RHYOLITE I

  As the world began under crushing pressure, so too must life. Childhood is a crucible that forges youth into the stable alloy of adulthood. In the end, we return to the elements which gave birth to us, starting the cycle anew.

  Rhyolite brought his senses back to his fragile physical body: full of organs that would squish to a bloody pulp under slightest amount of force. It was humbling to be so fleeting, delicately insignificant in contrast to the eternity of stone. Momentarily, his hubris impressed upon his animal mind an image of his fossilized remains preserving his memory for eons; he snorted in contempt.

  Ego was what had let his people to ruin. The Tengu had forsaken their gods and replaced them with worship of industry. Life streams teemed with pollution and the acrid smoke of the forges choked the streets of once magnificent cities. Change was as inevitable as the shifting of tectonic plates, however, forgetting your place in the world was a tragedy unique to people. That lie formed the oxidizing heart of civilization.

  At first, Rhyolite was permitted to preach the old ways unmolested on the streets of Yūbari; yet those who worship progress are the quickest to erase the past. No longer welcome within the city limits, he would wait alongside the highways several shifts of each work-span and watch the endless flow of crews traveling to and from the mines. Deep in his molten core, Rhyolite knew that none of these drones would stop even out of curiosity, let alone to pursue the path to become his disciple.

  He was lonely, his only company was a line of marching ants. He rumbled a laugh, noting that the diligent creatures labored in exact parallel to his people; the biggest difference was that the four-handspan sized ants were not as limited by the constraints of gravity and could travel alongside walls or upon the cavernous ceiling. He patted his ample belly affectionately, eager to fill the emptiness within.

  A thunderous boom shattered a wall of stone in the distance, the resulting tremors caused light debris to rain from the stalactites above. Rhyolite closed his eyes in frustration. Of all the inventions of the Tengu, the explosive black powder known as fire balm was the most dangerous. The combination of saltpeter, sulfur, and coal was intended for medicinal purposes: after its incendiary qualities were recognized, it took on a darker function. Given the Guilds of Industry increased dependence on the substance, he was surprised that they did not worship fire balm. The biggest irony was that it was only necessary because the Tengu had turned their backs on tradition.

  Rhyolite touched the igneous rock at his side affectionately, easily shaping it with his long fingers. As a geomancer he could reach within the rock and feel its essence, reforming it as desired. His mind drifted in a meditative state as the stone spoke through him. When his eyes reopened, he was not surprised by the outcrops’ metamorphosis: it now presented itself as jagged spikes directly aimed at the Tengu city of Yūbari.

  Rhyolite frowned as a distant boom sent more vibrations through the stone. He yearned to teach his people the old ways, when Tengu could shape rock more easily than wet clay.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  LORD OSMOND I

  What was supposed to be a moment of triumph had deteriorated into the tedium of logistics. Lord Osmond had been genuinely surprised at the success of Abbess Segnat’s ritual. Her prattling insistence that a powerful ally could be unleashed upon their enemies was as inane sounding as her justification for the brutal treatment of her youngest nuns. What was undeniable were the results on both counts. His honor guard and Sir Marin were changed, imbued with a powerful energy that lingered about their presence malevolently.

  The “powerful ally” was a different story, one far more complicated. A creature of terrifying scale was unleashed. Despite being decayed to little more than tatters of skin wrapped around moldering bones, it moved with power and grace. Whatever dark magic animated this abomination, also granted sentience. The size of the dragon was staggering: it was far larger than the ships that ferried Lord Osmond’s forces from Saxonland to Galálann, perhaps even as large as several of them lined up.

  Beyond being too large to physically control, the dragon’s intelligence made it obstinate: it flew off to the west on ragged wings the moment it burst forth from the side of the High King’s keep. Lord Osmond’s scouts had seen little of the dracolich since the ritual and that frustration led him to grind his teeth.

  As his steed trotted down the well worn road, Lord Osmond’s right leg ached from an old wound. A retinue of knights accompanied him on his trip back to his keep. Sir Marin had joined several other of his captains in quelling the Pechtish scum and driving them back to their western bogs.

  He had gained a begrudging respect for the naked barbarians’ ferocity and dedication to battle: the Pechts rarely fled, preferring to stand their ground and die with honor. The initial chaos of their raiding parties had found a modicum of success in disrupting the Jotman supply lines, but that inconvenience was short-lived and the filthy raiders paid dearly with their lives.

  The sniveling Gaídel High King, Murtaugh, had whined and dared to beseech him to spare members of his own honor guard to root out the rebellion of rats within his fortress. Lord Osmond had reminded Murtaugh that the loyalty of the Gaídel was his own fucking problem. He smiled at the memory and would be glad to rid himself of that weasel at the earliest convenience. For now, Lord Osmond needed the Gaídel unified, even if it was under such a worthless High King.

  Lord Osmond’s advisor, Godefroy, met him at the gates, which was never a good omen. “What ills beset us now? Will a single day pass without A LITANY OF EXCUSES!” he shouted down at the frail man.

  Godefroy’s unruly brows flattened against the side of his considerable brow, like a cat who fears it is about to be struck. “Sire,” the advisor began, “I only wish to keep you well-counseled.”

  “Yes, yes,” Osmond snapped. “What is it that requires my attention?”

  “The mines, sire,” the old man shuffled as if bracing himself for a blow.

  “What about them,” he growled.

  “The men you ordered to be sent into the depths have not been heard from for days, my lord.” Godefroy hesitated. “Last night all of their armor and weapons were found neatly piled outside the tunnel entrance, there were no signs of any remains.”

  Lord Osmond’s reluctance to request additional forces from Duke D’Amboise could no longer be justified. Perhaps he would also take up Abbess Segnat’s offer of incorporating the senior nuns into his forces: since the ritual, they had demonstrated unnatural abilities.

  He gripped the pommel of his greatsword until his knuckles turned white. “We must take the fight to the devils in earnest. Marshal our forces,” Lord Osmond commanded, “we will root the enemy out of their warrens and end their lines for the sake of the Broken Man.”

  Godefroy bowed in reverence. He did not wait for his advisor to nag him with further tedium. Lord Osmond dismounted and handed the reins to his squire. He thirsted for wine.