Reborn On Wings of Fire
March 1, 1885
In a Valley somewhere in the Stonewall Mountains, Evening
“My dearest Jared, I’m aboard the IFS Zephyr, speeding on my way to see you again. My breath catches when I think that in two short weeks I shall be your wife. That is correct, my dear, I am accepting your proposal! I hope thoughts of me warm your heart on your long days and nights guarding Vermillion Station from the half-orc looters you mentioned.
Love always, Wilhemina”
--from a letter I found on the body of a young lady, a fellow passenger on the IFS Zephyr
It appears that I am the sole survivor of the crash of the IFS Zephyr. The remains of the dirigible are strewn across this wide valley. Virgil and I have been searching for hours. We have found refuse, equipment, and many bodies, most of them charred beyond recognition, but no other survivors. We found the wreckage of one of the strange flying machines that attacked the Zephyr. The body of it’s pilot, an ogre, was nearby. I cannot imagine who would have committed such a heinous act of sabotage against a defenseless passenger ship, or what possible motivation they might have had. The ogre wore an amulet engraved with a strange symbol on its face: an eye within a hexagram. The flying machine bore a plaque: “Maxim’s Machinery, Caladon.”
The trip had been uneventful. I had spent my time keeping to myself, alternately reading and looking out the windows at the amazing view from the sky. It was early morning, and I was looking down upon the mountain ranges and the fog covered valley below, when out of the sun flew two small flying objects, noisy machines each about the size of a large wagon with propellers and wide fixed structures that resembled a bird’s wings. Their engines roared as they circled our ship and fired their artillery. The blimp ignited almost immediately, and in seconds the whole craft was on fire. I crouched in a corner beneath my seat, holding on for dear life. People were yelling and screaming; smoke and flames were all I could see. My lungs were full of smoke, and I felt as though I were choking to death as the dirigible lurched sickeningly downward.
The next thing I remember, I was getting up from the ground with the burning remains of the dirigible all around me. I had no idea how I could possibly still be alive, let alone unharmed, but there was no time to think. From somewhere beneath the wreckage I could hear a man's voice calling out weakly for help. I could see scarcely more than five feet in front of me, what with the smoke from the dirigible and the chill wet fog that covered everything. I crawled through the debris searching frantically for the source of the voice, and pulled away a heavy metal plate to uncover a well-dressed gnome, his body burnt and battered.
He looked up at me gratefully, but I could see he was mortally hurt. “Oh, thank you my friend.” He said, then coughed, spitting blood. As I knelt down to help him, he took hold of my arm and pressed something hard and round into my hand. “Listen,” he said urgently, “We haven’t got much time. You must find the boy, find the boy, and give him back his ring, and he will know what needs to be done.”
Either he didn’t notice I was a half-orc, or in his desperate state he didn’t care. “Please, sir, try to lie still,” I said. “I’m medically trained, I can help you.”
But the gnome was delirious and would not rest. As I worked feverishly to save him without even my medical bag to aid me, he insisted on speaking, his mind lost in some nightmarish fantasy. Focused as I was on trying to save his life, I only remember bits of what he said. “We had to do it, we had no choice.” “He did unspeakable things to us.” “The work is almost finished.” “You can’t imagine, he’s coming back to destroy everything and everyone.”
As I was working, he suddenly gripped my arm and nearly shouted at me, “Please, just find the boy! Tell him, I escaped, tell him I came back to warn,…he will know what to do. You, my friend, it’s all up to you.” His grip loosened, and he fell back unconscious. I continued to work, but there was nothing I could do; he died as I tried to help him.
I knelt beside the body, shattered. All of my training had been worthless. I searched his pockets and found his passport and a book of matches from someplace called the Roseborough Inn. The gnome’s name had been “Preston Radcliffe.” The ring he had given me was old, made of fine silver. The name “P. Schuyler and Sons” was inscribed inside the band, while the initials “G.B.” were set in relief upon the surface. Could “G.B” be the boy Mr. Radcliffe spoke of? If I could make it to Tarant, I promised myself I would carry out his last wish.
I was still kneeling there when I heard the sound of someone walking noisily towards me through the debris. I looked up to see a young man emerge from the smoke and fog. He wore monkish robes and bore a staff. I had never seen him before, and could only assume he had been camping nearby when he witnessed the crash. His jaw dropped as he saw me, and he looked down upon me with amazement.
“I can’t believe it!” he exclaimed. “I mean, you! And then the zeppelin and....! And the fire! And then the altar says that... Do you have any idea what all of this means?”
I did my best to reply calmly, despite my agitation. “I’m sorry, sir, what are you talking about?”
“You speak!” he said, astonished. “I mean, of course you speak! What am I, a blithering idiot? What did you say? Maybe I should be writing all this down.” Here he started fumbling in the pockets of his robes.
I stood up and took a breath. He seemed sincere, so I forced myself to be polite. “Look, I’ve just had a rather bad shock, and I’m a bit confused. What is it you are trying to say?”
The monk wrung his hands together, obviously flustered. “I am at a loss here, I don’t quite know what to do. Uh, I mean you ARE the...of course you are, I mean you DO know who you are, right? Of course you do, what sort of brainless, half-baked question is that for the uh, the uh,...what exactly do you call yourself?”
I was starting to feel desperate. “Sir, please slow down and tell me what it is that you’re saying”
“Please, forgive me, I’m making a bloody mess of this whole affair.” Here he took a breath before continuing, “My name is Virgil, madam, and I’m new to the Panarii religion, er, your religion, and I, oh! Wait.” He knelt down on the ground in front of me, and then hesitated as if he were trying to remember something. “I, uh, hereby dedicate, no, uhm, commit my life to the Living One. I, Virgil, am at your service madam.”
I looked down at the monk kneeling before me as the craft I had just been flying in burned all about us, and I seriously wondered if I was hallucinating. “Well, that’s very gracious of you, uh, Virgil, thank you. But could you please explain what you are talking about?”
“Yes...right...uh...just give me a moment here. You see...the Panarii...that’s the religion that was formed around the things that he said, I mean that you said...oh, forget it...let’s start at the beginning. Or THIS beginning, since there is a lot more that came before this. You are the reincarnation of a powerful elf, who the Panarii worship, and whose name is, uh...”
“Yes?”
“Right...yes, the name...uh, wait! I remember something! It is written in the scriptures. ‘The Living One will live again on wings of fire.’ No wait, I think it says ‘reborn on wings of fire’. Oh, blood and ashes! Why do elves always have to be so damn cryptic?”
“Look, I’m very flattered, but I’m afraid I’m not who you think I am.”
“Yes, yes of course you’re not really HIM, just his reincarnation... I mean, that is the case, right? I have to admit, I’m no expert in elven philosophy, er, prophecy... bloody confusing, you know, all those thees and thous.” He looked a bit embarrassed. “Not that it’s not interesting, eh hmmmm.”
I took another breath and forced myself to remain calm. “That is not possible sir.” Then looking him straight in the eye for emphasis, I said, “I am a half-orc.”
This didn’t seem to bother him. “As far as I can remember, the scriptures make reference to there being something unusual or unexpected about you when you return.”
I stared at him, completely at a loss. I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation with a crazy monk as the remains of the dirigible burned all about us. He must have sensed my desperation, for he continued, “Look, I understand this whole thing sounds ridiculous, but let me just accompany you down the mountain to Shrouded Hills. I can introduce you to my mentor, Elder Joachim. He can explain all this better than I can. I’m rather new to this whole Panarii thing myself.”
“All right Virgil,” I said. “But let’s search this area first. There may be other survivors, after all.”
Virgil agreed, and so we have been searching this valley late into the day. The smoke has dissipated and the sun long ago burned away the fog, yet we have found no other survivors, and after combing through the wreckage for so many hours I now appreciate why Virgil was so astonished by my appearance. Surveying the debris of the airship, I have no idea how I could have possibly survived such a horrific accident.
I called Virgil crazy above, but that is neither fair nor kind. True, he does have some odd ideas, but they are the ideas of his religion, and he seems fully cognizant of how strange they must appear to me. Besides, as misguided as it was, I am touched that he didn’t hesitate for a moment to identify me as the reincarnation of this heroic figure, the founder of his religion. He is the first human I have met since my orcish heritage has become undeniable who has not looked upon me with contempt. He has been unfailingly polite, and has offered his companionship and protection in this dangerous wilderness where we have already been beset by wolves. He obviously holds the elder Joachim in very high esteem, and I see no reason not to go and meet him, though I fear Virgil will be disappointed by the result.
Nearly all of my possessions are gone, including my medical books and my diary. Virgil and I have recovered a few items from the dead, which I will keep in hopes of eventually returning them to their families. There is the ring I have already mentioned. There is what appears to be a camera broken in the crash, a fascinating device. There is a letter that was on the body of a young lady addressed to her fiancée. It broke my heart to read it. I have reproduced it above. Really, as dismal as things seem, I am lucky to be alive.
March 2, 1885
In the Valley of the Crash Site, Late Morning
Now I have met a ghost.
It began raining last night as we set up camp, and we quickly sought shelter in one of the caves at the base of the mountains that delimit this valley. We had to chase out a few rats, and I got bitten in the process. As we examined our sanctuary, we quickly discovered that it had been previously occupied. There were boxes with supplies, including saltpeter, some explosives, and a broken old flintlock pistol. It appeared that this cave had once been the refuge of some brigands, although the presence of the rats meant that it had been abandoned for some time.
As we walked to the back of the cave and turned a corner, we were startled to discover a dead body lying on the ground next to a cot by the wall. To my horror, a spectral form appeared and slowly rose above the corpse. As I stared at the spirit, it called out to me in a hollow voice. “Please help me,” it said, “Oh the pain! I can’t stand the pain!”
As I gaped at the spirit, Virgil looked at me quizzically. “Are you all right, madam?” he asked.
“Can’t you see it, Virgil? It’s a… ghost.” For a moment I doubted my senses, but the specter’s reality was undeniable.
“Please, you must help me,” repeated the spirit.
I ignored Virgil who watched me open mouthed as I spoke to the spirit. “Who are you,” I asked, “and how did you come to be here?”
“I was cursed by an evil priest. My name was Charles Brehgo. My friend and I only asked the priest for something to eat, some sustenance. We were poor, wandering, and he cursed us both. He cursed my friend with madness and my friend killed me. Agh! The pain! And he cursed me to be held to this realm, never to be released. Please, I need your help!”
“Help you? You would be spitting upon me if you were alive,” I observed darkly.
“Never!” he protested. “In life, I opposed the treatment of orcs and half-orcs. I preached love and tolerance towards all those of orcish blood. I was a man of peace.”
I stifled a laugh. “Very well, what do I need to do?”
“You must kill the priest Arbalah. Only his death will free me. I will tell you where he lives.
“Kill him? I don’t know if I’m willing to kill someone for you.”
“I can tell you something, something valuable,” whispered the ghost.
“Yes?”
“I know of a treasure, buried for years. Kill the priest Arbalah, and I will tell you where it is.”
“I thought you said you were poor?”
“We had taken an oath of poverty. We were monks.”
I had to stifle another laugh. “Very well, tell me where I can find this priest Arbalah, and I will see if I can help you.”
Of course I didn’t believe the ghost for a second. But something did happen here, and I am far too curious to find out what just to leave. Besides, no spirit deserves this fate, tormented as it obviously is. Virgil has reluctantly agreed that we should detour to find Father Arbalah and see what we can do.
March 2, 1885
On the Road in the Wilderness, Afternoon
“And the spirit of Nasrudin shall be reborn on wings of fire in hills shrouded in fog, and fight the last battle with the evil one.”
--Written on an altar at the entrance to the valley
So “Nasrudin” is the name of the ancient elven hero that Virgil imagines me to be the reincarnation of. As we left the valley, we came to the Panarii altar Virgil had spoken about, and I have written what it said above. “So who is the evil one,” I asked Virgil.
Virgil shrugged. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know.” Then he chuckled: “I guess we’d better find out, considering you’re supposed to fight him.”
I cringed and muttered, “I’m so glad you find this all so amusing.”
Embarrassed, Virgil turned towards me and said, “I’m sorry. I know this is all a bit much given what you’ve been through. Let’s just get to Shrouded Hills.” I was actually rather touched; it has been a long time since anyone has felt obliged to apologize to me for anything.
As we left the valley, we saw a stranger approaching us in the distance. “Hold there!” he shouted accusingly. “What are you doing up here?”
I was about to answer, when Virgil put his hand on my arm. “I mean no disrespect, uh madam, but I don’t trust this bastard one bit. Bloody convenient that he happened to show up just now, don’t you think? Uh, excuse my language, madam.”
“What do you think we should do, Virgil,” I asked.
“I’ve, uh, dealt with buggers, er individuals, like this before. Perhaps you’ll let me talk with him for a few minutes?”
“Of course, Virgil.”
“Thank you, madam.” By now the stranger had approached within a few feet and was staring menacingly at us. I was astonished to see he was an elf. He was dressed in light leather armor and carried a dagger. Of course there were no elves in the city I had grown up in, and I knew little about them save that they were an ancient magical race reputed to be both frivolous and arrogant. What an elf was doing here in the middle of nowhere, I could not imagine.
“Who are you people?” the man repeated. “What are you doing here? Did you have something to do with the airship that crashed in the valley?”
Virgil drew himself up haughtily, looked the main straight in the eye, and said, “I might ask the same of you sir! What exactly are you doing up here? And what gives you the right to ask so many questions?”
The stranger stared at us darkly. “I’m just asking a simple question: what are you doing up here? I’m from Shrouded Hills, a village not far from here, and I witnessed this terrible accident. Is it such a crime to wonder what exactly is going on?”
“Oh really?” responded Virgil. “I came from Shrouded Hills myself. It’s more than a day’s journey from here.” Virgil’s voice became dangerously soft. “There’s no way you could have traveled here that fast. I think you’re lying, sir.”
The stranger became defensive. “I didn’t come from Shrouded Hills just now. I was camping not far from here, and saw the blaze. Why are you questioning me? I’ve done you no harm.”
“No, I don’t think you understand,” replied Virgil. “I’m asking the questions here, and I don’t like your answers. I’m going to ask you one more time, why are you here?”
A cold look came across the man’s face. “I don’t recommend you speak to me that way, friend. I’ve just asked a question, and I’m expecting an answer. We can make this simple, or more difficult.”
Virgil smiled thinly as he unlimbered his quarterstaff. “Oh, I think difficult is the best way, sir. I find that there are fewer questions afterwards. I’m ready to begin this ‘discussion’ whenever you are.”
The stranger hesitated uncertainly, seemingly unsure of what to do. After a pause, he said, “Perhaps this is a discussion we’ll have later friend. I’m sure that this issue will be resolved in no time.” He looked at me then, his eyes burning with hatred. “Good day to you, madam.” With that he turned and walked back the way he had come.
Of course I was utterly astonished by this turn of events. Virgil was wiping his brow with relief. “That was close,” he said.
“What do you mean, Virgil?”
Virgil turned towards me. “That man very well could have killed us both. Believe me, I’ve, uh, seen his kind before.”
“Why did you provoke him, then?”
“It was all bluster. I’m no bloody warrior! But sometimes you have to be able to act the part. You learn such things on the, ... well, it’s just something I’ve learned. Fear is a powerful weapon.” He turned back and peered ahead along the path. “Something is very wrong here. I think we should get out of here as soon as possible.”
It seems that there is more to my monkish companion than I imagined.
March 2, 1885
By the Fire in the Cottage of Father Arbalah, After Dark
“Jamilah, Beloved Wife and Mother”
“Saif, Beloved Son”
--Inscribed on tombstones over two graves next to Father Arbalah’s house
We found the cottage of the “evil priest” exactly where Brehgo said it would be. Now I am not generally a religious person, but even I could recognize Father Arbalah as a deeply holy man. He has welcomed us into his home, shared his supper with us, and insisted we stay the night, all the while treating us more like a long lost son and daughter than the suspicious strangers we must appear. And he has done all of this even in the midst of great personal pain. The fresh dug graves of his wife and son lie just outside his house. I asked him what had happened.
Arbalah sighed sadly, and said, “My wife and son were brutally murdered by two madmen, Brehgo and Fahrkus, I believe their names were. They left me for dead. I welcomed them into my house, offered them sustenance, and they repaid me by killing my wife and child and stealing the only thing I had of any value, a sacred religious artifact.”
“I met the spirit of one of the killers,” I said. “We found his corpse in a cave less than a day’s journey from here.”
“One of them is dead already? I shouldn’t be surprised. Probably killed by the other, I would assume.” Here Arbalah shook his head sadly, “Dreadfully evil people, they were.”
“Brehgo told me it was your curse that caused his partner to kill him.”
The priest shook his head. “No, I believe that was the curse of greed. Their souls will never leave this plane of existence, that is the only curse I put on them. If I had to guess, Fahrkus decided he didn’t want to share the ill-gotten gains with anyone. As I said, they were truly evil individuals.”
I looked down, not knowing what else to say. “I’m so sorry.”
“I thank you for your kind words, but there is something you could do.” He hobbled closer to me and said, “I need to recover the sacred artifact they stole. I know this is none of your affair, and I have nothing to reward you with, but if you are able to speak to the spirit, perhaps you could persuade it to tell you where the artifact is hidden? It is very important to me. Without it I am unable to pray to my gods effectively.”
This last made little sense to me. A god who would not listen to such a holy man without some gross vessel intervening could not be a god of much worth, in my opinion. But I did not care. “Of course we will search for your artifact,” I said. “It’s the least we can do.” I believe I would have done anything for him.
March 3, 1885
In the of Valley of the Stonewall Mountains, Late Evening
We traveled back to the valley where the zeppelin had crashed, and found the cave that contained Brehgo’s spirit. It was still there, still in pain. "I had a conversation with Father Arbalah," I said. "You are a liar, sir.”
The spirit laughed. “But I almost had you killing him for me.”
“I need to know where your partner is.”
“Why should I tell you? I will still be here forever.”
“Don’t you want revenge on your killer, Brehgo?”
The specter would have shrugged if it could. “Why should I care? I would have done the same to him, if he had not been quicker. Regardless, I will be here.”
“No, you will not.” I said. “Arbalah sent me to retrieve his holy artifact. He told me to tell you that if you helped me to recover it, he would forgive you and release you from your damnation.”
The spirit’s eyes opened wide, and its face split into an evil grin. “He would do that, wouldn’t he? Such a noble soul. Very well.” And then he told me what I needed to know.
As we turned to leave, I hesitated. After what he had done, I could not resist twisting the knife. “Brehgo!” I called, looking over my shoulder, “I lied when I said Arbalah promised to release you. May you rot in this foul cave forever.” I fled with his curses ringing in my ears. It was a foolish thing to do, and I am not normally so vindictive. But if he really does remain an accursed spirit for eternity in that cave, it will be no less than he deserves.
March 5, 1885
By the Fire in the Cottage of Father Arbalah, After Dark
We found the shack of Simon Fahrkus about a half-day’s travel south of Father Arbalah’s house. I had no clear idea how we would recover the priest’s artifact from a cutthroat murderer, but I was going to try, even as Virgil protested. Fahrkus was standing just outside the door eyeing us warily as we approached. “What are you doing here, half-orc?” he leered.
“Please forgive me, sir! But I have come to warn you of a curse that has been placed upon you.”
“What are you talking about? What curse?
“The priest Arbalah cursed you and Brehgo. Your spirit is trapped here.”
He stiffened, and a bead of sweat formed on his brow. “That damned priest! That must be what I heard as I was running from the cave. Bhrego’s ghost!”
“It was Arbalah who sent us!" I said, putting as much faux urgency in my voice as I could manage. "He told us to tell you that he promised he would lift the curse if you would return the artifact you stole.”
Simon Fahrkus looked at me with contempt. “Do you think I’m stupid?” he spat. “You think I’d believe that priest would forgive me after we gutted his wife and his brat?”
There was the coppery taste of blood in my mouth, where my tooth had cut my own tongue. I could feel Simon's throat between my fingers, as I held him against the wall, my teeth bared, nearly shaking with rage. My heart was beating fast, and my vision was tinged with red. For the life of me, I cannot remember how I got there. “Give me the priest’s artifact or so help me I will rip out your throat!” I growled.
Fahrkus paled. “It’s in the chest! Over there! Take it! Please, just take it and leave!” Virgil snatched up the artifact and we left quickly.
Looking back I can scarcely believe I am still alive. Of course I had surprised him, but a brutal murderer like Fahrkus should have had no trouble dispatching an inexperienced opponent such as myself. I can only imagine that in that moment when he looked at me, he didn’t see a young girl barely trained in the use of the small knife she carried, but a brutish monster that could have easily torn him apart. It's just as Virgil said: fear is a powerful weapon. The matter weighed on my heart all that day and through the night, though the outcome could not have been better.
We returned to the cottage of Father Arbalah late this morning. He was there just as we had left him, and it melted my heart just to see him again. As I gave him the artifact, he placed his hands on my head. “I thank you, daughter,” he said softly. “And I lied before, I do have something to give you. I bestow my blessing upon you. Now everyone you meet shall look more favorably upon you than perhaps they did in the past.” I have never been blessed before. As I said, I’m not generally a religious person, and I have no idea if his blessing can do what he promised. But I surely hope so. I very much need it now.
March 6, 1885
On the Road to Shrouded Hills, Late Afternoon
So, after our detour, we are finally on our way to the village Virgil told me about. We have stopped to rest and enjoy some of the wine and victuals we recovered from the dirigible and should arrive at our destination by evening.
Now may be as appropriate a time as any to write out a sketch of my life before the dirigible crash. The diary I had kept for years is gone, no doubt consumed in the flames of the IFS Zephyr. I have little wish to revisit that part of my life, but I feel the obligation of writing a few explanatory notes. It is possible that some stranger may eventually read this diary after I am gone. If you are reading this, sir or madam, then you are probably rather confused by this point. What was a half-orc doing flying in a dirigible carrying medical textbooks to Tarant? It is for your sake, confused but gentle reader, that I will take the time to briefly summarize the part of my life that is now over forever.
I was born the daughter of half-orcs in a village of orcs and half-orcs. From an early age I showed a quick intelligence, an unusually gentle disposition for my kind, and a naïve wish to be a doctor. My mother, determined that I would have a better future than her own and seeing it to be impossible if I stayed where I was, somehow managed to have me sent to a boarding school in the city, where I eventually became apprenticed to a doctor. How she managed this, I do not know. Like myself, her features favored her human over her orcish lineage, and she could pass for human at times. Nonetheless, what she did was a minor miracle. The love she showed in giving me up never ceases to humble me, and I have no wish in this life but to fulfill the dreams she had for me.
So I have spent most of the years of my life as a half-orc living among humans, pretending to be a human. This is not as impossible as it sounds. The members of my race vary greatly in the degree to which they resemble either their orcish or their human lineage, and in myself, like my mother, the orcish features were unusually subtle. Also, many of the telltale signs of orcish blood only become fully apparent as one enters puberty. As a child, I was hardly distinguishable from a full-blooded human being. It helped that the city I was living in was a backwater. There were none of the slums and factories filled with orcs and half-orcs you would find in the cities of the new world. Most of my fellow citizens had never even seen a half-orc, and had nothing to compare me with. Though I do have the hot temper of my race, I have never been prone to violence, and the constant fear of discovery together with my urgent desire to win as many friends as possible trained me to suppress my temper so that now it scarcely plagues me.
Of course the fear of discovery was never far from my consciousness. I was forever a stranger in a strange world, harboring a secret that would destroy me if it were ever to be discovered. After my mother died, I never went back to the village where I was born. I worked hard to fit into the human world, hiding my differences and trying to cultivate as many friends as I could. If I were ever to be discovered, I felt if I only had enough friends, they would protect me. In this I could not have been more mistaken.
My eventual discovery was inevitable. The brutish features of my race began to reveal themselves as I entered adulthood. After a while, people began whispering and looking at me strangely. Eventually the good doctor I had apprenticed myself to took me aside to talk about the suspicions people had about my ancestry. He told me gently that if I only told him the truth, everything would be all right; he would protect me. Like a fool I believed him, and that was the end of that.
The kindest of my friends abandoned me completely. Of the others I will not write. I was evicted, my apprenticeship was abruptly terminated without recompense, suffice it to say there was no future for me anymore in that city. Now, I do not give up easily. If I could not fulfill my ambitions there, I would go elsewhere. Things would be different in a big cosmopolitan city of the new world, a city where humans might have begun to move beyond their ancient fears. In Tarant I would discover a way to continue my aborted education, to fulfill my mother’s dream. Not easily perhaps, not right away, but I would make it happen. I was not going back to live in an orcish village or to work in the factories, that was certain. So that is how I came to be a passenger on the dirigible that was fated to be shot down over the Stonewall Mountains.
