Conquest Of The Fallen: Dark Dominions

Chapter 240 • Caer Mullhen—The Brass Capital

"The Old gods are fierce, wrathful. But they did not wipe out the ancient ones in a hail of fire."

Damnamenaeus ended his tale about his origins of faith in the forsaken patheon of Eldoria in this manner. It was fifteen minutes since they had first met this [Arcane Order] druid and Rafel was liking his presence so far.

After he had withdrawn the scroll Indira gave him and handed it over Damnamenaeus, the man had given it a quick look before clicking his fingers. And the entire thing had vanished in a flash. Rafel had guessed they would come back to it later.

At the moment, Damnamenaeus was riding on the mammoth ox with Khalifa. He clutched to the Hijabi whenever the animal rocked.

Rafel had an amused smile when Khalifa cut eyes at him. The girl was too uptight. She needed a man's arms around her, for godssake. This was good. They were coming up to the stronghold of Zaftig's camp, and Rafel could already see watch-tower guards mounting up archers. Only this time their arrows were fucking cannon guns.

"Nice." Ravenna looked it over.

"Well, that's not what we heard." Khalifa took the Supreme Druid back to his earlier statement. "The Old gods are hated for a reason, even after the hundreds of years since it happened. I mean it can't all be a lie. A firestorm is a pretty harsh way to go. The history books describe it as a nuclear singularity. It wiped out the Old world."

Damnamenaeus laughed to Khalifa's quoting; he still clutched to her like a darned quilt.

"I am a Historian. Don't quote texts at me. In the Script of Avalon—which is faerie-written mind you, it details the abhorrent hail of that era as man-made. The firestorm you call it, but really; a coagulation of [Consequence]: which is adverse reaction of magic by the way, that vortexed into something way beyond control.

"The ancients were just desperate for somewhere to blame their ills. The Old gods were never the enemy. And they aren't now."

Khalifa scrunched up her nose, her lips thinning, clearly having a crisis of faith. Rafel just listened to them go on, as he eyed the tower guards of Zaftig's camp—who eyed the approaching company right back.

"How old are you anyway?"

"I am an Immortal." Damnamenaeus returned. "Go figure."

"Ugh! Now I remember why I hate druids." Khalifa pushed her ox forward faster. She bit her tongue on this last part. "Braggart pricks."

It was a good thing no one who could read minds currently traveling in the company, did. Because then the Hijabi ladyguard would have to explain to an S-rank [1st Order] mage why she was referring to him as a penis. Damnamenaeus was not bald; he still had the brown locks of his youth. Wiry with streaks of white in immortality, sure, but still, hair.

Why then did she compare him to a phallus?

Druids never got metaphors. Funny story there.

"HALT YOUR STRIDES!"

The caravan of weary travelers rolled to a stop at the thunderous salute. Everyone from Khalifa's end to the Guide raised their heads. The booming order carried on the wind. And they followed it to the belchy, bobbing throat of a captain on the watchtower. He stood straighter than the spire beside him.

Khalifa cleared her throat loudly. "Ideas? Anyone? Or am I the only one seeing the dozens of cannon heads pointed at us?"

No one in the company shifted gaze, but they were all awaiting instruction from Rafel. He didn't give one. In fact, his stare reflected boredom. Corazón surmised that this wasn't good, for the watchtower and its guards. 'Don't hold up guns to the head of the Apollyon, if you don't plan on fucking using it.'

A minute later, as the company rode under the steel gates of the stronghold, marching their caravan of tired asses in a straight calvary, Khalifa said softly to Rafel. "How did you know the Druid would come through?" Rafel breathed easily. "I didn't."

"What? Then wh—"

"I trusted instead his capability as a man. His ego as a wizard. . .to prove to the watchguards of this place that we are the ones calling the shots." Rafel smiled. They were inside the fort now, cantering along cobblestones of Zaftig's camp as Deathlie soldiers stared from the sides. "Just look at them," said Rafel, "you can taste their fear. Had we submitted to an inquisition when their captain declared for one, we would be all but hounded by intimidating stares now. But look at them almost bow before us now.

"We have the upper hand. And they'll be fucking eager to hear what we have to say now." He ended.

"Wow! Damn. No wonder you've got three freaking girlfriends!" Khalifa didn't intend to say this aloud, but she did. She was in awe of this man. The Lord of Rebels. Kingslayer. And Champion of Hel before all that.

The camp was vast, structured like a cross between a Roman legionnaire war-keep and a small Victorian town. They cantered on straight as the Guide suddenly found his voice—adrenaline-wise—and began regaling them all to his own personal history lesson on the Lord of the camp.

"Zaftig fancies himself as King. He calls this place the Brass Capital of the Continent. I guess in a way it is; this stronghold is the single most prominent and private-owned exporter of ores and rare metals. Leave the gold and jewels to Grone. Zaftig is the King of Copper, Nickel, and Brass. And every other fucking [mage metal] with no name.

"If it stores mana and sparkles in the night, he's got it."

Rafel entered [nominal space] for a quick second.

"We'll definitely need him on our side, Peitho."

His system spoke back in her lush syllables:

[Has he got any other choice?]

And Rafel smiled.

Before the largest Ironstone dome of the camp, a short man in flowing blue robes stood. He had a cane and the widest fucking smile.

But more than that, a lovely sixteen-year old at his side.

"Hail!" He introduced. "I am Zaftig, warden of this humble desert stronghold. My close associates just call me Lord Zaf—" Rafel was sure no one called him that; he listened anyway. "... but seeing you now, in person, Rebel Lord, I am sure we can be friends. Please, you must be tired from your journey, this is my daughter, Hosanna. She'll show you to your quarters."

He passed a hand to the angelic pixie at his side, and before Zaftig even finished speaking, Rafel and his company were already very, very grateful for Hosanna.

"—and once again, friends, welcome to my home: Caer Mullhen." The Skullrider King pulled his navy robes about his short self. His stature was not impish, but not imposing either.

"Oh, Caer Mullhen?" Khalifa said. "Is that what this place is called?"

Zaftig ignored her frank question. But Rafel wasn't looking at him either. He and his harem were rather looking at the lovely, quiet form beside.

Hosanna, he inferred.

What gospel name?