The Ribbeting Rampart

The Ribbeting Rampart

Prologue

The beginning of life sounds to be a time of majesty. A planet where no wicked has yet set afoot. But seldom does it turn that way: for no Creator is without agenda, nor hidden impetus spurring their side.

Altaria was birthed by two Creators: a mother and a son, Helsa and Malika. But their rule was fated to clash before they had even begun; for Helsa wanted no part in such a project. Her son bred fear and thrived in it; the shadows came to him for worship, and he basked in their reverie. The irony was not lost on her; for she was light, the spear to penetrate the obscured path of dusk; and her sigil was a moth, signifying no man or woman could fall if in search of the light.

But Helsa was not the great Goddess you think her to be. Her manipulation has led you to believe that the light is but a beacon of good, shielding you from the darkness of shadows. Yet why would you take the word of one so biased? The light and dark are simply entities, ancient beings impartial to such subjective terms. Just because you thrive at day and fear the unknown brought upon its end makes it no foul thing. The unknown causes fear and intrigue; the light brings warmth and comfort. Yet it is up to the individual to decide whereupon that scale they lie.

Helsa frowned upon her son’s taste for mystery and the veiled path; but Malika would not yield. He could not yield. For he knew life without freedom was not a life: it became the property of someone else. However, despite Malika’s wisdom, he was foolish. When Helsa agreed to design Altaria with him, the allure of hidden ventures overcame the sense to doubt his mother’s change in heart; and he agreed at once.

Malika should have fled. Unbeknownst to him, Helsa was planning to transmute his very being into a vessel of light: to alter the fabric of his body, the detail in every cell, and permeate his soul with the golden rays that defined his mother.

When creating Altaria, Malika created the layers of the earth and the creatures that could survive in such darkness; and Helsa created the landscapes, forests, mountains, and glaciers, along with those to inhabit such places. They used powerful artefacts to birth the four main species that would originate on their planet. The Blade of Norilineth was a sword of light and gold, and creator of the first humans; the Crown of Radiant gave rise to the first phoenixes, angelic beings to thrive amongst the clouds; the Scourge of Shadows birthed the first zaruman, creatures to dwell below; and the Faeth Owre, a shrouded egg of black inking, bred the first fae. So there were two artefacts of light, followed by two of dark, making four accursed items that should have never been allowed to remain on Altaria.

Once Altaria had been finished, Helsa made her move. As joint owner of the realm, she was able to flaunt the rules she and Malika had made without repercussions. They had agreed to split the realm in half; for he could not stand the light, and she had no desire to dwell in the dark. But Helsa betrayed him. Maba, mother of witches, assisted Helsa in building a seraphic tower of crystal, said to hold the carving of a thousand Creators and witches, in exchange for a place on Altaria. It is said the tower scratched the heavens, stealing but a fraction of its light to spread through Altaria like a flood. It basked not just the surface but the under layers too, in eternal light.

Enraged, Malika was flushed from the shadows, where Maba and Helsa lay in wait. There was no battle. Malika was bound by tendrils of light that scorched his body and mind. These tendrils were to act as a prison, tethering him to the surface of the world until the black in his heart turned white. It is said he remained there for centuries, with no indication that his heart would ever yield, until Maba’s sworn foes, the very reason she sought refuge on Altaria, found her.

The Four Feared Forefathers were warlocks of tremendous power. They brought an army of drakes to assist them in their conquest of Maba. In the chaos, Malika convinced them to break the tendrils that ensnared him and, thereafter, the seraphic tower, beginning war. But then it became Malika’s turn to betray. He left the forefathers to fight on their own, disappearing deep into the earth where they would not find him; for he had already felt the imprint of Helsa’s scalding light, and to fight was to die, or suffer the glare of a thousand suns.

There is one reason why light will always prevail over dark, one that cannot be explained. It is because it was written in the cosmic rules that define our Universe. No element is without vulnerability. In simple, as fire bows to water, water bows to lightning, lightning bows to earth, and earth bows to fire: dark bows to light. Many more entities of nature factor into the equation; but it is irrelevant. In war, Helsa could not lose to Malika.

It took many aeons for Maba and Helsa to muster the might to bring sufficient challenge to the Forefathers, during which they birthed dragons to combat the drakes that opposed them. But it was still unclear which side might prevail; and the war had now established its presence throughout Altaria. So Helsa brought her forked tongue to the enemy, where they came to conclusion.

Poison-laced nectar rendered Maba unconscious, to be gifted to the warlocks; and in return, the Forefathers fled Helsa’s planet, leaving only their creations behind. It was only then that Altaria felt the warm winds of peace. Helsa had not the will to devise another seraphic tower, nor the power to combat her son in the realm of darkness below; so impasse had been reached. But it said that Malika never forgot or forgave his mother’s betrayal, and issued generation upon generation to retrieve the lost artefacts across the world’s surface. All evaded his grasp but the scourge, which still rests poised in his steady hands.

Interlude

Glissando. Crescendo. Diminuendo. My fingers glisten with the sheen of sweat; they thump yet caress ivory keys to accentuate the juxtaposing sections of music. I only play minor, yet it feels appropriate in these sombre surroundings. A near-empty tavern holds my audience captive; though they care not for my music but the drinks that spill like rivers from barrels. Only the bartender seems somewhat interested, as he lays his weighty forearms upon the oaken table where he pours drinks. I am surprised the fool is able to comprehend the majesty of the work before him: those that dwell and work in these establishments are oftentimes short of mind. Much like the two drunkards I can hear talking over me, who drown my song with their hearty laughs. But I pay them no heed and immerse myself further. I’m here on business, not to please. My eyes glance at the ill-scrawled letter beside me.

The music calls to me, so I close my eyes, lifting as it grips my heart. The melody is stern yet playful, imposing yet passive; its very whisper is a lullaby to my ears. I feel lighter, unburdened. Then, my fingers crash down. I hit the keys forcefully as my inhibitions subside. It’s deafening, but I continue, ignoring the blood trickling between my toes. My face contorts like a madman; I am a parallel to the jesters I despise. Waves of pleasure crash upon me like tsunamis, as the piece reaches its climax. I shudder. A moan escapes my pursed lips.

And then there’s nothing. The calm foregoing the storm. Tranquillity to rival the ether, that allows me to revel in my moment.

Satisfied, I look back. Blood still trickles from the drunkard’s bodies, pooling at my feet. I shudder again and stoop to taste their crimson nectar. The man at the bar turns white and runs, screaming. I stifle a laugh. Even the largest, most fearsome of men flee like rabbits at the sight of death. There is something beautiful about that, something invigorating. Everyone has fear within; one must simply know how to kindle it into the flames that can consume a man.

I have no remorse toward those I killed: had these people appreciated the fine art exhibited before them, their loss might have meant something. Might. Yet I deem it unlikely. Some are destined to serve as food for the mighty. To serve as pawns for the greater good.

Not everyone dies a hero.

Chapter One

A stranger sits across the table, exhaling dirty fumes from his peshtar cigar. With a mauve-tinted cloak to match his crimson hair, ghostly white skin, and slender frame, it is clear he is a zaruman. Inscrutable by nature, these creatures reveal less than the shadows they dwell in. I ought to kill him where he sits. No. I am here on business. I will wait until the others arrive. They had better arrive soon. The zaruman looks to be my age but is likely many years younger. As a witch, my life will extend to thrice that of one hundred, giving my fifty-year-old body a youthful appearance.

The others file in soon after. First, comes a Turmenian half-giant from the north; her stature is like a mountain amongst trees. Second, march two dwarven brothers, raised in the easterly mines of Anchoria; they have knotted, red beards longer than my arms. And third, comes a murlan, a fish-looking creature from one of the warrior seafolk tribes; an ancient trident rests in his scaled palms. What odd company we would have looked, at anywhere but The Ribbeting Rampart. This is a tavern designated for questing, run by the adventurer’s guild. Many travellers come to check out the notice boards, but most have not the steel to go further. However, if you are brave enough, you can gain access to a quest for a small fee. Then, you are given a scroll of information and sent to brave the unearthly horrors that only the Altaria could hold. However, haste is of the utmost concern, as scrolls are not limited to just one party. It is not unheard of for adventurers to spend months journeying and find their quest has been completed by a superior team.

Rewards often consist of gold and silver, but it is not unheard of to be paid in other treasures. Two types of quests are available for purchase: private and public. Private quests are put up by an independent contractor or the state, who provide the reward; whereas public quests are hearsay, and normally about lost treasure. The rewards are what you find. However, that is all written in the preliminary contract, of course. Which brings me to why I am here: Laphelia, the forgotten kingdom. Submerged under the uninhabitable lands of Nephistole is a hidden paradise, rumoured to hold vast stores of stolen goods that were hidden by pirates millennia ago. We are here to reclaim them, or more specifically, the Faeth Owre: an artefact said to grant the powers of the fae. I agree that wealth beyond your dreams sounds bewildering; but imagine being able to float into the high skies and dance amongst the clouds, or swim into the deepest oceans using magic to conceal yourself from harm. They say the fae do not even age, so you can remain in your prime forever.

Convinced yet? I was not. Not until I received a letter informing me of a route into the hidden kingdom, through caves older than the ice lands themselves. I expect to encounter the type of creatures that haunt your dreams, and a journey more perilous than the great God Helsa’s wrath. So why do I risk myself as such? Well, the letter spoke of a reward in exchange for the Faeth Owre. A reward I will risk my life and betray my companions to obtain. It promised the egg of a dragon.

Who am I? My name is Arwen Koldor, and I am a frost witch from the North. My skin is pale as moonlight, and clothing me is a dress fashioned from Turmenian blue silk; there is a slit between my legs to increase my mobility. Despite my thin, hazel locks and asymmetrical, scarred face, I draw the attention of every man and woman here. Though that may be consequent of my bright silver gloves made of hundreds of tiny chains, that interweave to create an impenetrable net.

Two weeks ago, I was drinking in this same tavern, befriending all those who would speak with me. It was then I stumbled upon our team. We began as strangers, but ended as brothers locked in embrace. And in the midst of our antics, we made a pact to return in two weeks and quest for the mythical Faeth Owre. I have barely slept since.

‘First things first,’ I growl, interrupting our group’s reunion. ‘Who invited the zaruman?’ The filthy creature smirks as Alfa, the half-giant, puts a hand on my shoulder.

‘His name is Zehdaim. I brought him along. I think he’ll be useful.’

‘Oh, please.’ I raise my rough, cobbled staff. Its sapphire core thrums with energy, barely contained by the spiral of surrounding stone. I go to take aim, but my target is gone. I feel the sting of blade on skin as an obsidian knife caresses my neck.

‘I could kill everyone in this party with but a swipe of my blade. I cannot see how I will be of less use than you. Now, watch your tongue, or you’ll lose it.’ I remain still as the zaruman takes his place back at the table.

‘It is settled then,’ Alfa announces. ‘Zehdaim will be travelling with us. Now, let’s have a drink before we talk business!’

Let me introduce you to the team before I continue. Alfa was born in the harsh, Northern lands of Turmenia, where even flies soar like birds in the sky. We will cross it on our travels to Nephistole, the true North. Half-giants are not the product of giants and humans, but an entirely different species. They dwarf humans by size, yet are still small in the eyes of a pure giant. Alfa’s role will be the heavy lifting and, in combat, creating diversions while we execute our foes. The two tan-skinned dwarves are Eni and Enoch. As expected, they wear the most prestigious, custom-fit armour, with diamond-tipped axes and heaps of jewellery. Their expertise with caving will prove useful when we arrive at our location- not that they know of the secret passage. Finch is the murlan: with a set of working gills, thick, reflective scales, and lean, developed muscles, he will make a fine hunter on both land and water. He usually travels on all fours with webbed feet, broadcasting his thick spine and hiding his tall physique. The zaruman are a darkness-infused counterpart to humans, forced to live in the undercity millennia ago. They call themselves magicians, but their kind works with chaos sorcery, an unregulated branch of wizardry that takes energy from entropic sources. It is rumoured that when the zaruman were created so many years ago, they struck a deal with Malika, who promised them power to match the terror they brought to the world.

‘I think it is time to settle the plan,’ I say, as Eni and Enoch begin wrestling each other on the ground. It is going to be rough travelling with four men. ‘Let us purchase the scroll at the guild counter and seek another shelter for the night. I do not trust the prying eyes in this tavern.’ We seek to try ourselves at not just any quest, but one that has been on the market for centuries. When word gets out about our adventure, we will likely be followed by scavengers wishing to steal our reward should we prove successful.

‘Aye, my fair maiden. That is as good a plan as any. Are we still certain of our wish to continue, and of the valour in our hearts?’ Enoch asks. Slowly, everyone nods. ‘Then it is settled. Let us quest!’ He pulls out a horn fashioned from the tusk of some beast and blows, before giving a hearty chuckle and standing upright. I shake my head and follow his lead. These idiots are going to get me killed.

‘We would like to quest for the Faeth Owre,’ I say, smiling at the human behind the counter.

‘You’d like to quest for the Faeth Owre?’ He says loudly, raising his eyebrows. All heads turn toward us. I notice a goblin eyeing the dwarven armour on Enoch like a hyena scans its prey.

‘Yes,’ I say hurriedly. I want to gouge the human’s eyeballs for his stupidity. He must be a half-wit; the slow tempo at which he fiddles through the wall of scrolls is reminiscent of a troll.

When at last he pulls our item from a bejewelled clasp affixed to the wall, I snatch it from his hands and replace it with a pouch of silver. He looks offended by my ill-mannered gesture, but I could not care less.

‘Let us leave, now,’ I bark. No one objects. We march out of the building and stop in an alley.