September 23rd, 1004
24km southeast of Lavyrinthos, Kekion Isle, Republic of Asterion
The storm lashed the jagged shoreline, drenching the team to the bone as they ventured over the rocks towards the ridge. Waves crested onto the land far higher than normal, a clear indicator of the wrath this tempest carried with it, the raging Eler Sea crashing down on their heads. As the four figures managed to stagger through the gale, their electric torches cut through the black gloom and rainy haze as best they could, small cones of light strangled by an oppressive surrounding, assisted every now and then by the flash of lightning strikes. One of them, a griffon whose leather jacket was soaked and sodden by the massive sheets of water that kept pouring down on them, got a little too close to the edge in the darkness. A flash of lightning revealed to her the danger she was in, and the revelation startled her enough that her claw slipped, and she began a forward fall, weighed down by her wet jacket and the other equipment she carried. Even as her wings began to flare, it was too little, too late. If not for the timely intervention of a paw flashing forward to grab the formel by the strap of the rifle she had slung over her back, she certainly would have plummeted into the sea.
For a moment, she simply hung there, limbs pinwheeling as she tried to find a clawhold, and then with a mighty effort the bronze dog hauled her back up to safety. After a second to regain her balance and check her footing, the formel leaned back and hollered over the raging gale “Thanks Ernst!”
Ernst Graustier, recent but no longer professor of archaeology, nodded in reply. The wind was blowing directly into his face, and any words he spoke would be lost in the din. Besides, Zola Holzmann didn’t have to hear any reply or warning to be careful after that event, if he knew her correctly it went unspoken now.
Up ahead, the stallion leading the group reached the sheltered mouth of a tunnel, turning back and waving to the other two.
“Come on!” he shouted back to them, Puerto Caballan-accented voice competing with the storm. “It should just be down in the bay!”
Finally succeeding against the storm, Ernst and Zola finally reached the tunnel themselves, taking a moment to have a break from the rushing sleet. Here in the tunnel, the furious boiling sea seemed almost to blast into their ears, momentarily deafening them while the wind was funneled through. The Bronze dog shook himself, cursing as he wondered why in Tartarus he hadn’t bothered to pack a poncho or a rain slicker after all. The weather had seemed much clearer when they had landed in town, perhaps a little overcast. Then again, he had grown up in the Empire’s Herzland for the most part, his only other experience to foreign climes being a single expedition to Abyssinia two years ago. In short, he had little experience with a tempest such as this.
“You said there was a ‘mild’ chance of rain, Caballeron,” Zola griped, tugging off her forage cap and wringing it out between her claws as she shifted the pack and rifle on her back, wings a flutter and attempting to get dry. “Does this look ‘mild’ to you?”
“Relax, my friends,” Dr. Caballeron, treasure hunter of ill-repute replied, a hoof raised soothingly. “We’re all in this situation the same, si? If I thought you couldn’t handle it, I wouldn’t have brought you along.”
“Certainly not the same as Greenback University,” Ernst finally choked out, tugging the battered fedora that his mentor had gifted him off his head and shaking it, grunting at the thought of how much it would cost to get reshaped and restored after this trip. “You said we’re close, ja?”
“Ja indeed,” said another voice from deeper in the tunnel, another light approaching them to reveal the last of their companions, who had actually been leading the party as a whole. Emerging from the shadows, his oilskin coat protecting him from the sea’s fury here, Kevork Sargsyan flashed his light around at the trio to confirm they were all there. The drab mustard colored gargoyle pointed a claw back down where he’d just come from. “It is a short walk, then we emerge into the bay. I can see the reef from the next ridge.”
“Please tell me there’s a path down,” the gray-coated canine grunted, not liking the idea of having to go rappelling down a cliff face in this weather. Luckily, Kevork nodded affirmatively.
“It is steep, but well above the tide. So long as you mind your footing, you will be fine.”
“Worst comes to it, I can get you down just fine,” Zola teased, elbowing Ernst with a smirk on her beak. In reply, Ernst scooped up a small pawful of mud and lazily tossed it at her. It spattered on her white feathers just under her face, and she sputtered and cursed before laughing back.
“If you niños are finished playing,” Caballeron cut in, trotting past as he moved to join Kevork. “We do have a bit of a timetable. Have to find the Távros before the sea claims her again.”
Smarmy egotist that he was, Caballeron was correct. Grudgingly, Ernst and Zola reclaimed their clothing and gear, hurrying to follow after the other two. This expedition had ‘shoddy’ and ‘potentially illegal’ written all over it from the beginning, but the two former archeology graduates had put that out of their minds compared to what awaited them by staying in academia. So entrenched were the Griffonian Empire’s centers of learning, it was almost impossible for either of them to have been taken seriously by any university. Ernst had picked up work as a history teacher at a primary school, while Zola’s father had at least gotten her a job as a typist for the University of Greenback, a doctorate holder reduced to a mere secretary behind a desk punching at keys. It was a bitter pill for them both to swallow, and the years ahead of patiently waiting for openings to get their chance while jockeying against incumbent academics and others hoping to get coveted positions as professors didn’t look too hopeful, a far cry from their hopeful academy days where they had assisted their own professors at dig sites across Griffonia and even (in Ernst’s case) abroad at one point.
Caballeron had found Ernst Graustier at his job, stating he needed a learned creature who knew how to handle some time in the rough, and after all Ernst had served his three year time in the Bronzekreuz Countal Army as a landser of some skill, admittedly to pick up some money for university but he had been very good at soldiering nonetheless. The money Caballeron was offering was easily a whole month’s worth of his salary as a school teacher, and without hesitation he had quit that job and packed up what little he had. Zola was mostly here for him. Her future at the University was a little better looking provided she stuck with it and allowed the politics of her father’s position as a medical professor to eventually get her a position in archaeology. All she had to do was keep at it, but one word from Erst Graustier had been all she needed to convince her to come along as well.
A quick word with one of Ernst’s old army friends who had more than a few contacts in Fezera had gotten them all the equipment they needed, though Zola had voiced aloud her suspicions that the guns they’d bought were surplus from one or two civil wars. With no time to worry about that, they’d met with Doctor Caballeron for the airship flight to Midoria and then chartered a boat to Kekion. The two of them had been good friends through university. Now, they just needed to stick to each other as they took this first step into such a wild phase of their lives.
The tunnel opened back up into the storm again, battering the small group of treasure hunters as they peered down at the bay in question. The storm made it difficult to see very far, but the lightning flashes seemed twice as frequent now, illuminating the land ahead. A sheer cliff dropped down to the black sea below, foaming and frothing and raging against the rock face that dared to defy it. Beneath that, they all knew a deadly reef existed that stretched out to the northeast. It had, according to the stories told to them by Sicameonese and Asterion sailors, claimed untold numbers of ships over the centuries, dragging them down to the bottom with little proof they had ever existed at all. To make matters worse, the area was a popular spot for hydras, leviathans and krakens, massive superpredators with a taste for bringing down ships to get at the juicy crew inside. It was no wonder so few major shipping lanes went through the area, most of those protected by private gunboats.
This same reef, as it happened, had captured the Távros tou Thiséa. The tramp steamer that had, back in 978, torn herself apart on that reef. No one had known the location where she’d gone down, until six weeks ago when a fisherbull had stumbled on the wreck here in this treacherous bay. Word had leaked out, carried back to Griffonia on whispers and sailor’s muzzles and beaks until it had reached Dr. Caballeron. He had needed to move quickly after that, if he was possibly going to be the first to reach the cargo of the downed minotaur vessel. There would, after all, be other parties interested in doing the same.
“There she is!” Caballeron crowed, seemingly not caring that the rain kept barraging their bodies as they moved down the ridge, towards the blighted beach. “Now, we simply board her and get into the hold! I can already smell the bits!”
“We’re not in the clear yet,” Kevork warned, somehow still sounding stern and resolute though he was yelling over the gale. “The wreck is still caught fast on that reef. We do not know how long it will be sound to board, or what was left behind to defend it.”
“Nothing was!” Caballeron shot back as the party moved from the ridge down a descending sequence of cuts in the rock face, spared a messy slip into the sea by tough, clinging plant roots sticking out of the craggy surface to counter the seeping water. Ernst had to admit that, as much bluster and hot air as the stallion blurted, he could cling to a sheer surface like a mountain goat. “If no survivors returned when they were only this far from civilization, they’re all dead!”
Another rumble of thunder echoed over the waves, and no one in the group felt like arguing with him. While the argument made sense, the closer the party got to the shipwreck, the more uneasy they felt. As they made it down to flat ground at last and only had to worry about the surf coming up and smacking them up to Ernst’s waist, Zola glanced back at him. Even in the darkness, with the rain pelting down and the mist from the surf, he could tell she suddenly didn’t like this anymore than he did. For his part, he fell back on his Countal Army training, soaked paws tightening on the grip of his Specht machine carbine.
Getting to the wreck of the Távros was, as it turned out, the easy part. But standing next to her, the group realized that the deck was too high up to access, and now sat too awkwardly on the reef to climb to from the rock behind it, especially in the storm. The backup plan was supposed to have been to find the hole in the hull that had brought her down, but one look at the ragged mess that was the outer skin of the ship around the gaping wound told them it would be safer to chew on a grenade than try that. In the end, it was Kevork who got them up, tying a rope around his waist and sinking claws strong enough to puncture stone into the rusted steel as he ascended all the way up, tying the line to the railing so the rest could climb after him, Caballeron being tied around the waist and hauled up with them.
“Mein gotten,” Zola breathed after the exhaustive labor of just boarding the ship in the downpour was finished, having gotten her first real look at the deck as she flashed her torch over it. The sentiment was an apt one, as the deck was covered with what looked like coral growths and green algae in large patches. Rotten timbers showed where the most damage had been done, and dead and rotting fish lay in heaps and piles.
“It’s like the vessel was at the bottom of the sea just yesterday,” Ernst mused, shining his own light over to a nearby shapeless form. It abruptly revealed itself to be the rotten, skeletal remains of a dead crewbull, his discolored horns jutting out from the algae covering his form. Even now, one could still make out the tattered remains of his clothing. “This level of rot isn’t consistent with being exposed to the air after a twenty year stint on the seafloor.”
“The rain from the storms could have kept the sealife alive,” Caballeron ventured, pointing to a coral growth on a nearby rail that looked like it was still alive and well, pink and healthy.
“For six weeks? Does it storm for six weeks straight down here in the Eler Sea?”
“Doubtful,” Kevork mused curtly.
“We can muse on the mysteries of the ocean when we’re on our way to the bank with the goods!” Caballeron declared, trotting determinedly across the rotting deck, sidestepping the occasional coral growth and skeletal remains. “We are, after all, against the clock on this one!”
With one last glance to each other, questioning if it had been such a good idea to take this job, Zola and Ernst followed, Kevork taking the rear.
They found perhaps twenty dead crew on deck, most of them at the gunwhales. There was no sign of what they had been up to when they had met their fates, but a cursory search of one revealed the rusted and corroded remains of a Reichsrevolver that would have been antique before a twenty-year dunk in the sea. It was, obviously, rendered useless by such an experience, but it told them at least some of the crew were armed, perhaps expecting trouble from Macawian or Colthaginian pirates.
The descent into the pitch black ship’s interior wasn’t a delight at all. The stairs were cramped and narrow even before the Távros had met her fate and come to rest on the ocean floor. Now, after two decades of rot and decay, they were rusted into ruin and slippery from the water and growth. The only comfort to be gained was that they were finally out of the storm, though the party was still so thoroughly soaked and the ship still so waterlogged that it changed little.
The first room they came to on their way down was crammed full of tables and seats, all knocked askew by whatever unrest had sunk the steamer. Tangled up in the rotten wood were the skeletons of three or four more minotaurs. With a storm on and most of the crew up on deck, this must have been the ship’s barber surgeon, a crewbull to aid him and one or two injured others. But given that they just walked from one side of the galley to the other, they didn’t have much time to check. Caballeron pressed forward, determined to get what he wanted from the ship.
It was at this moment that Kevork, at the rear, glanced back. The gargoyle narrowed his eyes, waiting and watching. Listening. Over the racket of the storm, he could have sworn he’d heard the sound of footsteps on the rusted steel decking. He continued listening, ears flicking back and forth, trying to pick it up again. Another half minute later, he gave it up. He did not want to be separated from the others on this vessel, and the sooner they got their goal, the sooner they could leave.
Their first goal was just around the corner, behind a hatch so rusted and sealed with age. That should be the captain’s cabin. Wordlessly, the other three stepped back as Kevork sank his claws into the steel once more, ripping the hinges out and pulling on the locking wheel. The hatch sagged, then clattered away, finally letting them into the first step on their journey. Being that this was an old tramp steamer, the captain’s cabin was tucked away and rather cramped for who it was supposed to hold. Just a simple desk bolted to the deck, a dresser in the corner, a bunk set into the bulkhead and a few shelves along the wall, though what they might have previously held was a mystery. The furniture, like all the wood on the Távros, was rotting away from the seawater that had filled the cabin, and of the minotaur captain there was no sign. What was of interest to them, however, was the sea chest that they dug out from under the rotten remains of the dresser. The lock was easy to sidestep as they smashed the wood around it, popping it open. The chest was still partially full of water, and from inside a pawful of crabs scuttled away from the suddenly gleaming of their torches, upsetting the crustaceans’ blind senses. The contents otherwise were ruined beyond recovery. Old papers now made unreadable, a sodden book whose title was long gone with its leather spine, clothes that once might have looked fine before rotting in the water and what looked like a small pendant, what had once been bronze but was now green, that of a bullshead on a medallion.
“So it is true,” Zola remarked, holding the pendant up for her and Ernst to observe. “He was a member of the Asterionese resistance.”
“Not like that’s much of a surprise,” Ernst replied as he gently held the green coin up to examine closer. “Captain Aleksios was a commissioned officer in the Sicameonese Hindiagriffs. They’d have no problem letting him loose to turn the screws on the Empire.”
From the doorway, Kevork watched on impassively, not quite given over to the eager investigation of the young former students, nor the abject greed that Caballeron showed as he hauled the last piece out of the sea chest; a small box, blackened from mold and age, its locks and seals intact. With but a moment’s gesture, Kevork stepped forward and, digging his claws in, pulled the two halves apart to snap the brittle lock. The seal gave with an audible popping noise, and Caballeron’s eyes sparkled in glee at the contents.
“The ship’s log! At last! Time to confirm her cargo!”
The object they were searching for was about the size of a griffon’s heart, and as such could have been hidden anywhere on the ship. Searching every nook and cranny of the wreck was something they didn’t have time or personnel for. No, instead they had to count on the rumors being true, and Captain Aleksios’ dedication to the cause, committing him to write every small thing about such vital cargo down. But when he opened the log, Caballeron blinked in surprise, his excitement, greed and avarice fading to stupefied mortification.
In all his rush to get the book, he had forgotten that it wouldn’t be written in Nimbusian, but Knossian. Functionally, the two languages were quite similar, even using most of the same alphabet. However, the minotaurs had left the Nimbusian region over a thousand years ago, even before the time of Nightmare Moon. The differences in language developed over an entire millennia were far too great as the cultures diverged, despite sharing a homeland.
“Ohh, Celestia curse it all!” he lamented, desperately trying to figure out the meaning of the words on the page. How could he overlook such a small detail, forgetting about a language difference! But it was no use, he may as well be trying to decipher Rijekan from Severyanian. “Why would the bulls throw away an entire perfectly working dialect? Nimbusian is an astounding tongue, the language of philosophers and classic scholars!”
“And a military hierarchy that oppressed the minotaurs for centuries before they left,” Ernst helpfully contributed, though Caballeron dismissed such evidence with a noise of disdain.
“It is the principle of the thing!” he insisted, not even realizing Zola was taking the ship’s log as he began winding himself into a diatribe. “The Nimbusian language can be traced back to the time when ponies first settled the Riverlands, that being after the Exodus of the Three Tribes in Equestrian Antiquity! It’s a tongue designed to be adapted by numerous parties, expanded upon and give multiple meanings to each word, it’s not just something you discard because a few pegasus were mean to your species for a few centuries!”
“Sometimes, boss, I wonder if you hear yourself talk,” Ernst replied, expression deadpan.
Before Caballeron could retort, Zola abruptly piped up.
“I’ve got it! In the back, entry dated October 14th, 978!” She held the log up so they could all get a better look at it, though Ernst quietly admitted that his own Knossian wasn’t very good either.
“There,” Zola said, pointing at the page with a talon, clearly unaware that she was the only one who understood it. “‘October 14th, 978. Departed port of Fragrance with good north-north westerly breeze. Cargo of various goods from Kiria, good price for bulk tea, silk getting harder to find, took on coal, iron and supplies in port. Exchanged silver ingots for precious cargo. Crew uneasy, but committed. Personal note; the sooner I get this off my ship and into some Parish pirate’s claws, the better for all.’”
“Is that it?” Caballeron snapped, eyebrow raised. “That tells us nothing about where it is stored, only that it is onboard!”
“Should we perhaps find a manifest?” Kevork tried to put in helpfully, but Ernst shook his head.
“An item like that wouldn’t be listed on any official manifest. More than likely it’s in some smuggler’s hold, or stashed in a crate with a false label. If they took on bulk tea and silk for cargo, there’s going to be a lot of crates with a lot of foreign writing on it that no customs agent is going to care to translate.”
Zola cleared her throat, claws delicately turning the pages before she stopped.
“Here, something more about it. ‘October 19th, 978. Dark clouds blowing from west, wind turns against us. Engines working harder than before. Another bull disappeared. The bosun claims he will find the one committing such heinous acts, but I am unsure. This one also disappeared from the hold where the relic is stored…’”
She glanced up, frowning.
“They were losing crewmates? How? This is a fairly small cargo vessel.”
“Somebull dumping the bodies over the side?” Kevork offered, though he suddenly paused, an ear twitching as something caught his attention. Slowly, he turned to look down the passageway, trying to discern what exactly was out there aside from the storm and the creaking, collapsing ship.
Zola continued on.
“‘Another fight on deck, this time between Misters Nikolaou and Florakis. Neither is certain why they started the fight, but the watchbull reports that the two were going at it like animals. Florakis has a broken horn. Personal note: Something is wrong onboard my ship. I wonder if that relic is cursed. I am starting to regret making such a deal. Tartarus take the slimy kirin bastard who sold it to us, I should have known a relic that cheap had another price.’”
“Sounds like what we’re here for, but still no mention of where it’s holed away,” Caballeron mused, the frustration evident in his tone. For a professional, he was certainly impatient, and Ernst rolled his eyes before turning away and realizing Kevork was no longer standing in the hatchway. Frowning, he stepped out to find the gargoyle, as Zola paged through the log once more, attempting to find some clue to track their quarry.
“Kevork?” Ernst called, looking one way, then the other. The only thing that greeted him was the silent creaking and groaning of the ship, coupled with the storm hammering away outside. Cautiously, he reached up to the revolver on his hip, gently unlatching the holster. “Kevork?”
Still no response. Quietly, he drew the weapon as he moved back, retracing their steps towards the galley. Behind him, Zola read another entry.
“He’s losing sense of the journal entries now. Look, here’s this one. ‘October 23rd. Encountered kraken. Crew fought it off, but there was something wrong with all of them. They fought like they were possessed, roaring and smashing with broken axes. Some fought the tentacles with bare hands. We lost six, but the kraken lost two tentacles as well. Blood spattered the deck, and I was surprised to realize how much ammunition I had shot. After the battle, I went to go see it for myself. There sat the relic, the same as it always was. But this time, I swear I heard whispering in a language I did not understand. I stored the damned thing away and left to get the engineers to move us faster. Bosun caught up to me and told me he found another bull dead, clearly killed during the fighting. I asked why it wasn’t the kraken. He told me the victim’s throat had been torn out and-’...mein gotten. ‘And some flesh on the arm and neck had clearly been eaten.’”
Zola glanced up at Caballeron, her voice quiet, eyes wide as her wings involuntarily shuddered, clearing wanting to flare in fright.
“That’s barbaric.”
“Indeed,” Caballeron replied, suddenly more sober now. “I wonder if they hit that reef for other reasons. Perhaps we need to hurry this along.”
Back in the passageway, Ernst stepped into the galley, revolver up and aiming. He spotted no one in the kitchen, and the galley only held rotten, broken furniture as he carefully moved through, trying his best to watch where his boots trod so as to avoid making any noise. He was unsuccessful, but that was hardly his fault, the broken deck betraying his every move.
“Kevork?” he called again, peering back towards the staircase they’d come down from the deck, the rain still sleeting down through the open hatch. He couldn’t have gone all the way back out into that madness, could he? “Kev-”
Suddenly, a grip on his shoulder, claws digging into his jacket. Ernst spun, his training and experience from the Countal Army surging back into him. Eisenpfoten had a lot of shortcomings compared to other elite forces in the Empire’s varied armies, but one thing they knew and knew well was reacting quickly under stress and close-quarters battle in a tight space. In an instant, he had his assailant’s limb trapped under one arm, and he’d already leveraged his own weight and the tilt which the ship sat at to force the unknown attacked up against a bulkhead, revolver shoved under their chin and hammer pulled back. He was a hair away from pulling the trigger-
Suddenly, he froze. His attacker was none other than Kevork, and despite clearly having been taken surprise by the sudden reversal, the gargoyle guide was nonplussed with his claw trapped and staring down the muzzle of a loaded gun. In fact, he seemed amused.
“Good reflexes,” Kevork muttered, only struggling a little before Ernst released him, breathing heavily.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” the bronze dog admonished the gargoyle, letting down the hammer of his revolver and holstering it. “I could have killed you.”
“It was not you I was trying to sneak up on,” Kevork replied, tugging on the dog’s jacket, all somber business again as they returned to the galley. “We are not alone.”
Ernst immediately stiffened.
“I thought we’d have at least another day before the Araújo crew showed up?”
The other reason for this job being so rushed was that Caballeron was certain thanks to his contacts that a Macawian crew of harpy air pirates was supposedly on their way to claim the artifact in question themselves. If anything they had set off first, but the storm that lashed and raged above had certainly slowed them down as their airship couldn’t navigate the gale as well as a group traveling overland. Regardless, if Caballeron’s people were right, it would still be a narrow margin.
But Kevork shook his head no.
“I do not believe the mercenaries have arrived yet. No, our problem is something rather…unexpected.”
But Ernst didn’t get the gargoyle's meaning, his frown deepening under his soaked fedora.
“You’ve lost me, Herr Sargsyan.”
Kevork gave a slow, single nod of the head, as if expecting something like this.
“Perhaps showing you would be better. This way please.”
Confused, the dog followed the gargoyle back into the galley, where Kevork unexpectedly stopped and gestured.
“There are no bones.”
Ernst felt a flash of irritation fly through him, and he stepped up to look Kevork in the face.
“What in hell do you mean ‘no bones’? There’s at least four bodies there, and minotaurs leave behind big skeletons, you-”
But a glance towards where the fleshless, sea aged bones had been pulled Ernst up short, the insult dying on his lips. Indeed, as Kevork had said, the skeletons were gone from their place of undersea rest. Even the rotting clothing they had worn had disappeared with them, as if they’d stood from their places, picked up their things and left. The bronze dog felt his throat tighten up, his ears pull back and his eyes widen as the implications set in.
“What in Tartarus…?” he croaked, trying to process the revelation.
“Only two logical explanations exist,” Kevork claimed, unslinging his rifle from over his shoulder and racking the bolt to chamber a round. “Either someone has removed them, or they removed themselves.”
Before Ernst could properly pass that thought through his mind, Zola called out down the passageway once more, and the thought that was processing in his mind abruptly faded as his focus shifted again. It wasn’t completely gone, still sitting there in the back of his head, waiting to be noticed once more.
“Ernst! Are you there?”
Remembering the near fatal accident they’d had by the gargoyle not responding, the dog turned and responded
“Ja, Zola. I’m in the galley.”
To his surprise, both griffon and pony came over to them, Zola still holding the ship’s log. By now, her excitement had certainly been drained and replaced by apprehension, and maybe a little dread.
“It got worse. Much worse.”
“How could it get worse than a kraken attack, murders below decks and a cannibal on the loose?” Ernst expostulated, his exasperation getting the better of him. He was cold, wet, on edge and now certainly regretting signing up with Caballeron in the first place. This entire venture was starting to seem like a bad idea from the beginning.
“Wait, listen to this,” Zola cut him off, pointing to the log book before she once more took up the dreadful tale.
“‘October 31. We should be home. No storm, no monster, nothing should have kept us at sea as long as we have been. The relic is cursed, as black as the bottom of the ocean. It wants us here, for some reason. Perhaps to return, perhaps to die. I don’t know. And I don’t care. All I know is that there are corpses littering the deck. Many of them have been feasted upon. My crew is descending into madness. The ones who are left are fighting to the death even as we plow onwards into this storm. I go to end it all. I will enter the hold, march straight to the only tea crate of Iron Concord and pull the damned thing out. Then it goes into the sea. I leave this message in case I don’t make it. Captain Aleksios did not let his ship fall to a black artifact without struggle, and whether I die or win, I will save my ship.’ That’s the last entry in the log.”
A quiet pause. Not even Caballeron had anything to say, any quip or jab or complaint to throw out. They stared at each other, processing the words before, nearly as one, they all looked down at their feet. Judging from the state of the ship, Captain Aleksios had clearly failed to stop the artifact. And with what that apocalypse log had stated, it sounded like absolute chaos had been unleashed on the Távros of the kind linked to dark magic. Regret had clearly seeped into them all.
And then Kevork spoke.
“We should leave. Now.”
“We've come this far. And spent this much to get here,” Caballeron protested, likely by reflex. “Who’s to say we cannot take the artifact out of here? Our path to dry land is much shorter than theirs was.”
Ernst and Zola’s gaze met, locked. A silent conversation ensued. Zola shifted, eyes flicking to the rusted stairs leading back up into the stormy deck. Clearly, they had gotten in over their heads, and the smart option was to leave and take the option the crew hadn’t.
Ernst narrowed his eyes, boring in on her. They needed the money. What kind of life was there to go back to? Doctorate holders both of them, educated and qualified to do meaningful work and all they had behind them were jobs as typists and teaching low level history. All the struggle, sacrificed.
Zola slowly shook her head, though her expression was uncertain. None of them were spellcasters or knew anything of the mystic arts. What would they do if they met a cursed fate down there?
But Ernst tilted his chin up. That’s what they brought guns for, wasn’t it?
All of this flickered by in two heartbeats, and by the time Caballeron had finished speaking, the two were at an impasse. But Ernst had made his decision, and he knew Zola would likely follow him, if for nothing else but loyalty and the desire not to see him get hurt. So, in reality, it wasn’t an impasse at all.
“I’m with you, mein herr,” Ernst declared, unslinging the Specht and checking the action.
Sighing, Zola reached for her rifle as well. “I suppose I am too.”
Three heads swiveled to the gargoyle, who held up his claws.
“Please, I am not going out there alone. Though I will state that I believe this to be a terrible idea.”
Caballeron couldn’t care less what words they spoke, he was over the moon delighted about their decisions, reluctant as they were.
“Excelente!” he crowed as he drew his own revolver, working the hammer back with his other hoof. “Then let us go boldly forward!”
Their ‘bold’ advance, in truth, was more of a cautious crawl. As they moved through the passageways of the wreck, they checked every single hatch they passed by, looked down every intersection they crossed. True, the ship wasn’t very large and it wasn’t a long trip to the hold, but the storm, the foreboding and lightless surrounding and the haunting words of the dead captain’s logs hanging over them served to put them all truly on edge, inching forwards as they listened around every corner.
At one point, Kevork in the rear turned and leveled his rifle, watching and waiting silently, not daring to breathe. He swore he had heard a scrape behind them, something like metal on metal that was certainly not the storm. When nothing emerged, he lowered the weapon and continued after the group, determined not to get separated. But as he glanced over his shoulder again, he swore he saw a flash of movement.
They found more and more bones on the way. Dead crewbulls in cabins and compartments, fallen over one another with rusted firearms and ruined blades nearby. As had been written, even as the ship tore itself open on the reef, the crew had been at each other’s throats mercilessly. Combined with the skeletons seen so far (and the four missing from the galley that neither Ernst nor Kevork had brought up) they had found the remains of thirty so far. That accounted for most of the crew, and their fates only seemed to heighten the oppressive, cloying salty air pressing in on them all. The skeletons remind where they had fallen, twisted and contorted by both death and the sea. Their bones fleshless, eye sockets open and staring, jaws forever wide in silent screams.
What was worse, without exchanging a word the four of them communicated the same idea through glances; there was no denying they weren’t alone now. Something was certainly down here with them. It avoided their torchlight, lurking just out of sight. But Kevork was no longer the only one hearing quiet scraping and scampering. How it was getting around was a mystery, for this ship was so cramped and tight quarters there should have been no maneuvering room. But somehow, whatever phantom it was dogging their steps had managed to keep largely out of view, and thus refused to be identified. A lack of information ran wild in the treasure hunters’ heads, and the anticipation and dread only heightened.
Finally, after what felt like forever but could only have been twenty minutes of searching, they found a hatch, undamaged and without debris in the way, that lead into the hold. Kevork heaved against the locking wheel, and with a loud screech of rusted metal on metal, it gave way. This time it took Ernst and Kevork together pulling on the hatch to get it open, but the hinges finally gave and let them through to pass into the black, open space beyond.
As expected, the hold was full of crates. Mountains of them, stacked up on top of one another from deck to ceiling. Most of them bore oriental marks, writing in kirian with more underneath in Knossian. The entire hold stank of rot, both the wood of the crates and the cargo inside of them, tea and silks and other things if the log had been honest. The hold itself still had water up to Ernst’s knees that he plowed through, forced into choppy and sharp movements by necessity. They turned a tight corner through the stacks of crates to find a cage before them, a large assembly of bones inside of it, though the identity of whatever it had once been was obscured by the water and debris.
“What in the hells?” muttered Ernst, taking a closer look. “What’s this doing down here?”
“They -were- smugglers,” Zola pointed out. “Who’s to say they didn’t snag some kind of rare creature along a stop? Something to sell for more money?”
He had nothing more to argue on that point, and they weren’t here to find whatever had died in that cage, so he continued on as well. The party found other areas where the crates had rotten to the point of collapse, spilling over their stacks and leaving complicated obstacles to traverse. They fumbled and splashed and pressed onwards, trying to see their way forward in pitch black darkness. Outside, the storm rumbled onwards, the wind barraging the wrecked hull with a fury that almost sounded like it would rip out the rivets, the rain almost like machine gun fire. Thoughts about how to make it back entered Graustier’s mind. They had no boat obviously, and no aircraft though neither would be useable in this torrent. Their only method was to go out the same way they had come in, overland to get back to town and wait out the storm. But it almost sounded like things were so bad even foot travel would be too dangerous, at risk of mudslide or being washed away or freezing to death in the chilling rain. Once again, despite it being physically impossible, the ship seemed to stretch on forever into the distance, the stacks of cargo seeming to almost tower overhead, entrapping them down below in these black, cursed depths with gods only knew what stalking behind them. Ernst wasn’t sure if it was just the effects of paranoia, the darkness playing tricks on them or the very real curse that seemed to hang off this wreck at play. It could, honesty, have been any of them.
And then, they finally stepped out into a patch of open space and light.
The sight before them was one to give them all pause. The area, cleared of crates, played host to a single isolated box. This one was much smaller, chained to the deck to keep it in place. So much for subtlety. To starboard, a massive gaping hole of rent metal greeted them, showing the outside through the wreckage. They could see the rocks of the battered shoreline past the gap, rainwater splashing over it in waves and pouring through into the hold. The illumination was even almost enough for them to see everything alone. And see everything they did. The horrific sight before them. Six more taurian skeletons lay around, rotted down to the bone, their posture indicative of the situation they had died in. Three were in a line towards the crate in question. Two more flanked it, one to either side. And, directly in front of the crate, an arm still reaching out towards the crate despite years of sitting on the seafloor and multiple violent acts to the vessel that sure should have jostled his remains around, was the unmistakable form of Captain Aleksios. His clothes were rotted and worn away, but of the scraps remaining of his badge, there was a dull glimmer of an anchor pin, green with sea rust. In the other hand, the worn and rusted pieces of a pistol, its slide locked back in the empty position. This had been where he had fallen, attempting to dispose of the dark relic and save his ship.
They stood there a minute or two, absorbing the scene. Observing the twisted remains of the bulls, imagining the violent grapple that had taken place here, listening to the storm batter at the wreck’s outer hull. But on top of it all, fear. None of them wanted to step towards that crate, chained down to contain the thing inside that had quite clearly driven this crew mad and then sank the ship on the reef. The fact that the twisted hole was directly across from the crate was far too close to coincidence.
Finally, one of them did move.
“We’ve got it at last!” Caballeron marveled, holstering his weapon as he approached. Ernst moved to stop him, paw raised, before realizing he had no real reason to tell the doctor to wait. Confused, he blinked and pondered, trying to process the thought. In that time, the stallion crossed the flooded hold, kicking the outstretched arm of Aleksios aside, taking up a rusted and battered crowbar from nearby as he did so. “Come, amigos! Let us collect our prize and get the blazes out of here!”
The statement broke the spell, and the group moved after their so-called ‘leader’ uneasily. Kevork kept glancing over his shoulder, wings ruffling in anxious anticipation, thumb claw playing with the rifle’s safety back and forth.
Click.
Click.
Click.
As Caballeron began struggling with the lid of the crate, Zola suddenly caught Ernst by the elbow, her golden eyes warily glancing around in the darkness.
“We need to go,” she whispered. “Something’s wrong. We shouldn’t be here.”
“We’ll go in a second,” the bronze dog assured her, tilting his head towards the stallion and the crate. “Soon as we crack that open and get the artifact.”
“No, no we shouldn’t. Ernst, you heard what that thing did. It made them -eat- each other, Ernst. Kill each other off in blind fury, and then sunk the ship when it was in danger of being cast out.”
“Some plan,” Ernst huffed. “Dumb relic sunk with the ship anyway. Why would it let itself go down in a shipwreck?”
“A shipwreck is easier to find than a single crate,” Zola hissed, glancing up into the shadows, her own wings fluttering uneasily. “And more people are likely to look for it. Think, Ernst; Aleksios was going to throw it into the sea. What were the chances of anyone finding it after that?”
“Zola, it’s fine. We’re gonna make it,” Ernst assured her, gently removing her claw from his arm. “We’ve come this close. The artifact is right in front of us. We take it and we can go. Then it’s payday.”
Zola made a small sound, as if trying to say something else, but whatever it was died in her beak as Ernst stepped up beside Caballeron, wordlessly putting his paws on the rusted iron. Together, their weight was enough to break the hold of the nails, and the rotting lid finally gave way with a screech. Ernst reached over, tugging the crate’s lid off and away, allowing them to finally get a good look at just what it was they had come all this way down here for.
Truth be told, it wasn’t immediately impressive. The size of a griffon’s heart, it had been spared the ravages of the ocean by the sealed crate, an impressive feat if ever there was one. It was circular, covered in inscribed ancient characters of a dialect no longer spoken in the living world. In the center of it, the carved picture of a dragon seemed almost to gleam with life and intelligence, even in the darkness. The entire thing was wrought in silver, more symbols of sky and fire spirits around the outside of the disc indicating the importance and connection to Concord and the afterlife. Aside from the edge and detailing, the entire thing was made of elegant jade.
“The Burial Disc of the Warlord,” Caballeron whispered in awe, his hooves hovering halfway to taking it, as if he too needed to brace himself for such a move. “According to legend, the kirin commander Valiant Frost almost became the first ruler of Kiria. Imagine, a Patriarch of the Realm two thousand years before the first Matriarch and the Way of Fire. History would have been changed forever.”
“Why didn’t he then?” Ernst asked. He had done some studying on ancient kirian lore, but most of his studies had been on the old kingdoms of Griffonia and the corresponding crusades across the world. “Didn’t he gather the largest army in Kiria to his banner? I don’t remember what happened to him.”
“He was betrayed,” Zola remarked, finally having gathered the courage to step up next to Ernst. “By the mare he loved. She killed him in his sleep to claim his throne. His generals went nirik in their rage and killed her before turning on one another. The Valiant Army annihilated itself over the course of five days, and the rivers in the area ran red for a month, the legend goes. An entire empire, destroyed in the span of a week for want of power. And they call griffons greedy.”
Finally, Caballeron’s impatience seemed to overcome his wariness, and he finally had the Disc in his hooves. For a moment, they all held their breaths, waiting to see just what kind of spectral threat would emerge. But no dark voice boomed from the shadows, no rumbling in the deck, no glowing lights or wispy forms from the relic. After a pregnant pause, Caballeron lifted the artifact, inspecting it closely.
“This is going to make us a fortune,” he cooed wistfully. “Imagine the bits that will flow into our pockets. I can almost imagine the frenzy at auction!”
Quickly, Ernst turned to Zola as she let him at the backpack she wore. He tugged out the two bags they had brought, both of them made of water resistance oilskin and lined by enchanted runes. They had no time to test it, but supposedly the enchantments would contain the magic of the relic and keep them from harm. At the very least, it would save them from being subjected to anything via touch. Why did they bring two? In case the first one broke, of course.
Ernst stuffed the spare in his pocket, approaching Caballeron with bag in paw. The stallion was still babbling on about the artifact, seemingly to have almost blocked out the outside world. No matter, that was what the enchantments were for.
“And to think! That fool Daring Do beat me to all of those other ruins…well, I’ll have the last laugh! This will fetch me ten times what she’s made in her feeble book sales! I’ll be able to buy a beach in Les Meridiennes and retire! No! I’ll buy an entire island! I’ll make up for all that it cost to get this far and more!”
“Whatever you say, mein herr,” Ernst said casually, trying not to appear threatening or overeager. “Let’s just get the thing in the bag, ja?”
This was very concerning. Caballeron had always been a bit smarmy, a bit underhoofed and certainly didn’t hesitate to show just how money and glory hungry he was at heart. But this kind of manic behavior was a bit much, and if the artifact was indeed cursed, Ernst didn’t favor falling to its influence just like the dead crew around them.
Just as Ernst laid a paw on the Disc, trying to inch the bag up so he could drop it in once he got it away from Caballeron, a shot rang out.
Except it came from outside.
“No!” the stallion shrilled, jerking backwards and drawing his revolver. “It’s mine! You can’t have it!”
The revolver cracked, but Ernst had already dove to the side, water splashing around him as he tried to scramble up, tackling the pony with a lunge. He hadn’t played hoofball or rugby at university, but several professors had told him he’d had the physique for it. Being that he was taller and more solidly built than Caballeron, the pony stood no chance as the two of them smashed into a crate that turned out to contain fine kaolin, kirin porcelain decorated with deep blue swirls and intricate designs. These were unfortunately smashed to shards despite the straw keeping them remarkably preserved, even though such a cargo was probably worth quite a bit on their own. Caballeron refused to let go of the artifact, babbling about thieves and betrayers as they struggled in the ruined hold. Outside, the gunfire had risen to a din, the cracking of revolvers, barking of rifles and chattering of a few automatics riding the stormwinds to their ears.
Zola and Kevork might have helped Ernst, if not for the clattering and creaking that came to their ears, the splashing of additional figures moving through the water. Before their very eyes, the skeletons of the dead crewbulls rose from their resting places, sharp and uneven jerks of bones without ligaments or muscles attempting to emulate living movement. The bones rattled and scraped as the skeletons finally rose, and the form that had once been Captain Aleksios loomed over Zola, arms hanging loosely and rotten captain’s cap barely perched on his skull. From the eye sockets, a deep and unnatural emerald light emanated, seeming to come from nowhere but a ball of energy substituting an eyeball.
The risen minotaur paused as it looked down at Zola, tilting its head one way, then the other. Then, its jaw dropped open, its bony hands raised to lunge and it let out a screech, sounding like the voices of the damned as it moved in for the kill.
Zola’s first shot blew its skull to pieces, and the now headless skeleton flopped to the deck, twitching and shaking, the animate force seemingly mostly robbed from its form. Quickly, she racked another round as the next minotaur lunged for her in the exact same way. Behind her, Kevork clubbed a skeleton down with the stock of his rifle, turning and blowing another away.
“Yeghbayr margareneri hamar!” the gargoyle cried, finishing his attack with the swipe of a claw that knocked another skeleton away.
Meanwhile, Ernst and Caballeron were still struggling, still wrestling. The bronze dog had weight and expertise on him, raining blows on his opponent to try and loosen his grip, but the stallion was frantic by this point, gibbering and snarling as he threw kicks and shrugged off blows like he couldn’t feel them. Between the two, the Burial Disc glowed in the darkness, a sickening green tinged with black and red that snaked out from between them and slipped away into the water.
“Give me the verdammt relic!” Ernst snarled through gritted teeth, hackles raised as he tried again and again to get it away. The sooner they could pack this thing up, the sooner Caballeron would come to his senses and they could all leave…he hoped.
But as the stallion jabbed back once more, Ernst spotted his opportunity, whirling and smashing Caballeron into another rotting crate nearby. This one was not full of silk, or tea or porcelain at all. Instead, there were several ingots of iron bars inside, many of them given to rust. The solid blow knocked Caballeron back, stunning him and releasing the artifact, but it was also harder than Ernst had expected. The Disc flew from his paw, splashing into the water and disappearing from sight.
“Scheiße!” he hissed, letting the stallion go and sidestepping as several ingots fell into the water. What they were doing among the cargo, he couldn’t have guessed. But they were here now, and with their crate broken open, several were sliding out and becoming an additional hazard. He needed to get the stupid thing and get out, now.
He paused, an idea coming to his mind. He needed to move fast.
Nearby, the fight was turning against Zola and Kevork. The gargoyle grappled with a risen minotaur as he attempted to keep it from stabbing him with the broken, rusty remains of a cutlass. Zola, meanwhile, was using her rifle more like an axe, bringing the stock down again and again on the skull of another risen bull as she screeched (both figuratively and literally) profanities as it. But judging from the sounds, there were more coming. And the banging, clattering and roaring from further in the hold told Kevork that the creature in the cage had also risen with the crewbulls as well. However they were holding now, there was no way they could defeat something that large.
Kevork turned, searching for Ernst and Caballeron. It was time to go. Surprisingly, he found the bulldog hauling the stallion out of the water, a dripping bag in one paw.
“What happened?”
Ernst struggled with his load, trying to keep the bag and Caballeron as high as he could.
“Little disagreement over the Disc. Let’s get the hells out of here!”
Before Kevork could voice his agreement, a sudden pain sprouted from his back, spreading through his ribs and out his chest. Correspondingly, a blade suddenly emerged from his chest, slicked with blood and gore as the textures and serrations caused by the rust dragged flesh and tissue with it. The skeletal minotaur that had driven it into him roared in victory, and threw Kevork’s dying body to the side.
“Gottenverdammt!” Zola cried, staggering backwards as her wings flared out in panic. “Kevork!”
“Don’t, he’s gone!” Ernst hollered, cursing and shifting the load he carried to bring the Specht up and level it, hanging the weapon by its sling. A squeeze of the trigger, a chorus of chattering thunder and a burst of rounds smashed into the skeleton. Admittedly, while ribs went flying and the cracks of broken bones rang out, the effects were not as desired. The skeleton in question managed to steady itself, with a few extra holes in its frame, wielding the rusty, broken cutlass and roaring with its ethereal cry, more beast than intelligent creature. “Scheiße! We’ve gotta get out of here!”
“How? The only way is through them!”
Zola jabbed a claw towards the advancing skeletons, taking a moment to cycle the action of her rifle once more and fire again, catching another crewbull in the collarbone. While the high velocity round punched through, whatever magic was keeping these things animate seemed to still have hold over the forms until they were destroyed to a certain extent. There were no organs to aim for, no vitals to shoot and no way to incapacitate them short of destroying the skull, it seemed. As the minotaurs advanced, the two survivors (and their limp financier) slowly retreated, firing hesitant shots as they tried to stem the tide and figure out a plan.
Then, Ernst seemed to have an idea.
“Wait! There -is- another way!”
He quickly fobbed off Caballeron’s limp form onto Zola, who fumbled to keep the stallion out of the water, attempting to switch to her pistol at the same time. Ernst, meanwhile, dashed over to a stack of crates, taking up a rusted sword himself and hacking at the straps and restraints. The griffon formel couldn’t help but stare in astonishment.
“What in Boreas’ name are you doing?”
“One of the crates had iron ingots in it!” Ernst called back, still trying to cut the straps as he spoke. “If I can get enough heavy crates going, they’ll cause a cascade and smash us a way out of here!”
Zola finally hauled her broomhandle up and fired, demolishing the skull of a minotaur that was almost within arm’s reach. Others weren’t much further behind that one. She fired again and again, silently counting her rounds and dreading the need to reload. Sacrificing a second, she glanced back and realized the crates Ernst was working feverishly at were the ones just across from the rent in the hull, where the reef had carved through when the ship had sunk. While the gaps were too jagged and narrow to risk now, widening the hole would give them the space they needed to escape. Maybe even-
A fiery pain across her shoulder brought Zola soaring back as a scream lurched from her beak. That skeleton had moved a lot faster than she had thought, and its bony fingers had sunk into the meat of her joint. Involuntarily, she dropped Caballeron as she caught the other arm, grunting and crying out as she struggled to hold the undead interloper off. In response, the bull’s bony jaw unhinged on invisible tendons and it leaned forward, attempting to snap at her face. When she ducked out of the way in time, it roared in fury, its unnaturally cursed strength beginning to overpower her own.
Suddenly, a chorus of creaks and snaps rang out, and both Zola and the skeleton looked up to find a tower of rotting wood soaring towards them, shedding splinters and debris as it flew, closing the gap in a heartbeat. With one final effort, Zola swung the undead minotaur around where it had a half a second to flail against her efforts before the rain of crates simply dashed it against the ruined hull, crate after crate smashing down into the gap. The rusted steel held at first, but something heavy must have come crashing down after, because abruptly it all fell away as the ruined hull tore open, the ruined metal peeling open.
“It worked!” crowed Ernst form atop the stacks, having clearly been throwing crates in an attempt to start the chain reaction he had promised. Zola was about to cheer with him and congratulate her schoolmate on his quick thinking when the shriek of splitting steel came to her ears, capped off by a roar of triumph that sounded like the shriek of the damned. In this, case, it very well might be.
“Ernst! We better move, now!”
Without replying, the bulldog was hopping down off the crates as Zola began her trip towards their exit, Caballeron’s limp form still splashing behind her. Another bull lunged for her, only to meet its end as a black shape whipped around and reduced the skull to fragments, sprawling back into the water.
“Run!” Ernst shouted above the storm, collecting the relic-in-bag back up again as he assisted Zola in getting Caballeron up and moving more economically. Behind them came splashing and splintering, crashing and roaring as whatever creature’s bones had been held in that cage came storming after them. From the minotaur skeleton that flew over their heads in pieces, this thing clearly didn’t care too much about what it had to demolish to reach the pair. They had only seconds.
Finally, they were through, the three of them flying through the dark, wet air as they plummeted away.
And then smashed into slick stone, shattered wood and scattered cargo four meters down.
Ernst hollered as he felt something snap, clapping a paw up over his collarbone as he rolled and writhed. Gods above, it hurt. It didn’t matter how much one was conditioned by rough living and punishing environs, bones breaking always hurt, point blank.
He rolled over as water battered his face, remembering the storm outside. In the tension of the approach and the chaos of the fight, he had actually forgotten what they had braved to get to the wreck. But joining it was more noise he had forgotten; the din of battle. Around them, bullets flew as readily as the screams did, shadowy forms only illuminated by the flashes of lightning and muzzle flare revealing the nightmare sequence; outside, a band of harpies shot, stabbed and in turn were slain by a veritable horde of minotaur skeletons that lurched and clawed towards their position. The bulk of the dead crewbulls must have risen and moved to face off against these interlopers, and easily a dozen more ruined skeletons decorated the rocks as well as five or six dead mercenaries. Overhead, the vast and bloated form of an airship hung, tied down by stout lines to the wreck itself despite the threat of the storm blasting it up up and away, straining at its tethers.
Duarte Araújo, mercenary and smuggler of vicious renown, had arrived.
There was the bird himself, standing center stage as he brandished a cutlass and chopped another skeleton down to size, shouting and crowing over the gale to rally what was left of his crew. Seven harpies crowded around him, guns snapping and popping. They had at least one automatic judging from the burps and chatters, though Ernst was too far to figure out just how many and what kind. Regardless, they had clearly come armed and expecting a fight. If not for the crew rising from the dead to intercede, Caballeron’s small party would have run straight into a group that outnumbered and outgunned them.
“Ernst!” Zola cried, scrambling over to him as she slipped and slid on the slick rocks. He held up his good paw, waving her off. Nothing to be done for him now. They needed to get the hell out of here.
“Still breathing!” he said, struggling to rise as he gasped against the pain, feeling the bones grinding against one another. Definitely something broken, but through the agony he couldn’t tell if it was his collarbone or his shoulder. “Where’s Caballeron?”
“Here, amigos!” the pony called from nearby. Clearly, he had recovered from being unconscious. In one hoof, he held his trusty revolver. In the other, the bag containing the relic. Ernst frowned. When had he dropped that? After the fall? He suddenly couldn’t remember. “This way! We will make our escape on that airship!”
As Zola helped steady Ernst, there came an almighty roar behind them. Zola and Ernst looked back, eyes wide, as a massive skeletal arm shoved its way out of the tear in the hull, expanding wider with little effort to reveal an enormous skull with one horn still intact. It stood at least three meters high, and leapt down after them with little effort. Behind it, more risen crewbulls emerged, all of them with green light glowing from their eye sockets just like their comrades from inside the ship and those advancing on the Araújo survivors.
“They were smuggling a fucking cyclops back?!” Zola shrieked, scrabbling to get clear as the enormous skeleton thundered down to earth behind them, wings flapping uselessly in the pounding gale. Caballeron had already taken off at a gallop, and now the two former students had to catch up.
“My question is ‘how did they get it in there?’” Ernst called as he sprinted with her, revolver in paw as he tried to keep his balance, desperately ignoring his fractured collar. If either of them fell at this point, they were done for. The cyclops was only just behind them, waylaid by the same slippery terrain they had noticed. Undersea life clung to it, from the kelp caught in its fingers to the algae and coral growing over its skull, starfish comically applied to the jaw. It was oddly contrasting with the sheer terror it exuded as it pursued them, that bare jaw hanging open to expose a set of fangs as long as sabers. Unlike the Griffonian Arimaspi Cyclops that forever hounded the Schwarzhohl region, this Zebrican subspecies had a less animalistic head, more like a yeti or other primate, with horns jutting out round its face. The effect was to create an even more haunting, alien creature in death as the green light blazed in its one eye socket, shrieking with the fury of the damned as they ran from it.
A loud boom rang out, and something hammered into the rock behind the risen cyclops, exploding a heartbeat later and sending rock shrapnel scattering everywhere, the cyclops staggering as it tried to keep its footing. Too preoccupied with fleeing, neither Zola nor Ernst had seen where the cannon had fired from, but they didn’t need to speak to know they needed to head towards it and possible safety. They kept hustling down the shore path, past a rock arch and beginning the long and slow (and painful to the dog) climb up the slippery ridge towards the top.
“Ei!” called a voice Ernst recognized as speaking in Macawian, but he had never learned that language. Two harpy mercenaries stood beneath them, clearly a little taken aback at the pair that had simply sprinted past them to begin scrabbling at the rocks. One wielded a revolver, while the other gripped his trench gun menacingly, even though both looked rather pitiful soaked to the bone in the rain. “O que vocês dois estão fazendo-”
The harpy who was speaking never finished his sentence, whatever it was. With an almighty crash, the risen cyclops blasted through the rock arch after its prey, howling like a creature possessed (which it arguably was). This being a mite more distracting, the two mercenaries whirled on the spot, gawping a whole second before raising their weapons. A flash of lightning, and the cyclops was nearly as quick in bringing a massive fist down on the first merc, blood and feathers flying out as the unfortunate bird was crushed to a pulp under the skeletal blow. The second gun for hire got a single panicked shot off, buckshot peppering the cyclop’s forearm, before the other hand swept him up in its bony fist. A second later, and the hand had shoved the mercenary’s head and upper torso into that empty maw a heartbeat before it slammed shut, crimson gore spattering across its teeth.
The pair finally got up over the ridge, moving from sea punished rock to bristly and shrub-packed grassy hillside. Out of danger for the moment, the two paused to catch their breath and figure out what their ultimate goal needed to be. Fortunately, the way to get out of this was clearly visible up the hill, anchored at the top. Despite the lightning flashing around them, and the devastating winds slapping against their sodden forms, the two could see a full blown aerial galleon, lights ablaze and all. As they watched, one of the onboard cannons thundered, sending its payload shrieking out. It was only here, as the detonation rolled up from the rocky shore, that Ernst realized the constant clatter of gunfire was still rattling out.
“The battle’s still going,” he gasped, staggering back to his feet. “We need to take that ship like Caballeron said, while they’re distracted!”
“Where -is- Caballeron?” Zola queried, glancing around to try and spot their employer. “He was pretty far ahead of us. He should have gotten away with the relic.”
“We worry about getting out of here alive first,” Ernst remarked, beginning to trudge up the muddy hill. “We can find him after we’ve got our escape secure.”
“You seem pretty calm about that. For all we know, he’s bargaining with these mercenaries for his own release and leaving us behind,” Zola replied, clawing up the hill after him, slipping only slightly in the more packed soil.
“I had already thought he might,” Ernst admitted, tugging himself up as the airship came up in their view. “Things aren’t exactly too shiny, and I wouldn’t put it past Caballeron to trade his own mother for his safety.”
“Gottenverdammt!” Zola swore, and the bulldog paused, taken aback. “He would, wouldn’t he? He was so eager to get at the damned thing, and now his life’s on the line he’s more than happy to throw everything else to the wind to save his skin.”
“Ja, nature of the beast, I’m afraid,” Ernst muttered as they finally approached where the airship was anchored. He didn’t have the heart to tell her of all the times he had heard of officers who sent their troops into harm’s way while they sat at the back in a safe bunker. The Countal Army, like all units in the Reichsarmee and its vassal forces, was a mixed back in terms of personnel. Some led from the front, bravely charging into the same fire their landsers faced, while others sat back and sipped at their tea as they moved pins on a map. Thus, Caballeron’s behavior didn’t surprise him. The stallion had the air of sleazy enthusiasm about him, eager to get the prize but more than willing to hide behind his subordinates from danger.
To distract them both from the goings on around them, Ernst finally reached the anchor. It resembled its nautical counterpart, a barbed hook sunk into the ground where it had been dragged to get a hook in the terrain and hold the ship. Even now, the vessel strained against both anchor chain and mooring lines as the wind buffeted it, trying to seize the aircraft and be gone with it. Ernst didn’t see any way the mercenaries had gotten down. Despite their avian features, harpies lacked wings and couldn’t actually fly, unlike griffons and pegasi.
Above, a cannon roared again. Unlike depictions in dime novels and nickelodeon theaters, pirates had long ceased using black powder cannons of any kind. This sounded like some kind of reconfigured Imperial field gun, looted from an armory or sold off on the black market. The airship lurched with the recoil, yanking at the lines once more, the anchor digging a longer furrow in the muddy hillside.
He turned to Zola. “Think you can climb up there?”
Before she could answer, a flash of movement came to his eye, and Ernst Graustier found his paw reaching towards his hip. A fraction of a second too late, as it turned out. A shot cracked out, and Zola lurched forwards, a look of utter confusion on her face as she tried to process what had happened. Then, her shirt began blossoming red at the breast. She looked down to realize both were now a torn, ragged mess, and she glanced up to see Ernst’s horrified expression.
“Why?” she had enough time to mumble, the word coming out much quieter than she had intended it to be.
And then, without further preamble or chance to speak, the life drained from her eyes at the same moment the strength left her limbs. Zola Holzmann died on an unnamed hill, on a rarely visited shoreline, shot in the back without a chance to fight back in front of her best friend.
Ernst Graustier could only stare in stunned shock. He had watched friends die. His time in the Eisenpfoten, though rather brief, had been full of plenty of violence. But the sheer uselessness he felt here, the pointlessness of it all, smacked him in the face, hard. He would have fallen to his knees and cradled Zola’s limp form, sobbed over her in the wet, rainy mud. He might have loved her, he thought. The sparks for it might have been there, though he had never known for sure and never would now.
The thing stopping him from processing all of this, however, was the gaping maw of a revolver’s muzzle. The hammer was already cocked back, ready for another shot. And the claw holding that weapon belonged to none other than Duarte Araújo.
The harpy mercenary wasn’t what any creature would consider handsome. His face was fleshy and puffy, his feathers an ugly shade of mottled blue-gray even before he was soaked to the bone. He had none of the battlefield presence or charisma a swashbuckling pirate from yore might have if you believed the storybook versions. But he was a fearsome commander, and a deadly fighter. If he had a shred of tactical acumen beyond the ship or shore party he was among, he might have a fleet to claw. As it was, he had a weapon drawn and leveled at Ernst Graustier. He was big, taller than the bulldog with a round belly that hid a thick layer of muscle beneath the deceptive flab. He might have put on too many kilograms from drinking hard and all his other vices, but he also lived a hard bitten life that made him tough and someone to fear.
At his side was none other than Caballeron, who wore a smirk of victory.
“You,” the bronze dog growled, hackles raising off his teeth. “I fucking knew it.”
“Clearly not soon enough,” Caballeron shot back, glancing down at Zola’s crumpled form. “A shame, really. She had so much potential, and she was rather fetching. But, ah well.” He looked back up at Ernst, the seven or eight other mercenaries behind him cocking their weapons as well. “Give me the Burial Disc.”
Ernst’s spine stiffened. Damn him, how did he know?
“You have it, herr Doctor.”
“No, my canine friend,” Caballeron smirked, oozing a sense of self-importance that he had certainly not been showing when fleeing the skeletal horde pouring out of the ship. “What I have is exactly what you planned for me to have.”
And with that, he held up the black waterproof bag that he had grabbed and ran with, tugged open the drawstring holding it closed and turned it over. From inside, an innocuous gray ingot packed into a porcelain dish came tumbling out, sinking into the grassy mud.
“A clever deception, indeed. But not so clever when you had no way to escape beforehoof. Now, give it here.”
“Slowly,” Araújo rumbled, gesturing with the muzzle of his revolver. “Get rid of the artillery first.”
Sighing, resigned and defeated, Ernst tugged the sling of his Specht up over his shoulder while carefully drawing his revolver and turned it over in his paw, holding it by the barrel. Another mercenary stepped forward, eagerly accepting the weapons. One of his companions squawked at him, and the two got into a brief argument that was interrupted by Araújo landing a meaty punch on the back of the head of the second one, ending the debate in the simplest way possible.
Then, Ernst tugged out the black bag from under his jacket. Being relatively flat, it slid back there neatly. He could see Caballeron and Araújo practically drooling where they stood, watching him extract it.
“Stop,” Caballeron said, holding a hood up as he studied Ernst’s face carefully. “Open it from there.”
The young bulldog did as he was commanded, and it wasn’t long before the jade disk was exposed to the dim light of the storm. He held it up in one paw, water droplets running down its face. After two decades of escaping the bottom of the sea sealed away in a container meant to keep it safe, this was the first liquid to touch its face. Caballeron, Araújo and the other mercenaries stared on in wonderment as Ernst slowly approached, holding the disc level with Caballeron’s face. The stallion, still in awe, grinned broadly as he reached up for it. Whether in genuine academic wonder or overcome by the avaricious thought of just how rich he was about to be, Ernst couldn’t tell. Nor did he care.
Caballeron’s hoof touched the disc, taking it from the bronze dog. Carefully, he held it up, examining it closely, chuckling as he did so.
“Shoot him,” he said, almost offhoofedly, as if it were such a minor detail he couldn’t be bothered to pay attention.
However, before Araújo could pull the trigger, before Ernst could voice a noise of protest, something wholly unexpected happened.
The disc flashed, a ripple of green arcane energy racing across its surface.
From behind the group, the skeletal cyclops lurched over the ridge, roaring in fury before bringing a bony first down on the nearest mercenary, reducing her to pulp in a heartbeat. Clearly, whatever they had done had not put the monstrosity down for good.
Chaos erupted. The mercenaries spun around, flailing and panicking, weapons cracking and chattering as they tried to respond. Araújo swore out loud, turning up and spitting insults and commands in Macawian up at the airship, though it was clearly too late as the cyclops was under the arc of the cannons. And Ernst cocked a fist back, landing the blow on Caballeron’s jaw as the two of them went tumbling down the muddy hill, the burial disc wedged between them.
“You bastard!” the bronze dog seethed, water spilling off his fedora in sheets as he rained blow after blow down on Caballeron’s head and neck. “She trusted you! -I- trusted you!”
“Then you’re a fool!” Caballeron spat back, fending off the worst blows with his raised hooves. “Just like Daring Do! It’s everypony for themselves in this world! Araújo gave me the best chance of getting away alive, so I took it!”
“You greedy motherfucker!” Ernst shouted back, finally getting to his feet as he threw a glob of mud directly at Caballeron’s face, though the stallion ducked. In his other fist, he held the ingot from the bag he had tried to pass off as the Disc. If that landed, it could do some serious damage. “Whoever said griffons were greedy and ponies were pure was biased as Tartarus! She honestly thought you were going to take that to a museum, where it belonged!”
“A museum! Ha!” Caballeron chortled, dodging back out of Ernst’s grasp once more. Just to their right, the skeletal cyclops tore another mercenary in half, blood and viscera spraying everywhere as it let out a ghastly roar, bullets pockmarking its animated face and limbs. A claw grenade detonated nearby, showing it with shrapnel that gouged deep scores across bones that had sat submerged for twenty years, only kept intact by ancient magics.
“Listen well, perro estupido!” Caballeros seethed, holding the Disc and bag under his foreleg to keep it safe as he finally drew his own revolver. “No museum is going to pay what you actually want to live free! They’ll short change you and make you become part of their alumni, their rules! If you want to actually make it big, you sell to nobles and collectors! Some Colthaginian warlord will pay me a ton of zhekels for this thing, and if they don’t there're ten-thousand nobles in Griffonia who will drop twice that without even thinking! You can’t be a treasure hunter with morals if you want to survive! Which is why I’m getting away with the Disc and your lovely amiga is going to rot on that hill!”
“Fuck you!” Ernst howled, snarling as he dove for Caballeron’s throat, fedora flying as he ducked under the revolver. The two fell over the ridge, punching and kicking and struggling for the gun. The muzzle went back and forth between them as they tumbled, first pointing at one, then the other and back again. They landed and separated once more, the revolver and Disc gone flying. Ernst had the waterproof bag, and he dove for the Disc at the same time Caballeron scrambled for his gun.
“Drop it!” he shouted, but Ernst wasn’t having it, fumbling the bag as he slipped the-
The revolver went off, and the dog lurched as the bag fell from his paw, landing with a heavy thump on the rock. Stumbling, Ernst Graustier tried to reorient to get back at his attacker, but Caballeron fired again.
The bronze dog fell, slipping over the rock face to tumble towards the punishing surf. With the illumination of a flashing lightning bolt, Caballeron watched him hit the black water below. Hardly believing his luck, he fumbled the bag up, its hefty weight telling him it was indeed full, before he moved to scramble up the ridge again. Now that obstacle to his plan was gone, all he needed to do was get Araújo to take him back to civilization and conveniently disappear in the first aerodrome facility they landed at. Plenty of law enforcement agencies would be glad to get the infamous air pirate into their jails and out of the sky.
He emerged back up the hill just as the airship’s cannon boomed again. The mercenaries, with Araújo out front, had forced the undead cyclops back until it was cornered against the drop over the ridge. So trapped, it had been long enough for the gunnery crew to adjust their aim as their fellows on the ground dodged back and forth, poking up with cutlasses and swinging rifles to keep the creature from killing them. So enclosed, it had nowhere to go as a seventy-five millimeter shell impacted squarely on its chin. The resulting detonation blew the monster’s skull to pieces, and the massive skeleton fell back over the ridge to crash on the rocks below, no longer granted necromantic life.
As the mercenaries cheered, Caballeron chuckled, already moving to clamber onto the small platform being wheeled down to pick up the shore party. Yes, it didn’t work out so well for the former students and several of the mercenaries too. But as always, it had worked out just great for Caballeron.
Later, when he was aboard the ship flying back towards Boca de Selva, Araújo asked to see the Burial Disc again.
How shocked they both were when Caballeron proudly produced the bag, only to realize that, once again, he had nothing but the ingot once more.
The Disc, if Ernst had possessed it when he had gone under the waves, was lost to the ocean once more.
-----
The old farmer hadn’t seen a storm this bad since he was a young bull himself. In the west, he believed they called it a hurricane, though he wasn’t too sure since foreign visitors and papers didn’t exactly come to Kekion all that often. It had ripped across the island with a ferocity unmatched, and all he could do was shelter in his home and hope his fields and barn weren’t too badly harmed. But now it had let up, he was happy to see the chicken coop intact, the barn with his goats and oxen had only suffered a few beams ripped up and he hadn’t lost too much of his crop. He’d have to drain out the fields tomorrow to save the harvest, but it could have been much, much worse. For now, even though it was pouring, he walked the fenceline as he searched for breaks to repair. Nothing to do now while the reduced rainstorm still showered down, but he could get a good idea how many nails and boards he’d require.
The waves crashed on the shoreline just down the hill, and he sighed again as he remembered his brother, laughing at him decades ago when he’d bought the land. A farm next to a beach was just asking to be torn apart by the sea, Niklaus had said. And hadn’t he been right, after all. Unlike a farm put further inland, this one was constantly beset by fickle winds and temperatures, the nearby water was of course too salty to use and his fields were constantly becoming sandpits. Everyday of his life had been a struggle to survive, but he had lived while his brother had died fighting the Empire and sickness claimed his wife. His son had left for Aster’s Landing to make a better life, and he was happy for him to leave a life of backbreaking labor. Still, he missed the help.
The farmer sighed, leaning against the fence post for rest while the rain dripped off his jacket and hat. At least by the time he’d returned, the stew would be done and he’d have all night to dry out and warm up. The thought of what he had to look forward to buoyed him with fresh energy, and though he felt his old joints creak in protest, the spirit of a younger bull surged into him as he picked up and moved on.
But something made him pause. Looking out at the beach down below, he realized something new had arrived on the familiar sight that he had practically memorized in all the years he had lived here. Things washed up on that beach all the time, but not always good things. Another homestead had been wiped out years ago when something had come up from the sea. The rumors had said it was a race of walking fish from the depths. Cautiously, the old farmer bull reached up to unsling the double-barreled shotgun he wore over one shoulder, cracking it open and fumbling two shells in with old, arthritic fingers. Best to go check it out, just in case.
The beach wasn’t far from the fenceline. He was moving from grassy mud to slick sand in only a few strides, and he approached the strange shape cautiously, carefully thumbing back the hammers as he neared it. From here, he thought it was a figure washed ashore. Perhaps a shipwrecked sailor? In this weather it wouldn’t be so unusual, but ships didn’t ply the sealanes off Kekion like they used to. With Kiria going isolationist and the Empire’s collapse, there wasn’t much business in the east anymore.
He finally came level with the figure, realizing it looked an awful lot like his old hunting hound. He’d heard stories of dogs that walked on two legs like minotaurs and talked like ponies or griffons, though he’d never met them himself. Diamond Dogs, he thought they were called. Voracious slavers and raiders who only ever sought to claim as much wealth as their greedy hearts could bear, just as sinister as griffons.
The farmer was back on his guard at that point. Was this a diamond dog pirate, stranded off some sort of smuggler’s vessel? Would they rob him for all the meager possessions he owned?
“Hey. Hey, you,” he grumbled, poking the dog with the barrel of his gun. “Are you still alive?”
The figure groaned, stirring lightly. In an instant, the farmer’s heart was filled with compassion once more. With a flash of guilt, he thumbed off the hammers of his weapon, slung it and reached down to try and get a handhold of this clear victim.
“Come on, Stranger,” he said as he began dragging the two-legged form. “Let’s get you somewhere warm and dry.”
An hour later, Ernst Graustier woke up. Instead of the sodden, frozen hell he’d known for what had to be at least six hours as he foundered in the ocean, he was covered in quilts, laying on a warm and comfortable couch. A fire blazed merrily in a stone fireplace nearby, and at his feet lay an old, gray with years hunting hound, curled up in a ball and snoring loudly. He tried sitting up, only to find that his muscles refused to respond except in agony. The chill had yet to leave his bones, despite the warm surroundings he found himself in.
“Ah, you are awake at last.”
His head could turn, he found, and he realized he was looking up at a minotaur bull, at least in his sixties if not older. He wore a knitted sweater and simple trousers, sitting at the small dining table reading a novel and sipping at some kind of hot beverage, an empty bowl next to him. Given his recent experiences with minotaurs of any kind, Ernst hesitated to speak, just staring for a moment. The minotaur frowned, clearly mistaking his silence for misunderstanding.
“You do speak Herzlandisch, do you not? Hmm…perhaps I can try Sicameonese. Mine is rather rusty. My Macawians’ better…”
“No,” Ernst said quickly, his throat ragged and patchy. “No, I can understand you.”
“Ah, excellent.” The bull closed the book, rising from the table and crossing to the fireplace. Hanging there was an iron cooking pot, which the old bull used a ladle to scoop stew from and dispense into a bowl. The hound raised his head and sniffed in investigation, but the bull chided him in Knossian before stepping over to Ernst.
“Not much meat, I am afraid. Times are lean and I must save my animals for the milk and eggs they make.”
“It’s fine, thank you,” Ernst mumbled, taking the bowl and clumsily handling the spoon. While it was still too hot to properly eat, he didn’t feel the pain or taste it. The desire to get something warm into his aching, empty and freezing belly was too great.
“You are lucky,” the bull went on as he watched his guest dig into the food. “A storm like that is a killer. Where did you come from? A ship?”
“You could say that,” Ernst returned through bites. It wasn’t technically a lie, he had come from the site of a ship. Just not aboard it. The bull seemed to take the answer at face value and shrugged.
“Well, I am sorry for your hardship. Once you gain your strength and the weather clears, I would recommend you head to Lavyrinthos. I am sure you can get some passage for Sicameon or Asterion proper.”
“My things?” Ernst queried, wiping his muzzle with a paw, still tasting saltwater in his fur and wincing at the all too familiar taste. But the bull nodded.
“I have them drying out. I am afraid it is all ruined, and I have nothing for your physique.”
“Could I see my jacket, please?” Ernst asked, setting the bowl down for the hound to begin licking at lazily with a long pink tongue. “I have some precious things in there I need to check on.”
“I suppose,” the minotaur replied, shrugging as he stepped into the other room. He was back before long, carrying Ernst’s still sopping wet leather jacket. “I am telling you, this is no longer any good. I hope it will at least last to get you somewhere for replacements.”
Without a word, Ernst Graustier dug in one of the pockets, urgency suddenly lending him greater strength as his clumsy paws searched. Surely after everything he’d gone through, after Zola had died and he had narrowly escaped death, he wouldn’t be cheated in the end? He’d narrowly avoided being shot, that idiot Caballeron couldn’t aim worth a damn. But for the Disc to have not wound up with him?
Finally, he felt the hard, round edge and a bolt of relief shot through him. He tugged out the relic, turning it over in his paw as he held it up to the firelight. As before, a light green glow emanated from the artifact. But nothing happened. It seemed almost cheerful, Ernst decided. As if the spirit inside was just happy to finally be off that accursed shore and somewhere warm and dry.
“Very curious,” the bull muttered, studying it as well. “I had wondered what that was. It looks kirin, but I decided to leave it alone for you.”
“I’m glad you did,” Ernst muttered, holding the Disc up for better inspection. “I went through a lot to get this. Got a lot riding on it now.”
“Indeed?” the farmer asked curiously. “What will you do with it now?”
But the bulldog had no answer for him, still inspecting the artifact with a strange expression, somewhere half between wonderment and deep, deep sorrow.
The farmer cleared his throat again, gently leaning over to place a hand on Ernst’s shoulder.
“If you will let me, I believe I know a griffon with a taste for antiquities. I will write you a letter for him, you can send it once you make landfall. He is a doctor, who once treated my son when he was ill. Made mention of his travels and hunger for history. He is rather odd, but if you interest him, he will make it worth your while if he is still in the business.”
July 5th, 1008
Himmelssturz, Skyfall Trade Federation
4 years later
It was a bit of a stereotype that mercenaries and ne’er do wells spent time in bars. Pirates, renegades and outlaws loved to spend their time and money getting drunk, getting into fights or talking about doing both. It was also just the place to find work for those involved in illicit trade, illegal occupations or wanting to move without the eye of the law too tightly on them. The Polizei in Skyfall were just like their oligarch masters; pay them enough, and they’d ignore murder. The ‘Schwarzes Schwein’ wasn’t too grimy by mercenary standards, though it played host to plenty of guns for hire. These threaded on the fine line of criminality by certainly engaging in illegal craft on occasion, but none worked for the big crime syndicates or stooped to thuggery as a full-time occupation. This was the dubious place where Ernst Graustier and his new partner Isis Baati found themselves, quietly knocking back a few tankards as they listened to the low buzz of the establishment, while hired killers both enjoyed themselves and kept a close eye on each other, their weapons never too far away. A pistol on every table within claw reach, a knife on every belt, a rifle just nearby. That was the landschneckt way.
There was an unwritten part of treasure hunting that was never quite alluded to in all the stories of adventure one read about, from Daring Do to Caballeron; the waiting period. Certainly a lot of waiting was put into the legwork of investigating the artifact in question, tracking it through history and attempting to learn of its location. Then there were the delays while traveling there, a brief moment of excitement while acquiring the piece in question and then the frantic attempts to bring it back. He’d had moments, such as his return trip from Stalliongrad last year, when he’d had to break into a museum in order to steal a certain topographical survey map and been forced to fight his way back out. The entire voyage across the ocean stowed away in a freighter, he had been afraid of discovery by the crew or the ship being boarded by the Red Navy. Neither had happened, luckily. In a similar fashion, the trip back here had been uneventful, the Glass Fire Spear of Somnabula stowed away in the hold while he and Isis had carefully kept off the deck of the ship bringing them home. While unlikely, the chances of Chiropterran spies seeing them was never zero.
Isis glanced over her shoulder. The camel had begun her acclimation to Griffonian lifestyle well enough, dressed in a casual style and sampling some of the local fare and beer. She’d even set her mind to learning Herzlandisch. Unfortunately, she would never blend in completely. Camels were as rare as kirin in Griffonia. Rarer, even, as the Kirian Diaspora had distributed quite a few kirin on Griffonian and Equusian shores. Camels, however, were usually second class citizens in most Zebrican nations these days, the Storm King’s rampage having destroyed what few of their legitimate states that had existed, and as such didn’t really travel much. Isis may wear the dress, be trying the food and attempting the language, but she’d always stick out.
“When is he getting here?”
“Patience, Fraulein,” Ernst remarked, chewing on another bite of sausage before washing it down with a swig from his beer bottle. “He’s rather difficult to miss.”
Isis, however, did not relax, muttering under her breath not in Maregyptian as one might expect, but Arabian. As Ernst understood this language too, he didn’t consider it too strange at all, though he did raise an eyebrow.
“Got somewhere else to be? Calm down. He’s likely already on his way and he’s sent someone to scout us out and confirm we’re here. Nothing else to do but wait.”
Isis frowned, turning back to poke at her own platter. While the Schwarzes Schwein didn’t have terrible food, Ernst had to admit that pub fare did take some getting used to, no matter the establishment.
“I just feel kind of…exposed. Isn’t what we’re doing kind of illegal?”
“Not really,” Ernst replied, shrugging at that. “Oh, sure. The Maregyptian government could file a complaint that we removed a culturally important artifact from their country, but that’s going to take some time. Besides, who’s going to come busting down the door after us? The Elements of Harmony? The Skyfall Trade Federation prides itself on free trade above all else. They’d stonewall any foreign government coming to undermine business on their soil. Besides, they’ll look for us in some back alley hiding spot. It’s why we’re here, among all these fine, distinguished entrepreneurs.”
Nearby, one mercenary got into a heated argument with another. A moment later, a tankard came smashing down on the offended party’s head. The entire table descended into a brawl, to which several of the pub’s other attendants, musclebound griffons who took part time pay to keep the peace in the Schwarzes Schwein, swamped in and began subduing the combatants with liberal applications of billy clubs.
Before Isis could formulate a response, the door to the pub swung open, smacking into the empty coat rack just behind it, and she suddenly realized Ernst had been absolutely correct. The two drakes who entered could not be any less conspicuous if they had arranged a band to announce their arrival, though it was clear some measure had been taken to reduce such distinctness. The one in the lead was slender, his coloration mostly black feathers with a white plumage that he had specifically grown downwards. His beak was long like a stork’s, and the red and white robes he wore marked him as a member of the local clergy, complete with red cap. He carried himself with an assured swagger, almost daring anygriff in the establishment to tell him he didn’t belong there, eyes flitting easily back and forth before settling on Graustier and Isis’ table.
The other griffon with him was big. At least as big as the muscular thugs playing bouncer in the corner, though while the slender drake in holy garb carried himself with a swagger, this one didn’t seem to carry himself at all. His mannerism instead was like an attack dog, one of the feral creatures the police used to keep order, glancing around at very possible threat with his wings at least partially flared, as if ready to spring to attack. In every other way, he was plain as possible, from a single solid coloration of brown feathers with some white highlights to his very boring style of dress. You could not get a more clear indication of a protector if someone stood next to him with a sign proclaiming ‘bodyguard’.
“That is him?” Isis asked quietly, unable to wrest her eyes off of them.
“That’s him,” Graustier replied, finishing his meal and wiping his muzzle before taking another sip of his drink. “A little warning; he may seem a little eccentric. Just take everything he says in stride, don’t get hung up on the details.”
While Isis felt the warning bells ringing in her head, she decided not to press the issue. Their client was halfway across the pub already, waving jauntily to Ernst with a claw as he weaved between the thugs and mercenaries. This was clearly his show. Time to watch and learn.
“Herr Graustier!” the thin holy drake declared, reaching out to clasp Ernst’s paw as the treasure hunter rose to greet him, shaking energetically. “I must admit, I about had a stroke when I got your message! I almost could not believe such luck had dropped into our laps! The gods must surely be smiling on us, my friend!”
“Herr Doctor, it has been some time,” Graustier replied. His tone and body posture were friendly enough, Isis noticed, but he still seemed guarded, as if bracing for something she hadn’t yet picked up on. “I’d say the luck is all yours. Not exactly a simple job to bring this one back.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” the ‘Doctor’ replied, his tone sympathetic. “You’ve been working towards this one, what, the last two years?”
“Three years, but it's all subjective now. Have a seat, both of you.” Graustier indicated Isis as the Doctor tugged out a seat, though his bodyguard simply took up a position at the shoulder, watching on impassively. His silence, stillness and stilted manner gave Isis an immediate prickly feeling, like she wasn’t seeing a sentient being before her but some kind of predator on a restraint, simply waiting patiently for the clasp to release. “Might I introduce Isis Baati, my new business associate.”
“Ah, he’s finally gotten some help! Charmed, meine liebling!”
He extended a courteous claw, and Isis took it and shook though the gesture held a bit more gentle motion that when he had greeted the bulldog.
“Isis, this is Doctor Lintz von Ravenholm. He’s a good customer of mine, likes to take some of the pricier pieces off my paws.”
“Doctor?” Isis frowned, considering the drake’s garments. “But aren’t you a cleric?”
“Unless I miss my guess, you are from somewhere in north Zebrica, am I right?” At her nod, Ravenholm continued on. “Are there not priests there who are dedicated healers and learners? I admit my professional tastes are a bit unorthodox in Griffonia, but I am dedicated to the discovery of both the gods and the world around us. I see no reason why one should preclude the other.”
She nodded, pondering to herself as she mulled it over. It did make sense, and it wasn’t like such a practice was out of the ordinary the world over so far as she knew. Satisfied with the answer, she turned to the bodyguard, about to ask after his own name and exchange greetings. Before she could, however, Ravenholm beat her to it, clearly seeing where the conversation was going.
“This is my little brother, Guido. He often accompanies me when I am out on business, pay him no mind.” He glanced back over his shoulder only a moment before turning back to Isis, and she could have sworn his smile had grown more than a little icy. “Don’t worry if he doesn’t speak. He’s a rather shy drake.” He leaned in, as if a bit conspiratorially. “Truth be told, he doesn’t feel safe when I’m not around. My little brother is a little clingy, you could say.”
The doctor straightened up, brushing his vestments as Isis glanced up at Guido, rather confused.
“Is he not going to sit?”
Ravenholm’s expression only changed a slight degree, but Isis suddenly got the brief sensation he was a bit annoyed by her prying and questioning.
“He suffers some acute back issues, I’m afraid. Taking strolls with me as I do my business has helped his posture out immensely, as it happens. A wonderful arrangement.”
“Isis,” Graustier said, in a warning tone. The young camel blushed, clearing her throat and nodding to show she was done asking questions.
“So!” Ravenholm declared, resting his claws on the table. “To business! I know you’ve been after this piece for some time, Ernst. I trust it is in good condition?”
“Practically mint, Doctor,” Graustier assured, reaching under the table and tugging the canvas parcel out from where it had been resting behind his bootheels. “Getting it out of the Hoofmaiden’s Crypt was a bit touch and go, but once we had it back to port it only ever saw the light of day when we checked up on it.”
“Touch and go? Nothing you couldn’t handle, I assume?” Ravenholm responded airily, though his eyes were latched hungrily on the canvas wrapping.
“Some interference by the Chiropterrans and local muscle. We got away of course but it was close,” Graustier replied just as airily, setting the package down and beginning the unwrapping. “Used up quite a lot of ammunition.”
“I’m sure we can come to a reasonable agreement,” Ravenholm replied, his words almost absent as his focus was clearly all devoted to the artifact. Ernst only unwrapped the head, exposing the bulbous glass that held the greater concentration of fire magic inside. After all, they didn’t want to expose such a valuable piece to a pub full of guns for hire. As the canvas fell away, the glow of energy lit up the faces of all assembled at the table, and Ravenholm leaned in eagerly for a closer look, his eyes hungry as his beak opened slightly. Even Guido, as impassive as his face remained, cocked his head slightly as he observed.
“Enclosed in Bashtet’s sarcophagus. Right where the texts said it would be,” Graustier said, smirking as he tried and failed to suppress his smug pride. “Behind a wall of arcane glyph traps. All the mundane stuff had broken down long ago.”
“Then you were correct after all,” Ravenholm muttered, reaching a claw out to carefully rest on the artifact. “This is strong magic. A bit subdued, after all that time. But it could certainly be stoked back to life…what’s your opening price, my friend?”
Graustier settled back, tugging a cigarette out of his jacket as he expertly flipped a lighter out of a pocket.
“Ten thousand idols, plus expenses, ammunition and hazard pay. So I’d say likely twelve thousand.”
“Come now, Herr Graustier. We both know a few mercenaries and some brainwashed cultist troopers were hardly a hazard to you. Nine thousand is my response.”
“Doctor, we’ve been business partners on quite a few occasions. I’d hate to think you’re a bad bet for future contracts. I can spare a bit, but it’ll have to be no less than eleven.”
And so it went back and forth for a few minutes. Isis recognized easy, relaxed haggling when she saw it. Back in the marketplace at home in Maregypt, longtime customers and the merchants they purchased from would do the same thing if for no other reason that to engage in conversation and keep up the time honored illusion of a hard sell. Usually the merchant would still make a profit, the customer would still get a good deal and the two would walk away happy.
With no real participation in this conversation and her interest waning, Isis couldn’t help but glance over at impassive Guido again, her curiosity getting the better of her. While the drake had reassumed his stoic stance to watch the negotiations, he still had not said a word. More concerning, he had barely moved since he had assumed his position. That was a great deal of discipline and muscle control. Perhaps he was former military? His stature would suggest it. She still found it odd that the physically larger sibling was the younger one. This wasn’t just a matter of youthful growth spurts either, the difference was quite dramatic.
After a moment or two, Guido suddenly turned his eyes to look over at her. Seeing the camel watching him, his head rotated to follow, staring back at her with that same impassive expression. It was a bit unnerving, she found herself thinking. The moment the thought entered her head, Guido’s beak suddenly twisted into something approaching a small smile, and he stiffly raised a claw and gave a small wave. Far from assuring her, however, Isis found herself even more offput. The movements seemed…unnatural. Forced. It almost put her in mind of what the Griffonians called a scarecrow.
”Zahrat Saghira…”
Isis froze. The voice, the words. A sudden pang of familiarity rolled over her at the words. Abruptly, she was taken back to the marketplace at home, visiting her uncle at his shop in town. ‘Little Flower’ he called her. His nickname for her, for he loved her like a daughter after the desert had claimed his own. She had only been a little girl when the desert claimed him as well. They had never found him after what was supposed to be a trip to the city and he didn’t return.
She blinked rapidly, trying to comprehend. What had happened there? It had been her uncle’s voice, his words. No one else would know to call her that. Furthermore, who had said it? At first it had sounded like it had been spoken by Guido. But his beak hadn’t moved. And could he even imitate her uncle?
The more she thought about it, the more she wondered if perhaps the words hadn’t been spoken inside her own head.
It was at this moment that she realized, oddly, she had zoned out while staring at Guido. And he had stopped smiling and waving at her, his attention back on the haggling. Then again, she pondered, had he even been looking at her in the first place? That was odd. She wasn’t prone to such absentmindedness. How rude he must think of her. She cleared her throat quietly, turning back to listen to the price go up and down, the reasons and excuses back and forth.
After a bit of time, however, things started to get a little heated.
“Doctor, I don’t think you understand the prep work that had to go into this find,” Graustier said, halfway down his cigarette. “I had to do a few other jobs to get what I needed for this one. Nearly had my head chopped off by a knight in Romau, almost got shot in Severyana and I had to sink a Chiropterran U-boat off of Tobuck. When I say ‘long term pay’, I mean it.”
“And once again, Ernst, I think you may just be overstating the difficulty just a tad,” Ravenholm declared in return, his tone still friendly but not quite as warm as it had been a while before. “What was that elite unit you served with? You were always bragging about it.”
“Eisenpfoten. And I mentioned them maybe twice,” Graustier replied, bordering just barely on a huff. Ravenholm waved a claw, dismissing the statement.
“You cannot lead me to believe any of that was above your skill grade. And I learned at the same institute you did. It’s why I was so drawn to you in the first place. Yale is rather poor at recognizing talent when they have it.”
“You’re not wrong there,” Ernst replied, and the two of them shared another smile clearly connected to some past conversation they’d brought up. Isis made a mental note to pry later as to why such a learned dog with such experience and skill as Doctor Ernst Graustier was making his living robbing tombs and consorting with suspicious characters.
Ravenholm went on.
“I sympathize, I truly do. You know what? Perhaps I have something else to add on; I will pay your clearly overblown price if you will agree to take up another job for me?”
Ernst perked up at that, nodding as he lit another cigarette.
“I do have one more job on the books to wrap up first, but after that I’m all yours Doctor. Anything you can tell me about it?”
“It’s an exploratory contract. Somewhere unexplored, of course. And dangerous, if that’s not obvious. I had wondered about offering you this job given the hazards, but the more I think about it, the more I realize you are perhaps the only one I could trust to handle it.” Ravenholm leaned in, his expression giving way to eagerness and anticipation. “It’s one of a kind, you see. The location isn’t on any map. Think about it; the chance to leave behind a legacy of being the first to explore this place. To chart such a location and leave your name stamped in history books. The FIRST one there, Ernst. That would win you such fame and glory, I doubt you’d ever have to set paw in another tomb as long as you lived.”
Isis glanced back and forth between the griffon and the dog. She admittedly hadn’t known Ernst Graustier very long, but she had known him long enough to know that the drake was playing on every string of the bulldog’s pride, his grasping at a name for himself and finally earning recognition above and beyond simple artifact pilfering and mercenary work.
Graustier whistled noiselessly, eyes wide as he leaned back, tipping his fedora up and taking another drag on the cigarette, clearly pondering the words offered him by the drake. When he expelled the smoke, he waggled his paw, leaving a patterned smoketrail behind.
“Doctor, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were trying to seduce me.” Another chuckle, another puff. “Like I said, I have another job to tie up. But what you’re offering sounds like a long term deal. Anything else you can give me?”
“For the sake of brevity and keeping the details as close to the chest as possible, not much. But I will spare absolutely no expense on this contract. You will have anything and everything you would need. And, to show you how serious I am about this, I’ll give you a markup as a gift between friends.” Ravenholm’s eyes sparkled darkly, dangerously. Isis saw the warning lights approaching, glancing to Graustier and hoping he did too, but the bronze dog might have been blinded by his dreams of glory. “Call it an exchange of good favor for the Spear, between rejected scholars of Greenback. Twenty-thousand idols.”
Graustier choked on his cigarette, immediately taken by surprise. Isis was as well, that was more money than even the local lord of her home province had when the money was exchanged, all for one artifact. This doctor wanted Ernst Graustier on for this mission, whatever it would be, and he wanted them bad.
Finally recovering, Graustier wrapped the canvas back around the relic, giving it a gentle push towards the doctor.
“Sold. Twenty-thousand, plus I come do this job for you when I’ve got my affairs in order.”
The two shook on it, while Guido unstrapped a carrying case from his side, setting it down next to the table and opening the lid to expose stacks of Imperial idols in both bill and gold coin form. Ravenholm glanced down only a moment, pondering slightly before nodding and saying “I suppose that is all of it then. I brought enough to bargain with, but if that is the cost, then it is the cost.”
Isis’ eyes bugged out, glancing back and forth at the money, Ravenholm and Graustier. While the bulldog seemed to taken with the tangible fact the money was there, the prospect of a high paying job in the near future and the conclusion of quite a few of his own personal goals was within sight, Isis was more concerned with something else she had spotted in the top of the pile of coins, something that suddenly made her suddenly feel even more uneasy about the two brothers. Even as Guido calmly scooped the artifact into a slim carrying case clearly meant for a weapon about that size, she was abruptly very tempted to call the whole thing off and conclude any and all future relations with the good doctor. She held her tongue, however. This was a new world she was venturing into, and this close to the end of a deal, she’d rather not sour it by her own stupidity.
But she couldn’t help but glance back down at the case again, carrying that small fortune inside. What had to be a figurative ton of wealth.
And sitting on top of the stack of gold coins, almost disguised in it, was a single gold tooth. The question of who it came out of and what it was doing there dug into the back of her mind. But she didn’t dare ask those questions.
For the first time, surrounded by money and violence hungry mercenaries, treasure hunters and artifact collectors, she suddenly felt a slight tinge of regret for having ever left home.
“Perhaps I can at least tell you a little something,” Ravenholm interrupted her thoughts, stroking his beak with his claws as he hungrily watched Guido sling the carrying case for the Speak away before turning back to the bulldog, equally hungrily thumbing through a stack of idols. “Tell me, herr Doctor; have you ever heard of a place called ‘the Meridian?’”