Casting Shadows - Chapter 9
“A father casts a shadow over his son.” - Words attributed to Xarathustra.
“I don’t understand…how the slave driver can be standing in front of me?” thought Mardurkarr, “What was his name? Sharz?”
Mardurkarr shook his head and rubbed his eyes like a child walking from a dream. The slave driver stood before him impassively.
An image flashed before his eyes. Was it a memory? Great taloned hands were grabbing Sharz by the legs. He had screamed. An infernal guard had rushed to his aid but was batted away by a club like tail. The solider had coughed blood through the grill on his helmet when he had landed. The other claw had then grabbed the slave driver by the head. Mardurkarr was sure he remembered the roaring of the beast and the screaming of the dwarf. Those cries had been cut short when his body was torn in two. Mardurkarr felt his face. It was slick with blood. This was not his own.
“No,” said Sharz, standing before him, “No, this is not quite right is it?”
Mardurkarr stared in shock looking first at the dwarf before him and then gore spattered across the cavern floor.
“You…don’t really know him do you?” Sharz continued, thoughtfully, “Yes. You had only met him yesterday. Perhaps I should dig a little deeper?”
Sharz breathed and black shadows filled the room. Mardurkarr did not turn or run; he remained transfixed. When the shadows retreated Enlil-Shazzar now stood before him.
“Curious,” said Enlil, “I searched for family. I cannot find this in your mind. This was the closest fit. Who is he to you?”
Mardurkarr stammered, “Enlil, is that you?”
“Ah,” said Enlil, “he has a name. Who is he?”
“What is happening?” Mardurkarr asked, “what are you? Some daemon that wears the faces of others like a mask?”
“I wear a mask?” The face of the prophet smiled, “I can see into your very soul …Mardurkarr? Yes. Mardurkarr. Heir to…the tower of…Bezal? What mask do you wear? Are you the southern warlord or the son of a prophet? Which is real and which is a mask?”
“I…I…” Mardurkarr struggled to think clearly. The air was thick and smoke filled. The darkness was all consuming. “There was a beast?”
Memories flashed through his mind once more.
At the sight of the evisceration of Sharz the two remaining guards had charged the creature, weapons drawn. It had reared up to its full height and fell upon them, crushing them with its claws. They were then cast aside like ragdolls. Mardurkarr had stood alone.
He had fought it…
No.
He was still fighting it…
The massive club tail swung straight for Mardurkarr who ducked to avoid it. His hat was smashed from his head and ruined upon the wall. He brought his mace in an upward swing to strike against the tail but when it connected it was as if somehow the daemonic energy bound within it was dulled.
Still, the force was enough for the monster to pull back momentarily, flapping its enormous wings ineffectively in the cramped space. It now turned to face him, its gruesome features were a mockery of a Fire Dwarf and its eyes were glowing with hatred.
It charged again.
Jaws snapped at Mardurkarr, who brought his shield up to protect himself. The great tusks scraped against the bronze denting it. The weight of the attack caused the warrior to fall backwards.
With a swipe of one claw, the monster threw the shield to one side and with its other it pinned Mardurkarr to the ground.
It loomed nearer and as it did black shadows emanated from his nose and mouth.
It was an impressive view from the top of the tower. Mardurkarr had consciously avoided spending too much time up here since his return. Its completion was his father’s dream. It was now Enlil’s. Mardurkarr had failed in learning the ways of sorcery. To rule this tower was not his destiny. He had accepted this many years ago.
It was because of this that he had made something of himself in the southern Darklands. He had been welcomed in Zharr Naggrund as a hero. He had, one on occasion, been personally praised by Astragoth Ironhand himself. It had been after the Great Battle of Blood Pass. He had been commended for leading the charge against the black orcs and slaying their warboss in single combat. He was a soldier. This was his best and greatest destiny.
Enlil Shazzar looked around the tower as well. It was strange however because it was as if the prophet was seeing it for the first time.
“Tell me Mardurkarr, is this place real or imagined?”
“Real, prophet,” said Mardurkarr, rubbing his temple. He had apparently developed quite the headache and he struggled to concentrate, “why do you test me?”
“Oh I see,” said Enlil, “yes. This face, this is the prophet of the tower. You serve him? Served him? It is unclear…what do I sense here? Hatred? Jealousy? No? Frustration? Perhaps… and what else is this beardling?”
Enlil-Shazzar laughed but it sounded for a moment like a daemonic roar.
“Love?! Fire-dwarf you feel loyalty and love to this face. He is not kin but he like kin to you is he not? But there’s more to this isn’t there? More to this tower…”
From the obsidian stone floor a statue began to arise. It was a dwarf frozen in permanent anguish with a plaque at his feet: “May my successor, the prophet of Bezall, finish my work.”
“Oh,” said Enlil Shazzar, “this begins to make sense.”
Mardurkarr rubbed his forehead and winced. Why did it hurt so much?
Blood trickled from Mardurkarr’s brow, nose and mouth as his head was pushed into the stony floor by an enormous paw. It was as if the pressure would cause his skull to implode at any moment. He swung his mace at the monsters arm. Once, twice, three times it collided with its elbow and eventually the pressure was released as it loosened its grip.
The beast fell back holding its forearm and staring menacingly at the dwarf.
Mardurkarr used his mace like a walking stick and brought himself to his feet. The cavern floor was coated in blood and ichor. Sharz was bisected and his innards were spread across the room. The guard who had been thrown against the wall was still. One other was lying face down and another face up, impaled on a great stalagmite.
“What are you?!” He shouted in pain and anger as black smoke filled the room…
“What are you?” asked the dwarf standing before Mardurkarr. He had a long white beard, not dissimilar to Enlil-Shazzar’s. On his head he sported two enormous horns. His robes were jade green and cut from the finest Cathayan silk.
“I…I am Mardurkarr of Bezal: Warrior of Zharr Naggrund. I …I am…”
“You are the son of a prophet?”
“Yes,” he answered, “but a prophet I am not.”
“Yet,” answered the ancient sorcerer before him.
“I know you,” said Mardurkarr.
The face of the figure before him was familiar but heard to recognise. Then, just for a moment as lightning flashed behind him, the face was petrified in blackened and cracking stone. The lightning abated and it was normal again.
Mardurkarr hesitated, “father?”
“There. This is why I could not see his face in your mind,” began the image of Bezallakur, “you do not remember it. You must have been a child when he died. This is very curious that you should find me. I did not make the connection until you showed me the statue upon his tower. You may not know this face but how could I, you may wonder? I know this face because I knew this dwarf.”
“Father?” Mardurkarr repeated dreamily.
“I am not. Although is shall use his mouth to speak.”
“What are you?” Slowly, Mardurkarr was beginning to reconcile what was happening to him. He was in the cave fighting for his life against this terrible creature, but his mind was elsewhere and was somehow communing with the same malign intelligence that threatened him.
In the cave, on either side of the ruined corpses and splayed organs, Mardurkarr stood motionless, eyes glazed over. Blood trickled from a deep cut on his forehead.
The lammasu, held its wounded elbow in one paw and sat, breathing heavily, its tail wagging lazily and its wings folded back.
The only sound was the inhalation and exhalation of the beast which seemed to lighten and then dim the cavern with each breath.
“You can see my mind, creature? You can pull faces from my past and use them like puppets.”
“I can,” said his father’s face.
They were now stood on a great ash waste. Cracks in the earth revealed glowing magma flowed close to the surface. The heat was almost unbearable even to an Uzkul Drath-Zharr.
“How then do you use a face that, by your own admission, I only know as cold, dead stone?”
“Because,” the sorcerer’s face smiled, “it is a face that I knew.”
“You knew my father?”
“I did. He awoke me from my sleep centuries ago, out in the land of skulls. He was a prophet without purpose and he sought my wisdom. I shared this with him. But it came at a cost.”
“He had to pay his due…” said Mardurkarr repeating the oft repeated words of his master, Enlil-Shazzar.
“We all must pay our due. It is the way. The Dark Father does not give gifts freely. All gifts must come at a price.
“Your father wished for two gifts. He wished for foresight and the power to bring about a future he wished to see. And this, through me, The Dark Father could give to him. He saw a time when machines and industry consumed the soul of the Dawi-Zharr. He saw a time when the god that put the fire in our souls was forgotten and lost. He knew that he could bring about a new age, by creating a temple from which Hashut himself could reign: a House of Hashut. From what you have shown me, that work was begun and is now nearing its completion.”
The plain where they stood rumbled as the great Ziggurat began rising out of the ground and towards the sky before them. A century’s work was completed in moment.
“The tower would be a physical home for the spirit of Our Father to dwell. It would usher in a new age where all dwarfs of fire would remember to fear their father and to pay him their dues. Never would they forget that it was he who saved them from oblivion and to him that they owe alll of their earthly accomplishments.
“But Bezallakur did not know, for I did not tell him, that he would not live to see it rise to its fullest heights, nor see his son rise to become its keeper.”
“Enlil-Shazzar,” muttered Mardurkarr, “is now master of the tower. I am. It its keeper.”
“And why is that?”
“Because, I have no gift! Enlil trained me but it was as if magic itself refused to manifest within me. I could not feel the winds nor control them. So, turned my back on that path.”
“You are the son of a prophet and so a sorcerer you will be,” explained the apparition of his father, “your abilities have been hidden from even you,”
“How can that be? For years I trained and no
progress could be made. To continue would have deepened the shame to my tutor and my family name.”
“You did not progress, because you did not want it. Not truly. I can see your soul. I know what you longed for. Since childhood, you wished to escape the shadow that your father cast over you. Yet you can never truly be free of it, can you? Even now you return to his tower and spend time with its elderly keeper. A man you love and despise on equal measure. And why? Because you know deep down that your fate and the fate of the tower are connected. And in the depths of your soul, you know it to be true…Enlil Shazzar is dying…”
Before them there was a momentary glimpse of the elderly sorcerer being supported by his hobgoblin manservant and whisked past the courtyard, doubled over in pain.
“I will give you two gifts, son of Bezalallakur. Or rather, The Dark Father shall give them to you through me. Then, I shall return to my slumber and these miners shall bother me no more. One of these gifts shall be a foresight of what shall come to pass if you do not take your rightful place. The next, shall be the key to unlock the power within you, hidden in your father’s blood. This power may then be used to avert the fate that stands before you now. It is not so different to that which was given to your father many years ago”
The image of his father exhaled thick clouds of billowing smoke and all was black once again.
Mardurkarr saw as the birds may, from above. At the top of the tower, alongside great fanfare the last blocks were being laid and a great gathering of Dawi nobles and artisans alike had gathered. Enlil-Shazzar stood with his great praetorian, Aurok, nearby. The sorcerer looked sick. His eyes were sunken and his flesh more pale than normal. Black and grey veins crept from his shoulder and up his neck. Jaraz, the high vizier, was there also. The pet slave, Ari, was noticeably absent, but even Enlil-Shazzar, who loved that vile creature, would not stoop to have a greenskin present at such a moment.
Mardurkarr saw that he, himself, was not present amongst the nobles. Perhaps, this was the point. The creature would reveal to him in a future where he did not intervene and convince him to do so.
As the final block, inscribed with runes, was put into place by two burly dwarfs, the sorcerer chanted a prayer in ancient Zharralid, one arm held up towards the sky and one hidden within his cloak.
Those present waited with bated breath but as the prophet’s voice echoed in the air nothing happened. There was silence.
Eventually, the silence was broken by murmuring and shuffling amongst those present.
The prophet looked nervous. An uncertainty that Mardurkarr was unused to seeing was painted across his wizened features. Enlil coughed and struggled to catch his breath. Sweat dripped down his face. After a moment of composing himself, he attempted the invocation once again. His words roughly translated as “The last stone has been laid upon this tower, Hashut come and take your house,”
Once again there was silence. The crowd began to turn ugly. Enlil-Shazzar’s face was now a picture of abject horror.
There was now shouting coming from those gathered. Someone called out, “false prophet”. Enlil looked about attempting to see from whom the words had came.
“Show yourself, infidel!” He barked out, but was once again caught in a fit of coughing.
From somewhere within the audience a brick was thrown, narrowly missing the sorcerer. The bull centaur beside roared and threw his spear at a dwarf who may or may not have been perpetrator, impaling him.
With little warning, the scene exploded into bloody violence. Brother killed brother and the work that had been centuries in the making was torn apart, stone by stone.
Enlil-Shazzar was murdered by a faction of the crowd. In return, those still loyal to him then killed them. Jazar, the snake, fled from the scene. All around fire, destruction and confusion reigned supreme.
Mardurkarr stood before the Lammasu in the charnel house that was once an undisturbed cave. He understood now that Enlil-Shazzar needed him. He needed him to take his place as the next prophet of the tower, and soon. Only by he, the son of the founder of the tower, being the prophet to lay the final stone upon it, could the prophecy be fulfilled and the House of Hashut be established on earth. Not only this, It would avert a civil war and perhaps save Enlil-Shazzar’s life.
For the first time in his life, Mardurkarr understood his place and accepted his fate. He would save Enlil, he would protect the dwarfs of Bezal and he would complete his father’s work.
“All that remains,” Mardurkarr whispered, “is for you to unlock the gift within me. Do this, and I shall see my father’s work complete.”
“No,” said the Lammasu, finally speaking with its true voice. The deep rumbling words were intelligent but bestial, “I will give you the key, but you must open this lock yourself.”
“How?” Asked the warrior.
“Defend yourself,” said the monster who, took a massive intake of breath and then let out a bellowing roar.
A wave of sound, light and magic burst towards Mardurkarr. A spectrum of colour and pain penetrated his body and flowed out from behind him. Instinctively, the warrior held up his mace but it was obliterated. The darkforged weapon became ash in his hands and blew away on the winds of magic. He looked for his shield but it was too far to reach. Mardurkarr’s armour began to corrode and his skin began to burn. Crying out, he knew that within a moment his corporeal body would be destroyed and a moment after that, his eternal soul would be washed away to the realm of chaos.
Still, the monster’s roar continued and the waves of magic struck him. Mardurkarr tried to remain upright and breathe. Remembering some of his childhood training, he put the pain out of his mind and allowed the magic to flow through him. He no longer fought against it but worked with it. Slowly, it became bearable.
Noticing a red glow, he saw about his neck the amulet that the blacksmith had given him. It sparked with red energy and was warm to the touch. Snatching the bull’s head icon and thrusting it forward towards the Lammasu he roared in reply.
Mardurkarr’s body now began to glow red and his will fought against that of the Lammasu’s. They both conducted the winds of magic into two rivers of energy flowing into and against one another.
The light of the twin energies colliding spread to fill the cave. There was an unbearable screeching sound and then suddenly, all was dark. The creature was gone, replaced by lingering smoke.
Mardurkarr stood beaten and bloody, but still breathing. Residual energy hummed about his form. The talisman in his hand still glowed red and his eyes burned with the fires of Hashut.
He turned from the corpses on the ground and made his way out of the cave, through the mine and towards the surface.
A growling voice whispered incorporeally from the cavern, “He has been given the gifts of The Father; he will use them well and then he will pay his due.”
