Mother, Great Mother, who feeds us well. Gather us up in your many arms...
Only surviving fragment of the Sleeper's Hymns of Uwe the Perverse, heretic burned amid all his writings in Year of the Law 225
Only surviving fragment of the Sleeper's Hymns of Uwe the Perverse, heretic burned amid all his writings in Year of the Law 225
The shattered moon hung low in the sky, its smoldering core lending to the night a dull red tinge, illuminating faintly what was left of High Sepulchrave, whose ruined spires and cracked domes crowded the dim horizon like a line of broken fangs.
Arctos watched the night sky, as was his custom, tracing its spiraling constellations with his gaze, and tried to imagine what it was like when the moon was still whole.
“It was pale,” said the wizard, who was looking neither at the sky nor at Arctos, but at the blade he was methodically sharpening, an elegant southern scimitar of Tripantese make, “So bright it obscured the stars some nights. With a tele-lens, you could see rivers and forests across its face. The Lady's Garden they called it. Quite beautiful.”
Arctos glanced at his companion and snorted. He was used to the southron's uncanny way of guessing his thoughts, of answering questions that hadn’t been asked. But the moon had been broken two centuries ago.
“Read that in one of your books?” he asked the wizard.
The other man shrugged and shook his head and continued with his sharpening. Arctos snorted again and patted his vest, searching for his flask. Drinking wasn't his first choice- he was more a fan of the tarric root, but smoking at night in the plague lands was a quick way to attract unwanted attention. So Dalean brandy would have to do.
He took a sip, washing the liquor over his gums and relishing the spreading numbness. It burned deliciously going down.
“Drink?” he said, offering the flask. The other man took it with a nod.
“I need to take a watch tonight?” Arctos asked. Some nights the wizard slept, most nights he didn’t. Drathans were odd like that.
“No.”
“Alright. I’m to sleep, then.” Arctos said, shooting a glance at the black silhouette of High Sepulchrave, looming in the middle distance. The Silent City, they called it now. He’d been born in there, spent his boyhood an orphan living in its narrow lanes and crooked alleys before being dragooned into the Legion to fight in the Emperor’s wars.
He’d been back once since the Plague overtook the Imperium and left its lands a haunted waste. Looking for easy loot with a band of other ex-soldiers. Thirteen had gone in, four’d come out alive. Three had come out sane. He’d sworn he’d never go back so long as he lived. The things he’d seen were bad enough. Temples rebuilt, but not to Justinian. The rats, swollen and twisted. The children, if that’s what they were, living among the charred ruins, leering out from behind doorways and piles of stone. Worse though were the things he hadn’t seen… but had felt were there, just out of sight. Waiting. Gestating.
But the southron wizard had needed a guide, and his pay was very good indeed. And by all the Holy Laws of Sacrosanctum, he needed the money.
In the distance, a woman screamed.
Arctos’ hand dropped to his sword belt on instinct, as it did every time he heard the Afflicted, but this one wasn’t close. Probably. Sound sometimes traveled weirdly in the Plague Lands.
The wizard looked up from his sword, and Arctos’ stomach twisted slightly as he detected a trace of unease in the other man’s usually inscrutable face.
“Go to sleep,” the southron said, “We’ll need to be quick tomorrow.”
“Aye. Let’s hope this book you’re after is worth it. And easy to find.”
“Let’s hope.”
Arctos lay down on his bedroll and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the rhythmic, comforting grind of stone against steel as his companion worked on his blade. After a time, he fell into a fitful slumber, trying not to dream of the children he had glimpsed the last time he’d entered the Silent City. Of their soft laughter, and rows of needle teeth.
Arctos watched the night sky, as was his custom, tracing its spiraling constellations with his gaze, and tried to imagine what it was like when the moon was still whole.
“It was pale,” said the wizard, who was looking neither at the sky nor at Arctos, but at the blade he was methodically sharpening, an elegant southern scimitar of Tripantese make, “So bright it obscured the stars some nights. With a tele-lens, you could see rivers and forests across its face. The Lady's Garden they called it. Quite beautiful.”
Arctos glanced at his companion and snorted. He was used to the southron's uncanny way of guessing his thoughts, of answering questions that hadn’t been asked. But the moon had been broken two centuries ago.
“Read that in one of your books?” he asked the wizard.
The other man shrugged and shook his head and continued with his sharpening. Arctos snorted again and patted his vest, searching for his flask. Drinking wasn't his first choice- he was more a fan of the tarric root, but smoking at night in the plague lands was a quick way to attract unwanted attention. So Dalean brandy would have to do.
He took a sip, washing the liquor over his gums and relishing the spreading numbness. It burned deliciously going down.
“Drink?” he said, offering the flask. The other man took it with a nod.
“I need to take a watch tonight?” Arctos asked. Some nights the wizard slept, most nights he didn’t. Drathans were odd like that.
“No.”
“Alright. I’m to sleep, then.” Arctos said, shooting a glance at the black silhouette of High Sepulchrave, looming in the middle distance. The Silent City, they called it now. He’d been born in there, spent his boyhood an orphan living in its narrow lanes and crooked alleys before being dragooned into the Legion to fight in the Emperor’s wars.
He’d been back once since the Plague overtook the Imperium and left its lands a haunted waste. Looking for easy loot with a band of other ex-soldiers. Thirteen had gone in, four’d come out alive. Three had come out sane. He’d sworn he’d never go back so long as he lived. The things he’d seen were bad enough. Temples rebuilt, but not to Justinian. The rats, swollen and twisted. The children, if that’s what they were, living among the charred ruins, leering out from behind doorways and piles of stone. Worse though were the things he hadn’t seen… but had felt were there, just out of sight. Waiting. Gestating.
But the southron wizard had needed a guide, and his pay was very good indeed. And by all the Holy Laws of Sacrosanctum, he needed the money.
In the distance, a woman screamed.
Arctos’ hand dropped to his sword belt on instinct, as it did every time he heard the Afflicted, but this one wasn’t close. Probably. Sound sometimes traveled weirdly in the Plague Lands.
The wizard looked up from his sword, and Arctos’ stomach twisted slightly as he detected a trace of unease in the other man’s usually inscrutable face.
“Go to sleep,” the southron said, “We’ll need to be quick tomorrow.”
“Aye. Let’s hope this book you’re after is worth it. And easy to find.”
“Let’s hope.”
Arctos lay down on his bedroll and closed his eyes, trying to focus on the rhythmic, comforting grind of stone against steel as his companion worked on his blade. After a time, he fell into a fitful slumber, trying not to dream of the children he had glimpsed the last time he’d entered the Silent City. Of their soft laughter, and rows of needle teeth.
They crept over the upturned cobbles and charred skeletons that littered Septimus Way, careful to make no sound, the blackened remains of row houses leaning over them like mourners over an open grave.
Arctos went first, eyes flickering between the path ahead and the road at his feet. Though not usually one for piety, he recited prayers under his breath to Justinian and his Champions, the simple litanies the Clerisy had been drilled into him in the Legion. The wizard followed, eyes shut, head cocked as though listening for something. His feet picked their own way through the detritus without disturbing so much as a broken shingle.
In the distance, the domes of Dormire Palace rose unblemished above the shambles of the city, white marble and gilt bronze shining in the early dawn, ragged standards shifting in the faint morning breeze. Just beneath those towering walls, Arctos knew, was the Imperial Library, and- Justinian willing- the book the wizard was after.
The pair came to a narrow divide in the road, blocked by an overturned cart and its spilled load of vegetables- long dried to husks, but never touched. The skulls of draft horses grinned silently amid the jumble of mummified gourds and pumpkins.
The remains of an Imperial Centurion hung over the side of the cart, frozen mid-clamber, a broken pitchfork protruding from rusted armor.
Arctos turned to the wizard, who scowled and shrugged. Muttering something about useless southrons, Arctos edged forward, careful to step on nothing but old produce as he tried to edge between the wall of the nearest row house and rear of the ruined cart.
The wizard grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He barely suppressed a scream.
Arctos turned, opening his mouth to ask what was wrong, but the wizard shook his head, holding his finger to his lips. With a jerk of his head, he indicated the far side of the cart. Arctos looked.
He hadn't noticed them before, amid the general ruin.
Four children standing noiselessly just beyond the overturned cart. Three were wrapped in rags, one was naked. They were all smiling at him, their black eyes twinkling.
Arctos groaned very quietly as his insides turned to ice. He reached for his sword, but the wizard stopped him.
"We'll take another road," the southron whispered, "Another way."
One of the children, if that's what they were, tittered. Another waved at them and licked his small, sharp teeth.
Arctos went first, eyes flickering between the path ahead and the road at his feet. Though not usually one for piety, he recited prayers under his breath to Justinian and his Champions, the simple litanies the Clerisy had been drilled into him in the Legion. The wizard followed, eyes shut, head cocked as though listening for something. His feet picked their own way through the detritus without disturbing so much as a broken shingle.
In the distance, the domes of Dormire Palace rose unblemished above the shambles of the city, white marble and gilt bronze shining in the early dawn, ragged standards shifting in the faint morning breeze. Just beneath those towering walls, Arctos knew, was the Imperial Library, and- Justinian willing- the book the wizard was after.
The pair came to a narrow divide in the road, blocked by an overturned cart and its spilled load of vegetables- long dried to husks, but never touched. The skulls of draft horses grinned silently amid the jumble of mummified gourds and pumpkins.
The remains of an Imperial Centurion hung over the side of the cart, frozen mid-clamber, a broken pitchfork protruding from rusted armor.
Arctos turned to the wizard, who scowled and shrugged. Muttering something about useless southrons, Arctos edged forward, careful to step on nothing but old produce as he tried to edge between the wall of the nearest row house and rear of the ruined cart.
The wizard grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He barely suppressed a scream.
Arctos turned, opening his mouth to ask what was wrong, but the wizard shook his head, holding his finger to his lips. With a jerk of his head, he indicated the far side of the cart. Arctos looked.
He hadn't noticed them before, amid the general ruin.
Four children standing noiselessly just beyond the overturned cart. Three were wrapped in rags, one was naked. They were all smiling at him, their black eyes twinkling.
Arctos groaned very quietly as his insides turned to ice. He reached for his sword, but the wizard stopped him.
"We'll take another road," the southron whispered, "Another way."
One of the children, if that's what they were, tittered. Another waved at them and licked his small, sharp teeth.
The wizard and Arctos emerged from the shadowed gloom of a narrow alley, blinking into the sunlight of Victory Square.
In front of them, the white walls of Dormire Palace rose straight and unblemished from the tangle of ruins at their base, like cliffs rising from waste pit.
They had encountered no more child-things on their way, and had only once caught sight of an Afflicted- an old woman, naked, with eye-aching scars and sigils etched into her graying flesh. She had been wandering the remains of a row house, muttering and weeping and scratching at her sores. She glanced up at the pair of travelers as they had passed, but made no move to follow them. Her eyes had been gouged and her lips chewed away, giving her an endless, gruesome grin.
Arctos shook his head, trying to rid himself of the image and clear his mind for the task at hand.
The Imperial Library sat at the far side of Victory Square, a large rectangular building of grey-white stone little damaged by the firestorms that had ravaged the rest of the city. Its great bronze doors hung crooked from their hinges, framing the darkness of the interior like jaws.
The wizard drew his sword and took the lead, striding quickly across the empty square past dead fountains filled with standing water, brown and stagnant, and the broken statues of Justinian's Great Companions.
Lord Septimus, Ucario the Southron, Agatha Warrior-Queen, Artys of the Ashlands. Great leaders of men, warriors and saints. Empowered by the blessing of their earthly god, they had swept across Avara with fire and steel, laying waste to the devil worshippers of the heartlands and fending off the hordes of vile moonlanders and sorcerers from the South. Now their likenesses lay scorched and shattered in the ruins of the city they had built in honor of their god. Nothing more than silent, still witnesses to a Drathan wizard's mad errand.
Arctos followed the southron, one hand on the pommel of his own weapon. The blackness of the library's interior yawned before him, and he and the southron paused at the entrance.
Inside, little could be made out in the gloom. Dust motes danced on shafts of light poking in from the doorway and from sloppily boarded windows. Books lay everywhere; books and scrolls, loose sheaves of paper and...bodies.
The wizard went first, scimitar held loosely in his hand. Arctos followed.
The pair stalked through the shambles of the lobby, once-proud banners rotting on the walls, and into the shadowy confines of the stacks, reeking of dust and mildewed paper. What light there was came from the wizard's sword, which did not glow, exactly, but did seem to reflect back the low ambient light more brightly.
"How do you know where it is?" Arctos murmured.
"It whispers," said the wizard, giving no further explanation.
They walked in silence, sliding between shelves piled high with codices and scrolls, slipping on torn pages and rotted parchment.
Slowly, Arctos realized that he could hear something. A distant insectile buzzing or chittering. His sword hand tightened on the pommel of his weapon.
The wizard paused between shelves, and Arctos could see by the pale light of his sword that he was frowning.
"Somethings-" the southron began, and the stack of books in front of him overturned, sending both men stumbling backwards in a shower of books and dust.
The buzzing suddenly became deafening. The wizard held up his sword and Arctos caught a glimpse of something huge in the darkness, something with too many eyes, all black.
"Don't look at it!" shouted the southron, and his sword flashed a brilliant white, practically blinding Arctos, who was fumbling backwards on hands and knees in a panic. There was an noise like a cannon firing, and another brilliant flash of white. Arctos could make out a great shadow rearing in the gloom of the library, something with dripping mouth parts and too many legs. Great heroes of men...the size of it...
The wizard was shouting something in a foreign tongue at the top of his lungs, what Arctos dimly realized was a spell. He could see blood and teeth pouring like vomit from the southron's mouth as he shouted. There was another ear-shattering bang and Arctos' world went dark.
-
When he came too he was already running, the wizard's hand latched to his upper arm, pushing him forward.
"OUT! GET OUT!" the southron shouted.
Arctos ran, glancing sidelong at his companion. He'd lost his scimitar, but had a heavy book clutched under one arm. He was covered in his own blood, which poured from his nose and eyes and the corners of his mouth, and dribbled stickily down his chin.
The entrance to the library was a square of daylight in the black, and Arctos made for it will all his power, feet sliding on books and the dried husks of old corpses. Behind him, the Thing chittered and clicked and buzzed, it sounded- it sounded almost playful. He could feel it gaining on them.
They burst out into the daylight of Victory Square and kept running, and it took them a moment to realize they were surrounded by the children.
Hundreds of them, filling the ruined windows and doorways of the buildings around the Square, all of them smiling, all of them facing the Library.
The wizard urged him on and Arctos kept running- drawing his sword for the first time in this nightmare.
The children began to chant, something in Old Somnian that Arctos could only half understand, something about milk and love and tender kisses.
They sprinted through a clutch of children at the edge of the Square. They giggled and grasped at them as they ran by, but made no real effort to stop them. All of their attention seemed fixed on the Library...or what was emerging from it.
There was a loud crash, what Arctos assumed was the front of the Library collapsing as whatever they had found within it emerged. He glanced back, curiosity mastering his fear, and caught a glimpse of great, segmented legs unfolding from the ruined shell of the building, like a spider emerging from its hole, and vast shimmering (wings?)
The wizard hit him, hard, and Arctos spun around, sword clattering to the ground.
"Get up and run," hissed the southron, helping him regain his balance. He was ghost white and his voice shook, "And don't you dare fucking look back."
-
The Plaguelands
They sat by the edge of a stream, catching their breath. The wizard was shaking as he washed the blood from his mouth and hands. Arctos was propped against a tree, eyes half closed, sword clutched in a death grip across his lap.
Between them on the grass lay the Book. Thick, black and old. Leather bound and held closed by a thick buckle and small iron lock.
Arctos didn't look at it. He watched his companion and wondered if the man was dying.
"What-" Arctos began.
"Don't speak of it."
"They were singing, the children were singing. Did you-"
"A hymn. They were singing to their mother."
Arctos shuddered.
"Your flask," said the wizard, and Arctos offered it. The other man downed it in a single gulp, and that seemed to steady him a bit. "We need to get out of here, make for the south."
"Aye," Arctos said, staggering to his feet. He was tired, more tired than he had ever been. But strangely elated. He could not believe he was still alive.
"We should be dead," said the wizard, nodding as he scooped up his Book, "We should be dead or worse. But I am very skilled in the Art. That alone saved us."
The two men shouldered their packs and began the long journey South, out of the Plaguelands and away from the Silent City and whatever lived there.
"What's in the book?" Arctos asked.
"Answers," said the wizard, "I hope."
In front of them, the white walls of Dormire Palace rose straight and unblemished from the tangle of ruins at their base, like cliffs rising from waste pit.
They had encountered no more child-things on their way, and had only once caught sight of an Afflicted- an old woman, naked, with eye-aching scars and sigils etched into her graying flesh. She had been wandering the remains of a row house, muttering and weeping and scratching at her sores. She glanced up at the pair of travelers as they had passed, but made no move to follow them. Her eyes had been gouged and her lips chewed away, giving her an endless, gruesome grin.
Arctos shook his head, trying to rid himself of the image and clear his mind for the task at hand.
The Imperial Library sat at the far side of Victory Square, a large rectangular building of grey-white stone little damaged by the firestorms that had ravaged the rest of the city. Its great bronze doors hung crooked from their hinges, framing the darkness of the interior like jaws.
The wizard drew his sword and took the lead, striding quickly across the empty square past dead fountains filled with standing water, brown and stagnant, and the broken statues of Justinian's Great Companions.
Lord Septimus, Ucario the Southron, Agatha Warrior-Queen, Artys of the Ashlands. Great leaders of men, warriors and saints. Empowered by the blessing of their earthly god, they had swept across Avara with fire and steel, laying waste to the devil worshippers of the heartlands and fending off the hordes of vile moonlanders and sorcerers from the South. Now their likenesses lay scorched and shattered in the ruins of the city they had built in honor of their god. Nothing more than silent, still witnesses to a Drathan wizard's mad errand.
Arctos followed the southron, one hand on the pommel of his own weapon. The blackness of the library's interior yawned before him, and he and the southron paused at the entrance.
Inside, little could be made out in the gloom. Dust motes danced on shafts of light poking in from the doorway and from sloppily boarded windows. Books lay everywhere; books and scrolls, loose sheaves of paper and...bodies.
The wizard went first, scimitar held loosely in his hand. Arctos followed.
The pair stalked through the shambles of the lobby, once-proud banners rotting on the walls, and into the shadowy confines of the stacks, reeking of dust and mildewed paper. What light there was came from the wizard's sword, which did not glow, exactly, but did seem to reflect back the low ambient light more brightly.
"How do you know where it is?" Arctos murmured.
"It whispers," said the wizard, giving no further explanation.
They walked in silence, sliding between shelves piled high with codices and scrolls, slipping on torn pages and rotted parchment.
Slowly, Arctos realized that he could hear something. A distant insectile buzzing or chittering. His sword hand tightened on the pommel of his weapon.
The wizard paused between shelves, and Arctos could see by the pale light of his sword that he was frowning.
"Somethings-" the southron began, and the stack of books in front of him overturned, sending both men stumbling backwards in a shower of books and dust.
The buzzing suddenly became deafening. The wizard held up his sword and Arctos caught a glimpse of something huge in the darkness, something with too many eyes, all black.
"Don't look at it!" shouted the southron, and his sword flashed a brilliant white, practically blinding Arctos, who was fumbling backwards on hands and knees in a panic. There was an noise like a cannon firing, and another brilliant flash of white. Arctos could make out a great shadow rearing in the gloom of the library, something with dripping mouth parts and too many legs. Great heroes of men...the size of it...
The wizard was shouting something in a foreign tongue at the top of his lungs, what Arctos dimly realized was a spell. He could see blood and teeth pouring like vomit from the southron's mouth as he shouted. There was another ear-shattering bang and Arctos' world went dark.
-
When he came too he was already running, the wizard's hand latched to his upper arm, pushing him forward.
"OUT! GET OUT!" the southron shouted.
Arctos ran, glancing sidelong at his companion. He'd lost his scimitar, but had a heavy book clutched under one arm. He was covered in his own blood, which poured from his nose and eyes and the corners of his mouth, and dribbled stickily down his chin.
The entrance to the library was a square of daylight in the black, and Arctos made for it will all his power, feet sliding on books and the dried husks of old corpses. Behind him, the Thing chittered and clicked and buzzed, it sounded- it sounded almost playful. He could feel it gaining on them.
They burst out into the daylight of Victory Square and kept running, and it took them a moment to realize they were surrounded by the children.
Hundreds of them, filling the ruined windows and doorways of the buildings around the Square, all of them smiling, all of them facing the Library.
The wizard urged him on and Arctos kept running- drawing his sword for the first time in this nightmare.
The children began to chant, something in Old Somnian that Arctos could only half understand, something about milk and love and tender kisses.
They sprinted through a clutch of children at the edge of the Square. They giggled and grasped at them as they ran by, but made no real effort to stop them. All of their attention seemed fixed on the Library...or what was emerging from it.
There was a loud crash, what Arctos assumed was the front of the Library collapsing as whatever they had found within it emerged. He glanced back, curiosity mastering his fear, and caught a glimpse of great, segmented legs unfolding from the ruined shell of the building, like a spider emerging from its hole, and vast shimmering (wings?)
The wizard hit him, hard, and Arctos spun around, sword clattering to the ground.
"Get up and run," hissed the southron, helping him regain his balance. He was ghost white and his voice shook, "And don't you dare fucking look back."
-
The Plaguelands
They sat by the edge of a stream, catching their breath. The wizard was shaking as he washed the blood from his mouth and hands. Arctos was propped against a tree, eyes half closed, sword clutched in a death grip across his lap.
Between them on the grass lay the Book. Thick, black and old. Leather bound and held closed by a thick buckle and small iron lock.
Arctos didn't look at it. He watched his companion and wondered if the man was dying.
"What-" Arctos began.
"Don't speak of it."
"They were singing, the children were singing. Did you-"
"A hymn. They were singing to their mother."
Arctos shuddered.
"Your flask," said the wizard, and Arctos offered it. The other man downed it in a single gulp, and that seemed to steady him a bit. "We need to get out of here, make for the south."
"Aye," Arctos said, staggering to his feet. He was tired, more tired than he had ever been. But strangely elated. He could not believe he was still alive.
"We should be dead," said the wizard, nodding as he scooped up his Book, "We should be dead or worse. But I am very skilled in the Art. That alone saved us."
The two men shouldered their packs and began the long journey South, out of the Plaguelands and away from the Silent City and whatever lived there.
"What's in the book?" Arctos asked.
"Answers," said the wizard, "I hope."
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