Whitesteel Peaks - Chapter 4: Daltaria

Turim and Daynard arrive in Daltaria to go before the Council of Races, while the mysterious Sandscorpions come face to face with a competitor.

Armageddon TM and its characters and story are copyright Terry Tibke. All rights reserved. All music and effects are listed here.

Luke Alphonso [Voice Actor] - Voices Turim Gliderlance

Maia Harlap [Voice Actor] – Voices Lala Truffleroot, Kithria, Wraithchasm, Zalena Windstride

Mary-Anne Stanek [Voice Actor] - Voices Malma Bronzeline, Dark Elf 1

Brittanie Finlay-Hayes [Voice Actor]- Voices Sprite Emissary 1

Sam Gabriel [Voice Actor] – Voices Quint Moonreaver, Alfort Shortford

Big Boy Buff Boy [Voice Actor] – Voices Mask

Omar Martinez Jr. [Voice Actor] – Voices Jaldaen Bloodsun

 Seb Agner [ Voice Actor] – Voices Salot Ibixscour
Chris Bellinger [Voice Actor] – Voices Percin Storeward

Dio Kerr [Voice Actor] – Voices Dustorn Greyangle

Produced by: Terry Tibke, Jim Rysinski, Frank James Bailey, Aaron, cfasand, Cory Fulcher; and Kiyra, Torren, Sophany, Mike, and Tippy Tibke.

Transcript

Chapter 4 – Daltaria

Snow fell, but the wind had finally stilled, letting the tiny flakes drift. Hooves clattered against the stone-laid streets, as the horses, Sildál and Ander bore their masters into the city.

Both Turim and Daynard had been to Daltaria many times in their lives, and still it was a remarkable sight. The first of these was a grand archway, covered in Daltarian city guard with tapestries and banners decorating walls and poles about the entry. The pair rode beneath the gate, the echo of their beasts amplified until they sifted out the other side with the sparse crowd and the snow.

“Not many folk out today,” said Turim, spotting a scant number of people hurrying here and there. “Fewer than usual, at any rate.”

“Verily,” said Daynard, pulling Ander aside to avoid a few bundled-up children playing. “The weather is probably keeping them indoors. I suppose it’s getting late as well.”

Though now inside the walls of Daltaria, several miles remained before they reached the Garont district. The steady sound of their hooves echoed under walkways and amidst tall buildings, keeping them company along the way, but they soon blended into the din of more crowded streets.

Turim felt like the eyes of the city’s occupants were always on him. Clearly, his nerves were beginning to get to him the closer they got to actually seeing the Council. He was also not looking forward to seeing Dustorn and Percin this time either. He would be civil, of course. He simply intended to guard his words more closely.

Turim smiled at the smell of smoke rising from chimneys, letting the thought of it warm his chilled bones. They clomped past piles of windblown snow strewn about the avenues, and thanks to Grandmaster Strongthorn, they’d soon wove through the smattering of folk on the streets and arrived outside the great Council Hall that was their destination.

Garont Hall was a towering, pale stone structure with two wide doors. It had many steps, lined every few feet by torches. Scrawling up its front was architecture from a time long passed, arched and bent across its walls. And like a magnificent cake, each ledge and gable were frosted and iced with recent snowfall.

City guards with spears at their shoulders stood on either side of the entry. Beneath their helms, they looked like painted toy soldiers, all set with the same stiff faces. Turim nodded in appreciation at their discipline.

Daynard spoke up as he drew Ander in. “Now, where are those two? I may have to check—”

The paired doors of the hall swung open, marking the appearance of the two Knights of the Hawk advisors. “Grandmaster Strongthorn, sir, welcome. You as well, Wing Commander Gliderlance,” said Percin, stepping outside.

Behind him, Dustorn matched Percin’s stride as the two took several steps down and out into the snowy street from Garont Hall, bundled in warmer cloaks; though as always, Dustorn remained in some pieces of his old armor.

“Any news?” asked the Grandmaster as he swung down from his horse. “Will session commence soon?”

“We’ve only just arrived at the Hall ourselves,” responded Dustorn, glancing back. “There’s a bit of a bustle inside.”

“We’ll look into it,” reassured Percin, inclining his head.

Grandmaster Strongthorn looked back towards Turim, meeting his eyes. His mouth showed a faint frown as he took a few steps closer with Ander’s reins in hand. “I hope you don’t mind putting our horses to stable. There are still preparations, it seems.”

“Yes, sir.” Turim returned a feint smile beneath his whiskers. “And where might those be?” He scanned either side of the structure and caught sight of a red-beared fellow, wearing a beret.

The man was older and spoke privately with a cluster of other finely dressed individuals, and immediately looked back. Turim averted his gaze to Grandmaster Strongthorn and the advisors.

“Go round the corner and to the left.” The Grandmaster took several steps with his advisors toward the stairs. “You’ll see them there, tucked beneath the hall.”

 “Yes, sir,” replied Turim. It was about time they returned to more formality than they’d used on the farm. Dustorn and Percin were near. It would be proper.

He saluted and took both horses off at a canter as Grandmaster Strongthorn ascended the steps. He took a last glance over his shoulder as he went. As he’d sensed before, the red-haired old fellow seemed to be staring at him—even pausing in conversation—but soon Turim lost sight of him. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met.’ He thought ‘I wonder who that might be?’

The steed’s hooves echoed down the street and into the stables. Once inside, he soon gave the horses over to the stablemaster’s care, paying him in silver numí. While inside, he took notice of a few horses being boarded which bore barding of the Knights of the Saber. His father had told him of some animosity between the two factions, but he’d never quite understood what had started it. And in his time with the Knights himself, he’d continued to try and ignore such rumors whenever he’d heard them. And yet, their presence here didn’t make him feel any less anxious.

He made his way back around to the front steps, beginning to ascend. The fellow with the beret seemed to have moved along from his position. But Grandmaster Strongthorn waited just outside the entry with Percin and Dustorn.

Turim rubbed his hands together and breathed warm air onto them, producing a brief misty curl. “I was hoping I’d avoid passing the guards on my own. Shall we go?” he asked, preparing to enter.

Grandmaster Strongthorn took a few steps down and placed a hand on Turim’s shoulder. “Not right this moment,” he said. “It seems we won’t be admitted until tomorrow. Some of the Ambassador’s Emissaries haven’t yet returned because of the snow. They’d like to wait another day to see if they’ll arrive.”

Turim stopped climbing, pausing between steps. “Oh. Alright. I suppose we’ve not much choice,” he grumbled. “So what do we do in the meantime? Get the horses again?” he asked. He felt childish even worrying about the steeds. This whole process for entry was foreign to him.

“No, that’s the better part of the news,” said Daynard with a smile.

Percin spoke up. “We’ve convinced them to set aside rooms for us here at the Hall.”

“Splendid?” replied Turim. He tried to sound positive, but he wasn’t particularly excited about staying.

“Lead the way,” agreed the Grandmaster, gesturing to the advisors.

* * * * *

The tunnels were black, blacker than night in most places save those where the glowing crystals lit the warren. It had drawn the attack out long and made it much more difficult than anticipated.

The Sandscorpions now began to regroup, taking account of their injuries and deeds. Some of them were already cleaning their weapons. 

“How many?” asked their leader, his eyes passed across the cavern. His name was Quint Moonreaver. They were his hunters.

“Seven,” answered the first of the dragoons.

“Nice, Salot, nice,” said Quint, “though I’ve seen you do much better on these types of jobs.”

“Killing a bunch of dark elves?” said Jaldaen Bloodsun, another dragoon, glancing around. “This wasn’t exactly our type’a job.”

“Apologies, Quint,” replied Salot. “No excuses, but they hid in the raptor pens. As for the raptors, I slew thirteen as well.”

“Ahh, well then that can be pardoned, I suppose,” said Quint with a smile. “And stop whining Jaldaen. I’m in the business of making numí, and this one was four times the last big manticore hunt we did. Besides didn’t the pale elves steal your cousin or something?”

Jaldaen shook his head with a smirk. “I didn’t say I’m not into a little revenge killing.”

“See? That’s the spirit,” Quint chuckled. “And you, Zalena?”

Zalena Windstride looked up from the cut across her calf that she was bandaging. “Twenty-seven,” she said. “But somewhere along the way, I was knicked with one of their accursed black blades.”

“You’ll probably die now,” Jaldaen tossed over his shoulder at her.

“Funny,” said Quint without laughing.

He proceeded, taking a tally of the dark elves they’d slain. Close to all of them. He hadn’t gone without losing one though. Habaru, but that was it, he was the only one.

When Quint was satisfied with their numbers, he looked back towards the tunnel he’d chalk-marked; that would be the shaft leading them back to the surface. But as he did, he saw a curious sight.

Coming down the tunnel was a cluster of soldiers, or something like soldiers. They were armored in the fashion of Dark Knights, but hooded. Mighty axes already sat in their hands. He’d seen Dark Knights before, but never anything like these.

He raised his glaive, turning towards them slowly.

There was also surprise in the eyes of the three Dark Knight executors. They clearly hadn’t expected to see his dragoons. When they continued to take in the sight of the many heaps of slain dark elves nearby, they grew even more wide-eyed.

Quint spoke up first. “I suspect the Dragon Army sent you too?”

For a moment, the executors remained silent. Then one stood forward. “Yes,” he said. His voice was like sand from back home. “I’m called ‘Mask’ by those who wish to give me identity. Our job is—was, to slay the dirt eaters for their betrayal. It seems, however…” His voice trailed off as he turned in a slow circle, still taking it all in.

“What’s seeming is truth,” replied Quint, lowering his spear. “We destroyed Steelbone’s Raiders in their entirety—or near enough. Feel free to chase the remaining rats through the tunnels. Clean them up. There should only be a handful or two left, by my count. But I urge you to hurry if you want to have any fun at it. The poison we delivered will kill them soon enough no matter what you do.”

By now, the other dragoons had finished bandaging their wounds and cleaning their weapons and stood behind Quint, ready to depart. He glanced over his shoulder briefly, nodding to Salot at his side.

“We do not ‘clean up’ after—who are you!?” bellowed Mask, his anger now clearly visible.

“We,” said Zalena, answering for the rest, “are the Sandscorpions. So stand aside. We have other more pressing matters to attend to.”

“True,” agreed Quint. “We have more to do still. And truth be told, we’re a long way from home and don’t know our way about just yet. Best we get started soon. So…” he brushed them away with a little wag of his hand, “if you please?”

‘Y—you’re the Sandscorpions?” said Mask, his voice shifting tone. Quint thought there was some sort of awe there. Clearly a recognition. He was pleased their reputation had passed across the oceans. All signs of anger vanished.

“That’s right,” he answered him. “So right now, Mask, our purposes are all aligned and we’re chummy. Let’s keep it that way. But, I’m curious. Before we climb back out of here, who was it that sent you fellas? You look as though you might be Black Division. But I’d heard you were destroyed by the Knights of the Hawk and the defenders of Tusokan?”

Mask still held his axe forward. Apparently, he’d realized it and quickly lowered its head, letting it rest upon the stony tunnel floor. When he spoke again, he sounded almost eager this time. “It was at the order of Admiral Peelwarden that we were sent to destroy the betrayers. Where do your orders come from?”

“We don’t do orders,” Zalena barked, stepping forward.

“They’re not ‘orders’ as you say,” agreed Quint. “Our contract was arranged by Gewurmarch Redblade, himself—though we weren’t allowed to speak with him. Our arrangements were mostly handled by Grand General Magmamaul. But you can be sure that one day I’ll speak with Gewurmarch Redblade. I have many questions of the man, if man he is.”

Then, seeing little need for further discourse, Quint strode forward, brushing past the executors as folk in the market on a spring day.

In a few moments, The Sandscorpions had left, passing up through the tunnel to the snowy surface, leaving a dumbfounded band of Dark Knight Executors behind to clean up.

* * * * *

The next morning, Turim and Grandmaster Strongthorn woke and ate breakfast together in a dining room that adjoined the two bedrooms they’d stayed in, brought to them by the servants of the house.

“I don’t believe I’ve stayed anywhere quite so fair before,” Turim muttered as he observed their surroundings again. “I would’ve been perfectly fine going to stay with Sand’s father.”

The room had floors of marble tiles. He could see his face reflected in them if he stared hard enough. Red velvet couches sat as a trio along one side of the room, arranged around a dark wooden table and chairs with a bowl of appazas and pearmellons on it. The fruit was at the end of its season, but that didn’t dampen the finery of it much.

“It was needless to do so,” said Daynard, who looked a bit on edge. “Besides, it was best to keep you near.”

Before Turim could take another bite of his food, there was a brief knock at the entry, and a guard ushered Percin and Dustorn into the room. Percin waved a scroll in his hand.

Dustorn watched as the guard left the room, closing the door for privacy. “The missing Emissaries arrived during the night. We’re to be admitted to the Council this morning.”

Turim had almost hoped they’d been rejected, and he could go home. But he did find that he’d grown more eager to see the inside of Garont Hall.

“Excellent,” said the Grandmaster. Still, his face awaited more.

Percin cleared his throat. “Our escorts should be along shortly.”

Turim set his golden biscuit down and met eyes with the two advisors. “Well. Since we’ve come to it then,” he turned his gaze back to the Grandmaster. “You still haven’t told me much. Is there any behavior, or protocol I should know of? You said we’d be able to talk some of that through this morning.”

“Yes, of course,” said Grandmaster Strongthorn. “But as they’ve decided to resume so soon, we don’t have much time for that right now. I could tell you all of the appropriate bows, and handshakes, and salutes you should give to each Emissary and each Ambassador. But that would only be confusing. You’ll be allowed a simple salute; you’re a member of a knightly order. That would be expected. What’s important is that when you do speak to someone, you keep your words short and to the point. Don’t offer more than requested.”

Turim looked back towards Percin with something of a knowing glare. “I don’t intend to offer any more than is necessary.”

Dustorn took a step forward to stand at Percin’s side as if to provide him support.

But Grandmaster Strongthorn was the one to move the conversation along. “Also, I’m certain you shall have little difficulty, but please, be polite.”

Turim took his meaning. “Very well. But what am I to do when it all begins?”

Dustorn and Percin seemed to give a new level of attentiveness to what the Grandmaster was about to say as well.

“I myself will set the stage for what will be discussed,” replied Daynard, rubbing his whiskered chin. “Though I’m sure Ambassador Cancoal will have his own questions and purposes for this meeting.”

“Yes, Grandmaster,” agreed Dustorn. “Something is amiss. We did confirm our suspicions. Though the last of Ambassador Flashcut’s Emissaries arrived just before you did, it was Ambassador Cancoal’s Emissaries we were waiting on through the night.”

“Probably out gathering some last-minute news to afflict or boggle us with,” agreed Grandmaster Strongthorn. He set down his fork for the last time and took a long, last sip of coffee before letting it rattle onto his saucer.

“I don’t suppose we might join you for—” Percin began.

A knock at the door again interrupted as another Daltarian sentry stepped inside. “I’m here to accompany all of you back to the hall?”

“Yes, thank you,” replied Dustorn. “Come along all. After you, Grandmaster. Commander Gliderlance.”

They closed the rooms up behind them and followed along as the guard accompanied them back toward Garont Hall. The snow along the cobbled streets outside had melted away almost completely, more to tread than warmth. Glancing skyward, Turim thought it wouldn’t be long before it snowed again. All together, they soon strode up the steps to where the now familiar pair of doors concealed Garont’s corridors and meeting rooms.

They stepped wordlessly through the first hallway, boot steps and the swish of Percin’s blue robes the only sound.

Turim found Percin had come alongside him. The advisor spoke in low tones. “Commander Gliderlance. I sense your cross-ness at what I assume you know we’ve shared. I apologize for that. I do. But I do want you to understand, there are many intricacies to the happenings upon Cornerius and beyond right now. Many of the leaders in this room see things that you do not yet understand. Things that have been in motion for many years already.”

Turim returned a polite nod. “I don’t like the way civilians have been drug into this, but I’m aware of your duties. Let’s just leave it at that.” He was actively keeping a level head.

“Ready?” asked Grandmaster Strongthorn. They slowed, stopping in front of the golden-handled double-door entrance. The guards halted, saluting the door wardens, who confirmed their names and origins.

Turim gave a nod to the wardens, yet inside, he felt his nerves grow taught. ‘Here. We. Go.’ Then the doors were pulled slowly open.

He took a step forward into the room. And gazing upward, he took in a sight that few of his command and station would ever see.

The chamber's oval walls were adorned with tapestries from diverse lands and cultures, a testament to their craftsmanship. Like a global quilt, they infused the space with rich history. Below, wide stairs cascaded like tiers of a cake, encircling the room and providing seating, each chair accompanied by an emblem representing its occupant's homeland.

High windows bathed the room in a soft glow, their panes focused on the center of the floor. There, a mosaic depicted Daltaria's emblem, though embellished almost beyond recognition to Turim.

“There are so many people,” he whispered as they kept moving, taking steps down to the front row.

They slipped into their seats quietly; Dustorn and Percin behind, while Turim sat beside Grandmaster Strongthorn, his feet at the edge of the marble mosaic.

The Council had already begun to tally counts of some kind. One of the sprites present rose in her seat, straightened her jacket collar, and read a slip of parchment. “The chairman for today’s session is Malma Bronzeline.”

Grandmaster Strongthorn began a round of gentle applause, and Turim joined in as they watched another sprite rise from her seat.

Ambassador Bronzeline’s wispy hair was pale blue. She wore a wild ponytail atop her head while thin antennae peeked out from either side.

 Like all of the other shorter races, she had a chair she could stand on to make herself more visible when speaking. Turim imagined Lala standing up on one of the chairs. He wondered what she was doing back on the farm; back in the mundane life of a farmer.

“Thank you Emissary. Fellow Council Members,” began Ambassador Bronzeline. “Today we’ve admitted the Grandmaster of the Knights of the Hawk, come to us from Grendelock Keep: Daynard Strongthorn, son of Eddard Strongthorn, descendant of Edrimar Strongthorn.”

A flurry of whispers and murmurs filled the air, tinged with satisfaction. The reverence for Edrimar was palpable among the gathered, and once again it was clear most held a similar admiration for Daynard.

"As most of you are aware, we convene today to deliberate upon the Battle of Black Dawn and all relevant matters," Ambassador Bronzeline announced, her unexpected tone commanding attention. "Without further delay, I’ll first call upon Grandmaster Strongthorn to step forward and address the assembly from the center of the hall."

Grandmaster Strongthorn leaned to Turim one last time. “Listen well.”

 Turim nodded as he watched the Grandmaster head to the center of the light, where its brilliance cascaded. Daynard caught up the edge of his pale blue cloak in one hand and put the other forward, preparing to speak.

“Honored Countrymen. I come today for several purposes. And I hope to explain things as clearly as possible for everyone. We have important decisions to make.”

No protests. Turim smiled, marveling at how captive Grandmaster Strongthorn already had his audience.

Grandmaster Strongthorn conveyed the details of the patrol changes and the dangers they barely avoided with the dark elves watching them. He also covered some key maneuvers during the Battle of Black Dawn itself. He was asked a few questions, and he fielded them with clear answers. But then he began to talk about something Turim hadn’t known.

“At the arrival of the scouting Wing,” said Grandmaster Strongthorn, “I began to send out letters and communication. They warned others of the danger that would approach Cornerius soon. I, of course, hadn’t guessed how soon. But I’d been made aware it would not be long before we—all of the knights—must band together. A united Knights of Caball, if you will. We’d need to act as a singular body to defend the world against the final blows of our enemy.”

“Very clever,” thought Turim. The knight factions all operated as Edrimar Strongthorn had set up. They were very similar in their design. But working together would take a powerful leader. Someone with a great amount of control.

He leaned over to ask Dustorn. ‘Is Grandmaster Strongthorn suggesting he take over?’ That seemed unlikely.

Dustorn shrugged with a faint noise of uncertainty.

“During the battle,” continued Grandmaster Strongthorn, “the Knights of the Hawk suffered great losses. Due to our efforts defending Daltaria and the rest of Genova, my men now number less than a quarter of what they once were.”

At this, more mumbling gave indication this had been grievous news. ‘This must’ve been the first time he’s conveyed our casualties,’ thought Turim.

“Yes, my friends,” said Grandmaster Strongthorn, “these are dangerous times. Yet, we must remain stalwart in the defense of our lands. And it is because of this need, I come before you today. Without any more hesitation, I ask that The Council of Races act as a coordination point for all of the knight’s factions.”

Turim looked up as the noise continued to grow. When he did, he looked to the other side of the oval straight into the eyes of the red-haired man with the beret—the one he’d seen looking at him the night before. He was a Council Member—an Ambassador. It was not a passing glance. The strange man stared unmistakably at him.