The Storm King

WIP

This story is unfinished, check back later as Possum writes more.

In his youth, the man that became known as the Sad King Briareus was once the hero of legend, the venerable and great wizard known as the Storm King. He was the lord of lightning, the caller of thunder, where he walked a hurricane would follow and his mastery of ancient magic at such a young age made him known far and wide across the empire. Yet, the seeds of who he would eventually grow into were appearing even then. Briareus would, if asked, what moment defined his life more than any other he would say it was when the emperor asked him to discover and deal with the man hunting down nobles and lords.

For years there had been an open secret that nobles and lords were being assassinated. People within the echelons of power were dying and what began as a few random concerning deaths grew into a pandemic over the months. The first few to die were merely nobles, those sycophantic and craven scum that hung onto the coat tails of lords to garner what power they could. Such murders were common among their ilk as they sought power and jockeyed for position when their lord was not watching them. What set these particular deaths apart was that it was leaving a power vacuum, that new more ruthless nobles were swooping in to take the positions of their dead rivals. More so, these deaths were not made to appear as accidents but the opposite. They were bloody and ruthless murders, the kind that struck fear into the cowardly upper class and concern with the less confident lords. Quiet assassinations for years had now become open slayings.

A few random deaths, a pattern, but what did it matter? Nobles were a coin a dozen and there was always someone looking to backstab their way to a higher position to replace them. But these deaths became less random and far more frequent as time went on. Rumors began that those nobles who had gone to far, who had played the political game and become too corrupt were the ones being killed. Whoever these assassins were, they were skilled and ruthless, nobody had caught a glimpse of them while they carried out their merciless work. Perhaps, if the deaths had been truly random, then it would have lasted longer with less concern. But nobles are a craven group and those who do their jobs properly, who manage fiefdoms and improve the lives of the common man very rarely garner power beyond the direct favor of their lord for being the vaunted few that can be trusted. Those nobles who have far reaching and more complete power are corrupt. Such corruption runs deep, from criminal syndicates to arms dealing to open banditry. They use the cover of their lords implied favor and the quid pro quo of their fellow nobles to create large criminal enterprises. Those who had a vested interest in continuing to live took far keener notice that it was the most corrupt who were being killed first. These nobles began to meet in back rooms, launching private inquiries as to who could be behind this and put a stop to it. These clandestine meetings amounted to nothing because nobles are incompetent at nearly everything besides lining their own pockets. Too much infighting, distrust, and potential for anyone to be the killer left little progress to be made.

But let it be said that incompetence matters little if you throw enough money at a problem. The ruthless murderers and cut throats often employed by unscrupulous nobles and the vaunted and decorated mercenaries used by the rare honest leaders were given new contracts. Protection details, escorts, double guards and additional patrols became a common sight. Assassinations were no longer possible and whomever this killer of men was they began to grow less concerned with remaining in the dark. The nobles that died in the following months did so in bloody and ruthless battles, mercenaries thrown into the meat grinder as the assassin came for the worst of the worst and they desperately threw every unfortunate sellsword in front of them to prolong their own lives. The killer left no witnesses, only piles of mutilated body parts and scorched bodies. The secret spilled over now, with the citizenry learning of this noble blood sport and lords finally taking full notice. One lord in particular, a lesser orc lord of battle known as Bone-Breaker William vowed to protect his nobles and fief from this assassin. For his trouble he and his entire nobility were slaughtered to the man, the climatic battle a ruinous and monstrous death by steel and fire that’s collateral destroyed half his fiefdom. Rumors abounded of giants made of bronze and iron had assaulted the walls, blasting it apart and like man-shaped artillery walked among the streets shelling buildings with mana bombs and setting all who stood in their way ablaze. Such a ruinous assault could not go unanswered and with the death of a lord, the then emperor tasked the Storm King with putting a stop to it all.

Briareus, an ogre in his prime at but a mere age of five decades was a fitting specimen of his people. He towered over even his fellow ogres, broad shouldered and muscled despite his learned nature as a mage. He wore a set of full plate battle mage regalia, shining steel and gold trimming amongst a calligraphy of runes chiseled into his armor by the greatest of ogre rune smiths accented by his majestic deep blue cloak. Power thrummed from his very core, the center of his breastplate exposing the rune lantern embedded in his chest, a multicolored shifting parade of color that matched the thrumming beat of his heart and the whirring gear of his power staff. Every inch of his was as splendid an art as his nature, outgoing and jovial, a nature that never took anything for granted because a wise and calculated mind pulled the reigns of a spirited and passioned heart. Yet he was not merely the last king of the ogres, nor was he the greatest battle mage or artist or poet or any other titles of fancy and dabbling he took. He was also the strongest of all lords, the emperor’s executioner, the man whom all lords feared because when he was set upon the enemies of the empire or the alliance the earth was shaken and the skies darkened for the terrible might he could call upon.

It was no surprise that the emperor had asked Briareus to begin his investigation, in truth he had been investigating the murders for quite some time. What he discovered in his own private inquiries only further intrigued him. The pattern of death was both at once obvious and obscure. Everyone was aware that it was the corrupt who were being targeted first and everyone was equally aware that it was their desperation to survive that made these executions increasingly violent. A message was being sent. Yet what was obscure to most was what that message meant. To Briareus he interpreted the message as something less practical, more … Even he struggled to put it into words. The killer was an agent against corruption, against the profane nature of the nobility and the temptations that authority and power offer. Yet time and desperation were turning them more violent. Some thought it was a group of killers, a full-blown syndicate, but Briareus was sure it was a single person. Someone who was not seeing the results they wanted, who was fighting more desperately with each passing day. An idealist with means, someone like himself, an artist with a vision.

It was not difficult to narrow down whom it could be, even the emperor thought it was one of the empire lords turned traitor. Nobody but another lord could be such an effective killer and the deaths by magic suggested a mage like Briareus. This further refined potential suspects to those with the means. Now he only needed to find the motive. His status as the grand master of magic meant Briareus knew every notable mage or magi that existed from the empire to the federation and even to the legion. It did not take him long to find his prime suspect. Lonesome Gract, the lord of clockwork, the master of bronze. Gract was a friend of Briareus’ father, a reclusive goblin alchemist whom later in life turned his alchemical talents towards the creation of clockwork and bronze. Alchemy and mechanical mastery, steam and magic and science, Gract was responsible for many a great invention and yet his reclusive nature left him rarely in the company of even his fellow lords. Gract had long since secluded himself in his fabled city of brass, emerging only by way of his followers and journeymen to market or sell his inventions to gain further funding for his creations. The city of brass, where Briareus would find answers.

The city itself was little more than a quite large village, a gleaming edifice of stone and bronze that Briareus found himself looking upon with awe as he teleported outside the city borders. Towers shone in the morning sun like a light house, golden rays reflecting brilliantly off glass mosaics depicting the machinations of gears and clockwork. The walls churned and whirred, all manner of gizmos and cogs rolled and clanked with life as they operated the complex networks of pipes and wires left bared to the sky as if daring nature to attempt to topple the machinations of Gract. Briareus traced his eye from the top of the tower, where a massive stone of mana sparkled with life, a lightning tower that no doubt stored the essence of the storm when weather turned foul and struck the metal and crystal with its ire. Connecting to it was a reinforced and carefully protected power grid that Briareus was sure fed the entire city. Each tower or building was built tall, the dimensions of the city made deceiving by being so readily compact. While much of the foundation was stone and concrete, every building was likewise bedecked as the tower of Gract was.

Machinery and spinning cogs woven among stained glass, clockwork and artifice interwoven. The artist in Briareus nearly wept at the sight of it all, splendid and imperial, even from the outskirts he could sense its majesty beyond the towering walls. The storm king strode forth, approaching the gates and noting to his pleasure that its artistry did not merely end at aesthetics. The gate was open but by no means unguarded, two towering giants of bronze flanked either side of the opening, still and lifeless like a statue and yet Briareus could sense the magic within them. Golems, artificial golems to be precise. The seemingly lifeless and simple constructs of perfect logical mind were at ready to destroy intruders with their incredible might. As Briareus drew closer, he understood that Gract was expecting him and allowing him to pass as neither giant spurred to life. An understanding was made, thought the last king of the ogres as he passed through the bronze gate.

The city was bustling with life and yet not a soul wandered the streets. Briareus walked alone, the citizens and members of Gract’s order either feared his presence or were instructed not to appear before him. Only the machines had life, the golems and constructs and clockwork automatons dutifully carrying out their orders with the machine precision they had be crafted to have. Briareus paused to study the street before him, concrete and brass with an impressive array of electrical grids at work. Set paths made of bronze and no doubt electrified served as pathways for clockwork automatons clanking in lock step along the designated path, every step sending a low yield bolt of current of their brass legs to perpetual charged their mana batteries. Streetlights decorated every corner, each one a pole decorated in calligraphy as fine as Briareus’ own armor, precision so detailed that the storm king pondered if they had once been pictures. Yet the lamps had more to offer as he drew near one. Not oil, not magically enchanted, but light bulbs that must be rigged to a timer to flicker alit during the night. Clever, very clever, the brightness alone would be a sight to behold beneath the stars above. Part of him wished he had waited until nightfall to see the city of brass alit in its artificial gleam. Too late now, he mused, as he continued onward.

With each street heading towards the towers Briareus grew more and more enthralled. Every building, every street corner, every single inch of the city was an artistry of mosaics and machines. Nothing was wasted, not a single surface left untouched by a creator’s hand. Even the factories held style and beauty, yet what impressed him most was the practicality hidden beneath it all. Pathways, sign postings, designations and careful planning revealed a deeper nature to the glory that was merely surface level. The city was a fortress. Streets structured to become kill zones, walls waiting to be shifted into unbreakable cover for its defenders and rigged to collapse upon retreat to offer nothing if lost. Sniper posts, gun nests, even the brass pathways the automatons walked upon ready to overcharge and offer a painful death by lightning to the careless stepping attacker. Every single creation was outfitted with the weapons of war, down to the smallest trundling menial of brass, a weapon was quick at hand. Redundancy was built into everything. Shields upon shields ready to power on to guard against cannon and artillery while circular power grids and alternative pipes would reroute with damaged sections to provide ceaseless operations.

The more Briareus studied the city of brass, the surer he became that Gract was behind the murders. A full company of ogre battle mages, even one led by Briareus himself, would require weeks or even months to siege this bastion. Nothing short of the full might of the empire and extremely heavy losses would over come its defenses. Briareus pondered how difficult it would be to kill Gract, should he not come quietly, his thoughts of the potential coming battle interrupted by a single solitary figure as the storm king near the entrance to Gract’s tower. On the side a singular comelier building stood, one that was more brickwork than machine compared to all others, with its front entrance a mosaic of a glass tau cross. Its heavy doors were open, the pathway leading through it covered in a rug sewn into familiar dwarven runes. It led to a large magical altar where at the base kneeled a dwarf in prayer. Even kneeling and with their back turned the shape was unmistakable. Briareus was hardly surprised given the nature of the city to find one of the few remnants of the dwarves here. His father had been the war host during the War of the Rune, his legacy that of the destroyer of the theocratic dwarven empire.

It was perhaps for this reason that the dwarf refused to hide like the others. His prayers ended and he turned to face Briareus, his bearded face held nothing but black contempt and pure unthinking hatred. Briareus gazed back without emotion. His father’s war was not his war, he did not agree with what the dwarf felt, but he understood. Without a word, he scanned the temple, an artifice no doubt built for this one man alone. The need for faith for dwarves was as deep as magic and Briareus recognized the uniquely dwarven architecture. Part of him wished to linger, to study this modern example of a lost age and forgotten kingdom that so few, even he, knew. Yet he had business to attend to. He moved on, approaching the threshold of Gract’s tower and passing two of the largest and most intimidating golems he had ever seen, each one deeply embossed with anti-magic runes and arms made of ballistic cannons fed by chain belts. That design was entirely new to him, such artifice was beyond its years and the storm king made a mental note to revisit the very idea when all of this concluded. Even now, Gract impressed him with his ability to create. Yet what anticipation built for meeting such an artist and architect was dashed then and there as Gract opened the doors to step inside. Gract awaited him in the lobby, dressed in simple blue overalls and a white shirt. Each clawed hand was protected by fingerless brown leather gloves, his feet protected by matching steel boots and his head clad in a likewise brown welding helmet modified with varying degrees of magnifying lenses and magical scanners of dwarven spec. He stood a mere four feet tall, only half the height of Briareus and despite being nearly the same age looked far older than the storm king. For a moment both men smiled as they realized with amusement the absurdity of age.

Goblins lived far shorter lives than ogres and for it the years had been far less kind to Gract. His age was writ upon his face, wrinkled and surly, what passed for his wild and unkempt hair was filled with streaks of gray and white among his black mane. Yet, teetering on the edge of becoming venerable, he was near Briareus age and the storm king looked like a young man, not even to his mid-life. There was a joke that both men could not articulate, a somewhat grim muse that they shared before Gract finally greeted him by name.