The Auric Insignia (11 page)

My way there

Having agreed that the ones who had attacked the village had left the area, and that they therefore were not in any immediate danger, the group decided to see in they could find anything of note before departing. Roarke didn’t think there had been any survivors of what must have been a night of horror and panic. He looked in the half burned down houses and in the sheds, finding no one and nothing. Roarke told himself that survivors, if there were any, would probably not have lingered in this place of death, but would have probably fled the scene at the first opportunity. The optimist and the realist within him battled a war, a faint hope rising every time he checked a new house, only to have it snuffed out by the sight of burnt, empty homes, broken doors and bedspreads torn in order to get to whoever was unlucky enough to be sleeping underneath.

     He made his way over to the smithy, its heavy build and stone foundation appearing to have left it in a better condition than the rest of Brightseed. He walked through the storefront as he had done so many times before, to buy equipment or some other trinket. The actual smithy itself did not just have a stone base but was actually comprised of full length cobblestone walls, with a roof made out of oak logs, split down the middle. The roof had perished in the fire, allowing the light to enter the large room. Slate gray walls that had turned soot black, still emanated heat whilst Roarke noticed, ironically, that the hearth itself, was cold.

     He decided to check the house first, or what remained of it. Going through the doorframe missing its door, Roarke entered the main room where he was met by two chairs pulled out, like as if the smith and his wife had been having a late night talk when they had been attacked. Roarke were just about to move on, when he saw something. The floor, covered in ash and debris like the rest of the room, caught his attention. In some spots, where ash had not completely covered the floor planks, a color that didn’t make sense, shone through. Roarke squatted down and dragged his hand over the smooth floor boards, revealing a discoloration. Dark patches, of blood, dried, older than the rest that covered the town. Roarke ran his fingers over the stained wood, the creases on his forehead furrowing. Standing up, he swept the floor with his foot and uncovered more blood, coming from down the hall. Following the trail however, gave no further insight, ending with a similar splotch of dried blood like the one in the main room. No ripped clothes or body parts were present, or trails of blood that led out towards the square, leaving Roarke confused. Thinking about it, Roarke didn’t remember seeing either Brock or Jenny among the bodies in the square.

     - What am I missing?

     Roarke didn’t know what it was, but something felt off, a theory growing in his head, a possible truth that could explain what he was seeing, a theory that made the crimes here even more heinous than they already were. Shaking his head, Roarke went back out the into the smithy, and coming from the other way, he saw something he had missed on the way in. Behind the counter, there was a hole, a hole going down into the ground. Having most likely been covered by a wooden trapdoor that had burned in the blaze, a simple iron ladder was visible going down into a murky void. Roarke walked up and looked down, seeing nothing but the steps of the ladder, vanishing in shadow. After a short deliberation he began to climb down, his interest peaked once more. Taking slow steps, he descended underneath the smithy and just when he was about to stop and go back up, feeling unsure in the darkness, his right foot hit the ground. The ground was comprised of padded dirt, or at least that was his guess as he couldn’t see it to verify.

     Walking slowly with his arms outstretched like a blind man without his stick, he fumbled deeper inside, curiosity stronger than the uncertainty he felt. Suddenly, he bumped into something, reaching down, Roarke felt that it was a low table. Hands fumbling across its surface, he found something, an oil lamp. After some fiddling, he managed to light it, painting the area around him in gold. A cellar with a floor that was indeed made from padded dirt, went hand in hand with the natural walls. Wooden beams ran across the roof and down the sides to prevent a collapse. Along the sides, mannequins stood in lines, clothed in varying garbs. Tanning racks and cupboards stood beside each other, making it in its entirety, a surprising find. Roarke had expected a food cellar at most but this was something completely different. He found his mouth hanging open, feeling shocked. This was no rush job, this was no hole in the ground where you put your extra potatoes, this was a carefully excavated and thereafter secured and furnished workshop, what Roarke didn’t understand was why it existed down here, hidden.

     At the opposite side of where the ladder was, taking up the entire short end, stood a rustic work desk, filled with tools, knives and pens. Parchment with sketches on them lay in disorderly piles, showing different designs and measurements. A large wax candle that was all but gone, indicated someone had spent a lot of time sitting at the desk, working on something.

     - What were you doing down here?

     Roarke kept reading the notes, going through crossed over designs, hastily dismissed, drafts that in themselves were works of art. Carefully drawn armors in various looks, bundled with scribbles done in the flow of work, an inner monologue encapsulated and put on paper. Reading all of them, one after another, a time line and a journal of sorts, began to emerge from the pages. “Metal too cumbersome, not effective”, “Leather too weak”, “No!”, “Boiled?”, “Other minerals?”, “Natural components?”, “Solid, composition?”, “Shells....”, “Cost effective?”, “Woodfolk Pond...”. If Roarke had been curious before, it now got taken to another level. He leaned his new grim weapon against the desk and sat down in the chair that was standing nearby. “Failure, too brittle”, “Wrong!”, “Not applicable on the right forms”, “ Wrong again”, “ Am I just chasing clouds here?”, “Maybe, maybe this one”, “I’ve done it”.

     Finishing reading the page, Roarke put it aside to see what the next had in store, which must have been the final concept. “The Megin” was written in painstakingly detailed calligraphy at the top of the parchment, with an equally detailed illustration following below. Roarke looked around the the workshop, he looked at every mannequin wearing a piece of armor but couldn’t match any of them to the final drawing, only seeing small parts of a failed project, or other prototypes. He inspected every single one multiple times, opened drawers and looked in cupboards, but to no avail. Until when he, having pulled at a cupboard door too hard, noticed it moved, and that it was covering something. He grasped it as best he could and pulled it out from its spot, revealing yet another hidden area, smaller than the main one, holding a single mannequin. Roarke retrieved the lamp he had placed on the desk, in order to shine some light on the hidden treasure of this underground vault. Hanging on the stand was the armor, the Megin, as the parchment had called it. Even if Roarke was no expert on armors, he see could see that this was a work of art, the result of thousands of hours of hard work, perfection made protection.

     Silver gray in color, the armor was made by a material that Roarke didn’t recognize. Differing from hard to soft under his touch, its true essence was a mystery to him, foreign. Giving it little thought, Roarke started stripping of his worn clothes, being of sparse economic strength, he had never owned any proper armor, let alone something  as exotic as this, and he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to change that fact. Removing the cuirass, he first noted the weight, or rather the lack of it. If he had closed his eyes, he wouldn’t have known a large piece of armor hanged from his hand. Secondly, he observed that the armor seemed small, thinking it may not fit, but as he handled it, Roarke felt it move under his touch, designed and created with an apparently elastic substance. After a few minutes of figuring out how the assorted parts of the full body armor fit together, it wasn’t long before they were all on him, fastened and secured. Unmoving where you wanted it to be, pliable and flexible where you needed it, it felt like a second skin to Roarke, who moved freely in it without impediment.

     - Genius, truly genius.

     Being the practical man that he was, Roarke had no qualms about taking the possessions of dead people, as he argued that they wouldn’t miss it anyway, and he certainly would, if he were to leave this marvel of craftsmanship behind. Looking at his old clothes laying in the dirt beside him, timeworn and tattered, not to mention severely lacking in protection, he didn’t need much internal persuasion to make the ephemeral change, a permanent one.

     - Roarke?

     Korri’s voice carried softly down to where he was standing, her voice sounding concerned, Roarke realized he had lost track of time in the midst of his fortuitous discovery. After quickly retrieving his new spear and his gear, he left the hidden workshop behind him as he climbed the ladder up into the smithy.

     - Roarke?

     Korri was standing at the customer’s entrance, looking in.

     - I’m here.

     - What were you doing? And what are you wearing?

     - I found it. Figured Brock won’t be needing it anymore, so I took it.

     Still on edge because of the whole situation, Korri accepted his words without the remark about human frailty that otherwise would have surely followed.

     - We should be moving on, we’re gathering outside first.

     - Okay, I’m done here, I’ll be right behind you.

     Roarke put the mystery with the dried blood and the bewilderment it had brought, in the back of his mind, other thoughts taking precedence. Stepping out of the husk that had once been a mighty fine smithy, he instilled another image than when he had walked in. Then, he could have been any farmer out of a dozen, plain simple clothes, a half decent axe hanging at his waist, walking in shoes that were past their glory days. Now, he looked every part the warrior. In his hand, a sleek, jet black spike, austere and ominous. His entire body, from feet to neck, covered by an ash gray body armor, the likes of which had never been seen before. Fitting impeccably with one another, the parts almost melded together at the joints. Beautifully crafted shoulder pads and leggings, a meticulously engineered breastplate, coupled with his countenance of newly forged purpose, made him appear as a force to be reckoned with. Outside, the others stood waiting for Roarke and Korri to join them.

     - Now then, we are all gathered again. I propose we travel onwards, We have found no survivors so we can hope that if there were any, they have found refuge elsewhere. We should move on with care as to not cross roads with anyone if we can avoid it, our mission gains by being secret.

     - I’m not avoiding anything, I’m going after Racka, tracking the hounds.

     Plista stopped in his thought and watched Roarke along with the others before finding his words.

     - Roarke, I understand how you feel but Gota is the one you want, the spider in the web, if you will. Racka, though culpable for what we see around us here, is just a pawn of Gota, following orders.

     - That may be the case but I have made up my mind. I will find Racka and any other responsible for this, then I will go to the southern cities, and Gota.

     - How can you hope to find him, let alone defeat him?

     - I don’t think I’ll be going alone. Roarke turned to Refaz and Ama, who had been quiet so far.,

     - Like Plista said, I can’t do this alone. I may be wrong, but I think you share my will. Will you help me right this wrong?

     In the background, the roar of the pyre rolled out like waves, lending its grim nature to the question hanging in the air. Refaz was the first to answer, needing only a moment to consider the proposition.

     - I will help you, Roarke.

     Ama, still unhinged from the earlier confrontation, took longer to answer than his brother, but not before long, also he, gave his reply.

     - I still don’t trust you, human, but, I will go with you on this, this hunt.

     The rest of the party looked on in quiet shock whilst Refaz and Ama separated themselves from the group, joining Roarke where he stood. Plista looked on with an expression of hopelessness, sad eyes that seemed to tire. Seeing this, Roarke went up and kneeled in front of the short Kappa.

     - Don’t despair, I’m not abandoning your dream, I’m just taking my way there.

     Plista looked at Roarke and seemed to weigh Roarke’s sincerity with his eyes.

     - You are an idealist, Plista, and I respect that, it’s the reason why they follow you. I’m a realist, always have been, and probably always will be. How will eight Kappas and a human topple the might of the southern cities, if Gota is as powerful as you say?

     Roarke didn’t know how old Plista was but now he looked ten years older than he had done before, feeling reality muddy the clear waters of his dream and hope. Uncomfortable moments passed, nobody quite sure what to say or do. Marel,  uneasy with the tense situation, started making shapes with his foot in the gravel they stood on. His large partner, as always in silence, stood behind him , still as a statue. Vaya, her long hair gently dancing in the wind, was watching Roarke with kind brown eyes. Eyes that appeared as a mixture of comfort and understanding, watching him without a word. Stari looked like she was debating, battling inside herself, eager to join the trail leading towards conflict.

     - Then I’ll go too!