Chapter 5 of “The Elder Ones: Earth Splitter”
- Chapter 1 – New Horizons
- Chapter 2 – The Heart of Wilderness
- Chapter 3 – City of Lions
- Chapter 4 – The Trail of Heroes
Auroch’s heavy footfalls ensure everything continues to run smooth on the deck of the fluyt as it flies across the treacherous waves of the Northern Sea. Auroch knows his destination lies hidden somewhere beyond the scope of modern maps but his determination to achieve any goal he sets his mind to, or a task others give unto him is undeniable.
In this case, Atheron ordered Auroch, through a long-winded and contrived choice of words, to do everything in Auroch’s power to find the creator of the legendary sword, Fang. Auroch spent the first couple of days of this task recovering answers for questions he did not know he had. Of course, he did not need to try too hard. The omnipresent threat of the fanatical army inside the walls of Buulan ensures an almost universal willingness for plebeians to comply with any request.
On the third day of Auroch’s search, help came from an unexpected and unwanted source in the form of the Athenaeum’s de facto leader, Lady Dané Arcensteyn. The well-connected guild master offered up the quite substantial amount of information she possessed for little more than a promise – a promise she would be the first in many long centuries to set foot on the continent of Dragon’s End. The request made Auroch uneasy, as he knows those not descended in some way from Tor’s bloodline would taint the heart of the ancient homeland of the Kulvaan peoples. Auroch did agree to Dané’s request, though his reservations and reluctance were nothing if not repeated by the appearance of everyone onboard the Acheron.
The two-deck fluyt is an old ship and bears the hallmarks of Rylnaar shipwrights associated with the Ashaan Assassin’s Athenaeum. Auroch remembers the vessel with fuzzy and vague memories. To the best of his ability, he recalls it to be one of the many ships sunk under mysterious circumstances several years prior. The Acheron managing to exist provides a clue into how powerful the Athenaeum is under Dané’s guidance.
The light and sleek footsteps of Lady Dané approach the bow of the ship behind the rugged and three-day-unshaven Auroch. For much of the journey, he has stood at the prow of the Acheron, never looking away from the horizon. Auroch does not acknowledge Dané with any words He instead gives a complex hand signal telling her to stand still a few metres behind him.
‘It’s dangerous for you to be up here, milady. These men don’t often have a lady with them on the open seas, and I can’t guarantee you any form of protection. After all, I’m not the fighter I was in my younger days and I’m almost certain any of these strapping seamen would deliver quite the pounding to my arse. Though it would take more than a few of them to break my defences,’ Auroch says.
Dané glances around at her surroundings. The odd barrel and tangle of rope are the sole adornments of the forecastle, old as they may be. Beyond the prow, the tumultuous sea rocks the Acheron with the greatest of ease and the fog grows denser the further north the vessel travels. In Dané’s mind, it makes sense for a place like Dragon’s End to have a permanent shroud of fog to mask its location from eyes seeking to gain wealth and fame and riches from the mythical vaults said to adorn the First Continent.
‘We’re close. I can smell it in the air. The seas grow restless, though they are not so bad anymore. I fear my suspicions were right. The cry we heard the day we left Denarr was indeed one of the gods of old letting out a vicious death wail. What is more, I believe it were the one which best embodied the seas,’ Dané says.
Auroch clenches his jaw at the mention of what he knows as the fabled Dûgán. He might not be the kind to believe in mythological creations or the ramblings of priests who believe in outlandish religious philosophies, but he admits there is evidence to support such ideologies. Auroch continues to stare out over the sea.
‘You’re one of those types, are you? Are you someone who can tell everything there is to know about a certain topic by reading the air like the seers of old? You don’t know half the truth of what those things are capable, milady. I suspect in your entire life you’ve not seen or heard the first whiff of any kind of real battle. I’ve seen firsthand what the power of those beasts can do, and it is worse than any story you could ever hope to tell of them,’ Auroch says.
In the fog, the black silhouettes of large and unfamiliar birds with huge wingspans penetrate the greyness. The wings belong to the mighty Praetor Eagle. These majestic creatures serve as the last great predator present on Dragon’s End. Auroch and Dané straighten out to watch a pair of silhouettes swoop and swirl around in the low clouds kissing the Northern Sea. Several minutes pass before the Acheron, after its long and often treacherous journey from the Denarr docks, comes into sight of a landmass. This is not a familiar landmass to Dané, though her experiences in the wider world allows her to sense the evil resonating through the land.
‘Your peerless resolve will soon face its greatest test, Sir. There are things in this world you do not understand. You also underestimate all those around you. You might enjoy the reputation of being your father’s hammer but being humble is not your forte and it shows in everything you do, Sir. I have seen more battles than you know, so do not tell me I do not know the truth behind the stories I tell,’ Dané says.
Behind the duo, a dozen seamen rush around the deck as they anchor several sails and reset jibs and prepare the Acheron for landfall. They see fuzzy mountains reaching out to the sky like eerie fingers and their silhouette appears to house a sinister secret somewhere in their vicinity. There is no truth to this widespread rumour, and the risk of any of the hundreds of dormant volcanoes across the First Continent erupting again is so low many scholars suggest and suspect the lack of such activity is what killed the civilisation which once thrived here.
‘Enough with the games, milady. There is a reason we are here. I would rather not stay a second longer than I must. Prepare the rest of the expedition so we can be underway,’ Auroch says.
Without a word, Dané gives a stern nod and rushes away to head below deck. Auroch grabs the rail of the Acheron so tight his knuckles turn to bone. As cold as Kulvaan gets, even Auroch must admit the chill in the air this far north is almost unbearable. Of course, with the freezing temperatures, one’s mind can and will play cruel tricks. Auroch watches Dragon’s End get closer with weary eyes. He sees the spectres of ancient boats in the waters ahead of the Acheron alongside various voices in a tongue no one alive would recognise, except for Auroch.
‘Anything can happen out here. We must remain vigilant for we are the last hope for our mighty peoples. Somewhere across this vast ocean lies our destiny and our new home! I chose all of you for this one purpose and I do not expect much from you, but to follow me,’ a deep voice booms from a nearby longboat.
This is one of thirty phantom vessels Auroch can see. As the spectres pass closer, familiar lantern chins, squared jaws, and bushy eyebrows come into focus. The look is familiar to those from Kulvaan since it is plastered on almost every statue in every city. Auroch understands and knows these facial features belong to those of Tor’s bloodline. Auroch surmises the voice he hears in the wind belongs to the legendary hero himself.
‘You do not realise the dangers you are engaging yourself in by doing this ruinous thing! You need to think of your people and the course of action which would benefit their mundane lives! Think of them above your own vanity and your selfish ambitions! There are enemies across the seas even I cannot comprehend and despite such warnings, you would risk the utter ruin of your people, of our people! I urge you to reconsider your plans and I beg of you to preserve what little honour and respect the elders still possess of you! Turn back before this storm overwhelms us!’ the phantasmal voice of Mathias bellows.
Though Auroch knows the guardians of Terrus are long-lived, even he could not anticipate the man he knows as Mathias to be the same one who escorted Tor himself several centuries prior. Several more phantom longboats fade into vision and the total in the water comes to fifty. This number contradicts what the history books mentioned of Tor’s expedition. Auroch realises for the first time it was not five hundred, but two thousand and five hundred of the strongest and bravest soldiers of Dragon’s End who best represented the moribund civilisation in the new world.
‘We are coming upon a strange place. Keep your eyes open and your ears on a constant vigil,’ Auroch shouts to no one in particular.
As the Acheron navigates through treacherous shallows no crew member or passenger makes a sound. The rocky ridges come within critical distance of the hull. These rocks trace small trenches along the Acheron’s keel. On a regular basis, the captain of the vessel glances at the mountains of the First Continent with a small degree of hope. This hope fades when the mountains do not seem to get closer, despite many hours passing. The sun kisses the firmament of the distant horizon of the Northern Sea before any visible progress becomes known to those aboard the Acheron.
Auroch stands alongside Dané on the aft castle of the ship. They say nothing and focus instead on the long-winded howls of the wind driving the sails, propelling the Acheron at little more than a crawl. The scene seems dissonant, but for a hostile and frigid place such as the borders of Dragon’s End, belligerent weather is par for the course. Unseen tectonic plates of a tumultuous nature batter the continent and provide no mercy at any point in time. These plates are the source of all weather across Dragon’s End.
Seconds before night settles in, a flash of red flame pierces the fog and those aboard the Acheron bear witness to a unique and elusive phenomena as, if guided by some mystical power, the entirety of the fog lifts in every direction at the same time. The sight beholden to those few who bear witness to it is like something storytellers of old would weave to any who listen.
On Dragon’s End, a continuous stream of molten rock pours from the largest and most distant mountain. Despite the perennial cold, the ground is in a state of permanent thaw. The shoreline consists of a black ash emanating a perpetual steam.
‘Welcome to the Dead Lands, Sir. The origin of everything which existed, does exist, or ever will exist lies within the borders of this continent. I do not expect our presence will receive a warm welcome by any of the remaining flora and fauna. Be on your guard,’ Dané says.
No one aboard the Acheron rushes to do anything. Instead, the glow of the volcano transfixes the gaze of the lowborn seamen. Auroch and Dané are among the few who prepare to disembark the fluyt. Though they move as quiet as possible, the silence of the world around the Acheron is so utter all sound resonates louder than it should. The occasional grumble and gargle of the mighty volcano rings out from the distant caldera.
Auroch clambers down the side of the Acheron. His heavy frame rocks the longboat when he drops into it. Dané moves with such litheness, the longboat does not acknowledge her presence with a movement. The sailors on the oars begin to row after a stern nod from Auroch.
Even though the inferno threatens to consume Dragon’s End, the waters about the longboat remain calm. Several isolated pockets of steam erupt through the surface every few seconds, powered by the cracks in the continental shelves below. Veins of orange streak along the ocean floor and in a thousand years, it is probable Dragon’s End will cease to exist.
‘I don’t want to spend too long here. We aren’t here for science, and our primary goal lies somewhere in the mountains near the port. Keep a hand on your weapons and don’t move away from the group,’ Auroch says. He turns to Dané and leans into her. ‘This is the birthplace of my ancestors. I have a feeling they never wanted their children to come back here.’
Dané smirks at his comment. She knows what it feels like to come back to an ancestral home after centuries of absence. She also recognises the danger presented by shades and shadows lurking in the periphery of her vision within the ashen mist.
‘From a young age, the masters of the Athenaeum teach young recruits not to dwell on the past for it clouds our judgement and makes tasks and jobs harder. I cannot tell you to remove all memories of your past, but I can advise you to forget what your ancestors might think. All you must do is think of what Kylnarr Auroch, Commander of the Kulvaan Empire would do to ensure his family name remains present in the annals of history. I know what it is like to wish for our name to last throughout history. We must be careful what we wish for,’ Dané says.
Auroch sways as the longboat runs up a sandbar and comes to a halt. He narrows his eyes on the shallows around the craft. To Auroch’s relief, he sees no sign of life or any form of danger. This is something out of the ordinary for the rest of Terrus, though the barrenness fits the ‘Dead Lands’ moniker afforded to Dragon’s End by almost all civilisations of Terrus.
‘Do not touch the water,’ Dané hisses at an overeager seaman. ‘It might appear safe, but there is something miniscule in the shallows waiting for idiots like you. Observe.’
Dané retrieves a small piece of salted meat from her backpack and lobs it into the water. As the morsel impacts the water, it begins to churn as a school of piranha swarm and begin to feast. In a few seconds, nothing remains of the offering and an eerie calmness falls over the surface.
‘How’d you know about those creatures? You said you’ve never been here before,’ Auroch says.
Dané adjusts her jerkin and gives a stern nod to the rowers. They use all their might to push the longboat free of the sandbar with the oars. The shore of Dragon’s End is a half kilometre away, though the journey is slow. Fingers of bleached and dead coral reach up to scrape the underside of the boat. They serve as ghosts of a place once thriving with life.
‘Looks deceive even the keenest eye, Sir. A calm body of water is anything but. We have similar types of creatures within secluded glens across Ashaan,’ Dané says.
The only constant on the journey to the shore is the ominous volcano. The potential for it to erupt looms in the minds of all aboard the longboat. After a slow trip, the party make it to shore without hassle. The ground is far hotter than normal the moment the first seaman disembarks. Auroch gives silent thanks to the royal smiths for their forethought with the addition of an insulating layer of cloth in his boots. Even the slim layer of padding reduces the scalding temperature of the sands a significant amount.
‘We move as fast as we can. This heat will be the death of us if we tarry. Form up!’ Auroch bellows.
No complaints rise from the half-dozen members of the shore party make their way up the beach toward a low hill. As the group crests the ride, gasps and murmurs come from the younger members amongst the group. Auroch’s heavy eyes look out over the sprawling and blackened and charred ruins of an ancient city. These are the remnants of the great city of Wuungrad, and it serves as the sole remainder of the civilisation of Dragon’s End. A series of preserved ashen bodies indicates a pyroclastic flow ravaged the streets and froze merchants and traders in time.
Auroch leads the small group along a cracked cobbled road lined with tall and broken walls. Auroch looks around at the bodies of mothers who cradle children in an eternal grip. On many preserved corpses, hands cover faces in a futile attempt to protect their owner from the heated ash flow. Several former citizens sit with their faces scrunched up and with open jaws to relay a pain so intense there are no words in the common tongue, or one of the many languages of Kulvaan, nor does there exist a word Dûgánnan to describe the pain.
‘These people endured no pain in their final moments. The heat would’ve overloaded their brain the instant the cloud touched them. They died in an instant. A shame because they would’ve had many stories to tell. There is no mercy in a quick death. The temperature must’ve been unbearable in the moment of impact. It proves not even the gods are benevolent,’ Dané mutters.
It is rare for Dané to feel affected by anything in an emotional sense, but the sight of innocent civilians destroyed in a manner such as the one she is witnessing leaves her stunned. The suddenness of the eruption caused such wanton destruction amongst the people and the land itself. Even from such a distance, Dané can see a new caldera formed halfway down the basalt cliffs of where the volcano ruptured.
The group continues their slow waltz through the market square of Wuungrad. Petrified fruit lies scattered and fused to people and buildings and the cobblestones of the square. It is a sight so grim, not even the colourful robe Auroch wears breaks the monotonous grey.
‘I wonder what they were thinking throughout the duration of this catastrophic event. We may never know what kind of lives they led or how they dressed. We’ll never know what their thoughts were of Tor’s expedition, but now we know why Tor crossed the sea,’ Auroch says.
Next to a broken statue whose arm lies cracked and shattered on the ground next to it, Auroch pauses to take in the ruined imagery. On the statue, there is no face unlike the others around the plaza. Auroch can see no indication of who the statue depicted in the past is anywhere in the vicinity.
‘A memory forgotten. Whoever this person was did something great and then something so terrible later generations erased them from society. A true shame. The history of individuals might not matter, but it is important to remember who we are and where we came from,’ Dané says with uncertainty evident in her voice.
Auroch kneels and pieces together the pieces of the broken arm in his mind, despite centuries of erosion wearing the stone down. Auroch furrows his brow not in frustration, but concentration. Once Auroch figures out the original position of the arm, he turns his head around and glares past some ruins.
‘This wasn’t a statue designed to signify a leader. It signifies a paragon whose likeness never found completion. We must go in this direction,’ Auroch says and points to emphasise his point.
Dané and the others in the group look to where Auroch’s finger aims. In the distance, blended in the darkness, the faded silhouette of an ancient workshop dangles on the side of a precarious cliff. Without any word of confirmation, Auroch marches with purpose along a narrow street and the others have no choice but to follow him as the volcano lets out another low rumble. Something does not want them to get any closer.
Fenrir's Lair 