Where Giants Tread

[Anders Nazret]

Fat beads of dew clung to every available surface, filling the forest with a quivering field of lights. Overhead the morning sun crawled into the sky above the Hinterlands, it’s countenance reflecting off every individual dewdrop. There was a sinister peace to it all. Though Eualalia, the true heir, lay dead and Arcadia’s throne sat filled with an imposter king, Erde Nona continued upon its natural corpse. The sun rose and set each day. Birds sang their delicate melodies. Grass grew, and trees bore children. All of them, blissfully ignorant of the terrible wrong that had yet to be righted. It was disgusting.

Through this forest I moved, sure of my purpose. Arcadia, my beloved, had grown corrupt and complacent. It was glutted with imposters that dared to call themselves mages, they were nothing more than children pretending to be something they were not. This was made worse by the fact that the general populace seemed to accept their outlandish claims of magical proficiency. Preposterous! This, however, was not Arcadia’s greatest sin. For centuries false monarchs infested the kingdom, their rule propagated upon the death of Arcadia’s spirit. My purpose, given to me by the fates, was to be a panacea - a cure for the rot of Arcadia, burning it to ash so that it may be cleansed of its sinners.

However, for all of my indignant vigor, I was not a fool. One man alone could not stand against the accumulated might of the false king. Just as a single drop of water in the ocean could do nothing to influence the tides. No, Arcadia’s reckoning had to be brought about by an overwhelming and irresistible force. This force was something I could cultivate, and cultivate it I did. I moved through the dew-slick forest not for the purpose of communing with nature, but as I said for a purpose. Rumors of a recently discovered golden age facility had reached my ear, and this was something that piqued my interest. Arcadia once held in its possession a dazzling array of powerful technology and even stronger magics, most of which had been lost to time. Archaeologists had clamored, slobbering over one another for a chance at whatever rested inside. However, they were not worthy, and it was my duty - my right - to claim whatever remnants of Arcadia were left.

A path had been carved through the forest to allow for the transportation of heavy equipment. They might as well have rolled out the red carpet for how easy it made the place to find. I picked my way through the treeline, parallel to this path. While I was not afraid of them or what being spotted entailed, arriving unnoticed would make my mission that much easier. There was little wonder as to why the facility had just now been discovered. The forest was a particularly nasty variant. It was filled with nettles that had thorns several inches in length, and the trees formed a dense canopy that revealed nothing to those flying overhead. The facility itself was built into the side of a ravine, with the door having been sealed and designed to blend in with the rockface.

As I drew near I became aware of a distinct oddity. Despite a path having been cleared, ostensibly for the purpose of heavy machinery, the forest was largely silent save for the natural sounds one would expect of a forest. There was no drilling or digging or explosive charges being detonated. There was just the sound of my boots crushing through the underbrush and the chirping of birds. All things considered it was a pleasant day.

I soon discovered why, corpse laid about the site, strewn across equipment and in various states of… disassembly. Fresh blood dripped from a nearby tree, a mangled corpse hanging from it’s bough. This wasn’t what I had expected, but it saved me some trouble. The door, a massive thing no doubt made for the egress of large constructs, had a person-sized hole blasted into the center of it. Fingers of steam drifted off the metal which was still quite hot. The scent of magic-infused offal clung to the air like burnt grease. For a few moments I merely stood outside the campsite, carefully scanning the entire area for any potential snares or traps. A true master magician would be able to weave a snare so intricately invisible that I’d have no hope of divining its presence, fortunately Erde Nona only held amateurs playing wizard nowadays. I stepped into the clearing, my boots squishing against a length of innards hidden in the grass.

“Cute,” I muttered, taking another step.

Whoever had done this had saved me some trouble, but they were foolish if they thought they could tread upon ancient ground uncontested. It was clear that someone had learned a few spells and thought they could throw their weight around. It would have been adorable were it not for where they threw their weight. Abandoned or not, that facility belonged to the true heir of Arcadia and this was trespassing most foul. As I moved towards the freshly made entrance, something stirred behind me. I turned to see a young wiry man crawl out from beneath a truck. Dried blood caked his khaki shirt, flaking off in small chunks of red.

“Thank the arbiter,” He said, “You’re armed, let’s get out of here befo--”

“What happened here?” I interrupted, already knowing the answer.

“Well, it wasn’t a tea party I can tell you that much, but, if I’m being honest I don’t rightfully know,” He offered a nervous smile and adjusted his glasses, “As soon as we melted through the door we were attacked, as soon as people started getting ripped in half like tissue paper I hid. Name’s Maxwell by the way.”

Useless. I huffed and turned back towards the hole.

“Wait! You can’t go in there!”

“And why not?” I asked, not even bothering to face him.

“Well, besides it being an up until recently undisturbed historical relic,” He explained, “Whoever did this is currently in there.”

“Perfect,” I said and stepped inside.

I entered into a long triangular hallway, with perfectly smooth metallic grey walls. It was several degrees cooler that it had been outside, and a slight sulfuric smell tinged the air. Despite there being no light sources visible the entire thing was bathed in a gentle light. The hallway had a slight downwards pitch and I couldn’t see it’s end. Behind me Maxwell crawled in through the opening, burning his hand on the still-hot metal.

“Wait, wait, wait,” He protested, “I’m coming with.”

“Now, why would you want to do such a thing?”

"Well, sir, I am a man of history," He cleared his throat and adjusted his bloodied ascot, “And it is my duty as a proper historian to catalogue and document places like this… ideally before anyone else, but second place is still just as good! Sometimes it's even better, as most traps only trigger once!”

 

[Anders Nazret]

Very well then. If this man wanted to witness the glory of Golden Age Arcadia, then who was I to stop him? Afterall, a proper scribe could prove to be beneficial in recording the end of the false empire. So we moved deeper into the facility. It was a disquieting experience. The triangular passage showed no signs of ending and we ended up traveling so far forward that the entrance was no longer visible. The entire place was deathly quiet, with the only noise being the sound of our boots striking the metallic floor. Without any features to act as landmarks it was hard to tell just how much progress we had made, and after walking for an hour I wasn’t convinced we had made any progress at all.

“Something is amiss,” I said, coming to a stop.

Caught off guard by the sudden stop Maxwell bumped into me and fell backwards, “What do you mean?”

“How long have we been walking for?”

“Maybe an hour,” He answered, obviously doubting his own answer, “Not even that.”

“What does your watch say?”

“Ah! Yes, my watch, let’s see here…” He voice trailed off and his thin eyebrows came together. He tapped the watch’s face plate and said, “Well, this can’t be right, it says it’s almost midnight, I must have damaged it while diving for cover.”

Midnight. We had entered the place shortly before noon, and it had only felt like we had been walking for an hour. Something was very amiss. I ran my thumb along the edge of my blade, drawing forth blood. With this I began to inscribe a spell into the face of my sword. Dark iron was especially receptive to blood, keeping the bloody inscription from running and dripping into itself. I held my sword parallel to the ground and stared into the inscription.

“What are you doing?” Maxwell asked, doing his best to sketch the inscription into his own notebook.

“My mind is clear, my body immutable, I am the master of myself within and throughout.”

“My mind is clear, my body immutable, I am the master of myself within and throughout.”

“My mind is clear, my body immutable, I am the master of myself within and throughout.”

The passage shuddered, invisibly convulsing against my words and refusing my exhortation. A nearly inaudible whine filled the passageway as the magical underpinnings of our surroundings were threatened. It was a difficult prospect, like dismantling a cage whilst being trapped inside it. Imperceptible forces battered my body, trying to break my concentration. Had I been anything other than a true mage I would have surely faltered. But, unfortunately for it, I was not some gormless child pretending to be a wizard. I was a true Arcadian Swordmage, and I was unbreakable.

“My mind is clear, my body immutable, I am the master of myself within and throughout. I am free from bondage and you shall become known to me!”

As quickly as it began, so too was it over. Shimmering threads of silver and gold woven into intricate patterns floated silently in the air around us. It was a beautiful gossamer field, perfectly proportioned and efficiently designed. A true magician had crafted this piece of art and I weeped, for such craftsmen no longer existed upon this twisted world. With a heart heavy with purpose I cut through the enchantment. As perfect and gorgeous as it was, it still stood before me and the way forward. Still, a great loss was suffered that day.

At that moment the passageway shrunk, it's impossible horizon pulled tight towards us. Behind us the entrance reappeared. A series of bloody footprints appeared below us. We had been simply marching in place for several hours, making no real progress. What an insidious enchantment. A gentle burning sensation appeared in my leg muscles, a sensation that had been no doubt silenced by the trap.

"Woah," Maxwell said. He would not have been able to perceive let alone appreciate the true beauty of their snare. Still, he noticed the sudden perspective shift and seemed excited to document everything. It was cute in the way that a puppy learning how to fetch was cute.

 

[Anders Nazret]

With the enchantment destroyed we were allowed to freely explore the facility. In the old days there would have been more sapient guardians, with the enchantment merely keeping someone in place long enough for them to respond. But, we found no guardians, nor did we find any more snares. There wasn’t even any sign of whoever killed Maxwell’s crew. That was disconcerting. What kind of trickery had they employed to bypass the enchantment without destroying it? Maybe they were a true magician like myself? I perished the thought. True magic was dead, and I was it's corpse.

The facility itself was kept at a consistently cool temperature, and despite having no apparent light sources everything was well-lit. From the entrance it only took us a few minutes to reach the end of the hallway, where a triangular bulkhead slid open automatically to grant us passage. It was then that the purpose of the facility became apparent. The door opened up into a branching series of catwalks that overlooked a massive foundry. Complex machines sat inert, silent guardians waiting for their chance to act once again. To once again gaze upon the glory of old Arcadia was a breathtaking experience. Oh, to think of what Arcadia had abandoned, all for the sake of some pretender king!

“What is all this?” Maxwell asked, furiously scratching notes and rough-hewn diagrams.

“This is what has been forsaken,” I answered, a certain bitter pride in my voice.

‘No, I mean, what do you suppose the purpose of this place was?” He asked, stepping past me onto the catwalks, “Certainly some kind of manufacturing facility, but what was manufactured here? Oh! Do you see those inscriptions?”

Several ceramic plates hung suspended from an overhead boom system. These plates were at least five meters across and just as tall, with the same inscription etched into the face of each plate. These runic sigils were written in an old esoteric script that favored aesthetics over ease of use. Upon closer inspection all of the machinery carried these intricate inscriptions, a fusion of technology and magic into one beautiful creation.

“Indeed I do,” I answered, “Arcadian magic, the likes of which is no longer seen these days.”

“What purpose do they serve?” Maxwell asked and continued before I could answer, “Surely, they played a role in whatever was manufactured here, perhaps early derivations of magi-tech? Or maybe even some other branch of early thaumaturgical physics?”

His enthusiasm was endearing, if a bit misguided. He spoke as if this was some primitive application of artifice, and that Arcadia had somehow managed to progress beyond its golden age capabilities. A preposterous assumption, but one born of ignorance which meant it could be corrected.

“Without getting closer I can’t decipher their meaning,” I answered, “But, surely it is artifice of high--”

“Well, let’s get closer then!” Maxwell exclaimed, excitedly hurrying across the scaffolding towards the suspended plates.

“Tell me something Maxwell,” I said, walking after him, “You recently survived what most would refer to as a traumatic event, you’re even still covered in your companion’s blood, how are you still so chipper?”

"Ah, yes, their's was an unfortunate end," He said, "And while I do feel some regret for the loss of life, I am IIT certified and understand that to make an omelette some metaphorical eggs must be cracked.”

“IIT?”

“Ah yes, the Interferon Institute of Technology, we’re relatively obscure so I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of us,” He explained, “As opposed to some of our contemporaries we value the pursuit of knowledge and preservation of history above sapient life, after all lives are a dime a dozen, but you don’t stumble across historical artifacts everyday.”

“How, pragmatic,” I answered.

Without warning a bolt of bright blue energy screeched from the ground below, striking the boom holding the suspended plates. The massive ceramic plates shattered against the cement flooring, filling the foundry with a terrible cacophony. Below us, on the factory floor stood a solitary figure, their hands crackling with magical residue.

“Hey!” I shouted over the racket, “You dare destroy such works of art?!”

They turned up towards us and without a word fired another screaming bolt of energy. It traveled across the length of the foundry in moments. Maxwell and I pitched forward as a section of the catwalk was vaporized beneath our feet. The entire scaffolding groaned and twisted with the sudden destabilization. For a moment we remained standing, but another missile tore into the catwalk. The world became a spinning series of pictures as I plummeted to the floor below.

 

[Anders Nazret]

By the time I had hit the ground my body had rebounded off several pieces of equipment. Everything ached and my ribcage throbbed where it had found the edge of a stabilization crane. It was a bitter-sweet blessing as the repeated impacts stopped me from splattering when I eventually did hit the ground. However, my skull still bounced off the floor, and that left me with a distant perception of the world around me. A bitter taste filled my mouth and everything seemed fuzzy, even the outline of my own hands was ill-defined. My sword had vanished, as did my companion. I rolled onto my side and blood leaked from my head, quickly pooling beside me.

Had I really become so rusty that even an amateurish magician throwing around a few firebolts could bring me low? Such an unforgivable travesty. I crawled to my feet, stumbling like a drunkard. Everything wobbled and swayed as I slowly regained my footing. A sickness crept into my gut and I swallowed hard, keeping the bile from entering my throat. Within a few minutes my world had stabilized and I was prepared to strangle that sad excuse for a magician. Now on the ground floor of the foundry my line of sight had been greatly diminished. Intricate machines and massive crucibles blocked my view, looming overhead like pensive metal giants. There was a distinct smell of ozone in the air, the telltale residue of evocation magic.

Maxwell was nowhere to be found, as was my sword. And a swordmage without a sword was in a poor state. Fortunately the foundry was well-lit and my sword hadn’t managed to travel very far. It had embedded itself into a nearby control terminal, its own weight carrying it cleanly into the metallic console. Shaking off my concussion I moved for my weapon. However, as I reached out to grasp the blade’s handle the stench of ionized air filled my nostrils and my hair stood on end. With that half-second of warning I reeled back, diving away as far as I could. Another spear of blue energy tore into the control console, reducing it to molten slag. My sword sunk into the superheated metal, becoming hopelessly mired and unreachable.

Overhead the opposing magician floated, her body crackling with arcane energies. She laughed wickedly, no doubt hopelessly drunk on power she did not deserve. She lobbed an orb of poorly focused energy towards me and I scrambled away. It was a slow and sloppy thing, still it contained enough energy to vaporize the machine it splashed against. As unrefined as her magic was, I was unarmed. Hiding was, naturally, the pragmatic choice and one that I took reluctantly.

“Go ahead and run a little, mousey,” She taunted, firing off another blast, “Please, make my mission more enjoyable.”

“Pathetic,” I muttered, spitting on the ground, “Someone learns a few party tricks and they develop a God complex.”

So I bided my time, slinking further into the depth of the foundry. She seemed more intent on mayhem than purposefully hunting me down. This, however, gave me time to formulate a plan, and time was all I needed. I found another control panel, this one conveniently undamaged by falling swords. Accessing it proved to be easier than I had anticipated. Although its interface would have been considered archaic by modern standards, it was familiar to these old bones. A delicate fusion of magic and technology, beautiful in its application. However, this place was designed for production, not to defend itself from a novice evocator so I had to be clever and take a risk.

Once everything was prepared I shouted out, “You’re a disgrace of a magician!”

Immediately she turned to face me, her body steaming and crackling with an overflow of magical energy. The anger on her face gave way to a smirk as she floated towards me, “And what would you know of magic?”

“I know that your evocations are rudimentary at best,” I responded, smiling camly, “The focality of your arcane structures is, well, not very focused. You’re compensating by overloading your incantations with arcane energy, hoping that brute force will make up for lack of precision.”

Ionized air filled my nostrils moments before a crackling bolt of energy speared past me. It would have vaporized me had it struck true. I swallowed hard, this was not the time to lose composure. I needed to draw her in, I needed her closer.

“How’s that for precision?” She said, floating closer and manifesting another orb of energy, “Do you really think--”

She never got a chance to finish the thought. I reached over and activated the initiation protocol on the command panel. All at once the foundry lurched to life. It screeched in agony as metal leviathans scraped across their melted brethren, filling the facility with a terrible cacophony. A look of surprise crossed her face, moments before an overhead arm swung towards her. There was a pitiful thump as she was swatted to the ground like the irritating insect she was. I smiled as her fragile body bounced off the cement floor. All at once her magical energy discharged, filling the air with the scent of lightly burnt flesh.

 

[Anders Nazret]

Allowing myself only a moment of satisfaction I quickly moved upon the downed woman. She had already begun to stir by the time I reached her, which was surprising considering how hard she had hit the ground. She had all the classic hallmarks of modern “practitioners”. There was barely an ounce of muscle on her frame and her skin was pale, no doubt the result of pouring over books and practicing magical theory while eschewing basic human needs. How repulsive. To cultivate one’s mind without bothering to cultivate one’s body was a ridiculous endeavor, one that many magicians subscribed to nowadays. Worst of all, the crest of Arcadia hung from her neck.

She tried to call forth another evocation, but I stomped my boot down onto her chest and pinned her to the ground. She struggled and cried out, but it was too late for mercy. Magic was only for the worthy and her weakness had besmirched its significance. Ethereal threads of raw magic potential poured from her body, tracing themselves towards my outstretched hand. This sudden influx of energy washed over my body, blanketing me in a pleasant warmth. Again she tried to weave an incantation, but was surprised to find herself unable to call upon the invisible winds of magic. More and more energy rushed from her body, reinvigorating my bruised muscles.

“What are you doing?!” She cried, clawing fruitlessly at my boot.

“Removing your magical potential,” I answered, “You, after all, have squandered your gift.”

There it was, retribution. That panic, that dread, suffering was plastered across her face. With each passing moment she had less and less arcane potential to offer. When there was nothing more than a few embers left, I stopped.

"Dog of the false king, tell me something," I said.

"W-what?" She asked.

"You said you were on a mission," I explained, "That crest tells me you work for the crown, why would they send an evocator to slaughter innocent archaeologists?"

"I can't tell you," She said, her voice drained of its earlier vigor.

"Oh; I think you can," I said, "You understand what I've been doing don't you? I've left enough arcane potential inside of you such that your magic will eventually return. But, I can keep going and you'll never be able to cast so much as a cantrip."

Oh what joy there was in watching her squirm. Torn between her duty to an imposter king and her own selfish desires. Truly a fitting dilemma for a sycophant of the false crown.

"I was sent to destroy this place," She finally caved, "They never told me why, but they told me to leave no witnesses."

"Something you took great pride in, I presume?"

She struggled a bit and pleaded, "Please just let me go, I'm sorry, I can pay you, just please don't take my magic."

"Hush," I commanded, pressing down on her chest, "Do you know what this place is?"

"I don't know, I wasn't told what it--"

"Wrong," I interrupted, "This place is the legacy of Arcadia's halcyon era, one of the few remaining bastions of excellence left on this arbiter-forsaken planet."

All around me the facility groaned and screeched as damaged components tried in vain to complete their tasks. Overhead cranes had smashed into one another, becoming hopelessly entangled.

"And you have destroyed it," I said.

"Look! I said I'm sorry, okay?" She continued to plead, "This isn't the only place we were told to destroy, there's more places like this!"

"We?"

"Yeah, my colleagues were sent to separate locations across the planet," She explained, "We weren't expecting any resistance so most of us went alone."

"Interesting, where are these other locations?"

"I don't know, we weren't really supposed to ask questions," She said, "Please, that's all I have, I answered your questions, let me go!"

Now that was very interesting. There was little doubt in my mind that multiple facilities like this had survived over the centuries, but to learn that the false crown was actively looking to erase them was infuriating. The imposter king's audacity truly knew no bounds. Still, if this was the caliber of agents sent by the crown these days, well, the odds of stopping them still seemed good.

"Thank you," I said.

"So you'll let me go now right?"

"I will, but first…"

I held out my hand again, invisibly grasping for what remained of her arcane ability. She shuddered, instinctively recoiling as I removed the last of her magical potential. Her eyes went wide with realization.

"You bastard!" She screamed, "You fucking monster!"

"You’re lucky I don’t just end your miserable life,” I said, removing my boot from her chest, “It’ll be a few hours until the nausea and vertigo fades away, but remember this moment and tell your leash-holders that their time is coming.”

She continued to scream and yell, but I ignored her. It would be a while until she had the strength to stand, and by then she was no longer a threat. I accessed the facility’s control panel once more and shut everything down. Slowly the facility stopped wailing and fell into a fitful slumber. With the dead machines laid to rest I moved towards my sword, still buried in half-molten slag. Carefully I grabbed the weapon’s handle and wrenched it free. There was a slight warmth to it, but ultimately dark iron conducted heat terribly, allowing it to remain unscathed.

“Maxwell!” I shouted, hoping that my companion hadn’t fallen to his death.

“Over here, sir!” His voice called from one corner of the facility, “I think I may have found a fantastic discovery! Please, come and take a look for yourself!”

 

[Anders Nazret]

He had indeed discovered something fantastic. Towards the back of the foundry was a control room, accessed through a bulkhead that had been melted by our friend. Maxwell stood at the controls, carefully documenting every last stretch of arcano-tech. His enthusiasm was infectious and I soon found myself pouring over the esoteric monitoring systems. This was marvelous.

“Maxwell,” I said, “Do you know what this place is?”

“Well, as I was explaining before we were so rudely interrupted, my hypothesis is that this is some sort of arcane manufactorium.”

“You are correct,” I said, “But it is so much more than your run-of-the-mill manufactorium.”

The controls came to life beneath my hands. Arcane sigils wrapped around my fingertips as I navigated through the interface. Within moments I had accessed the only blueprint that had been uploaded to the site. Before us appeared an ethereal wireframe model of a large bipedal machine. Specifications and features were outlined besides the model. Eight feet tall and several hundred pounds, equipped with thaumaturgical weaponry and made to withstand all but the most devastating of attacks.

“This is a golem foundry,” I explained, “It was designed to raise an army of semi-autonomous soldiers.”

“Remarkable! Absolutely remarkable, Anders,” Maxwell exclaimed, “The Institute will be salivating over this discovery.”

A red bar appeared across the wireframe model. Several self-diagnostic checks were ran and retrieved several faults. It was as I feared, the facility was too far gone to be of any functional use. My hands were trembling and I slammed my fist onto the console.

Maxwell yelped and moved away, “What’s wrong? This is a momentous occasion!”

“This is a travesty,” I explained, my throat tight with irritation, “This facility would have been able to amass an army capable of bringing justice to Eulalia, and it is absolutely ruined.”

“Eulalia?”

“The true heir of Arcadia,” I explained, “They were assassinated before they could take the throne, their death was the end of Arcadia’s golden age and the beginning of a lineage of imposters and falsifiers.”
“I don’t recall reading about that in my Erde Nonan primer book,” He said, “Are you sure they are the true heir?”

“I am more than sure Maxwell, I was there when they were killed.”

He laughed aloud, and slowly regained his composure as he realized I was not laughing with him.

“Anders, that would put you at several thousand years old,” Maxwell explained.

“When Eulalia was attacked I was enchanted with an incredibly potent stasis incantation,” I explained, “They killed Eulalia in front of me and I was unable to do anything but watch, they didn’t even offer the mercy of releasing me, and up until recently I was trapped.”

“Your serious, aren’t you?”

“Deathly.”

Maxwell seemed to swell with happiness, “This day keeps getting better! I’ve never even heard of a stasis incantation lasting for more than a day! Your residual archeo-tachyonic readings must be astronomical, ohhh I have a million questions, were you hungry when you were released? Did you have to sleep while in stasis? Were your bodily functions suspended or just slowed? How did--”

“Maxwell,” I interrupted, grabbing his shoulders, “Your enthusiasm is endearing, but I am not a lab rat.”

“Right, right, sorry, I had never faired well in my ethics classes, ” He cleared his throat and continued very formally, “Anders would you kindly consent to a rigorous and thorough examination?”

“I will,” I said, “But, you must do something for me in return.”

“Ohh, absolutely!”

“Through these control terminals I was able to access an encrypted list of similar facilities across the planet,” I explained, “In exchange for my cooperation with your examination, would you be willing to de-encrypt these locations?”

He seemed puzzled for a moment, no doubt considering the logistics, “Well, my expertise lies more within the realm of thaumaturgical physics and how it related to the early denizens of the Crossroads, buuuuut I’m sure I could have someone at the Institute de-encrypt those files, you have yourself a deal Anders!”