Chapter XXIX: Refugees

He was standing before a lake, or perhaps a river of some kind. The water was murky and thick, making it impossible to perceive how deep it might be, and all throughout, strange shapes ran just underneath the surface. The current carried them far and away from the bank shore, which in and of itself seemed to be naught but a wispy cloud, somehow able to support the weight of the person crouching before the river. That strange circumstance he could wrap his head around. It was the man standing in the middle of the river that was giving Rykoshet some concern.

He rose up out of the water in not such a way as to make it appear he was standing on the surface, but rather that he was part of the surface; an extension of the river itself. Garbed in a white cloak trimmed with gold, the man flowed out of the water as if a result of the current, arms hung limply at his sides, his face concealed by the thick hood outstretched from his voluminous garment. The figure turned towards Rykoshet, ripples from the water coursing throughout his very body, and the leader of Those Guys felt a chill, like cold water down his back, as the gaze of the man fell upon him.

The man raised up a single hand, pointing off into the distance wordlessly. Rykoshet turned, the Elvaan fighter squinting against the haze all around him to try and make out what he was supposed to be seeing. With a gasp, he realized he was suddenly right in the middle of it. The river was gone, the ephemeral white surface he had been standing on froze over into the thickest ice, a tundra of unimaginable depth. He felt the cold tearing at his flesh, and wrapped his arms around himself as he struggled in vain to ward off the chill. Even with the icy wind bringing tears to his eyes, he could see the events unfolding around him.

There was some sort of fortress, a lair hidden underneath the snow and ice. Magic permeated the area, and ancient runes glowed red with power as they were assaulted by forces encompassing the entire frozen valley in which he stood in. From the surroundings, there could be no doubt. Rykoshet stood in the Beaucedine Glacier, somewhere far to the frozen north. With him walked demons, a great host of them filling the air and converging on this one spot. There was no end to their numbers, and their unholy howling was almost maddening as they struggled to pierce the barriers of magic set throughout this hidden lair. Rykoshet stood unmoving, locked with disbelief at what was happening, as they swarmed all around him. Slowly, he turned, and there behind him stood the white-cloaked figure from the river, still unmoving, his face still hidden.

“Rykoshet . . . “ the man whispered.

“What is it?” he demanded, struggling to be heard over the demons. “What are you trying to show me?”

“You must come here, Rykoshet . . . “

The Elvaan’s response was taken right out of him as an insane laughter covered the area, and he spun around to see a blur of darkness overtake him, and then all was black

“Rykoshet!”

He awoke with a start, sweat drenching his brow. With a gasp for air, he filled his lungs with a hot, dry breath of the Sauromugue Champaign, and felt the stones of Garlaige Citadel pressing against the armored plates on his back. His hands clenched inside the gauntlets he wore, and with no small relief he felt the weight of the Yagudo great sword he had brought with him pressing into his side where it lay propped up against the floor. Rykoshet’s dark eyes darted about for the source of the speaker, and it was then that he saw Fated standing in front of him. The Paladin’s face was masked with concern.

“You were having a nightmare,” the young Hume told him, his armor gleaming in the fading sunlight, somehow free from the dust and dirt the others had accumulated. “You wouldn’t wake up no matter what we did.”

It took Rykoshet a moment to grasp Fated’s words entirely, his eyes darting back and forth between the faces of his colleagues and the rapidly diminishing sunlight. It struck him like a blow to the gut, and he struggled to rise, pressing a hand against the blackened stone of the Garlaige entrance to support himself. “How long was I asleep?” he demanded, mopping at the sweat soaking his forehead, wisps of his blonde hair matted against his head.

“It’s been nearly three hours,” Decay responded to him, the Red Mage growling his response. “Danienne never returned.”

The air went out of the blonde Elvaan as quickly as it had come into him. One hour, she had said when she descended into those depths. One hour was all she would need.

“And no one went after her?”

“We couldn’t leave you out here,” Liyah piped up as Rykoshet felt himself growing livid, “we’ve been trying to wake you up this whole time. You were carrying on like you were being attacked; you’re lucky you didn’t attract demons.”

“Are you okay?” Konstantine asked, genuine concern in her voice. Rykoshet looked from face to face again, and saw that even Decay seemed worried about his state. What had that nightmare been about? Who were those figures, and what was happening in Beaucedine Glacier? He had to . . . he stopped. Forcibly calming himself, the black-armored warrior drew his great sword up off of the ground, clasping it over his back. His face took on a stony glare as he looked down the dark, spiraling tunnel Danienne had descended into without returning.

“I’m fine, Konnie.” He responded, taking great effort to make his voice remain steady. “Dani might not be. We’ve waited out here long enough while I had bad dreams, it’s time to go find our friend.”

The others nodded, falling behind him as he led the way into the cursed remnants of the once-proud Garlaige Citadel.


The Citadel was every bit as treacherous and uninviting on the inside as legends had made it out to be. The basalt walls were already foreboding enough, the thick ebony blocks absorbing the light and almost radiating darkness, but the years had left them caked with dust and cobwebs, and a black, flaky substance that the small band of adventurers forced themselves not to consider. They all knew the kind of slaughter which had taken place here during the Crystal War. This had been the home of a massacre, the allied forces decimated by a surprise attack which left the Citadel in ruins. Now, this blighted ruin stood as perhaps the only refuge for the people of Jeuno. Unless, as Danienne’s absence suggested, it had simply reinforced its position as a tomb.

Fated had taken point, his blessed armor radiating light enough in the darkness for all of them to see by. Hand on the hilt of his sword, he pressed onwards slowly down the darkened stone steps. Rykoshet and Decay were behind him, the latter appearing ill at ease with his surroundings as from out in the darkness, the bulbous yellow eyes of bats hanging from the ceiling blinked visibly through the ether. The Red Mage gave a shudder of revulsion at the sight as they continued onwards.

The Citadel was as bleak and oppressive on the inside as it had been from without. The halls lay in ruins; deep holes smashed through the walls and floors leading to some bottomless abyss below. The group walked closely together so as not to lose track of one another in the darkness, or become lost down one of those never-ending pits gaping through the path they trode. Deeper and deeper they went, following the only avenue that appeared open to them, each one hoping that with the next step they took, Danienne would materialize, giving them an excuse to leave.

It was not Danienne, however, who came at them from the gloom.

Fated was tossed backwards as a force took him by surprise, sending him with a clatter against the wall. Rykoshet drew out his great sword in a flash, and Decay’s own rapier sprang to life with enchanted flames. Only the sudden burst of light from the weapon gave Rykoshet warning that the attacker was upon him, and he raised his defenses just in time to send sparks flying as it met the steel of another blade. He locked eyes with someone emerging from the gloom for just an instant, and then they leaped back into the darkness from whence they came.

Lighting flew from Konstantine’s fingers, but the assailant stayed skillfully away from the thick tendrils of magic conjured from the black mage, the light providing only instantaneous flashes of his position. He came at them again, but Fated was back on his feet and already rushing forward, his shield raised. He blew by Decay and Rykoshet, meeting the next swing of the attacker’s sword and then drawing his shield back to counter with a blow of his own. Too quickly, the mystery opponent struck again, coming forward with his shoulder held low and crashing into Fated’s thick chestplate, jarring him to the bone. In the light of Decay’s sword, it was now clear that this man wore thick armor as well, white and gold, but then it was gone.

“Who are you?” Rykoshet demanded, calling out to the shadows.

No response was given, but the assailant paused, his footsteps no longer audible in the echoing halls of Garlaige.

“Answer us!” Decay shouted, the fire on his sword leaping higher. “We did you no harm, why are you attacking?”

“I have no proof of that,” came a disdainful reply. “You may all be in league with the man in black.”

Rykoshet froze where he stood, the final image of his nightmare springing to life in his mind.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Decay spat back harshly, “we came looking for our friend; a woman we sent in to try and find the survivors of Jeuno.”

“How did you know about us?” came an angered response, and the sound of steel scraping against stone. Rykoshet tightened his grip on the hilt of his great sword, readying himself for another assault. Words came to his lips before the chance to attack was given.

“We were told you were here by your lieutenant, who crossed the wasteland, maybe at the cost of his own life, to seek help.” Rykoshet said, and his words were like a needle puncturing the tension in the room. For now he perceived the identity of their attacker. “You did send out Raidom to get help, didn’t you . . . Captain Wolfgang?”

The others took a step back in shock, and the man in the shadows gave a grunt as he heard the name. Grudgingly, he stepped out from the darkness, bringing his face into the light of Decay’s burning sword. His visage was lined with lack of sleep, and blood dulled the appearance of what would normally be burnished white armor. His black hair was unkempt and wild, and there was a fearsome look in his eyes as the leader of Jeuno’s Ducal Guards came forward to meet the others.

“We didn’t think Raidom would make it when he volunteered,” Wolfgang told them, “but it appears he was made of sterner stuff than I gave him credit for.”

“I’m sorry,” Rykoshet responded, “we left him in the care of our best, but his injuries were incredibly severe. He may have died already.”

“He performed his duty well,” Wolfgang said honestly, then turned back to them. “I thought I told you I would arrest you if we ever crossed paths again, Rykoshet.”

“You know we had that matter cleared up,” the leader of Those Guys responded flatly. “Speaking of which, is Esha’ntarl with you?”

The dark-haired Hume shook his head, sheathing his blade. “The Zilart in the palace fled, no one knows if they made it to safety or not. Since I have no dungeon to throw you in, it appears I’ll have to overlook it for now.”

“You’re too kind,” the Elvaan sardonically replied. “In any case, we’re here to help, but we lost one of our own. A Hume woman, wearing armor like mine. We sent her in to try and find the survivors . . . “

“Ah,” Wolfgang said, and something in his tone caught Rykoshet’s tone. “She is . . . with the others. I will take you to her.”

“Wait,” Decay said, butting in as his eyes narrowed, “has something happened? Where are the other survivors?”

“I think that when Raidom came to you he did not sufficiently explain the situation here.” Wolfgang told the Red Mage. “Follow me if you truly wish to understand.”

Decay was about to say something else, but was stopped by Rykoshet. He nodded to the others, indicating that they follow the Jeunoan.

Wolfgang led them to another spiraling set of steps, reaching down into the depths of the Citadel. Cracks in the ceiling provided some semblance of light from above, and their eyes had suitably adjusted by now that they could see well enough to be a bit more free with their movements. Further down they went, the stone walls turning to natural rock as they entered the catacombs beneath the fortress itself, heading towards the very tunnel Rykoshet had intended to lead the survivors out through. Worry began creeping up through his mind; if the Jeunoan refugees had already discovered the tunnel, why had they not tried to escape? Only vaguely did he begin to hear the moaning in the background.

“Here,” Wolfgang said finally, stepping out from the exit to the tunnel they stood in to let them all see, “here are the survivors of Jeuno.”

Rykoshet’s breath caught in his throat. The entire cavern before them, stretching out hundreds of feet in every direction, was filled with the wounded and dying. Makeshift stretchers overflowed with miserable bodies missing limbs or etched with infected wounds. Danienne stood in the middle of them, giving water where she could, the famous Elvaan doctor Monberaux crouched helplessly over another of the injured as they cried pathetically. Danienne looked up, seeing the others, her eyes filled with helplessness.

“We escaped, thanks to the layered nature of our city,” Wolfgang said as the five newcomers looked out across the hundreds upon hundreds of injured, “but the demons were . . . merciless. A multitude escaped already wounded, only to be harried by the beasts roaming the Champaign, and then . . . we reached this place. It is only us few surviving Ducal Guards who keep the hordes of restless undead in this damned Citadel at bay, but we are weakening, and they are drawn to the death and suffering of others. Once we falter, everyone in this cavern will die.”

“I didn’t know what to do, Rykoshet,” Danienne said with a lump in her throat as she came forward to them. “Once I found them, I couldn’t . . . I just couldn’t leave them here.”

“It’s okay,” he responded, dumbfounded as he looked out across the countless wounded. How would they ever move such a mass across the open plains? How many would even survive such a trek?

“Once we heard swordplay echoing down I knew you must have come in after me,” Danienne told him, attempting to lighten the mood, but her own horror at what they had come across made her voice quaver in the telling. “There’s just . . . there are so many.”

“Rykoshet,” Liyah said from behind him, “Konstantine and I can help . . . “

“I can . . . I can, too.” Decay told him. “We can at least save a few . . . “

Before he could finish his words, the cavern echoed with a great thump from somewhere off in the darkened reaches of the Citadel. The group froze, and only the pained moans of the Jeunoan refugees was heard as they looked around the room.

“Did anyone else hear – “ Fated started to say.

It came again, louder this time, and then again, until it became clear that it was coming towards them at an increasing rate of speed. Looks of panic spread throughout the small band of adventurers as they cast their eyes towards Wolfgang.

“Is it the undead?” Decay demanded, his sword already free in his hands.

“No,” Wolfgang muttered, his eyes darting about the cavern, “no, this is . . . something else!”

Then came a piercing, insectoid screech, and dismay swept over the look of the Captain Wolfgang as it became evident that the danger his people faced was no longer limited to the undead hordes.

It reared its head first around one of the giant rock formations filling the cavern they were in; an enormous black-and-brown mass surmounted by dripping arachnoid fangs. Then it smashed a giant, barbed pincer down on the ground, creeping out from behind the hill as an enormous tail snaked around the back of it, the stinger gleaming and wet with secreted poison. Those who could were already running in panic, trying to reach the walls and some semblance of safety, even as the line of guards surrounding the makeshift hospital struggled to determine if they should abandon their posts at watch for the undead or not as the scorpion, as big as a house, emerged from the gloom. It stared out with inky eyes, hissing at the poor souls before it.

Rykoshet brought out his great sword. “Giant monster,” he said, staring at the creature known as Serket, which had been but a rumor before now. “This, I know how to handle.”