely can’t recommend it.”
Chainmouth was silent, helping Garen to clean the tar-like wood from plates and cording. For a time, the silence of the room was broken only by the clink of metal, and murmured cries and curses from Garen. Garen would never understand why Sadie and Cora enjoyed “baths”. Beneath the warforged, a small pile of dark shavings showed where Garen had met the tree.
Aftera while, Chainmouth spoke up. They are teaching me to use a ballista. Said you used it to hit someone point blank.” Garen nodded.
“They also say you destroyed eight airships.”
“Nine. Eight exploded, one crashed into a wall of force I put up over Greywall. We captured the tenth airship. You saw that WindShip back in Sharn.”
Garen pulled the wand sheath out of the bucket, and shook the water from it. Steadying his arm on the table, he locked it into place, cursing quietly as he did so. Thinking for a moment, he raised a hand and touched the surface of the attachment, and Chainmouth watched as a silvered pattern began to cover it once again. As he watched, the silver tracings took the shape of a shield where they covered the wand sheath. Satisfied, Garen removed his hand from the sheath, and began to brush the few remaining slivers onto the floor.
Looking over at Chainmouth, Garen thought for a moment, before reaching into his pack, and pulling out a wand. “You might find this useful. It’s good for you, and good for your ballista. Useless on pretty much anyone else.” As an afterthought, “Probably want to practice a bit with it before you really need it, but it will help a bit if you have to take a ballista bolt to the chest.”
“Not that I recommend that either…“
And Garen laughed.
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