The Tunnels of Woe

Book 1: A Bounty Like No Other

Chapter 6 Part 1: King Marhan's Flagship

After a week and a half of feasting in the halls of the Fisher King even a strapping lad of Tirro’s stature began to tire of celebration. Uncle Curroz was passed out upon a wondrously fluffy cushion filled with exotic blue feathers that must have been fabulous and expensive before bursting from the strain of being used as a drunken target for the surrounding cutlery. Tirro had been sure to remove the blades still embedded in the rich silk fabric of the bull sized pillow. Despite its damage the deckhand had to admit the beautiful piece of furniture looked wondrous to sleep upon, and evidently his drunk uncle agreed.

Somehow, Tirro didn’t think they were setting sail for home tomorrow. The drink would hold his elder till well past noon. The preferred drink of the mermen was a milk colored wine made from a seavine native only to this world. Though smooth and refreshing in taste the drought had nasty after effects to the unwary, and thus far Tirro’s Uncle had managed to drink himself drunk enough to forget the previous morning’s pain to save his brain’s latest massacre. How long could this cycle continue? Tirro imagined as long as the mermen found the situation entertaining.

The constitutions of these more amphibious men were quite hearty. They seemed to be able to consumed barrels of solkmo, as they called their instilled spirits, without so much as a headache in the morning. There was more than one Veni man who would sell his inheritance for the ability to consume wine from sunset to sunup, and sail like a man refreshed for the undertaking.

Nonetheless, even the mermen had their limits, and most were filtering out from the feasting halls or collapsed in various heaps on the floor. A man of the cloth may have been tempted to judge the sprawled out warriors, maidens, and nobles, but considering the circumstances even the most temperate of monks would be tempted to relent.

One thousand years had the seahag with the power of the nameless villain held this kingdom in slumber. A deep dream where all the minds and souls of the sea peoples walked in a shared dream with no memories of life beyond the false world. All aging, and change had ceased due to the foul magic of the nameless horror, and so they dreamt and knew not their prison. The Fisher King himself knew much of this fiend from the darkest of holes in reality.

“They are leeches of the soul. They feed on the power of the Almighty one at the heart of creation in the highest Heavens beyond the void and the deep waters,” King Marhan had spoken to his guests on the first night of feasts two days after the defeat of the Seahag,” Long in the ages past we contented with the deep ones in the vast ocean under the heavens, and drove them into deepest depths and then into the passages of the fallen ones from which you traversed to our shores. However, our victory was bitter.”

Tirro walked through the massive feasting halls with dancing balls of water glowing a dull blue over the dispersering celebration. The tables were rounded with holes in the center which allowed easy access to the servers to any patreon. Some of these were so large there was a path for the servers, and at the center was a fountain made from black marble with blue veins that glowed much like the water balls of light above their heads.

The deckhand ran a hand over one of the statues that made up the primary display of the massive circular feasting hall. All the tables were arrayed around the centerpiece which was a series of marble statues merging into a final solid block that had been carved into a masterpiece depicting the founding of the Fisher Kingdom for this surely was the lost kingdom of the mermen of his world.

The deckhand had been pleased to find the Fisher King, as was the name for him in the stories of Veni men of old, spoke the language of the wood guardians and mercenary near do wells that frequented the many ports along the stretch of the godtree. The less informed simply called them, and their sister races elves. Tirro had mastered the tongue of the great hunters of song thanks to a particular adventurer hired as a tracker in his father’s caravan guards. One never knows when pirates or bandits needed to be tracked to reappropriate lost cargo.

The nine year old Tirro had been smitten by the female elf, and she had accepted him as a shadow for a few years as only one of the loud mouthed hunters could. And to think his father had said nothing good would come of learning the language of drunks and forest guardians. Today he had proven the salty merchant wrong for once in Tirro's short life.

To be fair to his father the woman was ferocious in a wine house even for one of her people, and that was saying something amongst the elven mercenaries that roamed the godtree and lands beyond. Still, thanks to her brief stint with the guards Tirro had learned tracking, ranged combat with a variety of weapons, and Dovianari as the forest elven folk named their speech. Considering the language of the mer of this world seemed to be only moderately related to the one Uncle Curroz spoke with the mer that lived on the roots of the godtree it was fortuitous the ancient King was so fluent in the mercenary tongue.

“Lo, upon our return voyage did the leech of reality come upon our people,” King Marhan continued his tail,” In the struggle did he make us low in our weakness after our battles with deep ones, and so with my flagship and support vessels did we content as the rest of the fleet returned to our home waters beneath the vault of the heavens.” The King paused as the merrymaking continued around them. Long was his memory, and deep the loss.

“Even still, the leech was not prepared for our onslaught, and there we were betrayed,” Dark fury covered the features of the king who looked less and less as one of the mer with each word. In fact, Tirro felt he reminded him more of Lopiath, his teacher, with his silver eyes and smooth white skin rather than the slightly blue tinted skin of the mer men. His name as well was not like the language of the mer, but named for the patrion Master of the Sea and Spear. A curious thing, but the lowly deckhand was too intrigued by the story of loss to interrupt. Soon the King began again.

“One of the Sisters of Light betrayed her faith, and her very flesh taking on the visage of the sea whore that so entangled us all. The tentacled viper struck with the power of the leech bringing us to a standstill. Our flagship was thrust into this world, and into its depths with the leech in full control of our wills and dreams. Placing the hag to hold sway over us as the fiend searched to void for its prey. Ever it, he, they, search young one, for both those who escaped its tendrils so many years ago, and for those who may hold its power in check.”

Tirro thought this was a strange revelation in the blue hued light and marbled stone rising hundreds of feet to skylights that rippled and changed. The far roof depicted scenes of lost wars, histories unknown, and a myriad of creatures both strange and fair. These wonders made the King’s words sound as a sage or a prophet of the Almighty. Tirro was loath to break any silence or a single question, but curiosity won in the end.

“Why then did the tendril of the leech come for our party?” Tirro asked. He had already inferred the fiend they faced was but a shadow of the monster in the tunnels. The deckhand prayed to never meet even echo of its passing again.

“Do you not know young Paladin? Did you not feel his or its intent?” The King’s silver eyes bored into Tirro. Soon his soul was laid bare, and he could accept what he knew in his soul. For whatever reason a simple deckhand had been the target of a comic fiend with powers and knowledge beyond the understanding of mortals.

“Ah, you do know,” The King continued while leaning back with bright eyes staring into the void, seeing much Tirro could sense,” But do not fear grandson of paladins. Your blood attracted the leech. You had the misfortune of coming near one of his tendril’s lairs, and so it came for you and chased you to the hag. He will chase you only if you are so unfortunate once more.” Tirro sighed in relief. He had feared their voyage home would be fraught with peril if the fiend wanted him so intently. Still, another question sat burning on Tirro’s mind.

“When did your people construct this city, and whence did your flagship pass?” Tirro asked, his tongue rusty, and desperate in the pronunciations. His drunken teacher had not spoken in such formal language as would be expected. The intense lisps of the higher borne version of Dovianari was more akin to the tower elves than the modern hunters of the woods.

The King smiled, and pointed to the changing skylight. There the images changed to that of a massive vessel more akin for flying through the void or passing through the deepest waters. A ring the size of cities circled a long cylindrical form that grew in detail till Tirro gasped. There on the center of the ship was the grand city where he sat. As he watched the vessel crashed on to a bright blue sphere in the emptiness of the void with a black mass of tendrils crawling over its entire surface.

“Young paladin. You are sitting in my flagship,” Tirro sat back in shock at the Mer King’s words. This was a wonder he was not prepared for.

The Story Will Continue Every Wednesday.

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