Art by Clea Harris

Chapter 5

The Culture

CLARANEL CAVES

West Æshorenth, Æshorenth, Vol’Tyr

Iron hung in the air like fog, clouding their vision, lungs, and hearts. Caliz was slumped against a wall, bleeding from his ribs and arm, his hand twitching in pain. He winced, grabbing at a bundle of herbs from a pouch in his pack, trying to remember the words of Itzel.

Alcohol to clean an open wound, coreogon for healing it, but estrisia for arm wounds. Icha grass for sealing the wound. Sanguine lovage to kill the pain. Might help. Might not. Gotta just get me going. Arro root for the energy boost. Yeah. Yes.

His hands flew instinctively, remembering the actions ground into him by the Bargathan herbalist as a child. He spent hardly four wends there, but Itzel was determined that he’d remember the essentials for life. It had worked; he’d used the skills far more than he would have liked.

Mortar ground into pestle, turning the herbs to paste as he washed his wound, rubbed the paste in, and patched it with open leaves, careful in his wrapping. He winced the whole way through, eating the whole red lettuce-like leaves as quickly as he could.

Osa wound her way through the bodies to assist after he treated his ribs, wrapping his torso. She worked speechlessly.

“You alright,” he finally asked after minutes had passed.

“Yeh.”

“You get hit?”

“Yeh.”

“Can I treat it?”

“No.”

“Open wound’s gonna kill you one of these days.”

“No.”

“It is, Osa. You need to let me help you.”

“Fleshy herbs on fleshy skin. Not on scale.”

“Oh, it’ll work just fine and you know it.”

“S’fine.”

He sighed. “How’re the others?”

“Bad.”

Caliz took a glance and saw the women across the room, past the piles of dead lizardfolk, coated in blood and frost, ice spikes jutting from their corpses, spiders skittering every which way. His compatriots were slumped against a pillar like him, breathing hard, wounded. Alara had her eyes closed.

“Skagit. No walk. Carver. Broke knives, broke jaw, no stand up.”

“That’s bad.”

“Worse.”

“It’s worse, or it could be?”

“Could be.”

“Thought that’s what you meant. So, you’re saying you’re the most capable among us right now?”

“No. You.”

“My rib’s busted, and I have a gaping wound in it. My left arm’s torn open, and its hand is useless. Can’t stay shut.”

She turned her shoulder to him, and he saw a gash down her left shoulderblade and another up her spine. A chunk of skin was missing from her tail at least a foot long, and several spines had been torn out. It was then he noticed the broken fingers on the hand she’d tied his bandage with.

“Light’s tits[1]—”

“S’fine.”

“It’s not fine. Sit down.”

“S’fine,” she insisted.

“Sit the fuck down, Osa. You don’t get a say in this.”

She obliged him and coiled up. Climbing up her coiled tail with care, he used his herbs and paste as best as he could remember to cover her wounds. To her credit, she barely winced once, holding composure as he treated her.

Several minutes passed this way, him wrapping bandages and grinding herbs, her bowing her head in silence, as if in meditation. Actually, he figured, probably literally. She’s got a weird thing with pain. Lili approached him with a heavy limp when he finished, and took him aside.

“How’re you holding up, Carver?”

“Not great, Caliz, if we can be honest.” Her words were slurred with blood, pain, and a busted jaw. He winced as she talked. “I got speared in the gut.”

“And you’re walking?”

“I think it missed anything important. But I got backslammed by that motherfucker,” she pointed at a lizard facedown on the ground. This one, like a few others from this particular battle, had enormous turtle-like shells upon their backs with outward spikes. If Caliz’s sight was to be trusted in the heat of battle, he swore they were growing them during the battle itself. But that would be crazy. There’s no way.

“He got you in the back?”

“With his back. Dug his shell spikes into me across the back.”

“Can I patch you up?”

“I got it handled, got Alara too.”

“She looks bad.”

“Real bad. Both her legs are broke. She hit her head hard on one of the pillars and passed out. I’ve got her elevated with water, and I patched her wounds, but she’s out cold, and I’m worried what state she’ll be in when she wakes.”

“And you? Speared, spiked in the back, broken jaw, broken knives…”

“Yeah, one of them snapped my blades, the bastards. I got the wind knocked out of me when one hit me with their forearm, hit so hard it tossed me into a pillar. Couldn’t stand for a bit there.”

“You all stay here and recover. I have to get the culture.”

“This is above our paygrade, Caliz. We need to fucking leave.”

“We’re here on a job, I’m doing the job.”

“Just drop it, man, we’re in over our heads. This is guard shit, maybe Khan shit, not assassin shit.”

“I refuse to let them down.”

Lili grabbed him by a horn and forced him to look at her, his lower eyes level with where the facepaint told him her eyes should be.

“Get your head out of your ass, newbie! Look, this is a nightmare situation. We’re outnumbered and surrounded by enemies we don’t understand. Things that are larger, stronger, and more well armored by a good margin. Your terrifying barbarian took a beating enough to put her down. Alara might…” She ground her teeth and winced. “Alara might not wake up, man. We’re lucky. Fucking lucky. We should be dead. All of us.”

“But we’re so close. It’s right there. We’re one room away.”

“I’m moving slow, Alara’s out, and Viaxy’s… I don’t know what she’s doing.”

“Meditating.”

“Out, regardless. We’re headed out the stable doors when we’re up. Come with us.”

He sighed and put his head in his hands.

“Look,” she put a hand on his arm, “there’s no use defending your own honor if it means your death. No one gives two shits about your honor when you’re a tombstone. Would your mother want to see you dead for the right reasons, or alive for, if we’re being honest, perfectly fine and understandable reasons?”

“I’ll meet you out there.”

“You don’t have any fucking backup.”

“I know.”

She bored her eyes into his, staring into his soul, piercing the abyss that was the blackness of his eyes with her own starry abyss. Without a word, she turned around and limped over to the sleeping Alara.  With a deep breath in, Caliz silently pushed himself up, wavered, and walked to the doors of the Brewery Proper.

The lights were brighter in the brewery than the rest of the caves. Brilliant reflective lanterns hung all over the walls, and natural arcane lights[2] glowed a bright white from the metal cylinders. Caliz stood on an elevated walkway made of thick bars of wrought iron three meters over the lower floor.

Plated lizardfolk walked the lower floor on patrol, but also, he was beginning to notice, in search of something. They had already tossed several barrels, and now some seemed be checking the floor for secret doors. He silently closed the doors behind him, and leaned back against them, taking in the room.

Grated walkways, so tons of visibility, but lots of drop points. If I can keep it quiet, I can maybe take out two. And I see three. Maybe more that I can’t see. So, if I creep up the left, swing around the big metal tube thing, I can catch him in the neck, try to land soft, and ease the body down. If I even could. Fuckers are heavy. I see some barrels, so I might be able to—

Wait, no, he’s right by the stairs. I tuck him behind the barrels, I climb the stairs, get the drop on anyone who investigates. If no one does, I hit that guy on the right, and that should summon the next one across the room, so—

His stream of consciousness was interrupted by an enormous lizardfolk entering the room via the Brewmaster’s Office. Their scales were a dark green, black feathers adorned their head, and a thick shell covered their back, dark green of color and covered in thick spikes. Their muscles were thick and ropy, and they dragged a giant club behind them.

Shit. Bossman.

They shouted at the other lizardfolk something in a deep, guttural voice, and they all nodded, except the one by the stairs, who didn’t move. Oh, he noticed, that one’s asleep. Would have come in handy if not for…

The big one shouted again, and the sleeping one didn’t wake. The boss stalked over, his giant thick-toed feet slamming into the stone floor with thuds, and backhanded the lizard. They woke, and jumped back into the barrels, surprised. The boss shouted something deep, angry, demanding. The smaller one seemed to apologize, and tried to scurry off, but the big one grabbed them by the neck, slammed them into a wall, and flung them across the room.

The smaller one shouted pleadingly, and the boss heaved the club up onto their shoulder and said something short, something cold. They stalked back into the office, and the lizard breathed out. The other two came over, helped them to their feet, and offered what looked like condolences.

Caliz was finally getting a better grasp on their tone when the abused one muttered angrily and cracked their knuckles. The other two spoke what sounded to him like a tone of caution, and they only spoke with more rage and scorn. One of the two shrugged and offered something conciliatory, and the other sighed, offering a defeated tone.

Oh shit. I can use this. Maybe? Maybe.

He breathed out shakily. This is an awful fucking idea. But I’m in no shape to fight these fuckers. With a shake in his step, he walked without stealth down the metal catwalk. When the lizards looked up, he put up his hands, walked slowly perpendicular to them towards the stairs, and made a show of sheathing his daggers.

They stared him down as he descended the stairs and approached them, hands in the air.

“Guys, it looks like you’re upset with your boss.”

They offered untrusting looks, and he sighed. He pointed at the brewmaster’s doors, puffed himself up and walked as a parody of a beefy brute, then pointed at the group and made mocking punching and pulverizing motions into his palm. He made an empathetic face, motioned at himself, pretended to draw his dagger, pointed at the office again, and made a shanking motion with his mimed dagger.

Tension sat in the air as they stared at him, and he mimed a large figure falling, motioned at them, and motioned abstractly out of the room, trying to get across “free to go.” I hope these fuckers play charades.

One of them motioned to the office, puffed himself up, and mocked slamming a fist down on Caliz, a quiet laugh, and unpuffed themselves, rolling their head to the side with a tongue hanging out.

Caliz motioned at his armor, knocked on it, drew his dagger slowly, and showed it off in an unthreatening way. He, again, motioned to the office, made a shanking motion, and gave them a thumbs up with a smile.

They began to talk in hushed tones around each other, and Caliz heard a stomping in the other room. Their heads all popped up and looked at him, and he ran to the stairs and dove into the shadow of the barrels, poking out just enough to see. The boss came back out and turned to look at the trio, growled, and shouted something. One offered words, but was met with a backhand. They poked a meaty finger in the chest of the other non-already-assaulted one and asked something angrily.

They attempted to explain and were met with a grab to the throat and a lift into the air. The first one to be struck looked up with contempt, and looked back at the barrels. Caliz looked him in the eyes, and nodded. Caliz pointed at himself, and made a walking motion with two fingers towards the direction of the outside. The lizardfolk nodded.

Caliz pointed at them, pointed at the boss, put to fingers to his own eyes, then pointed with those two fingers at the other side of the room. The lizard nodded and shouted something. The boss looked down and dropped the lizard he held. They stared at each other, and the little one drove a knee into the big one’s gut.

The boss wheezed, then laughed and went for a grab, but they rolled around the boss, and moved to the corner Caliz pointed at. As the boss turned to give chase, laughing contemptuously, Caliz crawled from his hiding place, drew his dagger with his good hand, drew the other in his battered, beaten hand (just in case, maybe it can work in a pinch), and snuck up on him. The boss said something in a dark and angry tone, hauled his club up into his hand, and swung it back with intent.

In a split second, Caliz analyzed his approach. I can’t jump on his back, too spiky. He had thick turtle-like feet, I can’t cut his ankles. His chest is plated, but his neck isn’t. First, his bicep, then his throat. It has to be perfect, it has to be right.

He drove both daggers into the boss’s bicep, and blood spurted. The spiked brute shouted out in pain, and dropped the club. Caliz wasted no time, slung himself around, and buried a knife. But the brute stood up straight, and his knife drove into their sternum. A swift punch sent Caliz flying across the room into one of the brewing vats, denting it. He felt a break somewhere inside, and heaved over.

The room spun and his hearing went dim, sounding like the world just got plunged underwater. The laugh of the brute was washed out and he barely could process the stomps approaching him. He didn’t notice when they stopped. He slumped over and stared blearily at the room, seeing the vague shape of a huge lizardfolk on the ground with three more on him stabbing violently.

An eternity of ambiguous time passed as Caliz tried to regain composure. Eventually, a scaly arm hauled him up, and he was led to a vat of water. He felt water splash on his face, and a tankard met his lips. Carefully, he drank the water, and his vision and hearing began to focus again.

After a few gulps of water, he turned to see one of the lizards looking down at him. The boss laid dead on the ground, blood staining the stone, and the other two slumped against a brewing vat breathing hard.

The lizard before him offered some kind-sounding words, carefully patted him on the shoulder, and said something to the others. They shook their heads, looked oddly at him, and offered confused words. The first one nodded, helped them up, and the three walked out of the room, the first offering a recognizing nod to Caliz.

As the door closed behind them, he breathed out a sigh of relief and a moan of pain, and slumped onto the floor.

After deep breaths and a full return of vision, Caliz hauled himself back up to a stand, walked his way over to the brewmaster’s room, and looked around. It was equal parts a bunkroom and an office. He figured this couldn’t actually be their bedroom, due mostly to him staggering to imagine the two brewmasters of arguably the most successful meadery in the world sharing a room, sleeping in stacked hammocks, and sharing a desk. Probably just for multi-dessers.

The desk was beat, torn apart. The hammocks were torn down, and the walls appeared beaten in several places. He stared at the devastation, and remembered what they told him at the campfire. He looked up from the center stone, poked up, and found a loose stone.

A broken chair served as his step to push the stone out of the way, haul himself up, and into a second room. It was small, cramped, had no light, and as his eyes adjusted, eventually saw a small cabinet. In it were a number of personal effects, including a jar with an exclamation mark painted on it. He grabbed it, eased himself down, and walked back to the main room.

The rest of his companions were gathering their belongings when he opened the doors, and Lili stared astonished at him.

“You’re alive.”

“And I have the culture.”

“How the fuck did you accomplish that?”

“Careful stealth, and some negotiation. Minimal action, but some. I think I broke something.”

“Gods.” Lili took the culture from him and stashed it in a pack. “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

“But the stuff. We need to find their crest.”

“No, we needed the culture. You finished the quest. Let’s give them the culture and be done.”

“We can rest up, but I’m coming back for them.”

“You—” She cut herself off growling as she grabbed her face and tossed around. “You are impossible! You’re fucking ridiculous.”

“Yeh,” Osa chuckled from the side.

“Fine. You wanna come back in here, fine by me. But I’m not coming back.”

“Fine. You don’t need to.”

As the rest gathered their items, Caliz dragged what tables remained to block the doors in the cafeteria, then blocked off the passage deeper into the facility at the junction.

“What are you doing? We’re not sleeping here.”

“Securing our progress. I don’t want to come back to find it swarming again.”

“You shouldn’t be coming back at all. Ugh. Whatever. Just come on.” She shoved past him and he stepped out of the way for Osa, who was carrying a still-unconscious Alara in her arms. They strolled out the stable doors like last time, trekked across the field, and hit camp.

Everyone stood from their stumps, and Filvendor kicked Naevys to wake her. Glamour approached the party as they slumped before the fire.

“Gods, sit down, sit down. You look like hell, all of you.”

“Thanks,” Lili spat out. “You sent a group of Guardians into… Gods, that was…”

“I know,” Glam said quietly, helping her take her pack off.

“Above our fucking paygrade, that’s for sure.”

“I know,” she muttered. “I’m sorry. I had no one else to turn to.”

“Well,” she wrenched open her pack. “We got your fucking culture.”

“Oh thank the gods,” she grabbed the culture as Caliz offered it, hardly a moment to hold it up, and hugged it before handing it to Filvendor. “We can keep it safe in town. Thank you so much.”

“Thank him,” she pointed at Caliz as he heaved his pack off. “The damn fool went after it after we got backed into an all-out war in the cafeteria. It was full, and we weren’t quiet enough. They hit us hard. Alara’s still out, we’re all scarred and broken. But he went after it anyway.”

“And got it,” Caliz added, slumping onto a log. “Through careful diplomacy.”

“You negotiated with them?”

“Yeah. They were looking for something, and their bossman was a piece of shit, shouting at them, beating them up the head, throwing them around like ragdolls. When he left, I negotiated with them to kill their boss in exchange for safe passage. They agreed, I killed him, they left, I found the culture.”

“No shit,” Lili said, looking back at him. “That’s insane.”

“You don’t even speak their language,” Akala said, astonished.

“We mimed our way through negotiations. But what matters is, you got your culture. I’m going back in after a sleep to get the rest.”

“That’s not necessary,” Glam said, sitting beside him. “You did brave work in there, and got out. That’s more than enough.”

“You said you want your crest, I’m gonna get it.”

She laughed. “You have nothing to prove here, Caliz. You’re getting my recommendation for the guild.”

“And it’ll be all the better if I get the rest.”

Glam sighed. “Let’s see how you feel when you wake. We’ll keep watch. All of you, get to sleep. I’ll wake you in case of anything.”

Caliz slunk off behind some trees, unrolled his pack, and undressed, wincing as his shirt came off. He went to unwind his chest bindings, but looking at the lower bindings, figured he should just leave them on. Carefully, slowly, he let himself sink into the bedroll. He passed out the second he laid down.

[1] Aatua, god of Light, Agriculture, etc., is frequently referred to as “Light”/“The Light.”

[2] Most arcane lights are grown from arcanic carvings in walls/objects. With proper channeling, they form from precisely carved designs organically, and almost seem to grow in a labyrinthine structure in a roughly ball-like shape with brain-like wrinkles/ravines all over it. They glow a stark white, perfect for lighting streets in the winter and for sterile environments. Most arcane lights are formed inside of glass spheres to impede their growth. The larger they grow, the brighter.

It was discovered in a salvaged tome after the Arcane War in a Mage Lodge in Chung Thuy. At this time, it is the only known safe light enchantment (a term used for consistent magic, rather than spells), is used in most cities, and is one of few enchantments in the Pact of Agreeable Magics.