Chapter 385: Book 6-15.2: Ouera Bo

Thaer Surtsson gulped down the swill from a wooden mug. The stills barely made palatable ale now, from the lack of proper grain to make it. Instead, they’d been fermenting tree bark, blue-veined grass, and Chaos-formed flakes that didn’t taste like much but did fill the belly.

The council room he and the other young chieftains waited in was served by two dozen comely women. All of them were proper daughters of the tribes rather than the converted captives.

Those were only good for a light romp, but Thaer soon realised that having someone who wanted to be under him rather than one who acted like a dead fish was much more pleasurable. And the only ones who really wanted him were those of the tribe. Frida was a wonderful wife, an able young prima, and quite adept at managing the rest of his consorts.

The other young chiefs didn’t quite share his insight, preferring to taste the exoticness of the Invader women, sometimes literally when it came to the Frost Dancer tribe’s Vetur Jorandsson. Their tribal Geist was that of the winter wolf, a canine that grew more than three paces high at the shoulder and whose breath could spawn blizzards. They weren’t as tough as the Iron Skin’s Bicorns but were quite ferocious all the same.

Vetur, much like the rest of his tribe, was leaner than Thaer. They were just a bit taller, and perhaps their arms and legs were proportionally longer. Their nails came to a sharp point and were tough enough to scratch even Thaer’s skin. The boy guzzled down his swill, gulping down red meat in between. Fresh food was only reserved for the blooded warriors now and with the difficulty of hunting, it was a miracle that they even had meat. It was a good thing the Fleetfoot Tribe’s herds were far enough from the conflict zone that the Invaders never found them.

Vetur smacked the bottom of one of the unmarried women, eliciting a squeal. The other two young chieftains smirked. Assur Erlendsson of the Fleetfoot was as stocky as his father, though the horns growing from his forehead and temples were still tiny.

Ref Grimsson of the Ravaging Claw was nearly as tall as Thaer, and just as broad. Even if he didn’t wear any clothes, his thick body hair, which could almost be called fur, was enough to hide his nudity. If he wasn’t excited anyway. Just like the Frost Dancers, he had claws instead of nails, but the difference was that his biceps were thicker than Thaer’s legs, and every time he flexed, it almost looked like his veins would burst.

Anyway, the reason they were all here in the council chamber instead of their own bedrooms enjoying the charms of their wives, was that after the chiefs had finished assimilating the sacrificed Progenitors, then the true conflict between the Invaders and the People would begin. He just wished his old man would hurry up.

No sooner had he thought that than the door slammed open and the four chiefs strode inside. There was a cramped look on Thaer’s father’s face. Surt Biorsson looked like he badly needed to poop but couldn’t. Thaer nearly guffawed but managed to control himself.

Vetur didn’t bother and laughed uproariously, only to be cuffed by Chief Jorand. The young man’s head snapped forward so quickly that his forehead slammed into the table in front of him, scattering the platter of cold cuts and upending his ale mug. For a moment, Thaer wondered if there would be a new young chieftain for the Frost Dancers, but Vetur stirred. He rubbed the back of his head and glared reproachfully at his father, who snorted derisively.

Following behind the chieftains were two Progenitors who were far stronger than the sacrificed or the chieftains by several orders of magnitude. At least, it felt that way to Thaer. Both barely looked human, though the first one could pass for it, if not for how flat he looked when viewed from the side. The second Progenitor was a woman of incredible beauty, though not as much as the first Progenitor Thaer had seen, the one who hunted down her likeness.

Even after nearly two years, he still couldn’t forget that face. He had the idea that keeping ahold of that one’s ally would eventually lead her back to him, but, well, he’d already tired of that one. What was her name? The girl who had the elaborate golden curls? He hadn’t seen her in a while. Huh, perhaps he should ask for her.

“The Sword Mistress isn’t there,” Surt rumbled, tones of satisfaction suffusing his voice.

Thaer looked at his father strangely. The voice was both familiar and strange. It was as if two people spoke at the same time but the voice came from the same mouth.

“It is our chance to break this siege,” Chieftain Grim Naffsson of the Ravaging Claw Tribe agreed.

“It won’t be easy,” Erlend Synsson of the Fleetfoot protested. “The fort holds more than a dozen of their incredible war machines. One of those is more than enough to match one of us.”

“Good. More prey!” Jorand Fredricksson grinned. “As long as the strongest one is gone then we have a chance. The merging has made us complete!”

“We outnumber the Invaders, but their weapons are many and they are cowards!” Surt snapped as he slammed his fist on the table. “We must press the attack!”

“There are nearly five thousand of them,” Erlend said, “We’d have a better chance if we completely cut them off from their supply. Let the Frozen North kill them!”

“A coward’s way,” Surt snapped.

“You!” Erlend rose to his feet and glared at his fellow chief. “It is not cowardice! Your path is foolishness! Why risk more losses when we have a better way?”

“You Fleetfoot leaf eaters always wish for the easy way. Do you not realise that only by tempering the strong could we win?” Surt rumbled. “No, Erlend, your tribe is too used to the easy way.”

“And who will lead?” Erlend grumbled, “I will not let my tribe be used as fodder.”

“Who says we have to attack all at the same time?” Grim snorted, “We are four tribes. Let each do what they will.”

“But that will make it easier for the Invaders to live,” Jorand said.

“So? They’ve nowhere to go. Their way home had been blocked. They will remain here and die to our blades,” Grim said.

“We press the attack tomorrow. Now that the only one with the power to destroy us in a direct clash has returned to their city, there’s nothing stopping us now from slowly eating them up,” Surt roared.

Thaer and the other young chieftains glanced at each other with some confusion. What the chiefs said had been said several times already. Why repeat it now? His father had called for an assault several times in the past year, but the presence of the Sword Mistress had them cowering. Even when that woman had left, some weeks ago, they still had not pressed, for fear of a trap. But now?

Well, perhaps new blooded warriors will be made, and for those like him, who had started to grow stronger, the chance to reap more lives felt so much more exciting. Thaer licked his lips. Perhaps his ardour would be rekindled.

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“Where are the rest?” Gwendith whispered while Yuriko looked at the…kennels. It was right next to the kitchen caverns, and it looked as if it was a room dumped with dirty bedding and left for the inhabitants to make the most of.

Yuriko expected the two dozen that Gwendith mentioned but there were barely ten women here, and all of them stared at the three of them with fear. Oh, they were still in their disguises, and it was no wonder that the captive women were afraid of three strange men, their abusers, showing up in their rooms.

There was a stale stink in here, ameliorated only by the cold. They wore threadbare clothing and blankets with more holes than cloth, so she wondered how warm they would have been.

“Desire, undo Gwendith’s illusion for a moment,” Yuriko murmured.

Gwendith’s disguise, that of one of the barbarian men, melted away from her head, the captives started and yelped in surprise. Gwendith hurriedly shushed them and hurried up to the nearest one, a woman who could barely contain her coughing.

“Jamari!” Gwendith held the woman as she coughed.

Yuriko gestured for Desire to undo her own disguise, and the others gasped when the image disappeared from her body. From the looks of things, there was no way for all of them to sneak away. Even with the reduced numbers, Desire couldn’t disguise them at all, but perhaps she could help them recover from their ill treatment. When she mentioned it, the Chaos Lord approached Jamari, laid her hands on her back and started to sing.

The woman flinched since Desire’s disguise was still intact, but perhaps she quickly realised otherwise. Jamari’s coughing eased but didn’t completely stop. The other women crowded closer while Yuriko moved towards the chamber’s entrance. The kitchens were just beyond, but there was a side tunnel that, according to Gwendith, should lead directly towards the upper tunnels.

“...you mean they were taken away? They didn’t surrender?”

“Yes. The Chaos Lords took the rest of us. Left the sick and weak to die…”

“Rotters!” Gwendith’s voice was loud enough to echo.

Yuriko glanced towards the kitchen, wary of drawing attention, but the cooks didn’t care about the remaining captives it seemed. Earlier, while they were in disguise, the head cook just sniffed at them, muttering that they might as well put the rest out of their misery. Yuriko clenched her fists but took deep breaths to calm herself.

Unlike the menfolk, the women of the tribes looked entirely human. It looked like they weren’t allowed to incorporate a Geist, hence leaving them perpetually unable to advance. The barbarian way, anyway. They were still marked by whatever process the rest of the tribe used, and from what Gwendith said, the Imperial women who capitulated were treated to the same thing. A stripping of the Heritage.

Yuriko had the urge to massacre everyone and destroy whatever evil that was that made it possible, but as far as Gwendith knew, it was a Ritual rather than anything else. Much like the Atavism Ritual that Imperial teenagers were made to go through. It was a process rather than a thing. Gwendith didn’t know what implements they used so she couldn’t even try to destroy that.

She hurried back to the captives. “We should go soon.”

Aside from Jamira, the rest of the women were in bad shape. Desire’s healing song barely allowed her to recover from her incessant coughing.

“Master, I don’t think the rest can keep up unless I sing to them,” Desire said. “I’ll need to replenish my Well first.”

“Alright.” Yuriko agreed.

She summoned some of Fri’Avgi’s distilled Chaos and extruded it through her fingertip. Desire sighed but eagerly sucked up the mote. Come to think of it, the Chaos probably came from the Chaos Lords she defeated a few days ago. Was this making Desire a cannibal? Yuriko shook her head and banished the strange notion. Distilled Chaos could be created just from ambient Chaos, too.

It took a tense ten minutes before the rest of the captives were fit enough to move, though probably not too quickly. Another issue she didn’t think of was how they would survive the extreme cold outside. The blankets would help, but they had to be brought to shelter quickly. Still, death by exposure or a slow death here. The right of choice was theirs though, so Yuriko asked.

“Do you want to risk your life in this escape?” she asked each of them firmly.

The women stared back, but there was no hesitation in any of their eyes. They all nodded.

Yuriko had a couple of blankets in her backpack. Each one could probably shelter two of the women. She had another spare overcoat, a couple more spare shirts and trousers, but that left three without warm clothing. The old blankets could probably work. They bundled up as much as they could, and once they were ready, Yuriko and Gwendith led the way out.

Desire didn’t have a sustainable way to hide them now. The tunnels were too long. Yuriko would have to sneak out and deal with any trouble as quickly as she could.

An hour. It took that long before they encountered a barbarian warrior. The man took one look at her, eyes widening in surprise. Half of a shout came out of his lips before a pebble burst his skull into bits.

The second time it happened, there were three of them. Yuriko only managed to kill two before the last managed a shout. Then they had no other choice but to run. There was no clamour or pursuit, so Yuriko hoped that the alarm had not been raised. But when they reached the surface, they had the bad luck of running into a scouting group returning. Three managed to escape while Yuriko killed the other seven.

But at least they were back outside. The sun was setting already, and it was close to the Dark Moon, so maybe they would have a chance to slip away. They were no more than a longstride from the entrance when Yuriko glanced back and saw a veritable horde spilling out into the plateau.

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