Asheron's Fall: The Power of Ten, Book Six

If they were wary before, all their skin seemed to curdle at the sound of their language coming out of an Isparian’s throat somehow. It was at least two chords higher, humans not having the great vocal sacs of the burun, which made it sound incredibly musical to the creatures… and somehow, very sharp-edged, like a vocal knife across their ear-membranes.

The black-skinned, yellow-bellied Tmauruk noted the canines on the woman, exactly as the furry banderling scouts had spoken of, and the strange runic marks down the side of her face, which seemed to signify some ancient and terrible power.

“You speak our language well,” the former scout leader of the burun returned, bobbing his head to acknowledge her. “You are the Isparian Princess, spoken of by the wild tribes?”

“Imperial Princess Kristie Rantha, Warlord of the Isparians of Freehold,” was the polite reply, none of the inflections missing. She was the daughter of the equivalent of a Kuruuk king! “You called for a meeting with us Isparians and our people. I note that Torgluuk did not come himself, although I understand your people have been under pressure as of lately. I doubt you have authority to decide for your people, so you are here seeking information, as opposed to coming to an agreement about something.” Her spot-on assessment was unnerving, as was the intensity of the weird color-in-white eyes of her species. “Speak then, honorable chieftain, and do not waste my time further.”

Tmauruk bobbed his head carefully again. “Torgluuk did treat with Isparians before, and especially the great and wise elder Asheron. He wishes to know if they could come to council again.”

“The wise and mighty Elder Asheron has not been seen since the Fall, and we do not know his fate,” was the immediate reply. “I am afraid you have only us Isparians to deal with.”

That was unsettling news. While the Falatacot were clearly related to the species of Asheron, the old Empyrean great shaman had clearly not been of their people, and indeed quite opposed to much of what they’d done.

He had also been much friendlier to the ruuk than to the kuruuk, a fact not lost on Torgluuk or Tmauruk. The kuruuk had been powerful and treated the ruuk like slaves and servants, favoring only the guruk whose small minds they could easily dominate. The ruuk had thus been notably uncaring when their self-appointed god-kings had been defeated by the Isparians, long seeing the self-centered and arrogant creatures for what they were.

“Do you speak for your people, or should we treat with the king Bor-e-lean?” Tmauruk asked bluntly, fiddling with his Spear to calm himself as he mulled over his options.

“If it concerns matters of military nature and alliances, you may deal with me. If you seek matters of trade, travel, laws, diplomacy, or matters not so involved, Borelean or his representatives may field your ambassadors more readily.

“What is it you are seeking, Chieftain Tmauruk?”

“It is said by the shamans that the returned Isparians no longer number any of the unliving, Light-blessed or no, among their numbers. Furthermore, that you are great foes of the undead, seeking vengeance for what was done to you in the prior Eye-cycles.”

“I understand that the burun place revenge upon the undead as one of the greatest goals of their people. It is a familiar mindset, then.”

Tmauruk clicked and grunted, momentarily forgetting that this Isparian was clearly capable of reading his mood and excitement. “Is an alliance against the undead, especially those who call themselves Falatacot, acceptable to the Isparians?” he asked bluntly.

The female inclined her head at him strangely. “This may well sound arrogant and overconfident, Chieftain, but we do not need the burun to deal with the undead. It is the undead who need allies to deal with us.

“The undead committing forces to contain you in your swamp works in our favor, as those are not undead being turned upon us. Furthermore, the way we are dealing with them may well be hostile to you and your way of life.”

Both of the ruuk there hissed at her words, surprised at the bluntness in them, when they might have been expecting subtle Isparian lies. “What do you mean?” Tmauruk demanded quickly. The closing of the Portals to Bur, stranding them here, had made them vulnerable in uncomfortable ways.

“I have been informed by the elders among us that the substance called mucor is of great value among you, yet it is the product of the fungi and ecosystem of your homeworld, and is not native to this world of Auberean.”

“This… is true,” Tmauruk admitted. “Exposure to mucor kindles the mystic fire in our shamans, and grants insight and knowledge to the burun who consume it.”

“It is even said the kuruuk kings attempted to deny access to mucor to the ruuk, in order to control you better, the classic tactics of tyrants born.”

Tmauruk snapped his jaws once. “Those words are true,” he agreed sharply, remembering those days and tales older than them. Torgluuk had done away with many of those strictures, and careful use of mucor was a reward for the wise and careful among them, without the rampant abuse and gluttony that were hallmarks of the older tales. “What has that to do with Isparians?”

The female flicked out a simple Knife at her belt, only a hand long, not a good weapon of war, perhaps useful for a spear tip.

However, a cool white fire flowed up the tip of it, and whorls of mist fell gently from it towards the ground.

“The white fire!” the shaman Krigguut almost squealed eagerly, great black eyes fixed on the Dagger in the Isparian’s hand, his pale underbelly roiling with yellows in contrast to his green hide.

Tmauruk had to put out a hand to restrain the shaman, just in case. There was no need to offend the dangerous Isparian female. “We have heard of that white fire from the wild tribes. It is said to have power over Summons, and to Burn away them and the dead to ash and less…”

“That is absolutely correct.” She undid the scabbard at her waist, pulled it free, and resheathed the Dagger before starting forward. “This is for you.”

Both burun were so surprised they forgot to tense up at her approach, especially since she covered the ground twice as fast as her strides should have allowed her. She was literally right in their faces holding it out to them before they could think of retreating.

Tmauruk eyed the sheathed Weapon warily, glancing back and forth between it and the one holding it, before carefully reaching up with a clawed hand and clasping it. She let go promptly, and this time he watched as she somehow skated backwards over the ground, retreating just as smoothly and twice as quickly as she should have, making him think his eyes were playing tricks on him.

“It is called Vivic Fire. It is the great central and hungry energy of the Mortal World, devouring that which is unnatural and reinforcing the existence of the world around us,” she gestured idly. “Thus, it consumes the ectoplasmic bodies of Summons, and breaks down the freshly dead and the negative energy that flows to them rapidly, reducing them to vivic dust and feeding them all to the Land.” Her pale eyes transfixed them like spears. “The Land, here.

“Not the Land of Bur, whose seeds you have brought here.”

The two ruuk looked at one another, rumbling in their throat-sacs worriedly at those words.

“Were you on Bur, this would be immaterial, but here, the mushrooms and fungi and other life-forms of Bur you have brought here are unnatural. Vivic fire will not be gentle to them.

“In particular, we believe the very nature of the mucor you are attempting to raise here will change when exposed to vivus. It will either die straightaway, its alien nature opposed by the Land here… or it will change to serve the Land here, as it once did that of Bur.

“If it does so, the burun will naturally change as well. You will become the Aurun, Children of Auberean, instead of Burun, children of Bur. That which was born of Bur will change to become that of Auberean, or it will die.

“Such is the nature of the Land. It embraces its own, and it fights those who are not its own.”

The two ruuk looked at the Dagger in her hand, fear and excitement intermingling on their hides.

“Take that Dagger and return to your people. Test the effects of vivus upon that which you have brought here, and especially your mucor, which being as magical as it is will certainly react the strongest to the vivus.

“If it turns against you, then the Land here does not accept you, and you must attempt to return to Bur, or you will eventually wither as a people and die here, for this will not be your home.

“If it changes… then your way forward is not that of Bur, but of this Land and World called Auberean, and what that might portend will be new for all of us.”

“You give us gift or doom, and none knows which,” Tmauruk murmured, fascinated at the future he held in his claws.

“Indeed. Also, the vivic fire will Seal Summons points, where the creatures spawn from the local magic, unless great energy is used to break them. So, do not be using it close to your own Summoned guardians.

“When you have word of what the Land thinks of you, seek us out again. We bear you no hostility at this time, nor any goodwill, but we may yet be of help to one another, knowing the roads we have to take.”

Tmauruk considered that, and then took the initiative to bow low to the female in front of him. After all, she had not had to give the ruuk even this little bit of warning!

“Also, if you kill the undead and cut their corpses with the vivus, they too will die the true death, as will their Summons. It may not affect the numbers of the latter much… but there are no more Falatacot being born.

“One by one, if they perish, no more are growing to replace them. Remember that.”

The burun hissed in grim excitement at that simple fact.

Yes, the corpses were dead. They did not have children. Only the fact they were so hard to kill, always coming back again and again, made them able to stay in a fight.

If they died forever, then eventually they would be extinct, and would not be able to return!

Their war with the cursed Falatacot had a potential ending to it!… even if their thrice-cursed spawnlings, the Moarsmen and the Sclavi, could reproduce themselves and continue to bedevil the burun…

“We will seek you out when we know the truth of this, Warlord Rantha,” he bowed to her, and was somewhat surprised when she bowed in return.

“Return and continue to fight well for your people, Honorable Chieftain,” she informed him in that musical, fluted, and deadly accent to his people’s language.

The burun croaked their farewells and retreated from the clearing where the meeting had taken place. Their guruk escorts grumbled about the fact there was no fighting, too dense to realize that their deaths had awaited them in that clearing if they tried anything.

Princess Kristie watched them go, wondering where such contact might lead. More importantly, she wondered how the scout leader had ended up on Dereth, because he reportedly had been stationed on the Bur homeworld in the sunken city of the burun there.

Why had he been on Dereth at all? Following Torgluuk, seemingly considered a prophet of the ruuk, in opposition to the arrogant kuruuk kings?

Well, it was something to find out at a later time…