Aengellania awoke lying on a cold floor in darkness. Her head spins, trying to pin down exactly why she was here. Had Gwydain taken her on another night out…?
She shakes her head as her heart turns to ice. No, that had… That had ended a while ago.
Aengellania tries to push herself off the ground, body feeble and in pain. Vague memories began to filter in, of a sudden, soundless ambush. She had been travelling from somewhere… Brightspear? To…
Aengellania’s fingers scrabble for purchase on the smooth floor, strength failing her. The magic of Hysh and Ulgu too are absent to reinforce her. It feels like there was an oppressive weight, not upon her body but upon her mind and soul. As a Cathallar she had felt it many times before, but rarely felt it this strongly before. Her mind absently wondered what could have happened here to inflict such darkness on the land.
Aengellania steels herself and pushes herself upright into a kneeling position, and only then does she feel the collar around her neck. A Mage’s Noose, she reasons, or something similar. So that must be what is sapping her magic.
Aengellania’s Cathallar training immediately kicks in, dampening down her panic into a mild observation of her predicament. She is mostly defenceless until she can get the collar off her neck, but until then she only had her wits and guile to preserve her life. Her body felt whole and unhurt, save for whatever had knocked her unconscious, so whoever had captured her wanted her undamaged. But if that meant good or ill for her…
She brings one foot under her and prepares to stand fully upright, but another attack of weakness brings her closer to the ground. She thrusts a hand into the darkness on instinct, hoping to find some kind of handhold as leverage.
Another hand reaches out and takes it, making her freeze in place. It is huge, a uniform pale milky white, and completely smooth and cold to the touch. Nothing living possessed a hand like that.
Another memory slides into place. She had been travelling through Shyish.
It pulls her up upright with casual and rough ease before letting her go. Her head swims with the sudden movement, but she manages to keep herself standing as a huge, magnificently sculpted humanoid figure steps into her sight.
Orpheon Katakros, Mortarch of the Necropolis, looks down at her with impassive, dead eyes.
“I trust that you have rested well, mistress Tearworn?” He murmurs dispassionately, the quiet authority in his voice making it sound more like a command than a question.
Aengellania forces down her fear and bows her head respectfully to him.
“Perhaps a more comfortable floor would have been preferable, but I’ve woken up in worse situations, Mortarch Katakros.”
Katakros tilts his head, frowning slightly as he considers her.
“Hm. I shall have to discuss this with the Boneshapers.”
A smattering of candles light themselves, illuminating the room in a dim green light, barely the minimum to see in. In the gloom Aengellania sees that they’re in a kind of war room, maps and orders carefully arranged and organised on every available surface, offering a window into a busy but very diligent mind.
Katakros strides over to one desk, and Aengellania follows for loss of what else to do. She only knows of Katakros by reputation, very little of it to her liking, but she has heard subterfuge and underhanded manipulation aren’t his preferred tools. Whatever he wants from her, he will demand it quickly.
He stops in front of a map, examines it for a moment, then looks back at Aengellania.
“Mistress Tearworn, I have need of your skills.”
From the sheer conviction in his voice, Aengellania wonders if he had even considered the possibility that she might refuse.
Controlling her thoughts once more, she joins him next to the table.
“And what might you need of a servant of Order?”
“This.”
He taps a point on the map, the landscape it depicts recognisable to her as the Allpoints. This close up she realises that it is entirely constructed of interlinking bone, differently coloured to represent formations and lines on the map. As she watches one of the lines shift as the tiny fragments of bone flip over and change colour, the effect so minute as to be almost imperceptible.
“A shrine of Chaos, summoning daemons from the Realms of Chaos and binding them to weapons and the bodies of mortals. Its monstrosities press my legions hard.”
Katakros leans some of his weight on the table, letting some annoyance show.
“I wish it destroyed, but a conventional assault there will be costly compared to the benefit. I will lose time and resources that could be better spent elsewhere.”
“But, a smaller band of powerful but ultimately expendable individuals could achieve better success without that loss to you.”
Katakros turns and raises an eyebrow at Aengellania’s interruption. She just smiles back up at him.
“This has been my life for the past six hundred years, Mortarch Katakros. I’m used to the demands of gods and immortals alike.”
She waves a hand over herself as her smile becomes self-deprecating.
“And neither do I have any illusions that you ‘chose’ me simply because I was available. Did I stray too close to the Endgate?”
“You did.”
“And so I am to be sent into the Allpoints on a mission that will benefit you if I succeed or fail.”
“You needn’t state the obvious.” Katakros chided her mildly.
“Soulbound?”
“Naturally, with an Ossiarch escort.”
“And you will release me when?”
“As soon as you return from successfully destroying the shrine.”
“And what will happen if I refuse?”
“You shall not.”
Aengellania rubs her chin, her composure fully returned. She had talked with gods and walked in the footsteps of godbeasts. She knows where she stands with a Mortarch like Katakros.
“So, what carrot or stick will you use for me?”
Katakros looks down at her curiously, and she can feel him bend his will and authority upon her. She meets it with a determination that has kept her alive and sane through six centuries of bloodshed.
“Do you really need a reason to strike out against the minions of Chaos, after what you have suffered at their hands?”
It sounds like a genuine question to Aengellania, and she reasons that it must be. The Mortarch of the Necropolis would not waste his time with empty inquiries.
“Of course I do. If we don’t constantly interrogate ourselves over the reasons why we commit harm, then we will become little better than them.”
“Hm.”
Behind Katakros the map begins to shift again, this time showing the Shyishian end of the Endgate. Prominently marked are the population centres, great cities and metropolises but also towns and villages, some so small Aengellania wonders if the inhabitants are even aware that the outside world had noticed them. She looks back up at Katakros as he begins speaking.
“If the forces of the Everchosen push my forces back sufficiently, I shall have to resort to drastic measures.”
Without looking away from Aengellania, he taps the map behind him.
“Such as taking every living person within a hundred and fifty miles of here and herding them into the Allpoints as daemon-fodder. My Boneshapers can make use of their remains to produce more Ossiarch warriors.”
“And now that you know this, your conscience will be haunted by those that died because of your inaction.” Katakros doesn’t even bother to invest his voice with authority or command, simply speaking with quiet assurance.
A thick silence follows. Aengellania keeps her smile, but she knows that it must look flimsy to Katakros.
Eventually, she bows her head to him.
“You… Certainly know how to motivate me, Mortarch.”
At that exact moment the door opens, admitting in what Aengellania recognises as a Mortisan Soulmason. The Mortisan bows deeply to Katakros.
“All are one in Nagash.”
Katakros nods back.
“And Nagash is one in all.”
For Aengellania she simply nods with cool professionalism, though she can feel a slight undertone of contempt from the Soulmason. Aengellania ignores it. She has experienced worse from those closer to her.
“This is Soulmason Eresh, mistress Tearworn, but the Mortisans have assured me she has a skill as ossification. She will accompany your Binding into the Allpoints and give you guidance.”
As an overseer watching for treachery, Aengellania knows. Nonetheless, she smiles and bows towards Eresh, offering her a hand to shake.
“The pleasure is mine. Please, call me Aenge.”
Eresh gives Aengellania’s hand a faint look of disgust, until she retreats it.
“You may refer to me as Soulmason, soul-thief.”
Aengellania unbends her back, still smiling.
“As you wish.”
