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A Land of Cottages and Rogues
Tomes of Amaxathroth > Ink, Blood and Parchment |
A verdant, sparse land lies between the sorceries of spired Harumetha and the Road of Skulls, built in honor of a forgotten king. Once were skulls set atop shining poles every hundred paces, their height above the roadway stones indicating the level of the king's displeasure - and the torments visited upon that skull's owner in the last days of his time in this world. That was long past, long indeed, and none but I and scholars eager to please recall the truth of the name.
Rogues and practitioners of every violent calumny have picked the Road of Skulls clean of travelers. Not so tidy as the forgotten king, they leave skulls yet attached to the bodies of those few victims still foolish enough to present themselves. Once ten covens of ragged roarch flew about the Road, fed full and gluttonous upon the wastes of brigands - in these years, but one great roarch remains, broad and scale-feathered, foul-tempered for having consumed its sisters in these lean times.
Yet despite a stinking flood of rogues and thieves, the land I traveled in haste from Harumetha was scattered with peaceable cottages and the signs of carefree habitation. I bore the Thrice-Dagger of the Bone Priestesses, taken upon a whim after a night of drugged revelry and blessed murder amongst the living who wish to be dead - for who even within Harumetha can breach my curse? With sense and morning came the realization that jealous priestesses could take it upon themselves to outdo the years of torment I suffered in far Daathu. But the deed was done, and stone oubliettes lay beneath Harumetha's vaults and spires.
Peaceful cottages and tended gardens are enough to lull even the careful from notice - and so I was, until at a copse-edge there about me were twenty offal of the Road of Skulls, floated far from their cesspit. What they took me for, I know not, but I gave to laughter - here was I, Amaxathroth the Cursed, who has strode the world, known all, slain armies. Here was I, waylaid by thieves whilst a thief myself. Laugh I did, fit to burst and never stop; hysteria and the curse carried me through the pain of five mortal thrusts of blade. Bubbling blood, doubled up with what lies beyond mirth and sanity, I slew seven before one wrestled the Thrice-Dagger from me. All ran then, making the ward sign against sorceries, for yet still I laughed.
Amaxathroth the Cursed, robbed by vermin of the Road! Amaxathroth the Wanderer, messenger to the Gods, who moves trinkets about the world - how I laughed whilst my blood fed the grasses! In what bandit grave lies the Thrice-Dagger now, I wonder, and whose purpose does that serve?
In time, I laughed and bled no more - sustained by the Demon-King's misplaced wrath of so long ago. So I came down from the grass to the nearest stone-walled cottage in search of water to cleanse away filth and gore, and clothing free of rent and tear. Pushing my way inside, I was greeted not by simple farmers or craftsmen, but by the stench of alchemy. Ten crooked shelves covered each wall, piled to overflowing with vials and mummifications, each exuding a miasma more malodorous than the last.
Impkin cackled from the rafters, and the sorceror within thought not to inquire of the origin of the bloodstained wretch who had thrown open his door. He started upon a dark invocation of the Undergod Freth, and so I slew him, choking upon the vapors, whilst he wrested with the curse. Impkin fled into the fireplace while I threw open the windows and cast lids upon the open coffers. But there was no cleasing the ever-changing foul odors within, and that night I slept upon the thatch above.
A mystery, at least, I had put to rest - not all sorceries take place within the spires of Harumetha. Much like the rogues of the Road of Skulls, the worst and most truculent spill out across the land, and so were these seemingly peaceable cottages protected.
[ Posted by Reason on October 22, 2006 ]
