Casting Shadows- Chapter 4
“The first battle is the preparation for the battle. The second battle is fought upon the field. Should you fail at the first, you will surely fail at the second.” - Words attributed to Xarathustra.
Beshuk, Keeper of the Mine, stared at his reflection in the blackened darkforged knife. The magical potency of the hand weapons forged by the Dawi-Zharr had at least cauterised the wound but the pain had been excruciating.
He recalled the sound of a minor daemon, the one bound within his knife, enslaved to his will, laughing in delight as he had plunged the blade into his own eye socket. For the daemon it had been a small act of cathartic vengeance against the cruel race that had enslaved it. Beshuk was sure that the blade spirit had inflicted additional pain for this reason but gave it not the satisfaction of hearing a cry of pain.
He had completed the task in a quick and efficient way, not giving his mind a chance for pause or hesitation. To do so would have been to admit weakness and to show his fear to the daemon bound to his knife. He did not want to give it the satisfaction.
The Uzkul Drath Zharr did not have a concept of beauty in the way that humans or elves may. An asymmetrical face, scarring or disfigurement meant little to that race. However they still had vanity and pride.
Beshuk now wore a very public brand of having broken one of the tower’s chief laws. He had looked upon the eyes of the sorcerer prophet, the highest of castes. Workers showed deference to the warrior class, but could look upon them. Beshuk had, for example, always had a strong bond with Mardurkarr, having known him since he was an infant and having served his father before him. It had been this bond that had saved his last remaining eye.
However Enlil was his better, his master, the representative of Our Father on earth. To look upon him had been a sin. However, he reasoned with himself, it had been a necessary evil.
He laughed mirthlessly. A necessary evil. Beshuk had embraced pain, torment and scorn for the chance to survive and to emerge victorious. It seemed since the first days this was the lot of the Fire Dwarfs.
Now the court at least believed his words and would investigate the mine. Beshuk knew, in the marrow of his bones, that something unnatural was at work there. For centuries he had manned the tunnels, ensured a steady stream of building material, coal and mineral wealth and had controlled the slaves well. Never before had such a thing happened.
The cave-in had occurred in a reinforced section of the mine, protected with iron beams and magical wards. The goblins, snatched away, had just disappeared. Their treacherous race would, from time to time, mutiny and hide but always one or two would remain to rat out the rebels in the hope for favour from the slavers.
He looked again at his reflection, adjusting to the burned out crater where once one of his eye had been.
Beshuk had not been prepared for the forced and invasive searching of his mind. The process had been violent. The prophet, once through the window of his soul had not leafed through the books of his mind like a student in a library; he had broken down the walls of his mind and pillaged it like a Norscan raider. The headache still lingered.
However a portal opened may be passed in both directions. Beshuk had not dared step through the portal into his better’s mind. Surely the prophet would have known and slew him where he stood. He had, however, caught a glimpse of what he thought was a moment of fear, hesitation and pain in the prophet. Something burned him and threatened him during the casting of his spell. The prophet had fought it, regained control and then slammed the door shut.
Beshuk took the red silken strip that Mardakkur had used to save his sight and fashioned a rudimentary eye patch He did not want ash inside an open wound and they would be marching north in the morrow with the six new slaves, Mardakkur and a unit of infernal guard.
“…and fifty barrels of black powder,” concluded Ari, setting down the final tablet upon the prophet’s desk. All of business of the day had been concluded and Enlil-Shazzar sat, exhausted on a stone chair in his study.
Once fired the tablets took on a dark and shiny hue which reflected the firelight of the brazier. Around Enlil, newly finished tablets, ancient scrolls and dusty grimoires lay.
His mind dwelled on Mardurkarr, back from the south but a day and already planning a march into north. Had this been his idea or his vizier, Jaraz? Details. His head throbbed with pain.
All he knew was there was a time when Mardurkarr had called this tower home and that time had passed.
“I worry about him, Ari,” said Enlil, “When I stand before Our Father in judgement: My greatest shame shall be that I failed that boy.”
Ari cocked his head.
“Of course, you would not know,” the sorcerer realised, “I feel like you have always been by my side, my boy. How old are you?”
Ari considered this question, “I do not know master. I can remember thirty winters in your service. Before then? I do not know. I do not remember being a youngling. I remember a sea of green fields, howling wolves and a mother. Her face and her language is lost to me.”
“You must have been captured as a child on the steppes, Ari: Saved from a life of ignorance and barbarism. You are not as long lived as the elder race. Our memories are clear and stretch back hundreds of years.”
“Yes, master,” agreed Ari.
“I did not build this tower. I merely inherited it. My master, Bezzalakkur, was a mighty prophet. It was he who marched from Uzkulak with a small retinue of dwarfs to found this fortress. Lead by visions, he was. He said that we should build a mighty ziggurat above the rents in the earth where the breath of Our Father would bathe us all in his dark wisdom. We were to keep the old ways and honour him. He had seen the works of Zharr Naggrund and feared that the fire dwarfs worshiped industry over the god that inspired it.
“I was his apprentice, his vizier and chief daemonologist. Bezzalakkur taught me everything he knew of the dark arts. He taught me to harness the power of Our Father and to pay my dues.
“His visions continued. He pronounced that once complete, this tower would become the “House of Hashut” spoken of by the prophet Xarathustra in the time before times. It would become Our Father’s home on earth and where his dark spirit would dwell. Once complete, he would claim it for his own.
“And that completion draws near, Ari, the final bricks shall be laid upon the highest tower before long. Work is halted due to the trouble in the mines, but this will soon be resolved.
His vision shall be complete in all ways but one…”
“How do you mean, master?” asked Ari.
“Bezzalakkur will not see it, his soul was claimed by Our Father, before his work could be complete.”
“He was killed?”
“No Ari,” sighed Enlil rubbing his brow and showing signs of deep tiredness, “he fell foul to the affliction of all of our kind. The same curse…The same blessing that now afflicts me.
“In his final days, he instructed me to teach his son the ways of daemonology. Mardurkarr was not even a beardling: essentially a babe in arms. Bezzalakkur wished for him to be our prophet when he came of age.
“I swore to do what my master had asked, to rule this tower in his name until his son was ready to accept the mantle of sorcerer prophet and complete his great work.
“But Mardurkarr could not be taught Ari, for decades I worked with him to harness the power of Our Father, to see with more than his eyes. But he has not the gift. He grew tired of his tutelage and has since grown a mind for metal and wheels. He is a warrior, the finest I have known, but a priest he shall never be…
“He now stays rarely in my tower: the tower of Bezall created by his father. He craves the thrill of battle and fails in his duties to pay his dues.
“And so, it falls upon me to finish Bezzalakkur’s work, and complete it I shall. When the final slab of the final tower is laid I shall pay my final dues: I shall accept the blessing of stone and this tower shall become the House of Hashut. With him, I shall live forever.”
“How shall you live forever,” smiled Ari, “when I have told you, I shall kill you?”
“Thank you Ari,” smiled Enlil-Shazzar, “Should I fail? I would welcome your blade.”
The armoury bustled with activity and ten infernal guard in full battle dress, checked over their equipment. Night drew to a close and at sunrise they would march to the mines.
Mardakkur looked resplendent in red scale mail and an ornate hat upon his head. He looked every bit the southern darklands castellan he had modelled himself on. His mace was hung at his hip, darkforged and ready to crush the skulls of his enemies and upon his back a large circular bronze shield depicting a bull’s head icon.
A few of the worker caste dwarfs busied themselves with measuring out pouches of black powder, sharpening glaives and checking over the warrior’s equipment.
One such worker approached Mardakkur, head lowered.
“You may look upon me blacksmith,” said the great warrior, “I am no prophet.”
The worker looked up hesitantly and cleared his throat to speak. “I am Ghrazurr of the tower of Bezall,” he said in hushed and reverent tones, “May Our Father bless your expedition,”
The blacksmith handed over a small trinket. It was a bull’s head icon rendered in iron and hung upon a simple chain. Mardakkur looked upon it and considered it for a moment.
The craftsmanship was unremarkable but of high quality nonetheless. He had seen such things a thousand times in the workshops around the courtyard and around the necks of his warriors.
“I thank you Ghrazurr,” said Mardakkur, removing his hat to easier don the talisman.
Ghrazurr bowed and returned to his work.
Mardakkur, seeing that his warriors were ready and that the sun was soon to rise, barked an order and they formed up in a perfect line to leave the armoury and begin their expedition. He followed behind.
It may have been his imagination, but it seemed to Ghrazurr that in the gloom of the armoury, the amulet about Mardakkur’s seemed to glow a dull red before settling back to black iron but such a thing would have been impossible for one untouched by the magic of Our Father.