Chapter XVI: Taking Action

Day broke over the sweeping spires of Castle Oztroja, chasing away the shadows which had crept over the dust-swept peaks of the Meriphataud Mountains, the sun casting the rays which had bleached white the Spine of the World down into the valleys and bringing what light it could to the world through the shroud which entrapped the sky. The wildlife of the area began to stir, creeping out from rocky nooks and well-concealed holes dug within the ground to begin the day anew. Wild rabbits poked their heads to the surface, noses twitching as walking saplings bounded away nearby. Though the area appeared a waste, it was indeed teeming with life, and perhaps no bed of activity greater than that of the enormous walled construct of the Yagudo stronghold.

On the top floor, high enough yet that the rays of sunshine had just now begun stretching through the windows, Rykoshet sat with an expression of concentration as he pored over maps of the area. The Yagudo war room was an impressive site indeed; shelves lined all four walls, containing scrolls describing ancient battles, detailed maps of all the Yagudo territory from Sauromugue to Sarutabaruta, books, classical war manuals, plans for the defense of the castle, even recipes for using crystals to infuse items with powers which would be beneficial in the course of battle. It was all situated around a massive stone table, carved, as most things were, from the core of the mountain itself. Around it were positioned several regal, high-backed chairs, each carved in ornate detail to bear the forms of important figures from Yagudo history, or in some cases, the figures of the terrestrial Avatars could be made out, represented in some form of battle. This was a room designed for the discussion and planning of war, and every inch of it had been designed to facilitate that action.

Today, as the early morning hours broke away the darkness and gave way to light, it was the place where the excursion to Garlaige Citadel was being planned. In the room with him, Danienne stared out one of the high-framed, narrow windows, hands clasped behind her back. Documents splayed out in front of him, Baeladar drew lines with ink and quill connecting miscellaneous items to one another, then going back through the voluminous sheets of parchment stacked before him and cross-referencing whatever it was he had just written down with something he had read hours ago. Rykoshet concerned himself with only one thing; trying to figure out how he was going to reach Garlaige Citadel and return with an unknown number of refugees without being spotted by the demons.

“It would be utterly disastrous.” Baeladar had told him when he had informed him of the planned rescue. “Should you be spotted by the demons, you will be attacked, make no mistake. We’ve seen that the boorish things will go after anything that moves and breathes, they see you leading a pack of the weak and hungry across those open hills, Rykoshet, you might as well start digging graves that moment.”

“They’ll die anyway; the chance needs to be taken.” Rykoshet had responded. “We’re going to do it, so help me figure out what the best chance for survival is.”

“Well,” Baeladar said, rubbing thumb and forefinger against his chin, “I did just find the most remarkable room on the upper floors the other day . . . “

That declaration had brought them to now, where, with Danienne’s help, they had examined every possible avenue they could take. The first decision that they had made was that they could only take in a small group, and it would have to be entirely composed of Those Guys. Too many people would be more difficult to keep hidden, and bringing any of the Yagudo along could lead to miscommunication on both ends. They couldn’t bring all of the senior members along, however, because they still needed people to run things here in Oztroja. They had still not completely won the hearts and minds of their new housemates, if they were to leave now they might return with a slew of Jeunoans behind them and discover the castle doors locked and a new Manifest on the altar. That being the case, some would have to be left behind.

“Remind me again who we’re sending,” Rykoshet asked, not looking up from the map he was examining.

“You’ve volunteered yourself, naturally,” Baeladar said, casually glancing up at the other Elvaan before returning to his work, “as well as Liyah to help with the survivors, since Odessa must remain here with the good Lieutenant.”

“I’m going,” Danienne chimed in, still looking out the window, “and so is Decay. Vile and Baeladar are going to remain here.”

“Okay,” Rykoshet said, nodding. “Get me Konstantine as well, and we’ll bring Fated.”

“Fated?” Baeladar said, a touch of surprise in his voice.

“He’ll be up for it.” Rykoshet assured him. “He came to us with the best recommendation from Captain Emblim, and he hasn’t let us down yet.”

“Fated it is.” Baeladar replied, acknowledging the endorsement. “So, that makes six. Shall the rest of us wait here and discuss what to say at your funerals? I believe Vile will deliver a very eloquent eulogy for you.”

“We’ll make it back,” Rykoshet said in a tone which did not inspire argument. “Now get your damned nose back in those books and help me figure out how.”

“The tunnels,” Danienne suddenly chimed in, still not turning back around.

The two Elvaan turned to regard the Hume woman in the room with them. Danienne was so slight in form that sometimes it was easy to forget that once she donned her armor and scythe she became the figure which had been dubbed The Black Death by those who faced her on the battlefield. The Dark Knight unclasped her hands and turned back to face the pair, brushing a stray strand of raven-colored hair out of her eyes as she did so. “The tunnels,” she repeated, seeing the blank expressions on their faces, “or have you two forgotten?”

“Of course,” Baeladar exclaimed, pushing himself to his feet as he suddenly scrambled to examine the notes he had made. “the tunnels!” Danienne nodded, and Baeladar rushed to where Rykoshet was seated, slamming his hand down on one of the maps and tracing a line with his finger to where the Citadel was marked. Looking back and forth frantically from the sheet of parchment in his hands to the map, he slowly started to draw a line leading out into the deeper part of the Champaign hills.

“What are you two talking about?” Rykoshet demanded, even as Baeladar practically pushed him aside.

“Garlaige Citadel was originally a San d’Orian base, Rykoshet, you knew that.”

“Right,” he said, “but the beastmen destroyed it during the Crystal War. I don’t see what – “

“It’s why they destroyed it that’s the issue here, Rykoshet.” Danienne interjected, coming around to where Baeladar was standing. “The Citadel was a monument to when the Elvaan had controlled the region, before Jeuno arose. San d’Oria sent soldiers in . . .”

“ . . . so that they could dig a tunnel from the Citadel to Oztroja.” Rykoshet finished the sentence, his eyes going alight as he suddenly recalled. He had been scarcely a child during the Crystal War, but tales had been passed down the intervening decades and stories heard in passing now came together in his head. “They never finished them, but if we can find those tunnels, we can lead the refugees out deep enough into the Champaign that no one will ever see us before we get to Meriphataud.”

“This is no cause for celebration yet, Rykoshet.” Baeladar warned. “We don’t know what’s down there. This avenue may prove just as dangerous as walking the lot into Jeuno itself.”

“Even so, Bael,” Rykoshet responded, rising from his chair as he snatched the map out from under the Paladin’s hands, wrapping a cord around it to keep it bound as he walked from the room, “we’ve got a plan now, and that’s all I need to get the job done.”

“I often wonder if following him around like we do is going to land us all in Hades.” Danienne mused as Rykoshet exited the room, the heavy oaken door closing firmly behind him.

“Why is that?” Baeladar inquired, looking up down at the smaller Hume woman.

“Because I was always taught that Altana detests suicide.” She responded wryly, and with that, she gave a sigh and followed after Rykoshet, to make for the cursed ruins of the Garlaige Citadel.


“So we just wait here?” Greyheart said, looking out at the waves lapping the rocky shore of the cove hidden beneath the Gustaberg lighthouse. The trek down the slopes had been easy enough once Ayn showed them the hidden footholds that lined the cliff face, though Zealot had struggled to hold on to the slumbering Pinkfae and make his descent at the same time. The inlet was barren and rocky, home to only a few fish which quickly darted out of sight, and a crab which hovered near the back of the cave, keeping its distance from the unwanted visitors.

“Sweet Altana, I hate crabs.” Ayn muttered under his breath, dark eyes fixing on the blue-shelled crustacean sharing space with them. “And yes, for the last time. There’s a ship here every few days at least. People are dropping things off and picking them up here all the time to avoid the, uh, more unreasonable trade laws Bastok has in place.”

“It doesn’t look like there’s anything here to pick up.” Greyheart responded, looking around the cove. “Are you sure – “

“I’m sure!” Ayn snapped, rounding on the Elvaan. “Don’t you ever shut up?”

“Easy there, friend, I was just trying to – “

“I don’t care what you were trying to do,” Ayn said in a dark tone, “you’re only here because you provide a service which I don’t even necessarily find valuable, but I’ve been forced into accepting. I would’ve left you for the demons given half a chance, being asked questions I’ve already answered over and over is not the way to make me think this isn’t still the right course of action.”

“Lay off, Ayn.” Zealot said evenly, Pinkfae’s form still cradled in his arms. Despite his boasts, he had to admit that the armor weighing down the slight form of the Mithra was starting to take its toll on him, but he hesitated to put her down here with freezing waters spraying up on the shore. Along with his own mismatched pieces of gear and the ferocious axe strapped to his back, he was quite encumbered. “He was just asking a question, you shouldn’t be so hard on him.”

“I did not just hear the help try to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do.” Ayn said, directing his view towards the sky in exasperation. “Listen, you – “ he began, but suddenly Tikinas was there, her lithe form appearing and pressing a finger against the Thief’s lips. Ayn stopped short as a katana flashed into the Mithra’s hand, and she narrowed her eyes, scanning the cove.

“Someone’s here,” she said warily, her eyes still flashing about from side to side. Taking a step forward, the Ninja cautiously surveyed the confines of the cave, not sheathing her katana as slowly, she tilted her head upwards.

“Tiki, what’s – “ Ayn started to say.

All in a flash, the green-cloaked figure dropped from the same cliff face they had all just descended from. Tikinas was instantly upon him, but in an impossibly quick motion, a gun flew from his side, and with a flash of light the Ninja stopped in her tracks, falling face-first to the ground. She struggled to rise, but found herself held fast by her own shadow. Ayn wasted no time as twin daggers slipped out from under his sleeves into his palms, spinning in the air as he twirled with precision grace towards the new enemy. Knives met knives, and the two clashed blades so quickly they appeared as little more than sparks in the air where steel collided.

Ayn spun backwards, cartwheeling in the air and nimbly directing a slash towards the newcomer’s side, but he moved with trained agility and countered the blow with his own daggers. In a flash, his gun came up again, and he fired a shot at Ayn’s unprotected head, but the Thief dove to the side, avoiding the sudden hail of broken rock and debris. As soon as he rolled to his feet, he tossed one of his knives forward, shooting like a firebolt towards the green-garbed man’s chest, but with another echoing boom from his gun, the knife was knocked out of the air, and the attacker leveled his gun on Ayn once more.

“Hey,” Greyheart said, rushing to Zealot’s side, “we have to help him!”

“ . . . . why?” The silver-haired warrior replied, turning to look at Greyheart with a confused expression.

The two fought on, even as Tikinas struggled to break free of the binding snare she had been caught in. Ayn escaped yet another shot directed at him, running up the side of the wall and coming down with his remaining knife to slash at the Ranger assaulting him even as the latter danced backwards. He dropped his gun to his side, bringing his own knives up in defense again, countering and parrying Ayn’s guided thrusts and slashes with expert timing.

“Are you with them?” the man in green demanded, even as he took a swing which narrowly avoided cutting Ayn’s chest open.

“With who?” Ayn demanded, spinning his knife in his hand and deflecting a thrust even as he lanced out his arm, the shove catching his attacker by surprise and sending him off-balance. “The people who aren’t trying to kill me? Yeah, I do hang out with them now and then.”

“Demons!” he said, a haunted look in his eye as he cried out. He came forward again, but Ayn swept him aside, and the Ranger lost his footing on the wet, rocky ground, tumbling over. Ayn was on him instantly, but even as he dove at the man, coming down with his knife against his throat, the audible click of the Ranger’s gun being primed resonated through the chamber. There they lay, Ayn with a gun in his face, the Ranger with a knife to his throat.

“Alright,” Zealot sighed, shifting Pinkfae’s weight in preparation to try and hand her off to Greyheart, freeing one hand to reach for the axe on his back, “I better break this up before – “

He was cut short as a shot rang out, and Tikinas gasped, struggling to see what was happening. Greyheart spun around, and then gasped himself, his eyes going wide for entirely different reasons. The shot had not come from the Ranger’s gun, but from outside the mouth of the cave. Both Ayn and the Ranger had frozen, turning their attention towards the smoking gun now aimed at both of them.

A Mithra in a long, resplendent coat, wearing a three-cornered hat, stood at the rocky shore of the pirate’s cove, her form barely concealed by the impossibly tight black pants and high leather boots she wore. Zealot turned when he heard Greyheart, who had begun sputtering as spray from the tides shot into his open mouth.

“That there be a warnin’ shot.” The Mithra said, her six-sided gun still fixed on Ayn. “The lot of you are gonna be tellin’ me exactly what’s goin’ on here, because it’s the only one yer like ta get from Captain Kattrina of the Sea Horror.”