In the Shadow of Mountains - a litRPG adventure

And still, you ask why?

My people knew well enough why I did what I did. For generations, they understood. You could hear it in the stories they would tell, in the artwork they would create. Even the economic decisions – the siege stores always well-stocked, the walls in good condition….no longer.

I hear the new declarations, the whispers in the streets. Every seven years I hear new resolve from the senate, and now, well after the second centenary of our independence, I hear a different tune rising. They carve new statues of my brother now, as you must have seen.

‘The Hero’s time’ they call it. A time of opening, a time to let shackles of war fall to the ground, and peace bare its newborn head at the sky. Romantic, and hopeful. I am heartened to know my stewardship has given you hope, dear city. My heart gladdens as you stretch your arms towards the world, reaching with innocent expectance of a brighter tomorrow.

I see this trend, and I approve.

But do not forget the lessons of the past. Had the world been the noble place you so wish for it to be, my brother would be standing guard above you now, not I. I stand here; the looming shadow that wraps this city in a protective shroud of bitter fury. My wings darken the skies, and my cries haunt the wind. If you yearn for the Hero’s time, heed well his lessons.

His heart raged at every injustice. When the Suljuks sacked our city, he burned with righteousness at their disregard for our lives. We all remember his defiance as they lined up our comrades and burned them at the stake in front of our eyes. The Temple of Al’Ashok unveiled a new mural depicting this piece of history just this year, did it not? The artist’s brush renders well the pain in his eyes, as he strained against our captor’s bonds, even as his men died before him.

Beautiful art, no doubt, but what did they get wrong? It was a time of violence, and our civic pride was sorely needed, so I don’t fault the artist for rendering the Suljuks as monstrous, their cruel smirks and twisted bodies so terrible to behold. No, what I regard as disappointing revisionism is the power in the Hero’s frame. A titan among men he seems in that work, unbroken, unbreakable.

That is what I regard as the failure to heed his teachings. The lesson of the Hero of Altine is that all men break. He let the fires of injustice burn within him and was immolated by them. He took in the pain of our people and was consumed by it. He gave everything he had to resist the Suljuk occupation, and so, inevitably, he became a martyr for that cause.

Let us not forget who led the rebellion in the days and weeks following the burning of our comrades. While the hero laid on death’s door, and the underground apothecaries fought against the Great Leveller itself to bring him back to us, who gave orders? Who kept the resistance on its feet?

I can see you now about to bow in obsequiousness at my words, seeking to grovel and apologise and proclaim my great benevolence even as I scold you. Please, do not. I do not remind you of those times to diminish my brother’s sacrifice or elevate my own. There is a reason that the Hero’s name echoes throughout our history. Altine is free because of his struggle and is great because it seeks to emulate his ideals.

I wish only to remind you of the price that those ideals come with. Once the dust settles, there is an accounting. There must be someone left to pay.

If your heart aches at every injustice, you are friend to Altine and kin to the Hero himself. Remember though, somebody must remain to make the choices that come after victory. If all the great men sacrifice themselves, who remains to rebuild?

I look forward to the Hero’s time. I see a great future for this city as it reaches from the shores of Tsanderos to the foothills of the Titans. We will never be an occupying power, never be more than a single city reaching out in solidarity with all. But that commitment comes with a price.

My presence wards you from the world outside, but I cannot – will not – decide your future. There are decisions to be made and I urge you to make them with caution. Stay true to the Hero’s ideals, and spread justice before you, but do not forget that a price must be paid.

If you are not around to pay it, onto who does that debt fall?

- Excerpt from the 3rd memoire of Sol D’Antereg, Guardian of Altine, Winter’s Embrace. (Transliterated by scholar Rostruik in ‘the price of freedom – 7 centuries in Altine’)

*Nathlan*

Nathlan wasn’t one to panic easily. Not unless somebody disturbed his reading or rifled through his scrolls. Or if he had to present at a scholarly conference – those things were testing even for the elderly scholars whose accomplishments would take half a bell to fully list. Or if he was trying to blend into a huge crowd – something about the bustle made him think of the huge storms that would rock his homeland every winter, the sea-spray rising dozens of meters high and coating the storm-wards with foam.

On reflection, perhaps he was one to panic easily. But still, there were very specific circumstances under which he would normally panic. His friend being out too late wasn’t one of them, however.

He hadn’t worried too much upon returning to their room and finding it empty. Lamb had made a few jokes before about leaving the room free in case his lunches with Kal ‘went well’, but Nathlan had thought they were just jokes at his expense. After a couple of bells and still no sign, he knew he’d snuck out, against Jorge’s wishes.

It was a stupid thing to do. Jorge wasn’t some guard captain creating rules to teach youngsters some discipline. There was a real threat of retaliation by powerful groups in the city, and his advice was to stay inside where we were less likely to be recognised. The odds of reprisals did seem slim, and the new artifacts Lamb had commissioned did seem intriguing, especially considering his plans to integrate his skills more tightly as a result, but it was foolhardy to not wait a few more days.

Vera would likely return today or tomorrow from her exchange with the ex-councillor, and Jorge was apparently already working with his underground contact regarding scouting the Lions’ base of operations.

His disappointment with his friend’s rash decision had turned to worry once Jorge had returned. His contact had confirmed the suspicions they’d had from days before, and after some digging, had confirmed that not only were the Wielders of Azlan involved, but so were a certain other mercenary company – the Crimson Lions.

It wasn’t really surprising, and shouldn’t have anything to do with Lamb, but there was a feeling that began brewing in his stomach. After arguing and negotiating with his panic for far too long, feeling it gnaw its way up from his belly like a vengeful rat, he had finally reached the point where he couldn’t keep it in any longer.

“Something has happened.”

The statement hung in the air between them, and Jorge gave him a long, measuring look. Nathlan met his gaze, guilt and worry gripping him. A brief pause before Jorge simply nodded.

A piece of thin bark appeared in his hands, and the older man scrawled a message quickly with a thin chisel. The instrument disappeared just as abruptly and within a handful of heartbeats they were moving out of the room at a brisk pace. They strode swiftly down the stairs and into the street, the heavy wooden door to the inn barely having time to close before they disappeared around the corner.

“What do you think, lad? What’re you putting together?” Jorge asked, gruff voice lower than usual and missing its normal joviality.

Nathlan considered. Truth be told, his mind hadn’t stopped racing since Jorge had returned, but it was starting to whir faster and faster, in that way he remembered from his childhood when the only one who could calm him down was his mother. At least in the early years, before she became too busy with her duties. But then Old Nan from the kitchens had been there to fill the void, and then when she was too old to work it was his friend, Nanwē, that had stepped in to the role. And then there were some hard years following the murder.

Jorge’s voice brought him out of the growing fog though, and he clawed desperately at the distraction from his thoughts.

“What? Oh, yes. I think he’s been taken. Obviously, we know something’s happened, but I suspect he has been kidnapped by the Wielders of Azlan and will be held as a hostage to force myself and possibly you and Vera as well – if they have done their research on us – into a disadvantageous ambush. I would be surprised though, as what little knowledge of them I have does not indicate a sophisticated intelligence gathering operation within their company, or a strong connection to local information networks.”

Jorge slipped effortlessly between the busy evening streets, navigating around groups of soon-to-be-revellers starting their nights by smoking some sort of psychedelic leaf burning in small communal braziers outside certain brightly lit buildings. Nathlan followed in his wake, happy to let the more experienced man weave a path through the throngs while he continued spinning out the thoughts in his head.

“What’s to stop the Wielders paying a local broker for information about the ‘mysterious and powerful’ newcomers in the city they’re working in? Seems an obvious first step.” Jorge said.

“Nothing in theory. But their actions have had profound consequences, at least in the short-term, on the local underworld elements of Colchet, and most of those consequences are negative. The larger brokers belong to specific criminal factions who are in relative disarray, in large part due to the actions of the Wielders of Azlan, and so are unlikely to be ‘open for business’ so to speak. Similarly, the smaller brokers that remain independent are even less likely to work with the Wielders given their reputation, and are probably laying low to let this storm settle.”

“Aye, fair point. I struggled getting in touch with one myself, and he’s an old friend. This city is like a nest of Rakshasa’s after a good kicking. Not that you’d know it from here,” at this, Jorge swept an arm out to encompass the group of a dozen men and women warming their hands around a massive fire-pit to the side of a broad street, drinking and chatting to one another with abandon. “Isn’t that right lads!?” He then shouted towards the group, raising his arm and clapping one on the shoulder as we strode past.

The group cheered in response, raising potted jugs sloshing with a menagerie of liquors and sweet wines. Friendly callouts flowed after them, but Jorge turned to wave them off, and Nathlan simply used the time to stretch his stride, catching up to the shorter man once again.

“So it’s unlikely they’ve managed to gather much information on us…which means…” He trailed off, and after a few moments of relative silence, Jorge turned back to give him a raised brow.

“Go on then, which means what, you daft egg?”

Nathlan smiled at the insult, delivered more as a term of endearment than anything. “Which means they probably think it’s just Lamb and I. But then why kidnap him? Why not simply turn up at the inn, or wait for both of us to leave together, and take us out then? They surely have the strength for it. Outnumber us by even one and I can’t see us getting out of that fight, assuming that man wasn’t the very strongest of them. Which should be a safe bet considering the rather mundane enforcement task he seemed to be on.”

“So you think they know something we don’t? Why else would the Wielder’s take him?” Jorge asked.

The sun had set more than a bell ago by now, and the streets were lit with the gentle orange glow of the night-lamps. No ingenious contraptions of living wood and mirrors these, the simple wall-mounted sconces burned with mana-light, kept fuelled by a regular rotation of city guards. Of course, with the incursion in the lowest levels stretching the guard well-over capacity, only the wealthier and busier layers near the top of the canyon were properly illuminated.

“Perhaps it wasn’t the Wielders who took him. Perhaps his capture was orchestrated by another mercenary company, operating the in the same area, that we have had run-ins with before.”

He cast a significant glance at the back of the armoured-man in front. Jorge seemed to notice as well, turning once again to look him over before facing forwards once more.

“Hhmmm. Let’s pick up the pace.”

“No, I’m tellin’ ya that I saw him no more’n 4 or 5 bells ago, must’ve been jus’ after midday.”

Sally’s shrill voice cut through Nathlan, bringing him back out of his catastrophising and into the moment once more. They’d made quick progress through the city to Sally’s workshop, and the tinkerer had been closing for the night so they’d been able to get a quick word with her before she left. It wasn’t good news.

“An’ did he say where he was headed?” Jorge asked in his calm way.

Sally crossed her arms and glared at him, having put aside her bag and seemingly finished clearing up for the day. “Listen young man-“

Nathlan nearly snorted. It was the first time he’d heard anyone address Jorge as such, the steel-grey hair around his jaw enough to ward off the assumption, to say nothing of his weathered skin and crows-feet. He looked equally surprised, eyebrows rising in response. Sally was undeterred however and blundered ahead with the alacrity of the ignorant.

“-the only reason I’m even sharin’ as much as I am is because I recognise the young man there” here she pointed right at Nathlan, before turning the accusing finger back to point squarely at Jorge’s chest. “an’ he seemed a good friend o’ Lamb’s. But yer startin’ to make me question myself with your insistence here. Go and find him yourself, I say!”

Rather than stare dumbly as Lamb would have, respond with anger as Vera likely would, or even garble an apology and rush from the shop as Nathlan himself would, Jorge handled this problem as he did so many others.

“I understand, lass. Strange man shows up outa nowhere and starts demandin’ answers from ya? I’m sorry, I can see why that’s got ya backed up inta a corner somewhat, but listen;” Nathlan would swear his thick brogue had lessened slightly, taking on some of the twang of the Tinkerer’s own accent. “Lamb’s a good friend, and we’re worried about ‘im. Ya remember that nasty piece a work from a few days ago, with the spear?”

Sally’s face had softened as Jorge continued, and she nodded. “Aye, well we think he might have arranged ta bump into our little Lamb again, if ya catch my meanin’? We’re just tryin’ to keep ‘im safe.”

The earnestness in his gaze won her over, and she slumped.

“Sorry my love, tough day, an’ I am a little worried meself with yous all turnin’ up in a tizzy. Make’s an old woman’s heart start ta flutter, hey? Wish I could help but it’s as I said; left here earlier just past lunch. Didn’t say nothin’ about where he was going, but looked pleased-as-punch as he wondered out with his weapons.”

Nathlan’s head snapped round at that, and his speed must have shocked Sally as she stopped talking abruptly. He didn’t care, social rules long from his mind as he followed the trail his brain had began to mark. “They were artifacts, yes? Both of them?”

Sally looked a little taken aback, but she recovered from her shock at his sudden move and nodded. “Aye, minor ones but some o’ my best work, at such short notice anyhow. Why’s that matter? No refunds if he’s lost ‘em!”

Nathlan found himself repressing a surge of annoyance at the tinkerer, concerned about money when his friend’s life was on the line. For that is likely what had happened, he realised at this point. Sure, it wasn’t impossible that Lamb had slipped into a bar and was getting drunk with a random group of new friends, but he knew the man. They’d been travelling together for months at this point, and while he might make some questionable decisions and have a penchant for light-hearted nonsense, Lamb was nothing if not driven.

He may display more laughs and smiles that everyone else when he trained, but he put in the work, same as the others. Often more, taking the care to stretch out and cool-down following intense bouts of sparring and training, in a way Jorge and Vera didn’t have to worry about so much with their significantly more advanced attributes.

No, Lamb would have headed straight back to the inn, and Nathlan would have expected to see him down in the courtyard training, and that was only if Lamb hadn’t begged him to spar as soon as he returned. The fact that he never had returned could mean only one thing in Nathan’s mind – he was taken by someone.

Or killed. Nathlan didn’t like to consider about that option.

“Can you trace them?” Nathlan asked the diminutive woman.

Sally blinked, considered, and then shook her head. “Not simply. I resonate with em’ course, given they were forged by my own hand, as ya probably know. But i’m not skilled enough ta have the range ta cover the city, let alone beyond it. I could rig somethin’ up that would alert ya if ya got close enough, but it would have ta be within a few miles or so?”

Nathlan cursed and looked away, but Jorge jumped in with a handful of tarrots and Sally unslung her bag with a sigh. She made no further complaints though, and got straight to work at her forging bench, for which Nathlan was grateful. It went a long way towards soothing the surge of annoyance at the woman, that she would stay late into the evening with little prompting simply for Lamb’s sake. The pay no doubt helped as well though – few talented crafters worked for free after all.

A few miles would not be enough though - the canyon city was deep and vast. While the difficulty of carving out solid stone was lessened by specific skills and sometimes just pure attribute-powered hard-work, the city could not grow directly downwards due to the relatively poor load-bearing capacity of the rock and the difficulty of keeping the city well-lit.

As a result, the layers were built as a descending set of stairs into the face of the canyon to harvest as much sunlight as possible. Therefore, it’s total size far eclipsed a few dozen miles, with bolt-holes and further developments no doubt ranging even further in cleverly hidden passageways and enclosed tunnels. They couldn’t just walk through the top layers and expect to get much feedback from the instrument that Sally designed.

It was exactly what he did though. While Jorge and Vera traded favours and paid directly for any information on Lamb’s abduction, Nathlan wandered the streets of Colchet. By the end of the first day he knew it was pointless, but it wasn’t until the third day passed fruitlessly that things changed.