Over the Sunken Realm – Part 10 (FINALE)
Crossing an unfathomed distance of space and time, you have seen through the eyes of Grizmalda the legendary knight of Garral; but time is short, and your friends need you!
You decide to leave Grizmalda and return to your time.
Ilaïva smiles, and her voice, though it still shakes your very bones, is calm and warm:
“You have chosen well, Down-Dweller.”
Once more, as the darkness engulfs you, your entire body is swept up, and pulled away at breakneck speed. The void becomes alive once more with bright rays of light dashing past you in a whirlwind of blinding colors.
Yet as you go on, and experience once again the disarraying spectacle of the Dreamer’s power over time itself, your heart knows no fear – but regret; somehow leaving Grizmalda and the strange antediluvian age of Garral behind has torn something in your mind, or in your soul.
It is more than the pang of unquenched curiosity. It is beyond what you ever remember experiencing. You cannot put it into precise words, but you understand it: you have gained something that has always been your own, and left behind something else you never knew you had.
READ PART 9 HERE:
As the colorful tornado turns into a tunnel of light, you brutally fall back “into” your body: this time, it is a shock, like the shot of adrenaline you felt when faced with the crawling creature in the tunnels.
The experience has left you weak: you fall on your knees, your eyes still blinded by the lights that have just disappeared. It takes a good few seconds for the darkness around you to grow into murky shades of brown, black and grey, until you can at last see the Dreamer before you, as old and decrepit as you had seen her before your mind crossed time and space for regions unknown.
WELCOME, AT LAST, GRIZMALDA.
Your knees become weak as the deep, rugged voice vibrates across the cave. You had forgotten how powerful the Dreamer’s real-world voice was. Yet it seems less imperious now, with an imperceptible tremor of emotion.
NOW, YOU WILL LEARN WHAT YOU HAD YET TO FORGET. GO. YOUR FRIENDS ARE IN DIRE NEED.
Once more, without meaning to at first, you obey her command before you can realize it. Turning back to the tunnel you came from, you shudder when a voice rings out behind you:
“Have you seen what you sought, Elmorlèm?”
In the semi-darkness, you cannot see the Elder’s face, but you notice his tone, though full of reverence, is tense. You ask him how long you were gone:
“It has only been an instant, as I can count it. But I have listened to the rocks, and they tremble: the Drake is here, and I do not know that it will stop until we are all dead!“
This is all you needed to know. With long strides, you traverse the stygian darkness, unopposed this time by the eerie obstacles that you had met on your way to the Dreamer. Why that is, you do not know, and neither do you care.
The darkness gives way to a dimly-lit tunnel, which you cross swiftly, careless of the changing hues of the crystals around you as you pass them by. You are almost surprised at how calm you are. Or perhaps it is not calm you feel, but a kind of anger that, instead of making you hot-headed, leaves your mind cold and sharp as steel. Your body is driven by superior purpose which encompasses you, the Druegans, and perhaps even the Drake and the entire Mountain. Regardless, you press on, as the sounds of carnage grow louder, until as you emerge in the large blue-lit corridor, a low growl shakes the ground under your feet.
This time, something akin to fear clutches at your heart; but never to the point of stifling thought, as before. Pragmatically, you press your back against the solid rock face, and slide step by step toward the great cave where the Druegans had so warmly welcomed you mere minutes ago – though it feels like a hundred lifetimes have passed since.
On your way, you face the great ocean window, and can behold again the eerie spectacle of alien sea-life. It all seems so peaceful, compared to the chaos awaiting you. But your blood is still pumping in your veins: you let these thoughts dissipate, and reach the exit.
You peek outside: the grand cave has turned into a battleground. The floor is sparsely dotted with fallen Druegans, and creeping over them, like a mass of cockroaches, with chattering teeth and gleaming eyes, the Kobolds advance.
There might be well over a hundred of them, all bearing drapnors in one hand, the same Ethralda-powered guns the Druegans use, and long crooked knives in the other. You can see no Druegan, safe for the dead. Your heart almost stops: Zvakar, Bazkiór and the rest of your friends are still on the train, and now there’s an army between you and them!
But things quickly go from bad to worse. Another growl rings out, sending tremors across the whole cave. Tiny pebbles ricochet off the floor at your feet. Looking up, you can see rays of dust descending from the ceiling. A quick glance at the ocean window momentarily reassures you: the glass does not seem cracked.
The Kobolds erupt in a cacophony of screeches and grunts, as they part ways, leaving enough space to reveal shimmering coils of enormous size. The dim light reflects a thousand golden scales. A clawed paw emerges out of the unformed mass, followed by a reptilian head of monstrous dimensions. Its slit eyes emit a light of their own, searching for you with rapacious avidity. Its teeth gleam like ice in the semi-darkness.
But for a moment, you forget it all. For as the Drake lays down his head, you can see, on a small platform at the base of its long neck, a humanoid figure, clad in black. And as his voice rings out, you recognize it:
“Druegans, subjects of Lin Dâo, I am disappointed. Were you not present when your Basquionná made it law that none of you should ever raise even a hand against her, or her servants? By attacking my soldiers, you have made yourselves worthy of the most terrible punishment. Should you dare attack me now? … No, I believe you have finally remembered what the right of Bâzâk entails. May you never forget it again! And to that end…Drâhhurakî!”
And as Andhal, the man who a few hours ago you would have called ‘friend’, uttered that last guttural word of command, the Drake raised its head, and opening its cruel jaws wide with a low hiss, let a torrent of blazing fire pour out its throat onto the battlefield, burning the dead Druegans to a crisp. A wave of heat washes over you, carrying the stench of charred flesh in its wake.
“Once, Lin Dâo allowed you to bear drapnors and knives to protect yourselves. But I speak with her authority! You will now cast off your weapons, and come before me; I will not leave this cave until you either deliver the Under-Dweller into my hands, or until every last one of you mongrels lie in a pile of ashes at my feet!”
“Aye… the Drake is here… for you.”
The Elder’s huffing voice barely startles you: he must have had a hard time following you. You can hardly answer him: there is so much at stake! If only the Ethralda sword had followed you to your time! Perhaps it would have been better to remain in the lands of Garral, if only to learn more…
No. That way lies defeat. This would only be an excuse to run away. You know all you need to know.
But how could you defeat Andhal, or an army of Kobolds, let alone a Drake?
You could surrender, of course… No! Your honor would not tolerate it. Besides, there are hundreds, perhaps thousands of Druegans here. If they would just shake off the curse of the Bâzâk, they would win, even against that Drake. Surely, they have more firepower than even Andhal’s rabble!
But though your heart rises as you think of it, you can see it would be hopeless: already the Druegans, obeying Andhal’s command, step out of a thousand hiding places, and coming closer to the Drake, lay their weapons down at their feet.
There is only one way to save them all: and that means giving yourself up, and probably dying in the process.
You spare a glance towards the Elder; he can only nod. But you think he understands. He stands on tip-toes to give you your drapnor back. You feel more comfortable with a weapon by your side! Even though you will soon be parted from it.
Coming out of the shadowy corridor, you take a stand, and with as clear a voice as you can muster, declare:
“I am here, Andhal. Spare their lives, and I will follow you.”
He lets out a low mirthless laugh:
“So here you are, Elmorlèm! Had I known a Nirlik would be enough to frighten you, I would have left you to drown!”
With that, he laughs again. “Now, come to me.”
Leaping off the Drake, he lands without a noise. The armor he wears seems made neither of metal nor leather, but of some other material. At any rate, it seems Andhal trusts it to block your drapnor bolts. You wonder how efficient it would be against an Ethralda blade.
But as he advances, flanked by a score of Kobolds, you shout:
“Not a step closer, Andhal! I still have a weapon, and may use it on you, or myself if necessary.”
It works: Andhal stops dead in his tracks. You can see his face from here: the tanned skin, dark hair and shimmering eyes remind you of another man of Garral you knew long ago.
You speak again:
“Is this truly the only way to save these Druegans’ lives? If it is so, I will gladly surrender to you, but not under any other condition.”
Andhal’s expression betrays discomfort, but quickly molds into a wolfish grin: “you have my word, whatever worth it may be to you. They will all be spared, safe for your friends back in the train: their punishment is death.”
“That will not suffice,” you hear yourself shout, astonishing yourself with new-found assurance. “Swear you, your Kobolds or your Drake, or any of the servants who may be following you, will not kill any of these Druegans if I surrender to you!”
With a snarl, he spits: “fine. Count yourself lucky Lin Dâo finds you valuable. Again, I swear it.”
“Agreed!” you say, as you step forward. Soon, you find yourself flanked by rows of bewildered Druegans and Kobolds hissing, champing and shrieking. Andhal’s face is a mask of restrained ferocity, safe for his eyes, which seem oddly sad.
You push on, and as you stand next to him, you drop your drapnor down to his feet.
“Here I am, Andhal. I have surrendered…”
And inhaling deeply, you let out a mighty shout such as has never been heard under the mountains ever since the first wars in Garral: “and I invoke the right of Bâzâk upon you all! Druegans of CarwenZäarn, I declare your chains broken! Fight!”
But before you can say more, Andhal is upon you, hands grasping at your throat – but a bolt of blue light hits his left side and shoves him off his feet.
Who would have guessed the Elder was such a good shot?
A second later, the tide has turned: over three hundred Druegans throw themselves on the ground, catch their weapons and shoot wildly into the Kobold ranks, causing dozens to fall in an instant. On your left, Andhal stands back up – and lowers the vizor of his helmet down over his face. Kobolds jump over you, clutching your legs and arms with their crooked claws: they start to drag you away to where the rest of their trembling companions have rushed for safety, right under the Drake’s belly.
No matter how hard you kick, you cannot shake them off, until a blue bolt smashes against one of the Kobolds’ head, dropping him instantly. Your left arm is free! With a well-placed punch in another Kobold’s side, you free your other hand. A third is shot down, and the fourth drops your leg and runs for cover.
You stand back up, and immediately look for a drapnor. Luckily, one of the dead creatures is still clutching his! You leap to it, only for the coils of the Drake’s tail to swipe at your feet, sending you sprawling on the stone floor.
You scramble up to your knees. But the Drake’s tail has already cut you off from the other Druegans. Its head lowers down to you now, its mouth agape, a bulge of living fire growing at the back of his throat.
From under the beast’s paws, Andhal’s ghastly command rings out again: “Drâhhurakî, Drâhhurakî!”
And the creature, giving out the same deadly hiss as before, prepares to release a deluge of fire over the Druegans.
You act quicker than you can think: lunging toward the fallen drapnor, you shout at the beast; it lowers its gaze to you, its jaws still wide open, and as fire begins to spark up inside, you shoot blindly.
Fire explodes in the beast’s throat, distorting its lithe body, sending its tail swashing and its paws thrashing. The few Kobolds who remained under it are crushed in the Drake’s death throes. Before you know it, it feels like the mountain is falling over you, and all becomes dark.
“Wake up, Elmorlèm! Or… er… wake up, Basquionná, perhaps, yes?”
Bazkiór’s voice is enough to bring you back to reality. The light is soft enough, and you quickly recognize the interior of the train. Though every part of your body aches profusely, you are glad beyond measure. You laugh, and groan in pain.
“Ah, yes, your ribs have taken some damage,” Bazkiór smiles, “it has been two days now, since the battle. Many fight, many die, but most of us are only wounded, and all of us are safe!”
“Pshah! Kobolds die, yes, but Andhal lives!”
You recognize Zvaka’s guttural voice. With a painful smile, you decide to cheer him up:
“Peace, my friend. The Bâzâk is broken. You have saved my life, all of you, as I saved yours long ago, Wâldâ.“
You did not mean to call him that. The second he hears it, his face becomes white: and blubbering with emotion, he falls on his knees to your bedside, saying:
“It is as Drreamer said. You know morre than you rememberr, and have not forrgotten. I am grreat-grrandson of Wâldâ. He too rememberr you, and now I rememberr.”
And with that, he bursts into tears.
You let your hand rest on his bobbing head. Bazkiór explains his cryptic words:
“We Druegans, we keep the memories of our ancestors. When we sleep, we go inside their memories, and live them again; and the Dreamer, who has no ancestors, is our guide.”
It all becomes clear now: living the memories of an ancestor… This must be what had happened to you.
And yet, it does not satisfy you. You ask Bazkiór if humans had ever consulted the Dreamer. And his answer leaves you both confused and illuminated:
“No. You tall-ones have not the memories of your predecessors. Your minds are like little birds, who leave nests to make a nest of their own far away. Ours is like a twig growing from a branch growing from the same tree.”
Regardless of the pertinence of Bazkiór’s metaphors, you find yourself confronted with the only possibility left.
Why you were more assured after the vision. Why you could change Grizmalda’s mind. Why you remembered things only he could have known, without thinking about them.
In a shattering moment of clarity, you understand: as the Dreamer said, you remember what you had never forgotten.
You are Léodel Grizmalda, destitute lord of Bérunda, chief-ithrauldos of the Guild of Ethralda, servant of the Azure Emperor.
And you are Elmorlèm, the nameless, Under-Dweller, friend of Druegans and bane of Kobolds.
Yet your memory is a blur: somehow, Grizmalda, knight of Garral, after decades of adventure, intrigue and strife, disappeared from history. And after hundreds, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of years, somehow, he awoke in the underwater realm of Down Below, and rose to the surface world to tread again the road of adventure.
Your mind is in a whirl, and you soon find you are too weak as of yet to make a decision on any of this. What matters is your surest friends are by your side, one weeping with gladness, the other beaming with joy.
And as you drift off to sleep, your last thought flies back to the window that looked out on the ocean, to its unfathomed immensity, and the dark secrets it still holds in its depths…
“Soon, Elmorlèm Grizmalda,” smiles Ilaïva. “Soon.”
THE END
Get caught up on Part 1 here: