YWP 6: The Siege Of Chailon Part One - By Garrett Spelman
Quick note: This story will likely have three parts, and will be one of the largest stories in my collection.
“Darkness folds in upon itself” -Margaret Weis and Mercedes Lackey
Afternoon, Chailon Throne Room.
“How is one to power a great creation when the power needed is unknown? You use what’s available. In this case, the available source is magic. We have developed the art of magic enough to power even the greatest works of artificiery! Our friends downstairs have come out with the newest form of reliable protection for our great kingdom, Chailon!” the announcer declared widely into the throne room on the top floor of Chailon’s keep. The announcer then slid to the side to let a grumbling old dwarf with brass legs into the throne room. King Zefronnad chortled.
“What? Is the legless dwarf to wield a hammer in battle? Are we using our quantity over our quality now?” The king laughed again and began to dismiss the elderly Glamdafak, but the dwarf did not move.
“Tha’ was a fast ‘sumption there, boy,.” Glamdafak grumbled. He swung around and beckoned for something hidden behind the curtain of darkness in the large doorway. A squad of servants rolled a large, 7-foot tall crate into the throne room. The announcer then proclaimed, “This new work of artificiery will astound all who see it! Even you, my king!” The announcer yanked the string off of the box and the sides fell down, splintering on the royal carpet. The king looked angry, but when he saw what the box held, his expression immediately changed from anger about his ruined carpet to astonishment.
A 6-foot tall humanoid form walked from the shattered box and towards the king. Its limbs were made of metal, it looked like a huge metal armature. Its head bore a large red crystal where its face would have been, and it wore the armor of chailon’s guards.
“My god, Glamdafak! Have you been busy?” The king bellowed sarcastically. “Show me what it can do.”
“I can’t, king. They are under your command.
“How many are there?”
“Jus’ ten.”
“Make more. You may claim a room in the castle and be fed well, if you do.”
“Aye, king.” Glamdafak groaned, knowing he had no choice anyway. Glamdafak began his slow march, unpinning the standing-locks on his brass prosthetics. As he stumped down the hallways, he found himself winding up a tall staircase, his arms aching. As he crossed the last step, he found himself on a wide circular balcony. Several pillars held up a tall conical roof, a perfect place for a workshop. He yelled down the stairs for a servant. He assigned that servant as a running boy. His name was Arthura.
Morning, Great Tower:
Arthura was a young adult, just over sixteen years. Today he was on a hard mission from “The Artificer.” He was told to find a large net, something not very common in the city of Chailon. His first guess was the market, as that was where you usually get rope. As he descended the rope-slide, one of the artificer’s great gadgets, he looked out to the rising sun, the houses with rising spires and flags. He looked behind him at the castle on the mountain. He saw the great tower, which he had just departed from, he saw the grand doorway of the keep. He saw the majesty of the kingdom, but knew the truth. The wind on his cheek stung, his long, unkempt, black hair lashed at his face. He knew that Chailon was a place of evil. He knew that between those rising steeples and waving flags were rogues and thieves - those who look to benefit off of evil. He knew that behind those walls and in that tower lay great evil. He knew that the wind that stung his face was the breath of lies.
As his thoughts carried him through the haughty autumn wind, he lost track of where he was. He realized too late. He looked ahead and saw the post the rope was tied to. He shifted his weight and jumped off the handles of the Line. He swung too far with his momentum. He bashed his left arm off the post, then sprawled across the plateau. His arm stung from the sudden impact, and his mind was still racing with adrenaline. He was off-balance and didn’t realize. He stumbled and tripped towards the edge of the Second Rim, the cliff ever closer.
Just as he was about to slip off the end, a strong arm grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back up.
“What’re ya tryin’ ta do, kill yaself?”
“Uh, no….” Arthura answered, unsure of the guard’s expression underneath the dark helmet they wore.
“Well move along then, boy.” he said, pulling his helmet off and holding it to his hip. His face was complex, a straight jawline, slack brow, open lip. He rested his hand on Arthura’s shoulder, “Name’s Kenneth, if ya need ‘elp, I’m ‘ere ev’ry day.”
“Yessir.” He said and walked away. Arthura’s walk to the market was easy. It was on the Second Rim, just a little ways around and in. He questioned about ten stall owners, no net. Not even the rope stall had any. He tried negotiating. “By the artificer’s demand, sir, I need net!”
“Well don’t expect any from me, boy. I only spin it, no nets here. No, no nets.” His voice was croaky and high. Arthura sighed and walked away, dreading the consequences of a failed run. He walked back to the Line, the sun setting, and began to climb. A climb he had made many times.
Fwoomph. As Arthura entered the tower, he was caught by a net against a wall. “AHA!” Glamdafak yelled. “It works!” he let out a crooked laugh and began to set Arthura free.” Just a prototype, boy, but it sure works well!” Glamdafak said gleefully, contrary to his normal mood. “So how’d the net run go?” Glamdafak asked as he unwrapped the last weight.
“I couldn’t find any, sir,” Arthura answered with his head down, a habit developed from being a servant to nobles most of his life.
“What’s that ye’re doin’ there, boy? I’m not that short, and there’s no reason t’ be ashamed either.” Arthura snapped his head up and walked out of the room, knowing the next step. A conference with the king.
As he entered the throne room, he saw detailed portraits of the past kings - from King Zachad to King Zefronnad. The portrait of Zefronnad seemed very pronounced and fake, his cape draped over both shoulders, decorative armor gleaming, hair neat and clean. But when Arthura entered the throne room, the eight guards stepped aside and revealed the real King Zefronnad, his cape tattered and moth-eaten, his decorative armor dirty and in the corner. The king’s hair was long, patchy and gross.
“What’s it ye want, kid?” Zefronnad croaked and sat up.
“The artificer is in need of net, sir. There is none in the market, and we’ll have to get some imported.” Arthura said under a low bow.
“Kid, make it yerself. There’s plenty o’ rope, eh?” Zefronnad yelled, then recessed back into his throne. Arthura shuffled out, embarrassed.
Meanwhile, Grand Tower:
“You think I’ll tolerate this, Glamdafak?” A figure slipped out of the shadows in the corner. Glamdafak whipped around, seeing the elderly wizard with a small net in his hands.
“Venorium! How’d ye get ‘ere?” Glamdafak said, shocked. Venorium held up a crystal showing an image of a withered wizard, wearing purple robes.
“No! ‘Ow’d ye beat ‘er?” Glamdafak yelled as he recognized the old friend. “An’ ‘ow’d ye get tha’?”
“Oh, an old trick of Ladrum’s.”
“No, no, NO!!!” Glamdafak roared in terror. He twisted and grabbed the prototype net gun, firing it at Venorium. Click. Nothing happened.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Venorium said softly as he held up the net. Venorium threw the net aside and stepped forward. Glamdafak flinched, a mistake. “Oh, you are afraid, my dwarven friend?”
“No!” Glamdafak yelled.
“Glamdafak, you know I don’t like it when people lie.” Venorium raised his fists in the air, performing nimble gestures with his hands. He pulled out a metal-brass rod, engraved with circles and lines. “Anglevach… einst, VALAKIR!!!” Venorium let out the final incantations of the complex magic, the last words Glamdafak would really hear. Venorium stumbled, exhausted by the energy he poured into the spell, and Glamdafak caught him.
To Be Continued...
Quick note: This story will likely have three parts, and will be one of the largest stories in my collection.
“Darkness folds in upon itself” -Margaret Weis and Mercedes Lackey
Afternoon, Chailon Throne Room.
“How is one to power a great creation when the power needed is unknown? You use what’s available. In this case, the available source is magic. We have developed the art of magic enough to power even the greatest works of artificiery! Our friends downstairs have come out with the newest form of reliable protection for our great kingdom, Chailon!” the announcer declared widely into the throne room on the top floor of Chailon’s keep. The announcer then slid to the side to let a grumbling old dwarf with brass legs into the throne room. King Zefronnad chortled.
“What? Is the legless dwarf to wield a hammer in battle? Are we using our quantity over our quality now?” The king laughed again and began to dismiss the elderly Glamdafak, but the dwarf did not move.
“Tha’ was a fast ‘sumption there, boy,.” Glamdafak grumbled. He swung around and beckoned for something hidden behind the curtain of darkness in the large doorway. A squad of servants rolled a large, 7-foot tall crate into the throne room. The announcer then proclaimed, “This new work of artificiery will astound all who see it! Even you, my king!” The announcer yanked the string off of the box and the sides fell down, splintering on the royal carpet. The king looked angry, but when he saw what the box held, his expression immediately changed from anger about his ruined carpet to astonishment.
A 6-foot tall humanoid form walked from the shattered box and towards the king. Its limbs were made of metal, it looked like a huge metal armature. Its head bore a large red crystal where its face would have been, and it wore the armor of chailon’s guards.
“My god, Glamdafak! Have you been busy?” The king bellowed sarcastically. “Show me what it can do.”
“I can’t, king. They are under your command.
“How many are there?”
“Jus’ ten.”
“Make more. You may claim a room in the castle and be fed well, if you do.”
“Aye, king.” Glamdafak groaned, knowing he had no choice anyway. Glamdafak began his slow march, unpinning the standing-locks on his brass prosthetics. As he stumped down the hallways, he found himself winding up a tall staircase, his arms aching. As he crossed the last step, he found himself on a wide circular balcony. Several pillars held up a tall conical roof, a perfect place for a workshop. He yelled down the stairs for a servant. He assigned that servant as a running boy. His name was Arthura.
Morning, Great Tower:
Arthura was a young adult, just over sixteen years. Today he was on a hard mission from “The Artificer.” He was told to find a large net, something not very common in the city of Chailon. His first guess was the market, as that was where you usually get rope. As he descended the rope-slide, one of the artificer’s great gadgets, he looked out to the rising sun, the houses with rising spires and flags. He looked behind him at the castle on the mountain. He saw the great tower, which he had just departed from, he saw the grand doorway of the keep. He saw the majesty of the kingdom, but knew the truth. The wind on his cheek stung, his long, unkempt, black hair lashed at his face. He knew that Chailon was a place of evil. He knew that between those rising steeples and waving flags were rogues and thieves - those who look to benefit off of evil. He knew that behind those walls and in that tower lay great evil. He knew that the wind that stung his face was the breath of lies.
As his thoughts carried him through the haughty autumn wind, he lost track of where he was. He realized too late. He looked ahead and saw the post the rope was tied to. He shifted his weight and jumped off the handles of the Line. He swung too far with his momentum. He bashed his left arm off the post, then sprawled across the plateau. His arm stung from the sudden impact, and his mind was still racing with adrenaline. He was off-balance and didn’t realize. He stumbled and tripped towards the edge of the Second Rim, the cliff ever closer.
Just as he was about to slip off the end, a strong arm grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back up.
“What’re ya tryin’ ta do, kill yaself?”
“Uh, no….” Arthura answered, unsure of the guard’s expression underneath the dark helmet they wore.
“Well move along then, boy.” he said, pulling his helmet off and holding it to his hip. His face was complex, a straight jawline, slack brow, open lip. He rested his hand on Arthura’s shoulder, “Name’s Kenneth, if ya need ‘elp, I’m ‘ere ev’ry day.”
“Yessir.” He said and walked away. Arthura’s walk to the market was easy. It was on the Second Rim, just a little ways around and in. He questioned about ten stall owners, no net. Not even the rope stall had any. He tried negotiating. “By the artificer’s demand, sir, I need net!”
“Well don’t expect any from me, boy. I only spin it, no nets here. No, no nets.” His voice was croaky and high. Arthura sighed and walked away, dreading the consequences of a failed run. He walked back to the Line, the sun setting, and began to climb. A climb he had made many times.
Fwoomph. As Arthura entered the tower, he was caught by a net against a wall. “AHA!” Glamdafak yelled. “It works!” he let out a crooked laugh and began to set Arthura free.” Just a prototype, boy, but it sure works well!” Glamdafak said gleefully, contrary to his normal mood. “So how’d the net run go?” Glamdafak asked as he unwrapped the last weight.
“I couldn’t find any, sir,” Arthura answered with his head down, a habit developed from being a servant to nobles most of his life.
“What’s that ye’re doin’ there, boy? I’m not that short, and there’s no reason t’ be ashamed either.” Arthura snapped his head up and walked out of the room, knowing the next step. A conference with the king.
As he entered the throne room, he saw detailed portraits of the past kings - from King Zachad to King Zefronnad. The portrait of Zefronnad seemed very pronounced and fake, his cape draped over both shoulders, decorative armor gleaming, hair neat and clean. But when Arthura entered the throne room, the eight guards stepped aside and revealed the real King Zefronnad, his cape tattered and moth-eaten, his decorative armor dirty and in the corner. The king’s hair was long, patchy and gross.
“What’s it ye want, kid?” Zefronnad croaked and sat up.
“The artificer is in need of net, sir. There is none in the market, and we’ll have to get some imported.” Arthura said under a low bow.
“Kid, make it yerself. There’s plenty o’ rope, eh?” Zefronnad yelled, then recessed back into his throne. Arthura shuffled out, embarrassed.
Meanwhile, Grand Tower:
“You think I’ll tolerate this, Glamdafak?” A figure slipped out of the shadows in the corner. Glamdafak whipped around, seeing the elderly wizard with a small net in his hands.
“Venorium! How’d ye get ‘ere?” Glamdafak said, shocked. Venorium held up a crystal showing an image of a withered wizard, wearing purple robes.
“No! ‘Ow’d ye beat ‘er?” Glamdafak yelled as he recognized the old friend. “An’ ‘ow’d ye get tha’?”
“Oh, an old trick of Ladrum’s.”
“No, no, NO!!!” Glamdafak roared in terror. He twisted and grabbed the prototype net gun, firing it at Venorium. Click. Nothing happened.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Venorium said softly as he held up the net. Venorium threw the net aside and stepped forward. Glamdafak flinched, a mistake. “Oh, you are afraid, my dwarven friend?”
“No!” Glamdafak yelled.
“Glamdafak, you know I don’t like it when people lie.” Venorium raised his fists in the air, performing nimble gestures with his hands. He pulled out a metal-brass rod, engraved with circles and lines. “Anglevach… einst, VALAKIR!!!” Venorium let out the final incantations of the complex magic, the last words Glamdafak would really hear. Venorium stumbled, exhausted by the energy he poured into the spell, and Glamdafak caught him.
To Be Continued...
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