Iron And Shadow
T he forges of Mornhavonia belched plumes of smoke into the air that darkened the already murky ceiling of mist hanging over Blackveil Forest. Hammer blows on anvils rang through the woods.
Under the unblinking watch of the wraith, groundmites crawled like ants over the ruins of Arcosian villages that had lain dead for centuries and dug beneath them to scavenge every scrap of metal they could find.
Nails and vessels and the rusted remnants of the empire’s great mechanicals were brought to the surface.
The graves of the empire’s brave warriors were plundered for weapons, shields, buttons, buckles, and armor to be melted in the orange glow of forges and then remade into new arms and weapons by groundmites endowed with the skills and knowledge of smithing by their dark master, and by human blacksmiths of Second Empire brought to Blackveil by Lichant.
They touched no remnants of the Eletians for the armor and weapons of that people were not entirely steel, and were tainted now, even after all these years, by light. Little remained in any case, for Mornhavon the Great’s influence on the land once known as Argenthyne had endured for centuries.
The Sleeper Groves were a different matter.
Lichant walked through one such with long strides.
His boots burned footprints into the deep moss.
The boles of the Grove’s soaring trees wept ochre sap like bloody teardrops.
Few Sleepers of Argenthyne had escaped Mornhavon’s conquest and occupation.
At first, during that period a millennium ago, he had ordered the Groves to be razed and the spirits of the Eletians within died with their trees.
Some Sleepers, however, awakened and emerged even as axes bit into the trunks.
These Eletians Mornhavon delighted in tormenting.
He learned from his captives, however, that his influence over Blackveil had oozed into the trees of the Grove, and then into the Sleepers themselves.
With this knowledge, he left the Groves alone, recognizing how much it would grieve the surviving Argenthynians to know that he’d turned the hearts of those they loved to darkness, and that one day he would be able to make use of them against their own kin.
That day was upon them.
Lichant stabbed Dirasgheul into the soft, rotted trunk of the first tree he came upon.
It shuddered and dropped pine needles and branches.
He thrust deeper. The tree groaned and sap runneled down the sword’s blade.
Lichant withdrew the sword and did the same to the next tree, and then the next, and the next.
The trees of the Grove wailed as finally they succumbed to the power of Mornhavon the Great.
Lichant stood silent beneath the groaning boughs of the trees and waited.
When at last the Sleepers awakened and emerged into the world, they stumbled about stupid and naked, or with rags hanging from their limbs, and coated in sap.
Groundmites converged upon them and washed away sap with water and harsh brushes.
Then they were lined up, too stunned and not yet fully awake enough to fight.
Lichant stalked down the line, stared into their eyes.
It stabbed a male in the heart whose sapphire eyes still radiated light, the light that was the gift of Avrath upon all Eletians.
A great lord of Argenthyne he’d been, perhaps, with the strength to have endured for so long.
The eyes of the remaining Eletians were blackened pits of corruption, their light snuffed out.
Lichant did not kill them. Their expressions were feral and reflected thoughts and desires that bloomed with darkness.
“You are soldiers of the Great One,” Lichant rasped. “Once you were weak spirits of the moon, but now you are mighty. You are mighty soldiers of iron and shadow called to serve the will of Mornhavon the Great.”
The groundmites herded them off and brought Lichant its horse beast. The creature had been captured and broken for riding.
These wild horses, modified by the Great One long ago, had roamed the forest for centuries and developed into fierce and hardy stock.
Scales on their bellies and necks, and sharp-spined manes, had helped protect them from predators and naturally armored them for battle.
Lichant reined its mount away but did not go far before a subtle mist rose in its path. The acidic vapor twined and drifted, inhabited by biting swamp insects and carrion flies. Lichant bowed in its saddle to its master.
A hundred thousand voices, far and near, some whispering, others shrieking or hissing, arrived from a multitude of locations and times. They spoke one word: “Lichant.”
“My lord.” Lichant’s brittle voice was nearly lost in the cacophony of Mornhavon’s chorus.
“PROGRESS.” The ground shook and trees swayed above.
Lichant stabbed spurs into its nervous horse’s sides to steady it. “The work party has reached the location of the wall’s dead tower.”
“You will COMPEL them to brEAK THE WALL.”
“It will be done.” Lichant little feared its powerful lord. Most of its emotions had long ago died during its imprisonment beneath its cairn, as puckered and dried up as its parchment skin. It knew only obedience and reverence for its master.
“Go now,” the Great One said.
Lichant bowed again. The mist that embodied its master sank to the ground and the tension in the forest settled like a sigh.
Lichant reined the horse around to follow decayed roads and paths long choked by overgrowth and debris, and to ride through wild land that had long lain forgotten and untouched by Eletians and humans.
At journey’s end, Lichant would carry out its master’s orders to break the wall.