Valkyrie's Shadow

The Tiger and the Dragon: Act 7, Chapter 1

The Tiger and the Dragon: Act 7, Chapter 1

Chapter 1

14th Day, Lower Earth Month, 0 CE

“I’m beginning to wonder if all of the west is just a giant desert. No, I’m past wondering – it is just a giant desert!”

A pair of Gigant Meroles kicked up sand far ahead of the sledge as the caravan of long sledges conveyed its passengers through the shimmering heat of the Great Lut. The source of the griping was an Inquisitor named Girika, a Baagh male of thirty and three.

“You should know that isn’t true. The chronicles speak of many places in the west that aren’t deserts. The Great Steppe north of the Worldspine, Arboria in the south, the vast Mangrove of–”

“I see none of that here, Yuvraj,” Girika’s notched ear flicked in irritation. “I only see sand, sand and more sand. Ever since we journeyed beyond the Grand Cerrado, we’ve been travelling through deserts or sailing by them. Deserts with no sand are still deserts, by the way.”

Deserts were plentiful in the world, so travellers journeying from one part of the continent to another were bound to see them. However, after disembarking at Stormport, the Jewel of Lut and the home of Rai’torel=Oxious, the Storm Dragon Lord, even Saraca couldn’t help but sigh as yet another endless sea of dunes stretched out before them.

“We’re almost there, Girika,” Saraca said. “You may as well appreciate the scenery while we’re here – we won’t be seeing it for a while.”

“No wonder everyone calls you priyadasi these days,” the Inquisitor snorted. “Even the scorching sands would receive your kind regard.”

“On that note,” Saraca said, “don’t throw around any titles once we’ve arrived. We’re here to see what this prospective client is like without them falling over themselves to impress us.”

“Got it, young master.”

“Spare me the ‘young master’,” Saraca winced. “I feel like that’s going to get me slapped out of nowhere.”

“I don’t think anyone would survive getting their hand hit by your face, young master.”

The shimmering horizon shifted in hue. Saraca peered into the distance as distinct shapes gradually formed.

“Kasturi,” he said, “what do you see?”

“A town and a lake,” the Gladestalker replied. “An oasis?”

“That should be the Great Tear,” Devi said, “the largest of the Tears of Lut. I hope there’s enough salt available to fill our sledges.”

“I don’t see any fortifications,” Saraca half said to himself.

“Unless you’re trying to bury yourself in sand,” Girika said, “it seems pointless.”

He had a point. The Great Lut was the empire of a powerful Dragon Lord. Any troublemakers would be summarily be turned into a blasted ring of char on the sand. The Storm Dragon Lord had dozens of powerful Blue Dragon satraps under him, and their tolerance for raids and disruptive mischief in their domain was nonexistent.

The Camelini driving their sledge stopped at a long trough just outside the town. He went to pay the Beastmaster stationed there to tend to his lizards. One by one, the rest of the caravan’s sledges arrived. Saraca disembarked and stretched, glad to be through the three hundred kilometres of meandering dunes between the coast and their current location.

His entourage came over from their sledges to join him. It was probably not a sight that the locals would see again in their lifetimes. Not only were several of his wives present, but also a dozen members of Gond’s Royal Guard: some of the most powerful combat specialists of the Beastman Confederacy. To avoid unwanted attention on their journey, those who could not conceal their power wore items that did, and they wore the protective garb commonly worn by desert folk to hide their equipment.

“Svamini,” one of the Sacred Claws lowered his head before Devi, “where would you like us to bring the cargo?”

“Leave it for now,” the Baagh Merchant replied. “Let’s find out what the markets here have to offer. No need to stand on ceremony – split up and see what there is to see.”

They separated into groups and entered the town. Saraca went with Devi, his first wife, and was accompanied as usual by Girika and Kasturi. Karuvaki, Saraca’s second wife, had already gone ahead. She and her cohort, rather than heading for the market, went straight to the town’s temple row.

Saraca’s gaze lingered on the collection of humble shrines. Most of the objects of worship were unfamiliar to him.

“She never tires of that,” he murmured.

“Why would she?” Devi said, “It’s interesting, in its own way. It’s also her job.”

As a part of her official duties during their travels, Karuvaki was cataloguing the various religions and philosophical sects capable of producing divine magic casters. In areas of the world with polytheistic religions – which was most of them – many correlations could be found between supposedly disparate faiths. Worship of the four elements in some form was one of the more predominant examples.

Devi led them over to a bustling bazaar, where stalls were shaded over by tarps of every colour. Rather than stopping at any sauniers, the Merchant’s daughter – a successful Magnate herself – browsed through everything that looked like it had been imported. Kasturi went and joined her at a silk stand. Saraca exchanged looks with Girika.

“I think we’re stuck,” he said.

“We are,” the Inquisitor agreed.

Saraca settled on watching the crowds. A half-dozen Singh were present, as were Camelini, some race of Tortoisefolk, the Lizardfolk known as Laerti, desert variants of common Demihumans, and at least one Djinni. Their garb aside, it was what one would usually see in a desert bazaar. Additionally, the presence of a Djinni meant that there probably wouldn’t be any Efreeti or Dao present. Marid obviously wouldn’t frequent a desert.

“I don’t see any Humanoids,” Girika noted.

“You’re right,” Saraca crossed his arms. “Strange…there were more than a few in Stormport.”

“Maybe that theory of yours is turning out to be correct.”

“I wouldn’t call it a ‘theory’ – it’s more a random thought.”

The ‘theory’ postulated that there was a region surrounding the civilised areas of the world where the density of many Humanoid races was low to nonexistent. Saraca reasoned that the area beyond that region was filled with feral Humanoids. The sheer behavioural incompatibility of those races made it more practical to kill them off than keep them around, creating a zone where none existed.

Elves were a notable exception to the idea. They were a race with dozens of countries and enclaves around the world, and he suspected there were more of them beyond the bounds of the Confederacy’s knowledge. Elves were a unique case, however, as it was not the general strength of the race as a whole that allowed them to maintain their feral state, but the ridiculous power of certain individuals spawned from the world-spanning antics of the Eight.

“Well,” Girika said, “since we’re stuck here for a while, it’s a good chance to ask.”

“I intended to ask when we arrived, but…”

He wandered over to a large stand where a group of Singh were admiring a red dragonscale vest. The Laerti Merchant’s annoyed posture straightened at his appearance.

“Welcome, dear customer, welcome,” the Lizardfolk Merchant licked her eyes and looked up at him. “Has our fine showpiece drawn your esteemed interest?”

“It doesn’t seem to be enchanted,” Saraca said.

The Merchant perked up even further, regarding him intently with her slitted reptilian eyes.

“Ah,” she said, “it seems you are not from Rol’en’gorek, but the Confederacy? What you say is true. Lut’s red dragonscale tends to be enchanted at its destination.”

“Then that means Rol’en’gorek is not a desert country…”

“Indeed, dear customer! Rol’en’gorek is mostly jungle, so enchantments from our artisans here would not serve them well.”

“Wouldn’t green dragonscale work better there?”

“It would, but the Beastmen are many and Green Dragons are few. Red dragonscale still affords superior protection and fire resistance is nearly never a waste. All that remains is to add one’s enchantments of choice.”

The group of Singh wandered away. The Laerti Merchant sent a dirty look at their backs.

“Though I say that,” she muttered, “it is difficult to sell anything but salt and other uncomplicated things to those northerners.”

“You must have been through a lot for that to come out,” Saraca chuckled.

“Aye,” the Laerti tapped her claws on the pavement in resignation. “I have been trying to sell this vest for my master for five years now, you know? Rol’en’gorek is counted among the strong countries, but it is a savage strength. Some say it should be expected of a people on the edge of nowhere, but they may as well be from another world. They come to the Lut and their eyes see much, yet comprehension does not follow.”

“Surely it can’t be that bad,” Saraca scratched his arm. “Trade allows ideas and culture to flow and mingle.”

The Laerti snapped her jaws in amusement.

“Ahaha, that is what many say. I trust that you have not been this far from the Confederacy before?”

“I haven’t.”

“In a word, they are primitives – and not in the pure and noble way that some from the civilised lands look fondly upon. Stormport is the furthest end of the Sapphire Coast. Beyond is a world gone mad. Strength and possession are the beginning and end of everything; it is not a place for reasonable folk.”

“I see. So nothing like the Lut.”

“Nothing at all. You are lucky that you sailed the Syrillian Way: the journey overland is at least four thousand kilometres of sheer insanity. The Confederation; the Commonwealth; the League…”

The reptilian Demihuman waved a claw and made a disgusted expression.

“Hopeless, all of them. Good for their raw resources and nothing more.”

“What do they sell?”

“Hides. Timber. Medicinal herbs. Magical Beasts that their hunting parties capture. They probably have plenty more, but they’re too territorial to allow foreigners to survey their territories and prospect for wealth. Many a hopeful Merchant or Sage come here to make inroads to no avail.”

“If there’s no success to be had here, then why not continue west on the Syrillian Way?”

“Some have luck trading with aquatic Demihumans further along the sea lanes,” the Laerti Merchant admitted. “But the prospects are poor and the risk, great. Red Dragons dwell around the volcanoes dotting the northern coast. Ariranha pirates plague the south. No one in their right mind would brave all that for so little.”

“But you do know what lies beyond, yes?”

“More savages,” the Laerti’s voice grew dismissive. “Some even say that the Human tribes beyond have founded ‘countries’. The occasional Beastman from Rol’en’gorek brags about slaying them in the west, but many believe that their claim of a Human country is merely a tale to make their boasting seem more impressive. As if slaying Humans was impressive in the first place.”

The scorn in the Laerti’s voice only ever seemed to escalate when she spoke of Rol’en’gorek. That didn’t bode well for Saraca’s mission at all.

Much to the Merchant’s delight, Saraca purchased the red dragonscale vest. Devi gave him a look when she saw the item hanging over his arm.

“How much was that?” She asked.

“Fifteen thousand platinum,” he answered. “Those gem coins were burning a hole in my pocket.”

“Just because you have money doesn’t mean you have to spend it!”

“It was a good deal,” Saraca said defensively. “A quarter of the price back home. Didn’t you say you were going to stock up on the way out?”

“I did,” Devi admitted, “but now you’re carrying that thing back and forth from wherever we end up. The fact that it was the same price here as red dragonscale vests are in Stormport means that the Merchant was having trouble selling it. You should have let me deal with them.”

“If I did, you would have left her with a seizure.”

Devi peered at him suspiciously. Her striped tail straightened behind her.

“Her?”

“The Merchant was Laerti!”

“I hope so, for both your sakes. This isn’t a place to be picking up strange women. That aside, I had my misgivings coming in, but now I haven’t a clue what the Ashta Pradhan hopes to gain here.”

Saraca’s whiskers twitched at the mention of the Confederacy’s ruling council.

“You can blame the Dubeer for that,” he said. “Or maybe my father since he nominated me for this role.”

Devi would have much preferred to be travelling closer to home, where industry and commerce flourished. She was a lady who enjoyed her modern conveniences.

Unfortunately for her, the council’s task regularly had them travel to far-flung lands beyond the influence of the central powers. All six of the great nations around the centre of the continent were locked in a cold war being fought in all directions. Open conflict between any of them carried a high risk of destabilising the balance of power in an undesirable way, creating Undead-infested wastelands, or both. All they could do was expand their influence in the world beyond, trying to gain various advantages over one another.

Word of a powerful tribal confederation of Beastmen forming on the fringes of the known world was not something the Beastman Confederacy could ignore. From a distance, they seemed likely allies in the struggle for dominance.

“We could have gone to Arborea instead,” Devi muttered. “What I’ve seen of the locals, plus the utter lack of our rivals’ presence here, doesn’t inspire much confidence.”

“I would think that our rivals not being here means that we’ll have the run of the jungle.”

“Or it means that it’s not worth anyone’s time,” his wife told him. “I’m inclined to believe this to be the case. The markets here don’t paint a promising picture.”

“Let’s not keep talking about this in an open market,” Girika said. “Where are we staying, by the way?”

“Girika’s right,” Saraca nodded. “The Camelini said that there is a place for tents–”

“Tents?” Devi growled, “Please let us summon houses.”

“Tents,” Saraca told her. “We’re trying to not stick out too much here.”

Devi groaned, as did Girika. Kasturi, as expected, didn’t care either way. Saraca was accustomed to war camps and long campaigns in the Confederacy’s many colonial frontiers, so he didn’t mind living rough. At least they wouldn’t be sleeping on branches.

After Devi made her purchases, they returned to their caravan. A few of the groups had already returned. Saraca went and joined a tall Laiga female who was gazing out at the desert. The dunes cast long shadows in the setting sun; the heat of the day was rapidly ebbing away.

“What did you find, Karuvaki?” Saraca asked his second wife.

“The four elements are worshipped here, as expected,” Karuvaki answered without turning her attention from the scenery. “There is some variant of a storm god, but he’s not associated with the Storm Dragon Lord. The consort of that storm god is a water god unrelated to the usual elemental gods.”

“How is that noteworthy?”

“Rol’en’gorek is landlocked,” Karuvaki replied. “Most cultures that have paired storm and water gods are in or around large bodies of water – usually seafaring civilisations.”

“Could it be because of the monsoon?” Kasturi asked, “They should have them in this part of the world…”

“It’s possible,” Karuvaki said. “Cyclical events can become central to a religion. The thing about these gods is that they are also personified. There’s the possibility that they’re powerful individuals from the past.”

“Who are they?” Saraca asked.

Karuvaki pulled a notebook from her satchel.

“Let’s see…unique to Rol’en’gorek are a god of storms, god of waves, god of the hunt, god of nature and god of order.”

“What do they look like?” Girika asked.

“The shrines here only have idols and icons. No historical depictions. Idols are rendered in the forms of the local Beastman races. Any icons I’ve noted so far tend to be nature-themed.”

It was the same ‘process’ that they had seen in so many other parts of the world. People attributed supernatural significance to events, people and ideas. When sufficiently developed, belief or adherence to those religious and philosophical concepts became the source of what was commonly known as ‘divine magic’.

This thought was in no way cynical, of course: without the cultivation of a tangible belief system, divine magic was inaccessible. What that understanding did lead to, however, was more questions. If mere belief could manifest magic, then what else could it do? Could deities be born through that power? Perhaps they already had been, unbeknownst to their worshippers.

“Have their belief systems produced divine casters?” Saraca asked.

“They have divine casters,” Karuvaki answered, “but what those divine casters are is yet to be determined. As a whole, it is a society of primitive tribes that confederated in the last century or so. There are heavy elements of nature and ancestor-themed mysticism. The organised religion is not very…organised.”

“So they could just as easily be Druids as they could be true Priests.”

They encountered similar primitive mystical practices more often than not. The world was a place where lasting stability and progress were universally cherished, but not often achieved. Calamities both natural and unnatural tore gaping holes in civilisation – some of which were powerful enough to reduce vast swathes of the continent to ruins.

“What’s the local history like?”

“We’re not even in the country yet,” his second wife chided him. “So far, nothing contradicts what I’ve read in the libraries of Stormport.”

“Two hundred years since the last Cycle here, huh…”

According to what was publicly accessible in Stormport, what this region of the world experienced was one of the more severe manifestations of the Cycle. What countries had been present were wiped out, leaving disparate groups of survivors. Those who survived were incapable of restoring what was lost and devolved into primitive tribes as they were forced into subsistence and history faded to obscurity and myth.

The extent of the Cycle’s effects was unknown, but the thoroughness by which everything was ruined in Rol’en’gorek suggested that everything beyond the Great Lut was in a similar state.

“That they confederated is a significant achievement,” Karuvaki said. “Most places like this reform into hundreds of petty kingdoms and remain in a state of savage tribal competition. The Ashta Pradhan was right to send us here.”

The purposeful energy in the Laiga’s voice was unmistakable. She was what the people of the Confederacy called an ‘uplifter’ – one who reached out to worthy peoples devastated by the Cycle, helping them to rebuild their shattered societies.

Born in a fishing village in one of the lake kingdoms in the Confederacy, she was a devout priestess venerated for her philanthropy. Many temples, monasteries, hospitals, schools and other public works were raised through her efforts. Saraca didn’t doubt that she would do the same here, should they find a promising ally in Rol’en’gorek.

“Woo~ A romantic evening watching the sun set over the dunes. I’m jealous.”

A Baagh head, striped black and white, emerged between Saraca and Karuvaki. It was Saraca’s third wife, Mitra. She placed a paw on each of their shoulders.

“Does that mean we’ll be busy tonight, ji? Maybe we can even drag Devi away from her goods.”

“Hey, don’t ask for the impossible now.”

Mitra chuffed amorously as she rubbed her cheek against Saraca’s arm. She was a princess from another kingdom in the Confederacy’s northwest, but unlike the devout and assertive Karuvaki, she was a playful and sometimes mischievous Chaaran. No one could stay mad at her for long, and she had a Bard’s characteristic way with people. This, more often than not, made her the default diplomat in their entourage.

In all, the official core of his party consisted of himself – an accomplished military commander and the Yuvraj of Gond – a powerful Magnate, a Sacred Claw and a talented Chaaran. Between them, they could analyse everything that needed to be reported to the council as they travelled the world at the Ashta Pradhan’s behest.

The next morning, Saraca watched his breath mist in the frigid air as their cargo was transferred to wagons suited for the earthen roads leading north out of Great Tear. Girika came over to stand with him, dourly eyeing Devi’s goods.

“Twenty tonnes of salt. I could torture a lot of people with that.”

“Why does torture have to be the first thing that comes to mind?” Saraca asked.

“It was the funniest thing that came to mind,” Girika answered. “The first thing that came to mind is we’re already travelling through the blistering desert sands, and now we’re doing it with wagons full of salt. We’ll all be Mummies by the end of this. It’s a cruel and unusual form of tor–hmm, I guess torture was the first thing that came to mind.”

“It isn’t as if Devi’s making you sit in it.”

“Sure seems like it with how full she’s packed those damn wagons.”

They wrapped themselves in layers of protective cloth before continuing on their journey. The road passed the shimmering salt pan of the Great Tear before entering the irrigated farmland along the river that fed it. Demihuman farmers tended crops of grain, legumes and squash. Little in the way of livestock aside from some lizards could be seen.

In the north, the dry, barren mountains of a barrier range slowly grew on the horizon. Another three days’ travel saw them at the next town, where they crossed over a major tributary to continue following the river northeast. The air cooled as they made their way up an arid valley, and they arrived at the border town one week after departing Great Tear. Their Camelini caravan master turned to them once the procession of wagons stopped in a wide stone lot southwest of the settlement.

“This is where we must part ways, good mistress,” he said to Devi. “Rol’en’gorek lies over the pass.”

“Are you sure?” Devi asked, “We’d be more than happy to pay for your services throughout our journey.”

“And we would be honoured to receive your patronage,” the Camelini answered. “But monetary compensation is not the problem. The dangers of Rol’en’gorek are too great for our kind. From here, you must find someone from the north to replace us.”

Dangerous for the Camelini, but not for us?

The Camelini were native to arid climes, so leaving it to enter the jungle could present various problems for them. Poor terrain for themselves and their lizards, diseases, hostile flora and fauna…

“Is there some sort of customs procedure that we must undergo?” Devi asked.

“There are no Beastman officials here. Tolls and taxes are handled at each clanhold. This one is afraid that he does not know much more.”

“Thank you for bringing us safely through the Lut,” Devi pressed her paws together and lowered her head in gratitude. “Let’s settle our business, shall we?”

While Devi paid the caravan master, Saraca eyed the town. After a moment, his gaze wandered to the wind-carved slopes bracketing the irrigated valley floor.

“Is something the matter, Yuv–ehm, Saraca?” Kasturi asked.

Saraca blinked, his gaze going to the Gladestalker. He retraced the path of his vision.

“The locals are scarce. It wasn’t like that on the way here.”

“Not so safe, then,” Kasturi’s emerald eyes scanned the surroundings. “So far from home and still acting the Warmaster.”

“Any place can become a battlefield,” Saraca replied. “Do you see anything?”

“Nothing. Whatever these people are wary of must come from further away. Or maybe underground?”

Realistically, it could be any number of things. They were at the fringes of the Storm Dragon Lord’s domain. Once they left, they might be attacked by anything from bandits to feral tribes to Magical Beasts or even the local Dragon.

“At least we might be able to meet new and exotic people,” Girika said. “I wonder what they taste like.”

Saraca gave the Inquisitor a reproachful look.

“Oh, don’t give me that,” Girika said. “I don’t doubt you’ve been dreaming about savage princesses to add to your harem.”

His wives turned suspicious looks at him – even Devi, who was still speaking with the caravan master.

“Is that true?” Karuvaki asked.

“O-of course not,” he answered.

“Of course it is!” Mitra laughed, “If a suitable candidate appeared, our ji would be a fool not to take her.”

“That doesn’t mean I dream about encounters with savage princesses,” Saraca replied. “What are the chances, anyway?”

Though vast and prosperous, the Confederacy was not gifted with divine bloodlines and celestial weapons like a few of its neighbours. They made up for it through various means, striving in every field to cultivate their strength.

Saraca and all of his wives were extraordinary individuals by the measures of the Beastman Confederacy. They were the crystallisation of centuries of careful breeding: part of the effort to maintain the balance of power between the six superpowers at the centre of the continent.

Finding candidates to add to the matrix of exceptional bloodlines was a ‘bonus objective’ for their travels. With the odds as they were, however, it may as well have been a dream as Girika suggested.

“Even so,” Karuvaki said, “if that ‘dream’ comes true, make sure you consult with us. Who knows what sort of trickery they have out here?”

“That kind of strength is impossible to fabricate,” Saraca said.

“Oh yeah?” Mitra said, “What if they claim to be someone like Devi?”

As a Merchant, Devi was not particularly strong on the battlefield, but she was unparalleled in commerce. Saraca has taken her as his first wife as a statement that powerful individuals could come from any caste; that martial strength was only one pillar of a civilisation’s success.

“Then they would have to prove themselves,” Saraca told his third wife. “Be they artisans, magic casters, Farmers or whatever else, we have measures for everything. I am not so easily deceived.”

“Wait,” Girika said, “we’re looking at Farmers, now?”

“It’s more that an exceptional Farmer easily sticks out, no?” Saraca said, “Cultivating crops in impossible conditions or producing insane yields. People would notice that sort of thing straight away.”

Devi parted ways with the caravan master, instructing the house guard to help unload the wagons. She looked toward the quiet town as if searching for something.

“What are you searching for?” Saraca asked.

“A Beastman caravan master,” Devi answered. “Transport is prearranged around here. A Merchant from the north comes here, then switches to the Camelini if they want to go further. The wagons they used to get here wait until they return. Usually, they go no further than the border towns. They use Nug to draw wagons in Rol’en’gorek and the vehicles are made for muddy roads.”

“If that’s the case,” Mitra said, “we have to wait here until a Merchant comes from the north and hope that they’ll let us hire their wagons while they’re away south?”

“Or we send someone over the border to bring wagons to us. How far is it?”

“A hundred kilometres.”

“So we’re stuck here for at least four days,” Saraca mused. “Unless we get lucky or they’ve got some fast breed of Nug that we’ve never seen before.”

The distance was easily made in a day by the members of their entourage, but the wagons hauling their goods were another story.

“Thinking that we could inject ourselves into the flow of merchant traffic was too optimistic,” Saraca said.

“I never expected a country so large to have so little international commerce!” Devi replied defensively, “Don’t make it sound as if I blundered somehow. This is just wrong.”

“I’m not blaming you, I’m just stating the reality of things. We need to shrink our caravan to an amount the entourage can carry without needing to rely on transport.”

Devi grew more and more sullen as he spoke. Saraca sighed.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad after we cross the border,” he said.

His offering did little to mollify Devi. She preferred to travel with large caravans and even fleets of ships loaded with her cargo, drawing awe and wonder at every destination with mountains of goods. It wasn’t so much a matter of greed as it was her way of enlightening the locales that they frequented of the wide world. Still, profit could be had at every turn and so she would turn a profit wherever she went. The seemingly isolated and primitive Rol’en’gorek was a challenge that she was adamant about overcoming, though she would probably complain all the way through.

It took the full four days that he had guessed for an empty caravan of wagons to arrive for their goods. To Devi’s delight, Kasturi reported the existence of a robust river network used to transport goods all over Rol’en’gorek.

“So it’s a jungle out there, right?” Girika asked, “Not, in reality, another valley filled with sand that happens to look like a jungle?”

“Yes, my love,” Kasturi rolled her eyes. “I can’t say that the flora and fauna are the exact same, but it is not dissimilar to the rainforests of the Confederacy.”

“Great,” Girika said. “Then let’s get ourselves out of this hell.”