A War Against the Very Foundation

Ferric barked and flipped a table just as bolts thudded into the wood. Kannu, grunting, gestured for Zaile and Tiana to hold him against the upended furniture. A flurry of throwing axes and daggers dinged his armour.

“Nice try,” roared Kannu before addressing Ferric in a gruff whisper. “What now?”

Ferric peered over their flimsy fortification. “Good question.”

The Northroc Foundation had fanned out. Men bearing giant kite shields formed a ring around the hunters, all while banging their meaty mauls. Behind them were rows of notched arrows dripping in oil, waiting to be lit.

“Didn’t know Northroc had an army,” Ferric praised grudgingly. “Guess I never fought this lot when I crashed his slave auction.”

Plucking an axe from the table, Zaile hurled it at the advancing line. The low throw split a boot clean, bringing down the screaming warrior who flailed about, clutching his foot. Kannu chortled at his agony.

A lanky figure, covered in eye tattoos that came dangerously close to a Finnardian icon, knelt down next to the crippled man.

“What a way to disgrace Papa’s name,” declared this newcomer. “It makes my blood boil.”

“Please,” the injured man whimpered in terror, his pain all but forgotten. “I can still–”

Light flickered. The tattooed man, curved dagger already in hand, had nicked his soldier. Within moments, the afflicted shrieked, thrashing like a fish tossed onto land. Steaming blood spurted from his orifice as he writhed, until finally, he went limp. The nauseating perfume of burnt flesh permeated the tavern.

“Good day, distinguished guests of the Northroc Foundation,” the man said, making a mocking bow. “My friends call me Soupman and I am glad to make your–"

Having dislodged a dagger from the floorboard, Kannu threw it into his ribcage, cutting him short. Soupman doubled over. Inhaling sharply, he extracted the blade, his wheezing slowly transforming into a pained, maniacal cackling. Within moments, the gaping wound that bled a red pool on the ground had sealed.

“And I’m glad to make your acquaintance,” Soupman finished. “On behalf of Papa Noa, I’d like to apologise for this embarrassment.” He kicked at the corpse. “Worry not. Scum though we may be, we have our pride. One lick of our blades, and you will be skipping your way to the Divine Finnardi.” He turned to his man. “What are you maggots waiting for? Whoever gets the first kill can have the wench.”

Within moments, chained claws ripped away the table. Even before the hunters stood exposed to the archers, Ferric threw his body forward, absorbing a hail of arrows. The Foundation frontline, poised to charge, paused. Soupman, still massaging his ribs, slumped into a chair with a loud crash, thumped his legs onto the table, raised a bottle to his lips, and waved his men onward. With his mind fast degenerating into mush after regenerating from partial disembowelling, this was the most he could manage.

Another volley of steel rained on the hunters, followed by a charge. Grunting, Kannu fell on one knee as successive axes rattled his dome. Zaile immediately drove his entire weight to steady the stumbling giant. He bit back a scream as Kannu’s armour ate into his shoulder blade.

Tiana bit down hard and fired back. Her first shot found a shield while the second fell short. She reached for a third but dropped the arrow. The bowstring—a jagged dagger to her bandaged hands—had sent a ruddy rivulet streaming down her wrist. She swore an oath.

The first warrior from the Foundation to cross the hall was a stout man wrapped in steel. Unleashing a savage howl, he fell upon Ferric with his great hammer, landing a crushing blow against the chest.

Ferric buckled and sputtered when a second strike to his side jolted his ribcage. Replying with a battle cry of his own, he trapped the weapon with one arm while his free hand shot through the visor. The stout man screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching his face. Ferric spat and tossed the plucked eyeball at the other advancing fighters.

Ferric’s shin slammed into the man’s skull, denting the helm with a sickening squelch. The writhing ceased. “Next!”

The Foundation men halted, exchanged looks, and adjusted grips on their weapons. Kannu, after Tiana whispered something into his ear, drove his axe into the ground. Black sparks crackled in the air, sending the Foundation frontline scrambling back behind the shields. This calculated bluff ushered in a nervous pause.

Zaile’s eyes raced around the cavernous drinking hall, brushing over the fiery red on Ferric’s side and Kannu’s visible limp. Charging straight for Soupman would kill him before he could even utter “Mercy”, but waiting for the tattooed scoundrel to order another assault would likewise pave his path to the Divine Finnardi. There’s no way out! The terrifying revelation began forming a lump in his throat when he caught an odd sight: Don had left his office door open.

Pressed low, Zaile dove out of cover, disappearing behind the counter like a harried rat. Whistling bolts punched into the wall, causing the woodwork to vomit a mist of splinters. Taking a deep breath, he sat upright. Reflexively, he swiped the counter and pocketed a fistful of coins. No sooner had he slipped into an office than another violent clash shook the ground.

Don—the money-grubbing imp who was as much a part of the reclusive workshop as the fixtures—had vanished, with great panic too, judging by the mess left behind. It was as if a storm had scattered the flasks, quills, and stamped accounts. The proprietor did, however, make off with the Sandfire, leaving behind only a faint, rancid whiff.

How’d he get out? Zaile’s fingers scoured every damp brick as he hunted the scent, eventually leading him to a towering shelf. He sniffed the lacquered wood a few times and sneezed. He frowned. Exhaustion must have dulled his keen nose. Hurriedly, he wedged himself into a corner and drove his shoulders into the stout wenge. The furniture gave way with surprising ease and pulled the false wall along with it. He jumped in celebration and raced outside before the groaning gears came to a rest.

“Here!”

After much grunting and sweating, Zaile and Tiana pulled Kannu towards the office. The lumbering giant hit the floor with a loud groan and an even louder bang. Ferric quickly joined them, throwing his body before the stream of flying steel. Though his flesh deflected the deadly storm, the impact forced Ferric to one knee. The came the chains.

The steel vipers pounced on Ferric. While he tore at the shackles tightening around his throat, another ringed serpent caught his ankle and pulled him off his feet. The Foundation men cheered and rallied, dragging the fallen Graystar towards their line of raised hammers.

Dagger between his lips, Zaile crawled on all fours towards Ferric, burrowing under a wall of axes, knives, and arrows. With desperate haste, he hacked at the manacles around Ferric’s leg. With but a single swing, he sundered the inferior steel as if it was wet paper.

Ferric, grinning through gritted teeth, roared with wry mirth. “You really are Steelbreaker!”

Twisting and turning, Ferric quickly gained command of the chain around his neck. Exploding with a bestial howl, he rolled away from the foe, catapulting the man into a roofbeam like a thunderbolt. In comparison, the loud thud that accompanied the ensuing descent proved anticlimactic. Bruised, sweating, and short of breath, the former mercenary climbed to his feet and raised a defiant fist. Again, the fighting came to a nervous pause.

Dragging Ferric with him, Zaile raced for the office door. Behind them came a barrage of foul language and arrows. Inside the small chamber, he found Tiana and Kannu in waiting. Instead of making their way down the secret stairs, the couple had gathered every piece of furniture not nailed down.

“Did you think we’d run?” shouted Tiana with false anger. “Hurry.”

Ferric, who just received a hammer to hit head, growled, returned a kick, and slammed the door shut. Kannu, throwing his body against the many shelves, crammed them against the only entrance. With that, they made for the hidden door, leaving behind the Foundation to scream and bang from the drinking hall.

The secret passage herded the hunters down a spiralling stairwell. The suffocating darkness and the narrow walls seemed to have stolen their speech. Zaile counted his strides to keep his mind occupied but soon lost count. Just when the echoing footsteps threatened to drive him mad, his boot found a flat surface. What is this place?

“A-are we committing blasphemy?” asked Tiana in a timid voice.

Zaile shrugged. “Late.”

“This is creepier than the Deadwoods,” Kannu joined in. “At least that damn forest was alive.”

Zaile concurred. Before them were tunnels, or rather, streets in better repairs than the ones on ground level. Glowing glyphs, much resembling those on the mysterious orphanage records, lit their path. Every tile, paved with unearthly exactitude, was boreal, stainless, Finnardian white. It was as if winter frequented these lifeless corridors, constantly renewing the coat of snow.

“You’d think Don would leave a trail,” said Ferric, scratching the ground with his toes. “Which reminds me,” he pointed to the sack of dust. “What are we doing with this?”

“If we ever see the sun again,” said Tiana. “I’m sure there’s plenty of Sandfire pits–”

“There won’t be any if Noa gets his way,” replied Kannu. “If Mercy willing, Don’s probably taken refuge in the inner city. That’s our safest bet.”

Emerging into a circular chamber, the hunters found five branching paths. The structure reminded Zaile of a hand. While Ferric and Tiana yelled down each corridor, he studied each glyph. While he might as well be blind when it came to Finnardian ciphers, three stars coalescing into a triangle drove a needle into his scar. Turning away with a shudder, he made for the other tunnels, noting an intricate eye, a crown of swords, and squares for the rest.

Kannu, who had slumped against a wall, straightened. “Squares it is,” he declared. “Waste more time and Soupman will cook us for dinner.”

Tiana shot him a look. “Why?”

“It’s simple,” Kannu replied with a shrug. “More likely to be exits for small folks. You got better guesses?”

“Squares it is,” repeated Ferric, chuckling. “Remind me to cripple you next time we need your brains.”

“Gambler’s instincts,” mused Kannu, tickling his chin. “The Divine Finnardi’s luck, some might say.”

“Or Zunark’s,” Tiana said, rolling her eyes. “Wasn’t that how you fell out with Noa?”

Kannu lowered his visor. “Noa knew not to play cards with me.” He continued after a pregnant pause further elongated by the quiet tunnels. “He traded in Sandfire before Don started paying silver for the stuff. That’s when he turned to bone trading. His friendship became...fatal.”

Zaile fingered his dagger’s hilt and murmured a prayer for Lodric. It was one thing to have a regular blacksmith, and another to have a friend risking a visit from the Peacekeepers. The nearing echoes of footsteps and chatter cut short his invocation. He reached for his weapon but thought better of it. Instead, he shot out an arm, barring Tiana’s notched arrows. If hostility emerged from these Finnardian pathways, baring steel was the fastest way to entombment.

“Zaile?” the lilting song from this young woman had a familiar melody. “What are you doing here?”

Turning the corner, Anne, wearing a burlap backpack and smile brighter than her habit, waved at the hunters. Her companion, a plump girl clinging to her arm, was much less cordial. Shrinking behind Anne, the timid priestess fixed her gaze firmly on the ground.

While his companions sighed in relief, Zaile shuffled back. Anne was still the jovial beauty he met in the orphanage. Yet, he was certain she had recognised him before she even caught sight of him. Even now, he sensed in her infectious blitheness the same arcane secrets he had felt when Solmis paralysed him with terror. His scar twitched, though he couldn’t make out whether it was the recollection or the present that caused it.

“You must be Zaile’s friends,” said Anne, beaming. “I’m Anne and this is Maggie.”

The timid girl looked up briefly before dropping her head again. “M-Magdala. Grace of Mercy.”

Tiana’s lips twitched at the timid display. “Do us Fallens scare you, priestess?” the huntress sneered. “I must thank you for suffering the affront of our presence–”

“Maggie’s a good girl,” Anne interjected, giving Magdala a playful hug. “She’s just not used to men.”

Kannu snorted. “And you are?”

Anne’s laughter filled the hallways. “A wit as sharp as your axe, good sir,” she sang, extending a hand. “I’d be honoured to be amongst your acquaintances.” Perhaps sensing Tiana’s stare, Anne faced the huntress. “Have Mercy, dear sister. Do I have your permission?”

Tiana gaped. This time, even Zaile laughed. Before long, Anne had Magdala shaking hands with the hunters.

“Maggie,” said Anne. “Why don’t you patch up our friends? They look like they survived a war.”

“Sure…” the timid girl ventured. “I can heal some…minor, injuries.”

“You don’t sound it,” said Ferric, taking a step back. “I appreciate the thought, but there are a lot of men still on our trails.”

Magdala, who looked ready to trip over her own shadow moments ago, folded her hands over her bosom and murmured a soft prayer. Indecision banished, her glistening fingers brushed Ferric’s bruises, wiping away the black and purple as if they were stains.

“Priestess,” said Ferric. “Accept my apologies.”

Magdala didn’t appear to hear him. With dexterity and precision Zaile had expected from Anne, the healer dabbed Kannu’s vambrace and greaves, her foreheads folding with educated concentration.

“Your Yhom–” she said before covering her mouth. Panic threatened her focused visage. “Please forget what I said. I cannot undo this damage without other enchantments. Sir Kannu, flesh and blood are Mercy’s gifts. I beg you treasure it.”

Kannu opened his mouth but Magdala’s maternal touch silenced him. The priestess then clasped Tiana’s hands between her own for a moment before tearing away the dressing, revealing fingers made anew. She bobbed her head at the huntress and made for Zaile, pulling his pinkie so close to her face he could feel the warmth of her breath.

“Anne,” her serene tone took an urgent turn. “Do you recognise this venom?”

“Hmm,” Anne made a nasal sound that signalled racing thoughts. “It looks impure. Who fed him red dust?”

“That’d be me,” answered Ferric. “Something wrong?”

“Good thing you did,” said Anne. “Zaile, you are blessed with good friends.” She produced a needle, pricked his finger, and jammed it into a vial before Zaile could flinch. “I hear assassins brewed saint killers with these.” She covered her mouth but clearly did not share Magdala’s apprehension. “Forget I said that.”

Anne’s persiflage soon echoed down every corridor, dethroning the morose vacuum which once ruled this maze. Her worldly irreverence–especially her colourful dismissal of admirers among the Peacekeepers–proved a winning formula for Tiana. Magdala, who looked ready to swallow her own tongue, eventually joined the hunters in rowdy bursts of mirth. Clutching his aching gut more than once, Zaile realised too late that he had lost track of the Finnardian glyphs marking their journey.

“Didn't the Peacekeepers close off...all the outer circles entrances?” asked Magdala, changing the subject. “We should report this to Lord Peacekeeper.”

“Let Priestess Fennaj worry about that,” dismissed Anne. “Obey and conform.”

“Are there secrets here we shouldn’t know?” probed Tiana, poking at a moon glyph.

“Behind barriers, yes,” said Anne, giggling as Tiana recoiled. “And try not to touch anything. Always more oars than rowers.” She pouted at the blank stares. “Land blubbers. Too much work, too few hands. The Settlement barriers are quite sprawling.”

Ferric scratched his chin. “Don’t priestesses have access to the Finnardian Corridor?”

Magdala shook her head. “Those are...Peacekeepers only.”

“And where are those brave keepers of the peace?” asked Tiana.

“Western front,” replied Anne. “Which leaves us to maintain the Settlement barriers.”

“Just you two?” Kannu scoffed. “Someone’s playing favourites.”

Anne laughed. “We are the favourites.” She boasted, nudging Magdala. “At least we should be. Maggie will Lady Archantere next month.”

“Anne!” Magdala cried, her voice rising above a squeak for the first time. “He’s...from a branch and won’t even look at me.”

“Exercise will do you good,” declared Tiana. “Now, I know a few ways to make sure he won’t be able to keep his hands off you.”

Knowing Tiana’s past, Zaile had to swallow a laugh. He could only imagine what the woman whispered that turned even Anne’s ears crimson. The echoes of drumming footsteps, drawing near with urgent purpose, quelled the merry banter. Zaile, shot Ferric a look, began dragging Kannu. Despite their best efforts, they moved at a slog.

It wasn’t long before Soupman came barrelling around the corner, drool dribbling from his chin. Diluted pupils swam about the socket as though they had a will of their own. His veins, cobalt blue, lit up his tattoos. Unleashing a low, guttural growl, he greeted the hunters with a barrage of flying axes.

A rejuvenated Ferric flew into action, erecting a wall of punches and kicks. One of the repelled axes shot back at Soupman, hitting a shield with a crisp ding. As the trailing Northroc men spilled into the tunnel, Ferric's lips arched into a defiant smirk. Reaching forward, he beckoned for them to advance.

“Skin those rats!” roared Soupman. “Papa wanted them dead yesterday!”

“Halt!”

Magdala ran forth, threw her arms wide and imposed herself between the Fallens. Face pallid and short of breath, she looked ready to drop to a finger flick.

“C-cease,” her shaky order sounded more like pleading. “We are–”

“Out of my way,” Soupman hissed. “Unless the priestess wishes to become our whore. We can arrange that.”

Ferric, shaking his head, gently pulled Magdala back. “Stand back, priestess,” he said. “You’ve already done enough. Allow me.”

Anne, plucking and corking the vial she had on Zaile’s finger, strolled towards the Foundation line, ducking under Ferric’s arm with effortless grace. While the smile lingered on her lips, her eyes cooled the air. Arms crossed and legs slightly parted, her very presence narrowed the ivory tunnels.

“I must insist, Mr. Graystar,” said Anne. “This cur threatened a Finnardian.” A needle suddenly in her hand, she cocked her head. “This must not stand.”