Unbound - Chapter 616

“This is nerve wracking,” Felix muttered.

They stood at the bottom of a pair of black stone stairs, which swept upward out of a diamond-shaped antechamber. Behind them, a statue of four dour-faced Dwarves sat amidst a fountain of vivid blue water, their hands holding a rod, sword, orb, and a chunky piece of what Felix guessed was metal ore. Behind that, extended a line of other attendees, all of them waiting impatiently to enter the grand ballroom up at the other end of the staircase.

“You might be comfortable in combat, but this is my battlefield. Follow my lead, and we will prevail,” Vess said, patting his hand.

“You’re good at fighting too,” Felix pointed out.

“So I am.”

“Seems unfair.”

Vess gave him a dimpled grin. “If I were to list out how many unfair advantages you benefited from, we would miss the gala.”

Felix laughed, and they progressed up the dark steps. After leaving their room, an Untempered servant had guided them through Nightfall Palace to the antechamber behind them. The place was filled with sound wards that expanded and dissipated like a field of soap bubbles as Dwarven nobility gossipped. Felix hadn’t any interest in what they spoke of, but judging by the many looks his way, it was likely him. As he’d been reminded over and over again, a six and a half foot Human stood out in Dwarven society, and that was never so apparent as when he stopped atop the dark staircase next to a thirty-foot tall door made of solid gold.

“Your card, sir?” An impressively fancy Dwarf stood off to the side, his beard and mustache waxed to a point.

Felix stared blankly at the guy until Vess nudged him lightly. “Oh. Right.”

He handed over a small square of cardstock the Untempered servant had left them before he had scurried off. It bore two names on it, written in silver ink and bordered by an interlocking maze of geometric patterns. The majordomo lifted the card to his eyes and gestured for the two of them to begin walking forward.

“Ready?” Vess asked him.

“As I’ll ever be.”

They stepped across the threshold of the golden door and onto a pristine white landing, as bright as the anteroom was dark. Spread out before them was another set of stairs sweeping downward into a vast ballroom of elaborate inlaid flooring polished to a mirror finish and filled with hundreds of Dwarves. Huge, twenty-foot thick pillars lined the outskirts of the chamber before joining with a vaulted ceiling at least a hundred feet high. Fifty-foot windows filled the gap between each pillar, rich, textured curtains drawn open to reveal all of Red Shield Hold spread out below them, like a sea of golden rivers and twinkling lights.

At the far end, a raised dais displayed a ceremonial seat that looked exceedingly like a throne. It was empty. Felix was about to make a comment about it to Vess, but the majordomo’s voice outstripped his by several orders of magnitude.

“Mr. Silas Veil, Hero of Birchstone, and Her Grace, Vessilia Dayne of Pax’Vrell!”

The entirety of the crowd turned to watch them, drink paused halfway to mouths and the soft buzz of conversations cut off completely. Felix stiffened, and only Vess’ gentle guidance reminded him to keep moving down the stairs.

“We expected them to know me. We are fine,” she murmured.

“Just startled me,” Felix admitted. He kept it to himself how uneasy the sudden stares all were making him and finished walking down the interminable white steps. By the time they reached the floor, however, conversations had resumed and most of the attendees no longer stared so openly.

Most.

“Brace yourself,” Vess whispered.

The Dwarven nobility came for them. First in a trickle as one or two cozied up next to them, but then a flood as the others grew more bold.

“Good evening, Your Grace! What a delight to have a representative of Pax’Vrell among us.”

“Mr. Veil! The Hero himself! What an honor to have you within the Hold!”

“Pow! Then you struck the Titan! When I heard that I—”

“—lost a thousand crowns worth of property due to the rampant fires! Can you believe that? The Hinterlord must invest in more water attuned mages, or else we’re all poised to lose our shirts!”

“Do you have Dwarven blood in you, Mr. Veil? Your broad shoulders suggest you must!”

“—did you see them as you came in? Crowding the Clan Gate? Pitiful upstarts.”

“Hopefully the Titan’s defeat will mean a return to normal—”

Vess handled all of them with remarkable poise and charm, answering very little of their questions and deftly turning their conversational points back onto the askers. After only a few short minutes, she had most of the nobles in the palm of her hand, commanding the flow of conversation. She did all the heavy lifting, while Felix mostly smiled and nodded where he thought was most appropriate.

While more and more people were loudly introduced by the majordomo, their audience dwindled in number until there was only three well-dressed individuals engaging their time. A Dwarven woman, Rosalind Uterre, was their de facto leader as they deferred to her whenever she spoke.

“I have always wished to summer in Pax’Vrell, my dear. I hear it is a temperate clime but leans quite warm.”

Vess laughed. “Our warm summers are excellent for our wine sellers. The grapes ripen beautifully on the vines. You should visit for the wine alone, my father would be proud to have such esteemed guests.”

“Perhaps I shall,” the older Dwarf tittered, as if the idea of it amused and appealed in equal measure. “And you, Mr. Veil. Where do you hail from?”

“Around.”

“…it must be renowned for its warriors, for I hear the Titan was no easy opponent. How did you defeat her? Previously, it required a great deal of the Hinterlord’s personal resources to keep her out of our city.”

“I’m lucky I suppose,” Felix said.

“Would that I had such luck. Handsome, strong, and with the arm of a Duchess. Are you a noble in your home, Mr. Veil?”

“I’m no one special,” Felix said, before floundering. “Vess and I are…ah…”

“Associates,” Vess finished for him, a smile on her lips. “And you, Lady Uterre? What is it you do in this wonderful Hold?”

“Please, call me Rosalind, your Grace.”

“Rosalind, then.”

“To answer your question, I am in charge of the well-being of the entire Hold. I would dare say my responsibilities vie with the Hinterlord’s own—for how far would our Hold fall if the Untempered were mismanaged?”

“Untempered…You manage the servants?” Felix asked.

“Servants, skilled and unskilled laborers, even many merchants. All live within my district, where they are provided for according to their needs.”

“Where they are stuffed into overflowing tenements and given the bare essentials to survive, you mean.”

A well-dressed Dwarven man had stepped into the trio of nobles. He had a black beard streaked with white and his hair was the same, save it was pulled back into a plaited tail. He grinned around a long-stemmed pipe as he settled between Rosalind and Felix, punctuating his statement with a cloud of blue-green smoke.

“Lord Oslo,” Rosalind said icily. “You presume much, as always. I take care of my vassals, and you cannot prove otherwise.”

“Of course, Rosalind. There is always more to know than one can prove. For instance, I know the Untempered that you so lovingly tend to are malnourished and given less leeway than the meanest of Howlers.”

“You care only for yourself and your ‘art,’ which is why you cannot begin to understand the magnitude of my responsibilities. The grand design of my Lord husband.” Rosalind drew herself up, her Spirit as sharp as her glare. “Landless nobles should not speak to their betters.”

“To be considered my better you would require both a fortune and a conscience, Rosalind.” Lord Oslo tapped a finger against his pipe. “I don’t think your lord husband can afford both.”

Rosalind gave an exaggerated huff, almost a hiss, and stomped off. The two lackeys followed her with worried words of comfort.

Lord Oslo chuckled. “Damnable harpy. Sorry about that, Mr. Veil. Your Grace. I simply cannot stand worthless people.” He put out his hand and, amused, Felix grasped forearms with the stocky Dwarf. “Lord Bron Oslo.”

“You already have our names, it seems, but it is a pleasure to meet you,” Felix said.

“I agree, Lord Oslo,” Vess said.

“Please, call me Bron. You two appear to have solid heads on your shoulders, and that is a refreshing thing at events such as these.” The noble bowed over Vess’ hand, kissing the back of his own thumb as he held her wrist.

“To control the supply of servants and laborers in the Hold is quite potent.” Vess lifted an eyebrow. “Is it wise to antagonize such a powerful player?”

“Rosalind? Hm, perhaps. But then I am not one to play games among the Highbloods. Clan Oslo is small and landless, controlling no district of the Hold like some others, but we are mighty. I also do not employ servants. I think I can handle Uterre’s insipid vitriol.”

Felix liked the guy immediately. He was a breath of fresh air compared to the unctuous nobles that had introduced themselves to the pair of them, and even Pit roused from his nap of boredom. What do you think, bud?

His pipe stinks. But I like his beard.

“What does Clan Oslo specialize in?” Vess asked.

“A unique resource in our underground kingdom. Our fortune is not in soldiers, mines, or forges, but art. My family has long been a prolific patron of the arts, but in my earliest years I set about fostering it as best I can across the Dwarven Holds.”

“Art? That’s noble.”

“Thank you, Mr. Veil. The other nobles would not agree, but then anything that does not glitter holds little value to them.” Bron snorted, a stream of blue-green smoke firing out of both nostrils.

“What sort of art?” Vess asked.

“If you but wait a while, you shall see,” Bron said, waggling his eyebrows. “The Hinterlord has commissioned my clan for a performance today and—” a series of deep horns rang out from behind the dais. “Ah. Call the Unbound and they shall answer. Excuse me, Mr. Veil. Your Grace.”

Felix gave the man a sharp glance, but he was already off, hustling through the crowd toward the throne. The deep horns grew louder, gaining a brassy accompaniment as the doors at the far end of the chamber opened up. The majordomo, now somehow beside the throne, opened his arms wide and spoke words that buzzed against Felix’s inner ear.

“Stand now, for Kragan Red Shield, Patriarch of Clan Red Shield, Protector of the Undermount, Honorary Grandmaster of the Hidden Night.”

A number of armored Dwarves marched from the golden doors, all of them bearing tall halberds and banners displaying the three shields of the Hinterlord’s clan. They split as the majordomo finished speaking, and a rotund figure in custom, golden-plated armor stepped from their midst. He had the gait of a warrior, but one far past his prime, for all the vigor he mustered in keeping his bearded chin high as he strode to the top of the dias.

“Honorary Grandmaster?” Felix asked.

“A tradition among some cultures,” Vess explained. “Silly perhaps, but it conveys a societal authority—just not a true one.”

“A false king,” Yintarion whispered, his voice barely audible. “Wearing false gold. Fitting.”

Felix activated Voracious Eye, focusing on the Hinterlord’s armor and not the man. It came back as gold-plated mithril and was heavily enchanted with a slew of defensive measures. The circlet around his head, a number of amulets, rings, and earrings inundated him with even more. So many that it was hard to parse one from the other, or even the Dwarf underneath. Without focusing harder and betraying the fact that he was Analyzing the ruler of this little kingdom, it was difficult to even identify the Hinterlord’s advancement.

I bet he’s weak. Why else does he need so much jewelry, Pit sent.

Fair point. But I’m not taking any chances.

The Hinterlord stood before his throne, arms akimbo as if to let his people survey his shiny armor and flowing auburn beard—and to survey them in turn. Felix’s Spirit prickled under the scrutiny, the Hinterlord’s Analyze hitting a great many of them all at once.

“Welcome, one and all. This day of celebration was originally to usher in the dawn of spring as it slowly crawls over the land, and a return to days of plenty as the villages upon our peaks turn in their tribute of grain and fish and ore. Instead, we have gathered to celebrate a new event, one that puts the advent of spring to shame: the defeat of the wretched Titan!”

The ballroom shook as the nobles gave an extended cheer. All of them seemed very pleased.

“We have gathered to herald the rise of a hero! The one who fought down the Titan and lived, while so many others died or were beaten to submission. The Hero of Birchstone, Silas Veil!”

Once again, Felix found himself the center of attention. The braziers near him surged with flames, illuminating his every angle, and the nobles cheered all the louder.

“Now,” the Hinterlord said, cutting off the din as if he’d strangled them all. “The Hero deserves a feast!” Kragan Red Shield clapped his hands. “Bring out the feast!”

All at once an army of servants clad in black and white livery came streaming from smaller doorways along the ballroom’s length. Dozens. Hundreds. All of them carrying tables, chairs, linens, and gleaming utensils. Porcelain followed, along with steaming platters of roasted meat, vegetables, and sumptuous sweets and breads. Great trestle tables were set out in seconds, laden with delicious smelling food, and the nobility descended on them.

Felix watched with quite a bit of shock. There was no civility or niceties when it came to the Dwarven nobility and their food. The last servant had barely scurried away when the first Lord was elbow deep in some roasted ham hock. Juice and grease dribbled down braided beards with abandon.

“Dunno if I’m all that hungry,” Felix admitted. Vess only nodded mutely, her dusky skin paler than usual. Pit’s stomach gurgled loudly.

“Would they be upset if you threw me onto that table?” Pit asked.

“I’m not doing that.”

“But look at all that food!”

“Indeed,” Yintarion said. “Each and every dish I can see has been harvested from potent monsters. No wonder they eat with such abandon. I too would like to partake. Can you get closer, little Dragoon?”

“I refuse. I apologize, Yin.”

“Fah.”

The four of them made their way to the sidelines, intending to stay out of everyone’s way, but instead found another trestle table being set up at their side. Liveried servants hustled, carrying chairs and food at rapid speeds, before bowing low and gesturing to the spread. “Please, Hero. Break your fast with this feast.”

Felix smiled at them and gave them a bit of a bow in return. Several of the servants were breathing heavily, most were sweating, but that was to be expected. All of them were Untempered. “This is very impressive. Thank you.”

The Dwarven servants grinned and, seeing that Felix and Vess were sitting themselves, soon scurried off.

For a time, they ate. It was really good food, though Felix only gave it a nibble. He was still rather full from the Domain. Vess put in the effort, but her attention was too wrapped up in their surroundings for her to enjoy a meal. Pit and Yintarion, then, took it as their duty to make up for their Companions.

The feast didn’t stand a chance.

A quarter hour later, the horns sounded once again and Hinterlord Kagan slammed a diamond encrusted staff of office upon the dais. It echoed throughout the ballroom like thunder.

“While you enjoy your feast, we must have entertainment!” he bellowed. His own face was a bit stained by wine and the greasy remnants of a monster haunch. “Lord Oslo!”

“Yes, my Lord?” Bron was still at the foot of the dais, waiting patiently all this time.

“What of our entertainment?”

“But of course, Hinterlord! But of course!” Bron rushed off, back through the golden doors behind the throne. In less than a minute, he returned, and this time he was dressed in robes that made him look like a very fancy mage.

“By your Will, Hinterlord, I have gathered today the greatest talent upon the face of the Continent! They have composed a new performance for you, my Lord, special for this glorious day. Please, allow me to introduce the Flight of Elegance!”

From behind him came a flash of brilliant light and colors as Skills fired off all at once. Illusions, shadows, and swirling air Mana surged around Lord Oslo in a vibrant, glittering display. From within it, lithe figures emerged mid-air. Wings of earthen hues spread, gliding down from above in smooth pirouettes as a troupe of bird-like Korvaa alighted in a triangular stack. With a delicate chirrup, they dove aside, the triangle splitting open to reveal three angular, Elven figures wearing diaphanous robes and bearing weapons.

“Felix,” Vess said, eyes wide. “Are they—?”

“Yeah,” he said. His gaze was riveted to the dancers. Upon their backs were brilliantly colored wings. Wings he’d seen only one other time.

On the back of another Unbound.