Reflection

[Chiangtao]

There comes a time in every man's life when he must take a hard look at himself. Deeds gone by, opportunities missed; the sum of which is fate's portrait of that man. He holds that portrait in harsh judgement, neither passing nor partial. He sees his soul.

A man might see a masterpiece in this portrait. Another may see ruin - what the bards call "a disaster." But if that man is like me - and I am no philosopher - he sees an unfinished work. Blank canvas, always intended to be used, but never properly filled. Charcoal lines where brush strokes should live. I look at myself and find great disappointment with fate.

The irony of this is, when my own eyeball stared back at me from the witch's mortar bowl, I found none of these thoughts of self-reflection. I thought of only horror.

...reserved...

[Chiangtao]

I've changed my mind. I don't want to tell you about the past right now. My past has not granted me much. The powers I came by yesterday, this is the path I'm now committed to, for better or worse. This is the only way I can achieve what I'm meant for. If I am to fulfill my destiny, then my story starts now. If I fall short, then my story isn't worth reading. My story must begin with this new path.

I've dug around this wild land called Sundren for months now. I have found no work beyond what's beneath me. But a man must eat, and so I've fallen back on my old house guard training to kill and plunder. My fight has been with pests and beasts - goblins, gnolls, orcs, and even ogres. I've taken from them what they've taken from man, and I've made a small profit in the fight. And I've made some friends with the locals in doing so, for whatever that's worth.

While eating at a tavern in Sestra, I struck up a conversation with a silk trader. He was a self-made man, the sort that has exceeded the boundaries of his own fate. I felt both jealousy in, and admiration for, the man. He'd traveled these roads of Sundren for years, so there was wisdom to be gleaned. I gave him my time, and I learned from it.

Apparently, silk traders get to know wizards quite well. Most of these arcanists are not as humble as I am; they do not stoop to fashion the robes they need, they only ward them with their magics. One day, I can afford that luxury, but that is not the point. The trader had the scruples of a businessman and knew many sources of the knowledge I seek.

He named the Hands of Mundus - lawmen of the land, the sunderers of the mountains. They care for the nation above all else. Someone there likely knows the power I desire, but they would keep it under lock and key. They would not share it with me.

He spoke of the scholars in the University above the clouds. These were men buried in their tomes, stooped in research that amounted to very little. I do not desire lessons in history - I told you my story begins now. If these men held tomes with the knowledge I seek, they would never have the drive to find it used.

And then the man gave me hope. He told me of those who knew the dark arts - a risky sort for sure, but powerful. He forfeited more than one convoy to such men under strong arms, but he had developed reliable contacts in their ranks as well. He spoke of a man in Sestra, but the town seemed far too public for me. But he also knew a woman who lived adjacent to the Necropolis - the City of the Dead. This story struck my interest.

I cared not for the seamstress who lived there. She sewed for the undertakers, and I don't give a fig for the fashions of the fallen. But I knew, somewhere in this city was a being of power - someone who could show me how to claim what I'm owed by fate. Someone who could cure my ails and extend my years.

I paid for the man's drink out of politeness. The next day, I set off to find a mentor.

[Chiangtao]

The green-fleshed, rotten corpse lashed at my face with claw-like hands. I thrust my shield upward to block the clumsy attack. The fingers raked at the shield's surface with the blow, tearing the nails from their bases. The second corpse had no flesh left on its body, but was armed with part of a tree limb. With my shield occupied, I had to parry the club with my own weapon. I wasn't trained for two-on-one fights; this was more than I had imagined.

Luckily, I was able to hook the club with the crook of my blade after the parry. I gave a strong twist, and at the same time yanked back on the hilt. In one motion, my blade slid down the club and severed the skeleton's wrist. I now had the advantage.

With the skeleton's threat reduced, and my weapon cocked from my last maneuver, I swung at the fleshy corpse with a high arc. The weapon connected: the sweet spot of the curved blade ran straight through the corpse's neck. There was no blood; the green-fleshed thing fell to the ground in a lump, its limbs now lifeless.

The skeletal corpse came at me once more. It threw a punch with its good arm, which I easily knocked aside with my shield. I countered by kicking its knee. The bone shattered, and it crumbled forward in a heap. The corpse struggled to stand, the fight still in its eyes. I dropped my shield on its chest and pressed with my boot, pinning the thing to the ground.

A cold wind blew past, making my neck chill as it passed over my sweat. The moment hung heavy in the air, but I felt no triumph. Not yet.

I reached down deep, grasping at my power as I had done many times before. I'd learned much on my own in doing this - simply stretching myself to the limit, shaping the Weave to my will. New talents had come from this before. I needed to press myself once again - command this corpse to obey me.

I searched my mind, looking for the right combination of will and force. "Obey me," I growled, as if the words themselves would shape my powers. But in this effort I failed. I was answered only with a laugh. I stomped down heavily on my shield, crushing the skeleton's rib cage.

...the laugh continued. It was only now I realized the source was not the corpse under my boot.

I turned my attention to the laughter. Another being stood at the gate to the Necropolis. A green aura of power surrounded its body, making it difficult to see it clearly. At times it appeared human; at times, skeletal and rotten. It wielded no weapon, yet I sensed it did not need one to defend itself. This was a master of the dark arts, and I would gain its favor.

I picked up my shield. I took two steps back respectfully and sheathed my weapon. "You are its master," I said.

The being laughed. "Arrogance! That you could break my command over him. There is but one, and only He has domain over the dead!" The power in its voice echoed loudly, mocking me. I took another step back. The being continued, "Give me the reason you've come before you join him."

I wanted to be clever, to speak the perfect sentence that would spare my life. I wanted to impress, and I wanted to survive. But somehow, my impatience overtook my thoughts. "I want to learn from you," I blurted stupidly. I stammered at my idiocy, then continued. "I am not ready to pass. I would learn to embrace death and its power, and I would learn to avoid it."

The being paused. It was assessing me. I knew it could see what I already knew - I was meant for great things. A being of such power would not have revealed itself to a mere grave robber. I had a chance for its favor.

"You have few years left," it replied. "You will be His in short time. The sickness in your lungs grows." I was shocked at this observation, and it reveled in my pain. "I have use for some on this side. I have a task you will accomplish. One before you has tried, and failed. He is now on my side, and suffers greatly for his failure. You will succeed or you will suffer for eternity!"

"Spare me," I whispered. "Name your task, master."

...

"What have I done?," I bemoaned as I left the Necropolis. Was it possible to feel so deflated and invigorated at the same time? I felt power just out of my grasp; he had shown me the way, and I would find it in time. But the path I had chosen...

"There is no way back," I spoke to myself. I am now under His control.

[Chiangtao]

I omitted the task before because I didn't trust you. But I've gained enough power now to kill you if I needed to. I trust in my strength, and you should too, if you know what's good for you. So listen to me, and tell no one.

My master named the Grimaxe under his domain. Unfortunately, the orcs don't know it yet. I am to conquor these beasts. This seems simple enough for someone as strong as I am, at first glance. But rule requires more than strength - something the Banites have learned well. And so, that is where my exploring began.

Having already recruited the young vicar as my aide, I sought wisdom from the Exarch of Sestra. Rumor had it, he had used orcs in his conquering of that little town. Why he wanted such a hole-in-the-wall, back-water village, I'll never know. I suppose he just wanted a place to call his own. Regardless - he is a man of strength and wisdom beyond mine. I'll take what he gives me.

.................................................. .................................................. .

The Exarch was a pleasant man, but clearly arrogant. He threw his power around with a polished smile. He ordered me to spar with a beast for his amusement. He spoke as though I was sworn to his side. I saw nothing wrong with declaring myself his servant, for the time being. He is an ally, and our goals are likely in-sync. I even fought his beast for him, which I of course bested. Perhaps he'll now learn some humility.

In due time, we spoke about the orcs. And he did not disappoint. As I suspected, he says these beasts have very sociable minds. They are violent and bloodthirsty, but there is more to them as well. They can be bartered with, and they can make allegiences. They respond to power, and so conquering their chief goes without question. But keeping rule requires something odd - freedom; or, as the Exarch puts it, the illusion of such.

With his information, I have a firmer plan. Before you can conquer, you must sometimes divide, as the Exarch says. He has taken more land than I have in my lifetime, and so I will follow his advice.

[Chiangtao]

Excellent - another vicar. These godly men are all alike. What they lack in creativity they make up for in volume of words. And the words, how they come! Never anything of use... just words upon words, saying nothing, like reading books written in a foreign tongue.

I swear to you - this is why those before me failed. Adherence to nothing but doctrine, when they know nothing of the sort. They pray and recite, but they do not own His power in their soul as I do. They are blessed with trivial prayers when they beg for them. His powers are a part of me. Why? Because I don't waste them with words.

Oh, I scheme. And I think the plan out. I do not avoid hard truths for the sake of faith.

The Exarch is an expert on this - better than I perhaps, on at least this one matter. The tribes must be divided before they are conquered. Unity is our enemy; isolation, our ally.

The second Vicar sees the old adage: "The Grimaxe are a snake. Cut off their head and they will follow." But truthfully, the Grimaxe are not a snake. It is the Mossclaw allegiance, and they are a hydra. They have unity, and when we take them on by man-made means, we will never run out of heads to sever. We must force the hydra to eat itself before we can succeed.

So, my friend, I'm trapped by limited resources. My own faithful are loyal, but lack imagination. My lord Exarch will happily scheme, but will claim the prize for his own. I find the predicament both enraging and laughable. That the Hand could sow the land so successfully, without the proper tools! Where would they be without their gods?!

************************************************** ********

I am surprised - very pleasantly so. The first vicar has offered up something useful and imaginative. Perhaps she has more talent than I give her credit. True, she missed the big picture on first pass. But I molded her suggestion with my usual skill. Nonetheless, I did not think of the inspiration. And so I do not confuse you between my vicars, I will now call her Muse.

These beasts fight over the same things as men. They seek to show their strength, and they seek to claim land. There is ample territory for rent in the forest - grounds once owned by men that these simple-minded brutes would crave.

I'll find a way to be muse to these tribes, inspiring to claim the land for themselves. And when they try, it will be war among their own.

[Chiangtao]

Even the best actions do not always bear fruit, my friend. I've spent hours planning these events - hours of my precious life that I'll never recover. I laid the bait for the "all powerful" Exarch, yet he has done nothing to uncover the nature of my master. I've spent an entire evening skimming through books, thick with the dust of the crypts, uncovering very little of use. And I've prodded our own priests of the dead, but they move just as slowly as the corpses they reside over. But even with such a bare harvest, I've found the right course yet again.

I stumbled upon a newer tome in the library. It had fewer cobwebs than any other book - it must have had a recent reader. Though its lack of dust caught my eye, it was the title that caught my interest: Animal Tribes of the Viridale.

The book itself was dull. The writer was clearly an academic quite full of himself, and his words suffered from drawn out phrasing and ego. After the first chapter, I realized the book would offer no wisdom of use for me. As I shut it to place it back in the pile, its spine buckled. I turned it sideways to look closer. There I discovered the notes from its last reader.

I'll spare you the details, lest you use them against me. Suffice to say, my interest was piqued in the reader himself. This person had been set down the same path as I - to conquer the Grimaxe in His name. This rival of mine left few true clues in writing - smart of him, I must admit. But there was one passage he included - barely more than a sentence - that brought light to my path:
"The strong rule the weak. To rule them, show strength, and conquer the meek first."
A novel idea. I had thought all along strength was needed. But to target the meek? That to conquer the tribe I should first conquer the dregs? One day I would need to usurp their chief for certain. But then what? They would follow my lead only so long as I was present. Without myself, or a puppet present, they would revert to their barbarian ways in no time.

The secret surely is in the masses! Conquer the mob, and when the chief falls, you only need the next in line to step forward. They will trumpet His message through the woods and none in the tribe would resist.

But how do I show them His might without killing them?

**************************************************

As it turns out, I did need to kill them. Just a few, at least. The stinking orc corpses were my bait.

I stood fifty paces from the slaughter. I was invisible, and down wind from the beasts that soon arrived. They are, after all, some semblance of civilization. Their fort is all the evidence one needs of that. And so, I cleverly realized, they must also care for their dead.

Five of them came from the fort. They kept a tight formation and investigated the area. They prodded at the thicket and discovered nothing but leaves.

Finally satisfied, the largest among them barked orders. At the first sign of resistance, he kicked and punched the others in his patrol. Three of them stepped aside quickly, cowed and ready to obey. The fourth, the smallest of the patrol, snarled and fought back. He has life and vigor, and by will alone did the fight last three minutes.

But in the end, the large one was the victor. He broke the smaller one's left tusk, cracking it with a rock. He growled a laugh as the small one crawled on his fours to retreat. The pain was too much for him to continue the fight, though you could see in his eyes he wanted the large one dead.

The large one pressed over the small one. He laid a knee in what I assume is his kidney, pinning him to the ground. He barked at the small one in their grunting language, pointing from the living orc over to the dead. He shoved the small one's head into the mud, then stood up. He collected the three remaining patrol and returned to the fort, leaving the small bloodied orc to the task of clearing the dead.

**************************************************

If you've ever seen the dogs nobles' own, you know they have pride. They are like any other dog, but treated like fluff and lace. Their owners dress them like babies, give them sculptured haircuts, and dye their fur. And you can see the shame on the faces of these canines at their own mis-fortunate absurdity.

Knowing this, I gave the pitiful orc a moment to compose himself. He searched a moment for his missing tusk, but it was in vain - the bigger one had carried it off like some bullying prize. So he turned his attention to his wounds, which he tied off with scraps of cloth. But he didn't clean the blood off his leather.

Did he want to remember the event? I could see on his face that the fight was not gone. If he had it to do again, he wouldn't change a thing. And if he found the same orc tomorrow, he'd still fight him, knowing he'd get the snot beaten from him. Pride is a detriment to all but the extraordinary.

After he fixed his cuts, he turned his attention to the corpses. He dragged the dead orcs to a clearing, setting them down carefully. He lined them up next to one another, heads at one end, feet at the other. It was respectful enough I suppose - far beyond what I had expected from their kind.

The small orc gathered up some dead thrush. He bound it together with twine and fashioned himself a makeshift torch. But I had no intention of letting him light it. I wanted those bodies in-tact.

I came forward, still invisible. The crunch of my metal boots on the dead leaves alerted him, and he spun in my direction with alarm. I recited my spell, and the willful beast fell asleep before he could take action. Quickly, I bound the orc for good measure, and set forward on my plan.

I turned back to the fallen orcs - the very same I had slain not hours ago. I welled up my strength and raised the largest of them. It lumbered up slowly to its feet. The fatal wound on its stomach spilled guts and organs now, which hung from its torso like meat in a butcher shop window. But it stood all the same, its legs and arms powered not by life, but by me alone.

I warded my slave and myself, then set off at as quick a pace as the lumbering corpse behind me could keep.

************************************************** *****

"Wake," I said, slapping the orc. The blow brought him back to consciousness. Instantly, he lashed at me with sharp teeth, but the binding held him fast.

"You are too willful," I remarked, knowing the orc probably couldn't understand. I decided to keep my words short. I grabbed him by his tuft of hair and yanked his head skyward.

"Look."

The orc's eyes became saucers, bowls filled with a liquid part pleasure and part fury. Just above his head, I had hung my gift: the large orc that had just beaten the small one senseless. My slave and I had settled the score on his behalf. Bound and suspended by his feet, the bully was now at our mercy. He would find none of it.

I turned to my slave. "Cut the rope," I ordered. With the small orc watching closely, my risen servant walked over to the tree. It grabbed the rope that suspended the bully, and with both hands, ripped it in a feat of great strength.

The bully fell to our feet. The impact awoke him, and he yelped in pain.

I turned back to the small orc. "Look," I repeated.

I gave my servant another command. Obediently, it lumbered to the bully orc's side. It drew a dagger from its belt and began to carve. The bully howled and snarled and raged, the feelings of pain and anger both fighting each other for dominance. Cut after cut came, and I would not give him the quick death he wanted. I did not want his body damaged.

I looked to the one-tusked orc. He watched the scene with a mixture of emotion as well. I could see the rage plainly on his face, but there was also awe. I doubt even his most powerful priests could raise the dead as I had done so easily. And here I was giving him his vengence - a man! The complexity of the situation likely stopped there, but suffice to say, he was paying attention.

After a minute or so, the orc stopped moving. My slave had slashed his body time after time - I had lost track. The creature had simply bled out, leaving a perfectly in-tact shell. The body would be strong, its muscles and bones in working order.

"Good," I mentioned off-hand to my servant. Not that it mattered... I find myself sometimes slipping, humanizing these things. The words were for myself only.

Without remorse, I released control of my servant. My will filled up again, and once more I forced a creature to rise from beyond.

The bully orc stood more quickly than its predecessor. I placed my prize in its hand and gave it final orders. "Cut him lose. Give him this tusk. Then obey him forever."