My friends of Steelhold and Demongate! I have an announcement to make.
One year ago today, CubeJackal created the
original Steelhold thread. Happy birthday, Steelhold! We remember your batshit insanity with fondness.
As a present of sorts, I give you this segment that I have been ever so slowly writing since the latter days of Steelhold. I hope you all enjoy it.
Late Spring, 260
Dwarven Mountain Hall of Chainbell
Heavy leather workgloves tied to his belt, Stinthad Abbeylanced walked through the crowded streets to his home. It was market day, and the roving caravan had returned not two days past. Wee ones crowded the wagons, badgering the merchants for toys and exotic treats and exciting tales of travel and adventure. Up until a few years ago, his own daughters would be running about, spending most of their allowances on sugary confections and figurines brought from afar. They would always come back with exciting new tales to tell, most of them probably fabricated.
After spending most of the day topside running maintenance on the windmills, Stinthad was looking forward to a quiet evening with the missus. That whole notion went down the drain when he crossed the threshold into his modest apartment. His wife Unib was sitting at the foot of the bed, holding a sealed scroll, a light frown on her delicate features.
Stinthad walked up to her. "Honey, is something wrong?"
She handed him the scroll. "A messenger stopped by with news from the caravan. He said this was for you."
Scowling, Stinthad broke the wax seal and unfurled the scroll. He was sure Unib hadn't read it, but the look on her face told him she knew. Maybe the messenger had told her. He knew what that meant. A death in the family.
He read the whole thing in tense silence. When he was done, he threw the scroll at the corner of the room, startling Unib. His hands clenched into fists as he spoke, perhaps a bit louder than he intended."So the bastard is dead, eh? Well, good fucking riddance. He can get eaten raw by elves, for all I care."
Unib held her husband's arm. "Dear, isn't that a little harsh? I mean, he was your father."
Stinthad pulled away from her grasp. "Yeah? Some father. Do you have any idea what it was like to live with him? He'd disappear for months at a time, then return with a fresh crop of injuries that my mother had to tend to. Or my brother Udil. He'd stay for a couple weeks, always at his desk, barely talked to me, and then he'd be off again. Just like that. Wouldn't even wait until morning to say goodbye. You'd just wake up and he was gone, and you never knew if you'd see him again."
Tears had been peeking at the corner of his eyes as he spoke, and by the end of it they were streaming down his cheeks and into his beard. "He wasn't there when my beard came in. He wasn't there when I turned twelve and got my first job as a ranger. He never gave him anything to remember him by."
Then why was he crying?
He fell to his knees, sobbing. Unib held her husband in her arms until he regained his composure."Does my brother know?"
"I don't think so. He's been out hunting."
"I'll go tell him then."
Stinthad Ringlabored was hauling his latest kill into Chainbell. No easy task. He had tracked the giant badger into the Plain of Riders for the better part of a week, and had managed to fell it with one of his last remaining bolts. The trek back was fast draining him of energy.
He was just past the gate when he saw his brother, grim-faced, arms folded across his chest. Not a good way to finish a hunting trip. Still trailing the massive corpse, Stinthad approached his sibling."Something wrong, big brother? You look cross."
"Father's dead."
Stinthad Ringlabored, Hunter, cancels Return Kill: Mourning.
The elder Stinthad threw another pair of socks into his ratty old suitcase. His scowl had just deepened since delivering the news to his brother, who had insisted on tagging along back to his home. Though he loved his brother, meeting with him always left a bitter taste in the elder Stinthad's mouth. Why had his parents named two consecutive sons Stinthad? Was the younger brother meant to be a success, where the elder had failed? Their father had certainly been around longer when younger Stin was growing up. If that was the case, no wonder Stinthad hated the old bastard."Dear, are you sure you want to do this?"
His wife pleaded with him. Stinthad just looked at his brother. He was standing by the door, expression as guarded as ever. Stin was never one to nurse his pains in plain sight. Not even in front of his elder brother."I have to. I'm the heir to his estate. And as much as I hate him, I still have to check that he's properly buried."
Stinthad sighed, ran a hand through his beard. "Besides. I still haven't said goodbye to my mother. And she died months ago."
"Then I'm going with you,"
Unib replied, reticent. She was none too fond of the idea, but she had to. Dwarven custom and all that. Husband and wife must not be torn asunder. Even on a trip such as this.
After a moment's hesitation, Stinthad hugged her. They held each other for a good long moment, paying no mind to his brother. The younger Stinthad was content to hover in the doorway, still as a statue, interrupting nothing. They couldn't even hear him breathe."I suppose I should tell the girls,"
Stinthad said after a fashion."You do that, dear,"
Unib replied. "I'll get to packing."
Stinthad marched out the door, clapping his brother on the shoulder on the way out. Different as the two might be, they both got that faraway look in the eyes when there was something important to be done.
Unib packed in silence for a while, paying no mind to her brother-in-law. Just the way he preferred it. The hunter was not much of one for speaking, but he would always be around to lend support."He doesn't mean a word of it, you know,"
he said abruptly.
Unib turned to face him, confused. "How do you mean?"
"The whole 'I hate my father' thing."
He sounded as distant as ever. Clinical, almost. "True, Dad wasn't the best father in dwarven history, but he never let us starve. He couldn't always be there for us, but always came through when he was around. Stinthad never said this kind of thing back then."
"Why does he say it now?"
Unib asked. "What changed?"
Stinthad eyed her coolly. "Think about it. Which is easier? Admitting that you still love the father that dragged you around the countryside on the run from the law when you were barely a beardling; the father who went and got himself arrested for organized crime and managed to drag your darling mother along with him? Or deny the whole thing to yourself and everyone you meet?"
Unib's gaze met the floor. Her husband had not once said a kind word about his father, in all the decades they'd been together. Not once. Now she understood why.
Later it struck her that that was the most she'd heard her brother-in-law say in one sitting.
Getting the permits had been a two-week ordeal of bureaucratic pain in the backside, but now it was done. Stinthad and Unib had visas to enter Steelhold as visitors. Their daughters Unib and Adil had decided to join them and pay their respects to their grandmother. Their grandfather was casually left out of the conversation.
They trekked across the continent for months, their travel clothes slowly but surely taking on the hues of dirt and mileage. Mountains and forests had given way to a vast desert, and Stinthad quickly discovered why half the wagons were full of water barrels. It was only after a month of journeying ever southward that they found the sea. A week after that, they rounded the bay toward their destination.
Steelhold. a prison for the worst criminal filth that The Gloves of Admiring had to offer. And within, Stinthad would find his deceased parents.
How could he have known that the gates would seal shut behind the caravan? How could he have known that the prison had been taken over by a madwoman? A sense of honor had taken him and his across the known world to this place as a visitor. Now they would remain as prisoners, guilty of no crime other than poor timing.
A great tomb had been built for his parents. Neither was interred within. His mother had been thrown in the regular burial halls. His father was never buried. The circumstances of his death had made his body impossible to recover. He had been quite a mover and shaker in Steelhold, they said. A King among dwarves, they said. Those who hadn't succumbed to madness, at least.
His wife Unib was the first to go. She had been hauling garbage outside when the goblin army arrived. They had torn her apart. The body was found days later, already bloated, after the breaking of the siege. Stinthad had been too grief-stricken to bury her himself. Now he had no idea where she was. Probably still out in the field, decomposing away. It's not like anybody else cared.
His daughters were next. They had been sucked dry on the very same day. He had cradled their lifeless bodies in his arms for hours on end, sobbing uncontrollably. He almost felt like succumbing to the curse. He could hear everyone around him droning the same mantra ad nauseam. 'Drink', they beckoned, 'or join the food chain'. He would have none of it. Had everyone else taken leave of their senses?
Logs! More logs. He needed them. Desperately. And stone! So much stone. This was a fucking fortress, why the hell was there no stone? Or leather? Couldn't they just flay one of the dead? It's not like anybody gave two shits about propriety anymore. If you're not going to bury them anyway, why not take the skin while you're at it? Or the bones? You could always make more crafts that way. Even totems.
Where was the fucking leather? And gems! Glorious, scintillating gemstones. Where? Where, by the gods nobody else seemed to believe in anymore, where?
Irons gripped his throat, pinned his wrists to leaden chains. His clothes had long since rotted away. Not like he needed them. As far as his captors were concerned, being naked just made the whole process easier.
He had fathered hundreds of them. Wee beardlings, birthed by the first two women captives he had been forced to copulate with. He had refused at first, of course. What would Unib say? But the masters would have none of it. They used that shining mask to bring the fire to his loins, and by damn, it had to be appeased. He didn't even feel good doing it. It just happened. More than once he had blacked out, and when he came to, he was in the middle of it. Sometimes with the originals. Sometimes with his daughters. Granddaughters. Greatgranddaughters. Whatever they threw at him. No amount of shame could keep him down, try as he might.
Dreams were his only solace. In dreams he saw the world, saw his wife, his daughters who were naught but skulls now. He saw other places, faraway. A land across the waters. Great ships filled with humans and dwarves and elves. Caves, more vast than the greatest mountain hall, damp, rancid, smelling like home and death and placenta and madness and life. And the masters probed him endlessly about these dreams. Sometimes he even understood what they were saying long enough to tell them. At least, he thought he did. Maybe. As long as they let him see and hug his daughters when he was done. Probably.
He had no idea how long it had been. All he knew is that he was getting old, and his children were starting to age as well. The masters saw fit to find a new use for him. They removed the shackles. He fell to the floor on legs that hadn't walked a step in what could have been a century. They opened his mouth by force. The one with the mask hovered overhead; he who had been slowly eating the one-armed female. He held goblet of blood. Dwarven blood, birth-blood of one of the most recent children. What would he do with it? He was mad. He had to be. Only a mad dwarf would wear a mask on his chest instead of his face.
The mad one upended the goblet. Thick, chunky blood filled his mouth, and it was not his own. The fleshless one made him drink. The heat was upon him then. When it subsided, only thirst remained. Thirst and vision and sleep and two parched skulls.
His masters had nodded then. He would father no more children. But he would be their entertainment for centuries.
The sounds of boot-clad feet dragged Stinthad from a most pleasant dream. He had been talking to his father again. So many things the old dwarf had to say. Something about patience and power and conspiracy and war. Now awake, he heard more of the same from the Kin within the chamber."The Third Army has begun to take the North, my lord,"
spoke one of the armored ones, kneeling before the throne. "They expect a solid victory over all settlements north of the Funnel on the Steppes. Within a year, the North may yet be yours."
Shank nodded his pleasure. He reclined upon the throne, dressed in the finery of a warrior-king. In a sense, he was. "And the Father?"
"Our sources tell us he is within the territory of the First Iron. Presumably near the Funnel. No actual contact had been established at the time of the report."
"Very well. Continue the conquest, Commander. Bring the Knights of Saint Zane to their knees as swiftly as possible. That will crush morale in the North."
"And the Olympian raids, my lord?"
"Insects,"
the Lord of the Bloodkin spat. "Ants hiding in a hill. Crush them beneath your bootheels or scatter them to the winds. It makes no difference to me, and should make no difference to you. As long as they are snuffed from existence, I could not give less of a shit."
"Your will be done, Lord Shank."
The Commander saluted, wheeled around, and left the golden hall. He paid Shank's pet lunatic no mind, completely unaware that he was his direct descendent. What did paternal relationships matter to the Bloodkin, anyway? They often said that they all had the same Mother, Father, and Uncle, and these were their rulers. How you were born was irrelevant. How you were turned was irrelevant. All were their children, and all were therefore siblings. That was the meaning of family to their race.
Shank paced up and down the hall, muttering to himself. Talking to his Masters through the Mask. He heard and answered countless voices, endless requests. They had given him a race of his own, they said. He was in command now, just as he wished. Now he must uphold his end of the bargain. Deliver them the world. A shattered world, bathed in blood, filled with his warriors. A world to corrupt and destroy other worlds of the brother-nemesis of their own lord.
This he would deliver. He would foerever be their instrument of death and suffering. The mere thought of it got him hard. He would have to go murder some of the livestock when he was done.
Once the meeting was over, Shank left his throne room - yes, his
throne room now that his beloved was finally gone - and descended the granite staircase. He had forced his subjects to set up the livestock near the first cavern, where he could see their suffering from the windows of the summer palace. He walked onto the balcony, and was immediately bathed in the shrieks of the damned. It made him cackle.
There was one bit of business to attend to before he got to his fun. He clamped the mask he had long ago sewn into his chest, had it seek his agent in the other land. Communication had to be much more direct now that Kivish was gone."Amsan. Hear me, necromancer."
Try as he might, he couldn't keep the mirth from his voice. "The time draws near."
He would not wait for a reply. There was suffering to cause and sample, and Shank's patience had been worn thin in the past seven centuries. He vaulted the balcony railing, and came crashing a hundred feet below in a heap of filth and slush and gore. He shattered both his legs. They rebuilt themselves instantly.
Shank grinned, began to cackle. Thousands of pairs of eyes fell upon him in absolute terror. Yet beneath the fear, hidden away, was the faintest glimmer of a dark hope.
Many would be released from their torment by the time he was done.
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Topic: Demongate: Wrapping up the Loose Ends. (Read 676482 times)