Ulric cleaned up his camp and stowed his shelter, making ready to travel slowly so as not to disrupt the snoring men. He wasn't a believer in Karma but he also hadn't been a believer in magic and look at where that got him. Wind drifted again through the tall grasses, blues, greens, and yellows of the various stalks causing the prairie to shimmer all the way to the horizon.
He didn’t have to go. He could always tell these blokes to fuck off back to home, wherever that was. For one thing, the city Ulric saw not so distant was almost certainly Bartala and he’d been damned lucky to find it, having gotten himself so lost as to miss the intermediate stops Taipan had outlined for him. On the other hand, the chance to learn about the people of Prespang, from those that had rejected the status quo of being ruled from Prosper was appealing. Perhaps he could learn a little more of this world, enough to make crossing the territories of men easier.
More rain threatened to re-saturate ground only just barely passable. Spring was near to its halfway mark and he was months behind schedule. Why the hurry? A few more days might permit him to restock, to maybe sell off some of the things he’d acquired on his crossing of the Endless Grass, and to learn more of this adopted world and its denizens. Reluctantly, Ulric had to admit that he was also, just a little, lonely. He’d drank his fill of solitude, meeting no one with whom to speak in that entire long haul. Fine. Might as well take a look at these much-vaunted Barbarians, in whose image he seemed to be crafted.
Choice made, Ulric pitter pattered around camp, mending gear, before sitting next to the rekindled fire, to resume carving a few of the big [Amberfang] canines into intricately inscribed daggers with his collection of glassresin carving tools. Having picked up the hobby from Taipan, he’d found it comforting to occupy his hands, leaving his mind free to drift aimless, his thoughts turned to the various mana manipulation exercises given to him by the Dragons of Iriel and Archmage Gother.
So it was that the early morning passed in peace, sleeping strangers in his care and a new path before him.
Harlan woke first, still tired but more refreshed. He roused his troop with promises of a feast and the vices owed to returning heroes and they made ready to travel with alacrity. The two men designated to collect scalps mounted without complaint and a faretheewell. Breaking his camp with practiced hands, the once and future engineer had the bastard oxen wrangled into traveling order before the rest of the barbarians had finished taking a piss. With Bartala on his right, he turned the wagons to line up with the distant hillocks of sandy soil, ready to head up the coast of the Vatyn, farther West, into that sprawl of untamed land called the Outer Reaches.
The Twins had come past Midsunsrise, blue and orange showing briefly through windows of striations of clouds. Ulric was holding the reins of his penances for past misdeeds with practiced tension when a horse built to Clydsdale specification ambled up, guided only by a thin cord of leather from its bridle, looped through a belt. The Barbarians generally were possessed of horsemanship that bespoke long practice.
The tribesman, motivated to generosity to return the favor showed his people offered Ulric some advice as he readied his beast for riding, "If yer fer Prosper and no dissuadin' then try not to let on that yer of the tribes in the Outer Reaches. The tamed pets of Magisters that live inside the walls of their cities think those of us that won't bend knee to their puppet barons or Prosper's bottomless coffers are savages fer choosin' freedom's hardships over comfortable slavery. They'll make yer life harder just on account of it."
"Prespang's City States hold no love for the reaches?" Ulric asked, a little surprised.
He'd have thought that there would be a little more solidarity amongst them, if the Merchant Lords held tight grip on the threads of their empire.
"You really are from way out in the wastes aren't ya?" Observed Harlan with a raised brow, clearly noticing Ulric's ignorance but not pressing, "No, there's not much love for the cities and the folk of the reaches, fer all kinds of reasons. We don't hate'em and they don't hate us but ye might say our clans get on better with the Beastkin holds, at least they keep their bargains." Harlan said, giving his saddle girth a hard pull when his almost horse steed abandoned the breath it had been holding.
With a short sarcastic laugh and a spittle delivered to the ground, the leader of the M'rakur tossed himself easily into his saddle.
The BeerGuy, Ulric had already lost his name, something with a G, finished his leader's thought adding, "Oh, the Barons love the goods their tax collectors squeeze from the peasants and artisans. They also love takin' slaves from the tribes that fall short of the ludicrous demands that seem only to grow more extreme." He declared, with obvious bitter feelings.
"It ain't always the Baron," chimed in the first speaker, the one that had made fun of their leader for stumbling into Ulric's alarm perimeter, "Some of them try and do right by the people, but when a magister from Prosper comes a callin' with his Master's gold seal, well…The tribes of the reaches hailed from those same cities, once. We are where we are because some Barons loved their people more than Prosper's money and they were forced to take their kin and flee for it."
A rowdy chorus of rude suggestions for the City States, their profligate parasite Barons, and the Magisters and Masters of Prosper filled the air for a minute. The riders regained some cheer wishing for inexplicable diseases inflicted in physically improbable sexual positions on the agents of the Merchant Lords. The offices of tax collectors, magisters, and upper echelons of Prespang society would have been astonished at the flexibility the tribesmen assumed they possessed, and the lack of gag reflex. Notable exceptions to the vitriol included the other tribes, the Beastkin, and the Elves.
At last, grinning with his tribesman, Harlan gave signal to his men to turn their mounts for the ride home calling out over his shoulder, "But what goes round, comes back round. A day comes soon, the Outer Reaches are goin' to take a notion to put spears up their arses. Yer welcome to join us when that day comes, if yer not already there. I seen a man that has a whetstone with somebody's name on it. I got a feelin' you ain't headed to Prosper to make somebody rich."
That remark made Ulric smile wide. He found himself not being unhappy with these rough riders, straight shooters, the whole lot.
"No, men of the M'rakur. I'm not going to make anyone rich. But I will see them paid, all the same." Ulric promised, and they whooped briefly.
With a yell, the riders kicked their steeds into motion, the heavy framed animals nevertheless galloping smoothly down the rise and with impressive speed as they spread out. Apparently, the norm was for riders to stay in a loose formation as they traveled, so that an ambush could not take all of them at once with ease.
The youthful features of the Lord of the Ancient Glade turned into the same wind and followed.
The Jaggeds were so named, because they were a set of wind cut canyons in a massive granite laced with obsidian batholiths and dikes that heralded a dormant volcano in times long passed, one that had, somehow, forced magma to the surface under conditions where it cooled rapidly to form the black shot through with deep purple vitreous stone. Sand laden ocean winds wore away the softer stone leading to hard angled volcanic glass channels, in whose protection the granite remained relatively sound. Once angles had been cut into these terrain features, water runoff amplified the wind’s work.
The result was a maze of sharp-edged stone, black and purple glass alternating light grey stone in a dizzying fashion. It was the Badlands of the Americs on steroids.
Ulric would have thought that the presence of abundant water would make the place less harsh. Not so, as he learned when a flash flood from a cloud burst pushed a torrent across their path that would have swept everyone away, had not the Barbarian men, wise to the ways of their homeland, called a stop to wait out the rushing water. Half an hour of crushing flow and the runoff was gone, the ways safe to travel once more.
They had just come out from a canyon so narrow the sides of the wagon he’d been guiding had been worn slightly thinner, sanded off by the snug passage. Atop one of the narrow lanes of high ground, oft broken by necessary descents into yet another eye twisting corridor, he was treated to the view of an incredibly vivid panorama of Varda’s alien beauty. Above, blue skies streaked by grey storm clouds. Below, contrasting light and dark rock layers wound into myriad channels, where they came out known only to the men who led him.
Now he understood why none had managed to uproot the tribes from this place. The M’rakur, within the twisted ways of this stony labyrinth, were untouchable. An invading force could be led into a trap with comical ease, boxed in and eradicated. Unless the enemy was airborne, there was no defeating the defender’s advantage in this place, absent hideous losses.
There was another reason, which he discovered upon calling out “What’s that sound?” to inquire about the odd buzzing noise that was at the low end of the audible spectrum.
Four heads turned sharply toward him before the men of the Reach threw themselves down to the rocky ground. The horses stilled, might as well have petrified.
“Fuckin’ get yer shit to the dirt, ye great arse! And lay still!” Shouted BeerGuy, voice climbing an octave.
Ulric ducked down and lay flat. About four seconds later a cloud of wasps flew overhead, the sound like a distant train. They circled momentarily, seeking movement. Frozen, the men made no attention drawing move, barely daring to breathe. Even the oxen still rigged in the wagon traces were holding motionless. The horde spiralled above, magenta and black striped bodies whirling in a disorienting neon display. When no prey made itself obvious, the kaleidoscopic hive of murderous wasps moved on, droning wings fading into the distance.
It was several minutes after the sound of the insects had vanished that the tribesmen raised themselves up, climbing to their feet.
“Close shave that,” commented Harlan, still slightly stunned by the experience.
“Good ears, cousin, the [Dazzle Hornets] get close enough to force a fight more often than not. Only thing that keeps them at bay is a damned bright light and open flame.” Noted the man Ulric thought of as Padfoot, the light stepper who was the best scout of the bunch.
Harlan sighed and rubbed his face vigorously, cursing softly, “It was my fault, I should have had a torch going. I’m old enough to know better, this is peak season for those little nightmares, they’re holding mating flights. My thoughts are addled by the long riding, forgiveness brothers.”
“We ain’t none of us here children you old shit, an’ we didn’t damned well remember either.” Protested the tallest of the lot, a heap of man an inch over Ulric’s head, but much wider across the shoulder, and with thighs that promised fantastic power in his legs.
Ulric suspected the man might be half Ogran, which was why he had dubbed that one Hulk.
“Aye, an’ still. It’s my responsibility to see you sons of harlots disappoint yer wives by coming home.” Harlan said, drily.
Beerguy clapped his leader on the shoulder, grinning fearless, “Thas’ why a man with my looks don’t marry. They can’t be sad to see you go if they don’t understand why they’d bothered to bed you in the first place.” He declared, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorily.
The entire lot of them broke out in cheer at that jest, Ulric included. A natural teller of tales and jokes was Beerguy. He had the timing of a professional.
Taking in the experience, so abruptly terrifying, as Varda managed to do with frequency, Ulric found himself wondering aloud, “Are they venomous? Or just vicious biters?”
Hulk hawked up something foul from the back of his throat and launched it to the rocks at his feet, gesturing with a booted foot towards the deposit, “Turn yer blood into that inside an hour if ye get three or four jabbers through yer hide. The bitin’s just because they’re hateful fucks.”
Harlan made a circling motion and pointed to a channel that took them down into a low series of passages, indicating that they should get on the move.
“None of these where yer from Honor?” He asked, probing slightly while they climbed at a steep descending angle, walking beside Ulric, who was leading the oxen afoot, thanks to the sharp change in elevation.
Ulric didn’t mind telling the truth, he wasn’t from around these parts and deception was a stupid idea on that count.
“Not hardly. Plenty of monstrous things, Greater Beasts, and the like. But if those things are out there then something worse must be eating them. Fuck me, I thought the [Shadow Panthers] were a problem.” He replied.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t deal with the hornet swarm, he could conjure fire without much trouble, it was the speed of the monsters, and their lack of warning. It took a vigilant explorer of the wilds to stay undeaded by the critters populating Varda.
“Oh? You got them round your parts? Bad trouble, they don’t like the corridors around here but ye hear rumor of men going missing closer to the wooded lands up North.” Commiserated Padfoot.
With senses tuned to pick up any more creatures that might be a threat, Ulric recounted the sight of a [Crimson Bull] having its neck broken in a single bite by the [Shadow Panther] he’d seen, and the kaiju battle that had ensued when a [Venombolt Viper] contested the kill. He left out the part where the mercenaries taking Brighteyes who the hell knows where got themselves half killed trying to greedily claim all the monsters while they fought.
A low whistle from the scout showed his appreciation for the envisioned sight of the two Greater Beasts in mortal combat.
Harlan chimed in, “A worthy tale, cousin. If yer folk hunt lands with the likes of that scurrying about, it’s not a wonder ye earn yer seals right quick an’ tender young. Hells.”
As men do, when walking the wilds and passing the long leagues, they swapped stories. Ulric found himself liking these wild men, they reminded him of the roughnecks he’d had occasion to work with. Hard lives swept away the softness in them, made them blunt, but unassuming and companionable when they thought you worth regard. That kind of openness was in his wheelhouse.
Hours passed, no more monstrosities appeared to vex them. Before too long, just after Sunscrest of that second day, they worked their way out from a deep, winding, gorge that had wide walls whose sides almost closed to a solid roof. Just when he was wondering if the smooth walls would reveal a river, the only thing that could have cut such a tremendous and winding course through the solid rock layers, the gorge narrowed suddenly. Taking up the rear of the party, lagging behind while he’d rubbernecked the geological marvels of the Jaggeds, the walls opened up suddenly from that bottleneck to a huge sinkhole, its walls lined with pueblo style dwellings. Just that abruptly, Ulric had come to the home of the M’rakur.
These guys absolutely win at cardio, the Reforged man told himself, grey eyes scanning the circumferential metropolis. Carved stairs led from one level to the next, recessed into the walls of the sinkhole, and walled in, creating the effect of people walking along a terrace and vanishing, only to appear on the subsequent layer. The structures had to penetrate deeply into the sheer walls of the stone, for people went into one dwelling and coming out from another, sometimes not even on the same layer.
The hold of the M’rakur made him think of an ant nest, only the chambers were squared and it spiraled around a space that defied easy description. Ulric was fairly certain even the largest of the megatowers of the Before would disappear into the precipitous drop. Irielhos, massive as it was, would look like a potted fern in the space of the bottom.
“Gods’ blood, what a hole.” Ulric said aloud, possibly breaking some kind of record for graceless observation.
A roughened hand clapped his shoulder, as Beerguy chuckled from his side, “Aye, lad, it is that. But, and this is the trick of it, it is the M’rakur’s hole! An’ any bastards want it, we’ll fill the damned thing with their corpses before we let them have it.”
“Home at last! And thanks to the Skyfather’s mercy, for it.” Declared Harlan, dropping down from his horse.
Suddenly, Ulric was mystified, how did they graze horses? What would the damned things eat? Even Varda couldn’t have a species of ungulates that ate rocks.
“I will be the first to admit that I hate these oxen with a passion, but I would not starve them. How do you graze horses down a chasm?” He asked, still gawking at the passage of the Barbarian tribe’s citizens through wide carved terraces, up and down stairs, changing levels along gradual sloping ramps, and into and out of the recessed buildings.
When no answer was forthcoming, the group still moving forward along a not so narrow ledge that ramped gradually around the top of the sinkhole circumference, he noticed that the structure of the city almost exclusively sat along seams of purple-black obsidian, eschewing the softer stone that Ulric had been thinking was granite. Perhaps it was something less structurally sound, a type of slate. Certainly, it couldn’t be marble, that kind of metamorphic rock wasn’t found with fast-cooling igneous deposits, the two types of material formed under drastically different conditions. Unless geologic processes upon Varda were completely fucked compared to what happened on Earth.
Improbable, possibly magically driven tectonic activities aside, the M’rakur had taken advantage of the landscape and driven it to the hilt.
“What is the name of this place? How have I not heard of its existence, even if all know the Barbarian tribes call these lands home? None have even whispered of such a vast hold for your tribe.” He asked.
“Mostly we don’t talk about it. Damned near never are any not M’rakur permitted to see Umberholdt, only those we trust, trust like kin not to speak of it.” Harlan answered, this time.
The older man was drinking in the sight of home, clearly pleased to have returned. He stopped his fond appraisal to give Ulric a look that brooked no arguments before he informed him, “You are not M’rakur, are not anything I’ve seen before, I think.” Harlan said without dissembling, which made Ulric slightly nervous.
Was his cover blown? Too many frayed edges of his knowledge shown? Probably. Fuck. But he couldn’t learn everything there was to know to pass off as if he’d been born on Varda, especially not amongst the same people he was supposed to be. He didn’t have long to ponder his blunders, the leader of the Justice Seekers was already moving ahead, finishing his thought.
“But ye keep to the ways, share our blood, an’, wherever the hells ye hail from, ye haven’t told a lie yet and, if what ye’ve said is true, we might have to leave the Jaggeds. None can reach us here, not even the Orlethrem in force, but they wouldn’t have to if they kept us penned inside the Jaggeds, unable to hunt or tend the lands around. But! That’s up to the Chief, thanks be to the Skyfather I never took up that mantle to deal with shit like this.”
Hulk chuckled from behind Ulric, not quite hemming him in, “I told ye, ye wouldn’t want to wear Orin’s mantle, even if ye could have it from him whenever ye wanted.”
The great muscled mass of him was made slightly less intimidating by the good cheer and the wink he threw Ulric while he carried on, “All well an’ good the honor, the status an’ what come with. But we’re men of the open Uncle, not enough riding, not enough open sky an’ ye’d wilt like a sunflower.”
Padfoot added, walking his horse slightly ahead, “Our cousin here’s bringing decisions fit to make a man’s hair fall out. Best to leave it to thems that want to live with a rod up their bungs from care.”
The men shared another laugh at their leader’s expense, knowing he’d passed on the honor of being more than a warrior because he couldn’t be bothered to fuck with it. Some folk know what they want from life, know it well enough not to jack it up by taking on more than they want.
Fair enough, Ulric had lived a long time under the weight of a stone he could have thrown away at any point. It had not been good times.
That was all well and good, but it didn’t change that he’d gotten himself kind of maybe taken prisoner in a Barbarian fortress town. Shit. Ah, well, them’s the breaks, sometimes you just have to roll with the punches.
“Just so you all know, I could kill the whole lot of you and ride back the way I came, if that was what I wanted to do. In case anybody had ideas I was coming along not of mine own decision.” Ulric told the men around him.
Seemed only fair to warn them he’d broken bread with.
Beerguy snorted loudly, but Padfoot just said, “Yeah, we’re knowing. Those four fucks we hunted were bad medicine, had a whole lotta warriors fall under their knives, too. If ye put’em paid by yerself, ye’re big medicine yerself. That much was clear, even before ye lit up yer seals like a dragon breathing in nice and deep like.”
Harlan took over from there, clarifying “Varda is full of the unknown, cousin of a distant land. But actions speak loud, ye’ve done right by our people. It’s justice to do right by yerself in turn. We’re not taking ye against yer will, we’re doing ye the honor of welcoming ye to our hold as kin.”
Ulric felt like an asshole, mostly because he was one.
“Oh, well, in that case, I am honored.” He said, sheepish, “But you know, I didn’t feel like anybody should have any misconceptions about my motives. Too many times my patience has been taken for impotence. I get tired of killing people just because they’re too stupid to take a hint.”
The rough riders just laughed and carried on, leading him into their great hidden city, absent care in the world. Such was the way of the world.
Ulric cleaned up his camp and stowed his shelter, making ready to travel slowly so as not to disrupt the snoring men. He wasn't a believer in Karma but he also hadn't been a believer in magic and look at where that got him. Wind drifted again through the tall grasses, blues, greens, and yellows of the various stalks causing the prairie to shimmer all the way to the horizon.
He didn’t have to go. He could always tell these blokes to fuck off back to home, wherever that was. For one thing, the city Ulric saw not so distant was almost certainly Bartala and he’d been damned lucky to find it, having gotten himself so lost as to miss the intermediate stops Taipan had outlined for him. On the other hand, the chance to learn about the people of Prespang, from those that had rejected the status quo of being ruled from Prosper was appealing. Perhaps he could learn a little more of this world, enough to make crossing the territories of men easier.
More rain threatened to re-saturate ground only just barely passable. Spring was near to its halfway mark and he was months behind schedule. Why the hurry? A few more days might permit him to restock, to maybe sell off some of the things he’d acquired on his crossing of the Endless Grass, and to learn more of this adopted world and its denizens. Reluctantly, Ulric had to admit that he was also, just a little, lonely. He’d drank his fill of solitude, meeting no one with whom to speak in that entire long haul. Fine. Might as well take a look at these much-vaunted Barbarians, in whose image he seemed to be crafted.
Choice made, Ulric pitter pattered around camp, mending gear, before sitting next to the rekindled fire, to resume carving a few of the big [Amberfang] canines into intricately inscribed daggers with his collection of glassresin carving tools. Having picked up the hobby from Taipan, he’d found it comforting to occupy his hands, leaving his mind free to drift aimless, his thoughts turned to the various mana manipulation exercises given to him by the Dragons of Iriel and Archmage Gother.
So it was that the early morning passed in peace, sleeping strangers in his care and a new path before him.
Harlan woke first, still tired but more refreshed. He roused his troop with promises of a feast and the vices owed to returning heroes and they made ready to travel with alacrity. The two men designated to collect scalps mounted without complaint and a faretheewell. Breaking his camp with practiced hands, the once and future engineer had the bastard oxen wrangled into traveling order before the rest of the barbarians had finished taking a piss. With Bartala on his right, he turned the wagons to line up with the distant hillocks of sandy soil, ready to head up the coast of the Vatyn, farther West, into that sprawl of untamed land called the Outer Reaches.
The Twins had come past Midsunsrise, blue and orange showing briefly through windows of striations of clouds. Ulric was holding the reins of his penances for past misdeeds with practiced tension when a horse built to Clydsdale specification ambled up, guided only by a thin cord of leather from its bridle, looped through a belt. The Barbarians generally were possessed of horsemanship that bespoke long practice.
The tribesman, motivated to generosity to return the favor showed his people offered Ulric some advice as he readied his beast for riding, "If yer fer Prosper and no dissuadin' then try not to let on that yer of the tribes in the Outer Reaches. The tamed pets of Magisters that live inside the walls of their cities think those of us that won't bend knee to their puppet barons or Prosper's bottomless coffers are savages fer choosin' freedom's hardships over comfortable slavery. They'll make yer life harder just on account of it."
"Prespang's City States hold no love for the reaches?" Ulric asked, a little surprised.
He'd have thought that there would be a little more solidarity amongst them, if the Merchant Lords held tight grip on the threads of their empire.
"You really are from way out in the wastes aren't ya?" Observed Harlan with a raised brow, clearly noticing Ulric's ignorance but not pressing, "No, there's not much love for the cities and the folk of the reaches, fer all kinds of reasons. We don't hate'em and they don't hate us but ye might say our clans get on better with the Beastkin holds, at least they keep their bargains." Harlan said, giving his saddle girth a hard pull when his almost horse steed abandoned the breath it had been holding.
With a short sarcastic laugh and a spittle delivered to the ground, the leader of the M'rakur tossed himself easily into his saddle.
The BeerGuy, Ulric had already lost his name, something with a G, finished his leader's thought adding, "Oh, the Barons love the goods their tax collectors squeeze from the peasants and artisans. They also love takin' slaves from the tribes that fall short of the ludicrous demands that seem only to grow more extreme." He declared, with obvious bitter feelings.
"It ain't always the Baron," chimed in the first speaker, the one that had made fun of their leader for stumbling into Ulric's alarm perimeter, "Some of them try and do right by the people, but when a magister from Prosper comes a callin' with his Master's gold seal, well…The tribes of the reaches hailed from those same cities, once. We are where we are because some Barons loved their people more than Prosper's money and they were forced to take their kin and flee for it."
A rowdy chorus of rude suggestions for the City States, their profligate parasite Barons, and the Magisters and Masters of Prosper filled the air for a minute. The riders regained some cheer wishing for inexplicable diseases inflicted in physically improbable sexual positions on the agents of the Merchant Lords. The offices of tax collectors, magisters, and upper echelons of Prespang society would have been astonished at the flexibility the tribesmen assumed they possessed, and the lack of gag reflex. Notable exceptions to the vitriol included the other tribes, the Beastkin, and the Elves.
At last, grinning with his tribesman, Harlan gave signal to his men to turn their mounts for the ride home calling out over his shoulder, "But what goes round, comes back round. A day comes soon, the Outer Reaches are goin' to take a notion to put spears up their arses. Yer welcome to join us when that day comes, if yer not already there. I seen a man that has a whetstone with somebody's name on it. I got a feelin' you ain't headed to Prosper to make somebody rich."
That remark made Ulric smile wide. He found himself not being unhappy with these rough riders, straight shooters, the whole lot.
"No, men of the M'rakur. I'm not going to make anyone rich. But I will see them paid, all the same." Ulric promised, and they whooped briefly.
With a yell, the riders kicked their steeds into motion, the heavy framed animals nevertheless galloping smoothly down the rise and with impressive speed as they spread out. Apparently, the norm was for riders to stay in a loose formation as they traveled, so that an ambush could not take all of them at once with ease.
The youthful features of the Lord of the Ancient Glade turned into the same wind and followed.
The Jaggeds were so named, because they were a set of wind cut canyons in a massive granite laced with obsidian batholiths and dikes that heralded a dormant volcano in times long passed, one that had, somehow, forced magma to the surface under conditions where it cooled rapidly to form the black shot through with deep purple vitreous stone. Sand laden ocean winds wore away the softer stone leading to hard angled volcanic glass channels, in whose protection the granite remained relatively sound. Once angles had been cut into these terrain features, water runoff amplified the wind’s work.
The result was a maze of sharp-edged stone, black and purple glass alternating light grey stone in a dizzying fashion. It was the Badlands of the Americs on steroids.
Ulric would have thought that the presence of abundant water would make the place less harsh. Not so, as he learned when a flash flood from a cloud burst pushed a torrent across their path that would have swept everyone away, had not the Barbarian men, wise to the ways of their homeland, called a stop to wait out the rushing water. Half an hour of crushing flow and the runoff was gone, the ways safe to travel once more.
They had just come out from a canyon so narrow the sides of the wagon he’d been guiding had been worn slightly thinner, sanded off by the snug passage. Atop one of the narrow lanes of high ground, oft broken by necessary descents into yet another eye twisting corridor, he was treated to the view of an incredibly vivid panorama of Varda’s alien beauty. Above, blue skies streaked by grey storm clouds. Below, contrasting light and dark rock layers wound into myriad channels, where they came out known only to the men who led him.
Now he understood why none had managed to uproot the tribes from this place. The M’rakur, within the twisted ways of this stony labyrinth, were untouchable. An invading force could be led into a trap with comical ease, boxed in and eradicated. Unless the enemy was airborne, there was no defeating the defender’s advantage in this place, absent hideous losses.
There was another reason, which he discovered upon calling out “What’s that sound?” to inquire about the odd buzzing noise that was at the low end of the audible spectrum.
Four heads turned sharply toward him before the men of the Reach threw themselves down to the rocky ground. The horses stilled, might as well have petrified.
“Fuckin’ get yer shit to the dirt, ye great arse! And lay still!” Shouted BeerGuy, voice climbing an octave.
Ulric ducked down and lay flat. About four seconds later a cloud of wasps flew overhead, the sound like a distant train. They circled momentarily, seeking movement. Frozen, the men made no attention drawing move, barely daring to breathe. Even the oxen still rigged in the wagon traces were holding motionless. The horde spiralled above, magenta and black striped bodies whirling in a disorienting neon display. When no prey made itself obvious, the kaleidoscopic hive of murderous wasps moved on, droning wings fading into the distance.
It was several minutes after the sound of the insects had vanished that the tribesmen raised themselves up, climbing to their feet.
“Close shave that,” commented Harlan, still slightly stunned by the experience.
“Good ears, cousin, the [Dazzle Hornets] get close enough to force a fight more often than not. Only thing that keeps them at bay is a damned bright light and open flame.” Noted the man Ulric thought of as Padfoot, the light stepper who was the best scout of the bunch.
Harlan sighed and rubbed his face vigorously, cursing softly, “It was my fault, I should have had a torch going. I’m old enough to know better, this is peak season for those little nightmares, they’re holding mating flights. My thoughts are addled by the long riding, forgiveness brothers.”
“We ain’t none of us here children you old shit, an’ we didn’t damned well remember either.” Protested the tallest of the lot, a heap of man an inch over Ulric’s head, but much wider across the shoulder, and with thighs that promised fantastic power in his legs.
Ulric suspected the man might be half Ogran, which was why he had dubbed that one Hulk.
“Aye, an’ still. It’s my responsibility to see you sons of harlots disappoint yer wives by coming home.” Harlan said, drily.
Beerguy clapped his leader on the shoulder, grinning fearless, “Thas’ why a man with my looks don’t marry. They can’t be sad to see you go if they don’t understand why they’d bothered to bed you in the first place.” He declared, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorily.
The entire lot of them broke out in cheer at that jest, Ulric included. A natural teller of tales and jokes was Beerguy. He had the timing of a professional.
Taking in the experience, so abruptly terrifying, as Varda managed to do with frequency, Ulric found himself wondering aloud, “Are they venomous? Or just vicious biters?”
Hulk hawked up something foul from the back of his throat and launched it to the rocks at his feet, gesturing with a booted foot towards the deposit, “Turn yer blood into that inside an hour if ye get three or four jabbers through yer hide. The bitin’s just because they’re hateful fucks.”
Harlan made a circling motion and pointed to a channel that took them down into a low series of passages, indicating that they should get on the move.
“None of these where yer from Honor?” He asked, probing slightly while they climbed at a steep descending angle, walking beside Ulric, who was leading the oxen afoot, thanks to the sharp change in elevation.
Ulric didn’t mind telling the truth, he wasn’t from around these parts and deception was a stupid idea on that count.
“Not hardly. Plenty of monstrous things, Greater Beasts, and the like. But if those things are out there then something worse must be eating them. Fuck me, I thought the [Shadow Panthers] were a problem.” He replied.
It wasn’t that he couldn’t deal with the hornet swarm, he could conjure fire without much trouble, it was the speed of the monsters, and their lack of warning. It took a vigilant explorer of the wilds to stay undeaded by the critters populating Varda.
“Oh? You got them round your parts? Bad trouble, they don’t like the corridors around here but ye hear rumor of men going missing closer to the wooded lands up North.” Commiserated Padfoot.
With senses tuned to pick up any more creatures that might be a threat, Ulric recounted the sight of a [Crimson Bull] having its neck broken in a single bite by the [Shadow Panther] he’d seen, and the kaiju battle that had ensued when a [Venombolt Viper] contested the kill. He left out the part where the mercenaries taking Brighteyes who the hell knows where got themselves half killed trying to greedily claim all the monsters while they fought.
A low whistle from the scout showed his appreciation for the envisioned sight of the two Greater Beasts in mortal combat.
Harlan chimed in, “A worthy tale, cousin. If yer folk hunt lands with the likes of that scurrying about, it’s not a wonder ye earn yer seals right quick an’ tender young. Hells.”
As men do, when walking the wilds and passing the long leagues, they swapped stories. Ulric found himself liking these wild men, they reminded him of the roughnecks he’d had occasion to work with. Hard lives swept away the softness in them, made them blunt, but unassuming and companionable when they thought you worth regard. That kind of openness was in his wheelhouse.
Hours passed, no more monstrosities appeared to vex them. Before too long, just after Sunscrest of that second day, they worked their way out from a deep, winding, gorge that had wide walls whose sides almost closed to a solid roof. Just when he was wondering if the smooth walls would reveal a river, the only thing that could have cut such a tremendous and winding course through the solid rock layers, the gorge narrowed suddenly. Taking up the rear of the party, lagging behind while he’d rubbernecked the geological marvels of the Jaggeds, the walls opened up suddenly from that bottleneck to a huge sinkhole, its walls lined with pueblo style dwellings. Just that abruptly, Ulric had come to the home of the M’rakur.
These guys absolutely win at cardio, the Reforged man told himself, grey eyes scanning the circumferential metropolis. Carved stairs led from one level to the next, recessed into the walls of the sinkhole, and walled in, creating the effect of people walking along a terrace and vanishing, only to appear on the subsequent layer. The structures had to penetrate deeply into the sheer walls of the stone, for people went into one dwelling and coming out from another, sometimes not even on the same layer.
The hold of the M’rakur made him think of an ant nest, only the chambers were squared and it spiraled around a space that defied easy description. Ulric was fairly certain even the largest of the megatowers of the Before would disappear into the precipitous drop. Irielhos, massive as it was, would look like a potted fern in the space of the bottom.
“Gods’ blood, what a hole.” Ulric said aloud, possibly breaking some kind of record for graceless observation.
A roughened hand clapped his shoulder, as Beerguy chuckled from his side, “Aye, lad, it is that. But, and this is the trick of it, it is the M’rakur’s hole! An’ any bastards want it, we’ll fill the damned thing with their corpses before we let them have it.”
“Home at last! And thanks to the Skyfather’s mercy, for it.” Declared Harlan, dropping down from his horse.
Suddenly, Ulric was mystified, how did they graze horses? What would the damned things eat? Even Varda couldn’t have a species of ungulates that ate rocks.
“I will be the first to admit that I hate these oxen with a passion, but I would not starve them. How do you graze horses down a chasm?” He asked, still gawking at the passage of the Barbarian tribe’s citizens through wide carved terraces, up and down stairs, changing levels along gradual sloping ramps, and into and out of the recessed buildings.
When no answer was forthcoming, the group still moving forward along a not so narrow ledge that ramped gradually around the top of the sinkhole circumference, he noticed that the structure of the city almost exclusively sat along seams of purple-black obsidian, eschewing the softer stone that Ulric had been thinking was granite. Perhaps it was something less structurally sound, a type of slate. Certainly, it couldn’t be marble, that kind of metamorphic rock wasn’t found with fast-cooling igneous deposits, the two types of material formed under drastically different conditions. Unless geologic processes upon Varda were completely fucked compared to what happened on Earth.
Improbable, possibly magically driven tectonic activities aside, the M’rakur had taken advantage of the landscape and driven it to the hilt.
“What is the name of this place? How have I not heard of its existence, even if all know the Barbarian tribes call these lands home? None have even whispered of such a vast hold for your tribe.” He asked.
“Mostly we don’t talk about it. Damned near never are any not M’rakur permitted to see Umberholdt, only those we trust, trust like kin not to speak of it.” Harlan answered, this time.
The older man was drinking in the sight of home, clearly pleased to have returned. He stopped his fond appraisal to give Ulric a look that brooked no arguments before he informed him, “You are not M’rakur, are not anything I’ve seen before, I think.” Harlan said without dissembling, which made Ulric slightly nervous.
Was his cover blown? Too many frayed edges of his knowledge shown? Probably. Fuck. But he couldn’t learn everything there was to know to pass off as if he’d been born on Varda, especially not amongst the same people he was supposed to be. He didn’t have long to ponder his blunders, the leader of the Justice Seekers was already moving ahead, finishing his thought.
“But ye keep to the ways, share our blood, an’, wherever the hells ye hail from, ye haven’t told a lie yet and, if what ye’ve said is true, we might have to leave the Jaggeds. None can reach us here, not even the Orlethrem in force, but they wouldn’t have to if they kept us penned inside the Jaggeds, unable to hunt or tend the lands around. But! That’s up to the Chief, thanks be to the Skyfather I never took up that mantle to deal with shit like this.”
Hulk chuckled from behind Ulric, not quite hemming him in, “I told ye, ye wouldn’t want to wear Orin’s mantle, even if ye could have it from him whenever ye wanted.”
The great muscled mass of him was made slightly less intimidating by the good cheer and the wink he threw Ulric while he carried on, “All well an’ good the honor, the status an’ what come with. But we’re men of the open Uncle, not enough riding, not enough open sky an’ ye’d wilt like a sunflower.”
Padfoot added, walking his horse slightly ahead, “Our cousin here’s bringing decisions fit to make a man’s hair fall out. Best to leave it to thems that want to live with a rod up their bungs from care.”
The men shared another laugh at their leader’s expense, knowing he’d passed on the honor of being more than a warrior because he couldn’t be bothered to fuck with it. Some folk know what they want from life, know it well enough not to jack it up by taking on more than they want.
Fair enough, Ulric had lived a long time under the weight of a stone he could have thrown away at any point. It had not been good times.
That was all well and good, but it didn’t change that he’d gotten himself kind of maybe taken prisoner in a Barbarian fortress town. Shit. Ah, well, them’s the breaks, sometimes you just have to roll with the punches.
“Just so you all know, I could kill the whole lot of you and ride back the way I came, if that was what I wanted to do. In case anybody had ideas I was coming along not of mine own decision.” Ulric told the men around him.
Seemed only fair to warn them he’d broken bread with.
Beerguy snorted loudly, but Padfoot just said, “Yeah, we’re knowing. Those four fucks we hunted were bad medicine, had a whole lotta warriors fall under their knives, too. If ye put’em paid by yerself, ye’re big medicine yerself. That much was clear, even before ye lit up yer seals like a dragon breathing in nice and deep like.”
Harlan took over from there, clarifying “Varda is full of the unknown, cousin of a distant land. But actions speak loud, ye’ve done right by our people. It’s justice to do right by yerself in turn. We’re not taking ye against yer will, we’re doing ye the honor of welcoming ye to our hold as kin.”
Ulric felt like an asshole, mostly because he was one.
“Oh, well, in that case, I am honored.” He said, sheepish, “But you know, I didn’t feel like anybody should have any misconceptions about my motives. Too many times my patience has been taken for impotence. I get tired of killing people just because they’re too stupid to take a hint.”
The rough riders just laughed and carried on, leading him into their great hidden city, absent care in the world. Such was the way of the world.
