T'was not long after the Night of the Bitter Chalice that Aia and Artorius ventured into the mountains. A week after his duel with Kalados, the Drakkennide scion departed Anor with an entourage of approximately fifty people. This included the Priestess of Faelenshire and the Drake Knights of Drakkennide, and a variety of household servants as well.
The northern gate was closer to the Dark Mists, making it a seldom travelled path. Yet with the troubles outside the eastern gate wrought by the wraiths in black, Artorius decided to adjust course. He felt a sense of ill omen from the wraiths and determined– although some protested, that the northern route would be safer overall.
Unlike the Eastern route which extended from the Aregashi Pass towards the Hills of Leed, the northern route ended at the Blackwood Forest, which was a seldom ventured place. Once called the Forest of Mahad in a different age, when the Dark Mists drifted into the region the once verdant trees became gnarled and black. Then is also when the foliage began to grow barbs and brambles. It now occupied a host of most uncanny creatures– beasts bred from the violations wrought by many Haraush'teths.
Yet this was the path that Artorius deemed safer, and so, this was the path which the group would endeavor. Artorius personally witnessed as a shroud of rainclouds began to amass from the east, blowing toward them with a worrying haste.
"We must move faster," he said.
"My lord, we cannot maintain a faster pace than this. The servants are already quite stressed, further hastening will only exhaust them."
Aia added, "If we rush any further, it would risk attracting darker things' attention too. These lands are afterall, surely cursed."
Although the young Drakkennide understood these words of caution, he could not alleviate the terrible anticipation building as he gazed at the eastern clouds.
The caravan settled at the space betwixt where a high mountain stood bearing a large chasm. The scar cracked through the mount until the heart, where a great shade had covered all within. Its ruinous remains slumbered for an age. Perhaps the mark of an angry god from the War of Choice. Perhaps t'was a memory carved into earth by the hands of an Aurian Demigod during one of the many wars between Aurumere and Effinitia.
Yet while Artorius' eyes fixed on the east, Iorhaneb– a Drake Knight of Drakkennide, felt his gaze turn to the chasm. A grim feeling emanated there.
Cold came with the dusk. Aia worked the fireplace to prepare hot food for the people. She worked beside the cook and occasionally asked what assistance she could be for the many mundane labors that needed doing. Although she could not wield a sword, Aia's courage in walking the unbeaten path inspired some of the men who had been gripped by a sense of fear since settling beside the mountain.
"There you are, Sir Manéd, your portion for the night. The cook says 'tis still quite hot so don't burn your tongue."
"The lady of Sól graces us. I feel much at ease now, Aiahi."
"Pardon?"
Another Drake Knight interjected, "pay him no mind, he's originally from Gwendopolis in Eninbal. They're old fashioned there."
"Old Fashioned?"
Manéd shook his head, "sir Evanin comes from Yuvonopolis, an empire realm. He's teasing me, since my family migrated into the empire from higher up in Eninbal."
"Oh dear, was it a difficult journey?"
"You mistake me, my lady, we made the journey over a decade ago. I have been in service to House Drakkennide for fifteen years already. T'was long before the war that I had assimilated with the empire. Yet traces of my old country still linger. In Eninbal, we use terms like 'Hi' to distinguish ladies from lords. 'Tis a relic of the Nebalese tongue now, but in my birthplace 'tis a still used term."
The knight winced as he burned his tongue on the hot stew. Yet not wishing to appear feeble before a lady, he reigned in his expression as quickly as possible.
Aia noticed but did not comment. Instead she calmly continued their topic.
"Is that why you called me 'Aiahi?' Does it perhaps mean something like 'lady' or 'woman?'"
Evanin answered, "not exactly. To say Lady would be 'Gwyn,' but 'Hi' is an old formality. No one uses it anymore– besides this oaf. 'Tis of essence a respectful way to speak to a woman, nothing fancier than that."
"Can you tell me more of Eninbal and the northern territories? I've never been, but they sound like a rather marvelous place."
Evanin replied first, "'tis a marvelous place indeed. My home city was once the home of Sir Yuvon from late antiquity. The same God of Chivalry who split the south and made the great chasm which later became the South Sea. His tales are all you'll hear growing up in Yuvonopolis."
Aia remarked with pause "a God of Chivalry?"
"'Tis a local custom," said Manéd, "while many in the north respect Yuvon, and grace him as the first knight, t'was in his home that he became worshipped. The people there do not simply see him as the Mightiest Demigod, but as a full God of Chivalry."
"You're not mistaken if you believe that the orthodox church has no stories of such a god. While Yuvon is a saint of the church, 'tis his home people that venerate him above other men."
Tension, which had at first occupied the spirit of all the men, was easing away as they spoke of their customs and home to Aia. Although, the priestess herself was not privy to this. She was merely fascinated by the Nebalese people, these pale men from the northern end and their culture.
"You say that the snow lasted into the seventh solar phase? That long? Are such long winters common in Eninbal?"
"The weather tends to fluctuate. Sometimes the winter is exceedingly long and the summer is short. In other years the summers are abundant, and winter passes like the wind."
Manéd added, "'Tis not so cold in Eninbal as in Arcticus– where the winter is endless. But we stand at the border betwixt the far north and the west. If not for the volcanoes of the Stonewall Mountains, the cold airs of Arcticus would likely freeze us over too."
T'was upon this topic that Artorius arrived.
"Is everyone rested and in high spirits? That's good. Because 'tis time again to hasten."
Aia's head tilted, "now? 'Tis not even dawn as of yet."
"I'm aware, yet lo now the eastern sky, the rain shall fall upon us any time now."
And then– as if to punctuate, there came the bellow of thunder.
"We will move deeper into the chasm to seek shelter. I sense a familiar feeling inside the mountain."
The grip on his saber appeared to hum lightly. There was at his hip a great weapon with an ivory pommel and a handle-and-a-half grip. The saber was long and thick, suitable to wield on horseback with deadly force.
Although the men were hesitant to move deeper into the ruined mountain, as they spied their captain's grip upon his saber, they each suspended complaint and roused themselves for the march.
At the deeper end of the mountain's ruin they required torchlight to peer into its depths. The remains of an old temple lay within. Tatters of red banners displayed on the walls told that this was, in a different age, a temple dedicated to Asur.
T'was not uncommon to find such artifacts in Helios, though rarely so intact. The Aurians erected many temples across different periods of favor during the first age. Often, the stone from the old temples to the old gods would be drawn to erect new temples for the new gods.
This one, apparently, was never unmade though.
Half of the men stayed to guard the servants, while another half moved with Artorius and Aia into the temple atrium. At the end– where an altar had been split, there was a rounded alcove wide as twenty drakefoots at its circumference. It hosted ninety-eight carvings from left to right its span with writing underneath the likeness.
"What be this?" asked Evanin, "A cathedral?"
"One for Asur by the look of it. These carvings must be the ninety-eight trials," said Aia.
"You know it?" Artorius asked.
"I only know of it. T'was a core part of the War God's theology."
She placed a hand on the first carving. There the divine being was carved into black basalt with His arms bound and a thick bridle– like a gag, fastened to His teeth. He moved among oxen in the Place Between, dragging stone and ploughing fields for the God of Death. Aia realized suddenly that the stone felt cold for some reason.
She recounted the Tale:
"The scriptures state that Asur grieved for His lost comrades after the War of Choice had ended. Many gods died in that age."
Artorius' grip felt cold as it rested on his saber. He lifted his hand off the blade, slightly trembling from the chill.
"He ventured into the Place Between and made a bargain with Az. One year as a thrall for Az in exchange each for a God which He desired to bring back from Death. The first year Az made an ox of Him– to carry the burdens of Death, as shown above."
The priestess then focused her gaze onto the text below the carving.
"I recognize these words, 'tis a phrase from the Book of Aphorisms. It reads: Death is a cruel master. Be sure your soul is the hardest and heaviest in His realm."
She moved on to the next relief. There was Death. In His dark arms was a slender thing– Hēla, the Goddess of Courage. The faux carving displayed Az mocking Asur, goading Him into wrothful folly. But Asur remained steady and calm under the God's provocation. He labored in a pit of worms and mud– bare and scarred. What might have been maggots filled the wounds, though t'was difficult to tell on the weathered stone.
"The second year Az had Him dig the graves for all of the dead. He mocked Asur's courage in the face of death by defiling the goddess before His eyes. An effort to goad Him into breaking the pact and damning His soul."
Again, Aia read the text below:
"Do not sully your hands with the blood of your adversaries. But if your own blood should mark you, this I will forgive."
Aia read from each of the stone reliefs one by one. At the next, Asur worked an anvil, standing amid a floor of coals that burned His legs. One could see great detail was placed in the small rolls and creases of His strained muscles. Several wailing faces could be observed in the background.
"The third year, Az forced Asur to forge ten thousand collars and chains for the damned. Each was custom crafted with barbs and hooks, and other instruments of cruel ends. For each that He forged, Az lashed His back and stoked the flames at His feet."
Then, she read the words below again:
"If your master commands you to war, then forge your collar and chains into a sword."
By the time she reached the final carving, half of an hourglass had passed. There she beheld the broad and marred back of the War God. Each maggot was rendered intricately. Every scar showed layers of flesh. The muscles were worked and worn by time. Yet the posture was that of a man undefeated.
"On the ninety-eighth year, Az offered Him jewels, metals, and honey. The most beautiful women in all of hell were laid at His feet, yet Asur turned His back from these. Az, was defeated. His temptations failed."
By then a quiet had settled among the group. Each anticipated her words– as if it were the last.
"The writing is a proclamation: Master first the mind. Then the body. If both are achieved, you shall have mastered the soul as well. For I have taught you the way."
Thus He had spoken; the words and ways of a God carved into stone.
"This must be a cathedral from the Raathorian era of the late first age. T'was an era when the Aurians were most famous for their exuberant architecture. 'Tis also the era when worship of War and Red were at their highest in the old empire."
Before the fall, that was to say…
There was no reply from the others– no apparent response to her conjecture. All were still stirring at the memory of that era, as t'was recalled by textbooks. Back when Aurumere fell and the land burned. The fires witnessed round the world.
The last month in the Imperial Calendar was the Birth of Raath, who was also the last king of Aurumere. All soon realized that they stood within a relic from the final years of the Demigod's glory. T'was a grave thing to behold.
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