Valkyrie's Shadow

Winter's Crown: Act 2, Chapter 11

Winter's Crown: Act 2, Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Ilyshn’ish dispelled her invisibility in an alley several blocks away, distancing herself from the crowded main streets of the city before she resumed her wanderings.

She walked out onto a nearly empty avenue of the commercial quarter, strolling by the shops and various establishments that once served the ancient Dwarf metropolis. As with the decrepit merchant inn where the Vampire Brides were posted, these buildings, too, were in a similar state of ruin. Dwarven architecture had a widespread reputation for its pragmatic and durable design, but even these structures could not withstand an era of neglect – especially with the Quagoa long having the opportunity to strip everything bare.

Anything resembling valuable minerals, ores or metals had been gnawed away. Any obstructions to anything that they perceived as nourishment for their young had been broken down and cast aside. Extravagant pieces of furniture lay in pieces, torn apart for their metal supports and fastenings, while finely sculpted pieces of stonework had their decorative veins consumed. The quarter looked nothing more than having been subjected to an army of giant, stone-eating termites.

Ilyshn’ish came upon a Dwarf with his belongings piled about him, the Soul Eater which had delivered them disappearing around the corner. His grim gaze ran over the demolished storefront before him before settling on a broken signboard lying on cracked streets with a sigh.

“Is something wrong?” She asked from a short distance behind him.

“Naw, nothing like that. This…” His voice slowed to a pause as he turned to reply, and he cleared his throat, “My family’s place has seen Demon Gods, Dragons, Quagoa and gods know what else. I’m just thankful that there’s anything left at all.”

“It looks like a lot of work for just yourself,” she looked over his lair again.

Demolished was putting it lightly. The remains of the storefront was all that seemed to be left, with the rest collapsed into itself and caked over with decades of ice.

“Hmph, a little bit ‘o work ain’t nothin’,” he smirked, and his thick red beard waggled as he spoke. “Give me a bit ‘o time and she’ll be looking good as new.”

He pulled the thick winter mittens off of his hands and brushed them off briefly.

“Can’t say I’ll be doing much business till then,” he extended a hand towards her, “but welcome to my shop. Flint Firebrand – this here’s my family’s old store.”

She stared at his proffered hand as he introduced himself. The Dwarves had simple, nearly meaningless names: certainly nothing like rich Draconic ones. Ilyshn’ish, on the other hand, had no name that she wished to share with anyone. The Dwarf's expression of greeting faltered at her delay, so she quickly reached out and clasped his hand.

“Thank you, Flint Firebrand,” she fixed a smile on her face, “My name is…Shiver.”

“Shiver?” Flint raised a bushy eyebrow as he shook her hand, “A stage name, then?”

“Yes, precisely,” she nodded. “I am a minstrel.”

“Ye don’t say? Well, there ain’t been much cause for song in the past few decades, but things’re really turning ‘round now. I take it you’ve come as one of the first to reclaim our history.”

“Rather than seeking the histories,” Ilyshn’ish’s lips turned up with the hint of a smile, “I am more interested in witnessing the living history that is unfolding before our very eyes. It is a rare thing to be a part of such moments in time – I can always review the things of the past at my leisure.”

“Hah!” Flint roared, and Ilyshn’ish barely caught herself from jumping up in surprise, “Well spoken! I’m sure a fine lass like yerself will be welcome anywhere you go. I’ll be keeping an eye out around the taverns for ya.”

“How long until you think they’re open?” She asked.

“As soon as they get the taps flowing, probably,” he answered. “The Brewmaster’s on top of his game when it comes to this sort of thing. Bunch of the Regency Council are, really. Now that they got the chance to show their stuff, they’re really throwing themselves into it.”

“So that’s why it seems so much more orderly on this side,” she murmured. “What about the Secretary of the King’s Cabinet? There’s quite a chaotic scene in front of the residential quarter right now.”

The storekeeper scratched his beard and cocked his head slightly, but they were too far to make anything out beyond the general din floating over the city. Only the sounds of nearby restoration efforts could be clearly heard.

“Can’t be helped, I suppose,” he said at length. “The Secretary heads the ministers in the King’s Cabinet, but ya can’t truthfully say that it’s the same government as the days before the Demon Gods. You can clearly see that they’ve been holding things together for all these years, but maybe it was outta sheer desperation that people followed their lead. Now, with the reclamation underway, there’s probably a lotta pride and history and hot blood in the mix. Maybe they’ll get a handle on it eventually, but that won’t happen as long as things stay as they are.”

“It...it won’t become anything bad, will it?” Ilyshn’ish said worriedly.

“Probably not – the other parts of the Regency Council are runnin’ just fine. If anything, it’s probably just all the excitement getting to everyone’s heads. I get that people want to move in right the hell away, but seeing that they sent men to take a look around first, the council should’ve known what needed to be done first. They coulda sorted things out in Feoh Jura while that all got done, but maybe it just all happened so fast that they had no time to think things through…I doubt it’ll stay this way after their getting a taste o’ this first batch.”

“I see,” Ilyshn’ish said. “Well, thank you for your time, Flint Firebrand. I should let you get back to your work.”

“Yer welcome at my shop any time, miss.”

Ilyshn’ish bobbed her head as he smiled at her – were Dwarves even supposed to bob their heads? It seemed a common thing with humanoids, at least – and continued on her way.

She zigzagged through the streets and avenues, witnessing many of the same scenes repeated over and again. Soul Eaters dropped off their passengers and cargo, while men and women went to work on restoring the old, broken lairs that belonged to their families before the fall of the city. Crossing through into the industrial quarter, she found that things were a bit different.

Instead of various families arriving to each fix up the remains of their own ancestral properties, she saw that large teams of Dwarves had been organized for a concerted effort to get each facility up and running again in turn. Just inside the gate, in front of a large warehouse, a finely-dressed Dwarf with a thick, overflowing beard braided in gold bands stood in front of a small group of his fellows.

“We got another urgent order for nails, Guildmaster,” one of them spoke up over the ruckus. “Brewmaster again. He wants to know when we’re ready to get parts for furniture made as well.”

Ilyshn’ish’s steps slowed. According to the ancient texts in the capital, the Guildmaster was one of the prominent members of Dwarven society: a leading member of their ruling council. With the opportunity to finally get her first clear glimpse of a living Dwarf Lord, she decided that there was not much to them: this one was just a slightly wealthier-looking Dwarf who directed those around him, similar to how Quagoa Lords behaved.

“Damn that idiot,” the Guildmaster groused. “Does he think we can start churning things out the second we move in? How’s the Ironforge Foundry looking?”

“Still a long way – they’ve just finished making sure the area’s cleaned up and ready for the overhaul. Well, less an overhaul and more a complete rebuild: those Quagoa really left no nail uneaten. We got most of what we need together, but it’ll be weeks yet until the furnaces are lit: we’re setting up several dozen temporary smelters and forges in the meantime.”

“They’re going as fast as they can then,” the Dwarf Lord grunted. “We’re gonna have to lean on Feoh Jura until we get at least two or three of these big jobs done. The masons and carpenters – how are they doing out in the city?”

“The ones we have so far are already out and about doing what they can,” a different Dwarf replied. “All the shops are wrecked – we need more hands out here. Which genius decided to try to be nice and fair to everyone again?”

“Heh, that’d be the Cabinet Secretary’s people: think they can play all the sides and ignore priorities. If the Forgemaster was still around he might have been able to knock some sense into them before all this…well, no point whining ‘bout it. There anything else we can do to make things go faster? What about transport?”

“Nothing to complain about there, all things considered. Everything’s been precisely on schedule – well, until everything else clogged up. Now, all we can expect is that everything comes in in order. I sent out a man to request that they expedite delivery of some riding lizards to help move all this debris away: no idea how they’ll do that, though. The storm outside will freeze ‘em solid in the passes…”

The discussion faded into the distance as Ilyshn’ish continued further into the quarter. With all of the Dwarves’ efforts focused on one or two complexes, the rest of the Industrial Quarter was eerily silent. The buildings, mostly centred around the metalworking industries of the city, had been the focus of the Quagoa’s predations. It wouldn’t be wrong to say that the place had been chewed to the ground.

The Dwarf that spoke near the warehouse was right: rather than restoring the old industrial buildings, they would need to be rebuilt from scratch. Having been born in the city, Ilyshn’ish personally witnessed its slow decline over the decades. To the Dwarves – who had been away for centuries – however, it must have been quite the shock to see their old metropolis eaten to rubble.

The next set of Dwarves she encountered were all the way at the end of the avenue leading through the quarter. Three soldiers stood guard at the gate to the Royal Quarter of the city. Their eyes followed her approach, but they did not speak until she came within ten metres of the gate.

“Halt,” the officer standing in the middle of the road ordered. “By order of the Regency Council, no one’s to enter the Palace Quarter without express permission.”

I’ve just come to take a look at my old home.

A part of her wanted to say that to the soldiers at the gate, just to see how they reacted. Despite the often unpleasant mix of memories that came with the place, she had lived in the palace of Feoh Berkana for nearly a century. It had been her lair for her entire life. The soldiers watched her as she stopped to stand before them, leaning on axes that stood up to their chests, but they did not move in any aggressive manner. Ilyshn’ish felt safe enough to speak from a distance.

“I’m just a minstrel, come to see with my own eyes this great homecoming,” she said. “To see the city, and what has happened since the time of the Demon Gods.”

The soldiers relaxed somewhat, eyeing her appraisingly.

“A minstrel, huh,” the officer’s voice lost its gruff tone. “Well, it’s good that you’re here, but our orders stand: no one in or out of the quarter, without express permission, until further notice.”

It seemed that they were at an impasse. Up to this point, the Dwarves seemed to be quite open with her for whatever reason, but the soldiers before her stood firm. It would be a simple matter to bypass them by going over the wall elsewhere, but the various interactions that had led her to this point left Ilyshn’ish with the feeling that witnessing the thoughts and reactions of the people were more important than just looking around.

She reviewed events in her memory, seeking a way to fish out some sort of response to start a dialogue.

“Does it have anything to do with that smell?” She wrinkled her nose as she spoke, and the soldiers frowned.

“Dammit,” one of the men to the side said, “we told those idiot officials that they needed those vents open to keep things aired out, but they only care about getting the temperature raised. We’re Dwarves, for crying out loud – a little bit of cold won’t kill us while we wait for the furnaces to be rebuilt.”

“What in the world is it?”

“It was a battle,” the officer said. “Quagoa parts and blood all over the grand promenade and all the statues and buildings along the way. The cabinet ministers keeled right over when they first saw it on the way to the palace. That Sorcerer King did a hell of a number on those vermin…I can’t even imagine what he did.”

“Well, the city is getting warmer like the officials wanted,” Ilyshn’ish noted, “and the crowds coming in are getting ripe themselves, being pressed together in the streets and all. Are we going to have to deal with some incredible stench going forward?”

“Ah, no, that particular part you don’t have to worry about,” the officer replied. “Some gentleman from the Sorcerous Kingdom appeared and kindly offered to collect all the, uh, chunks for us. Said he could use the meat for his livestock or something. Should be long gone by now, but we’re still dealing with all the stains – gotta get things cleaned up before all the rich folks start making their way in.”

“That’s the reason why the quarter has been barred?”

“For the most part, yeah,” the officer admitted. “Can’t have some clan patriarch walking in and finding out that his family’s mansion’s got a fresh coat of Quagoa paint, and can’t have anyone else coming in before they get their house guards set up to protect their precious property. Hmm…you’re not part of some big clan head, are you? I swear I’ve seen you somewhere before…”

“As I said,” Ilyshn’ish smiled disarmingly, “I’m just a minstrel. We’ve certainly never met – I’m sure I would remember it. How long until the Palace Quarter is open for visitors again? I’ve heard so many things about it: is everything they say true?”

“Everything and more,” the officer nodded, “well, minus the Quagoa splattered all over the place. Should be open for all to see and pay their respects to the Royal Family in a couple of weeks or so.”

“I see,” she said. “Well, there’s much to see elsewhere still. I hear the Brewmaster is working hard to get the taverns open soon too, so things should pick up before then.”

The soldiers brightened at the prospect she presented. Their stern expressions from when she had been called to stop had completely melted away.

“That’s some welcome news, miss,” the officer said, and the soldiers nodded. “Can’t wait to get that first mug in the capital – maybe we’ll run into you some time too.”

Ilyshn’ish merely continued smiling and nodded before turning back the way she had come. She walked back through the Industrial Quarter; past the Guildmaster and his men at the warehouse. She returned through the streets of the Commercial Quarter that were slowly filling with the buildup of incoming traffic. Entering an alley not far from the ruined building where the Vampire Brides were posted, Ilyshn’ish slowed to a stop after sensing that a Dwarf had slipped in behind her.

“Is there something I can do for you?” She asked without turning around.

The sound of iron-shod boots scraped over the stones as the figure stopped. Some time passed before the Dwarf replied.

“I-is it really you?”

Ilyshn’ish frowned at the unexpected answer. She spun on her heel to face the source of the voice and found the elderly Dwarf who had reacted so strangely before she ended the altercation at the gate to the Residential Quarter. His reaction now was no less pronounced – if anything, it was even more so. He took in her appearance and let out a choked sob, falling to his knees.

“By all of the gods,” he said between shuddering breaths. “Why? How?”

Ilyshn’ish scowled down at the old Dwarf – she hoped that no one would appear and cause problems over this odd sight.

“What do you mean by why?”

“No, of course. I know…I know…but…” The Dwarf lowered his head down over the pebbles in the alley, “You’ve come for vengeance – for me! Please…my sons have done nothing wrong, neither have my grandsons. Take my soul if you want, but please have mercy on my line.”

Looking down at the shiny bald head and the wisps of dry, white, hair, Ilyshn’ish finally pieced together the mystery that accompanied her wanderings through Feoh Berkana. Many disparate things had converged: threads through time that had intersected and twisted together to create this insignificant, yet remarkable, incident. Sheer coincidence in the eyes of many, perhaps, but Ilyshn’ish knew: the world expressed its will in unfathomable ways, and fate was often delivered from an unexpected hand.

“Leave this place, Thondin, son of Bomor,” she told him quietly. “What’s done is done. I cannot change the past for you – nor can I forgive you for it.”