Praise be the mother of music, the progenitor of our kind,

Her tunes ever-changing to match the voices of her mind.

When she sang, she gave us life,

When she sang, we grew.

When she sang we learnt her art,

And created songs anew.

Praise be the mother of music, the progenitor of our kind,

To worlds beyond she passed away, leaving us all behind.

- The Tunefolk

 

 

Where do skill shards come from? That is a question that baffles even the most intrepid of mages. Some of them grasp at straws and blurt out the word Dungeon, believing that they have solved this age-old mystery. But all they have discovered is another chicken-egg paradox. Shards come from Dungeons, sure. But then, where do the Dungeons come from? Aren’t they an agglomeration of shards?

 

 

Kreg, Sand and Crooked left for the city at the break of dawn. Only the three of them and the monthly quota of ore to be delivered. Dressed in proper clothing rather than the haphazardly stitched pieces of fabric that the slaves were made to wear, Sand watched the slaves of their batch load the ores into the large wooden boxes that were mounted on sleds. He narrowed his eyes slightly at the resentful looks the slaves shot at him and Crooked. ‘They really don’t let a single opportunity go, now do they,’ he thought to himself. He and Crooked had spent most of the previous day stuffing their faces. It was a rare opportunity to increase their mana on the orc’s coin that neither of them wanted to let up.

That had clearly engendered envy in the slaves, and combined with how they had been forced to rise so early and slog away for what they perceived as the two of their benefit, the slaves definitely harboured ill feelings towards them.

And why would someone have any attachment to people who hated their guts. It was another one of the inexhaustible methods the orcs used to estrange their human slaves from each other.

Divide and conquer. Bred like animals, humans were separated from their fathers by ignorance of their identity. They were separated from their mothers at birth. In their childhood, they were separated from their clan. And when they touched the threshold of magic, the orcs drove a wedge between mortal and mage. Humans had been divided and they had been conquered.

Sand's gaze was cold. ‘Not this time...’

 

Finally, the loading was completed and all twelve of the sleds carrying the boxes of ore were lashed together in a criss-crossing net of rope. Then the rope net was attached to the harnesses of the two stone camels that had been docilely chewing the cud, unconcerned by the tizzy of human activity a few paces from them.

Stone camels were beasts of burden indigenous to the Tyhr Desert. Outwardly they looked like a bulkier version of a regular camel, one carved out of sandstone. When they stood still, they could easily be mistaken for the work of a master sculptor. Their immense strength and endurance were obviously desirable but the trait that really endeared them to merchants and caravan owners everywhere was the fact that their food was the desert itself.

They ate sand.

The marvellous creatures ingested the sand and under the influence of their powerful stomachs, most of it was converted to sustenance. The remaining, toughest portion was secreted out of their pores, forming a layer of sandstone upon their skin. Other than water, they needed nothing at all.

The layer of stone on their bodies acted like armour, protecting them from the attacks of the predators of the desert. Whenever attacked by a predator that wasn’t deterred by their stony defences, they could voluntarily shed their heavy armour and leg it at the maximum speed. A nomadic species, stone camel tribes travelled from oasis to oasis periodically, leaving their offspring along with a few of the older members of the tribe to care for them at each one they encountered. Over millennia, they had overspread the entire desert.

Populous they might be, but only the most illustrious individuals among them managed to condense their own skill shards and develop into a Tier 1 beast. That was why, Sand was quite surprised when he judged from the thickness of the stone armour of the two camels that they were both at Tier 1. Unless they had the support of a Strength shard, it would have been impossible to move with that heavy an armour, let alone draw the sleds tied to them.

“Sit on the boxes.” commanded Kreg before leaping onto the saddled back of one of the camels. After Crooked and Sand had seated themselves, Kreg clicked his tongue twice and the camels began to move forwards at a sedate pace, pulling all the sleds along. Under the orc’s direction, the separation of the two camels and the way the ropes had been tied caused the sleds to fan out behind them, evenly distributing the drag on the beasts.

Sand sat facing backwards, watching the mines disappear into the distance along with the red sandstone buttes they were based in. Years of weathering had eroded away the sandstone, leaving only the hardest of rock behind. Nature had carved them in interesting shapes ranging from monolithic pillars to flat-topped cliffs with sheer sides.

The sleds left shallow furrows in the sand that were almost instantaneously erased by the light morning breeze. Sand drew his head-scarf over his nose, letting it filter out the sand in the air. Shooting a glance sideways, he found Crooked infatuated with the piece of fabric, repeatedly adjusting it this way and that. Sand didn’t blame him, after all, it was a symbol – a head-scarf in the desert. It could keep the scorching sun off one’s head, it could keep the sand out of one’s lungs and the slaves had only ever seen an orc slaver wearing one. Head-scarves and power – It was an easy association to make.

Sand shook his head and looked towards the front.

Belying their immense weight, the broad pads of the camels’ feet caused them to barely leave any traces on the sand as they trotted onwards towards Gehenna. Before setting out, Kreg had informed them that they were going to visit the owner of the mine and his superior, Torak Silveros – Master Silveros to them – in order to present the monthly quota of ore as well as the two of them.

Orcs generally had one name. Only the most distinguished of orcish families were granted a hereditary title like Silveros by the orc Chieftains. And these titles had to be earned through some sort of feat. A couple of hundred years prior, a young orc had created quite a stir in Gehenna by discovering a silver lode at the base of some sandstone cliffs while out exploring the desert. Fame and fortune had visited him and almost overnight he had become one of the most influential orcs in the city, founding the Silveros family.

Over the years, the family’s influence had grown until now, they were headed by Torak Silveros a blue mage.

Even in his past life, Sand had heard tell of the orc from the patrons of the restaurant he had worked at. It was a very ordinary establishment, serving the mortal middle-class population and most of what he had heard was vague mutters of envy and awe. To them, a blue mage was an unattainable existence – just a rung below their Chieftains in the social ladder.

In this life, the emaciated boy, who had wiped the mess made by the gluttonous orcs off the restaurant floor in his previous one, would shortly be presented to that same exalted existence. For a moment, Sand became worried about the stability of the timeline. There were too many differences in this life compared to his previous one. What if the changes he made altered the future? Wouldn't he lose the superiority of his rebirth? He frowned.

Then immediately, he relaxed. ‘Even if everything in the future changes, I will still retain my knowledge and experiences. Every secret I unearthed at the risk of life, every technique I trained with blood, sweat and tears – I will still have them. If I can't accomplish anything with such an immense advantage, then I was reborn in vain. If instead, I let my desire for stability hobble me, I will be shackling myself to a predetermined future.’

His dark eyes stared into the distance where the yellow dunes merged into a sea of gold. ‘Wasn’t it because I didn’t like that future that I kept fighting? Then why should I worry about the changes I make?’

Shimmering in the horizon, a patch of darkness broke the monotony of the desert, resolving itself into a magnificent city as they approached. Gehenna – the City of Sin.

‘The future is free.’

Chest out, back straight, feet together, Kreg stood at attention in front of an ornately filigreed stone gate. “If ye embarrass me in front of the Sir, I’ll skin ye and eat ye raw! See if I don’t.” he hissed at the two young human slaves by his side who were similarly standing at attention. Before he could threaten them further with promises of dire consequences, the gates swung apart noiselessly of their own accord and he had to shut up.

“Come in.”

The voice that invited them in was grave and refined. Lacking much of the guttural quality most orcs possessed. It carried with it the dignity of long years in a position of command. With stiff strides, Kreg entered the office of Master Silveros and with a nervous, stilted gait, Crooked followed. Sand went last, looking around, taking in the layout of the room.

The walls and ceilings were still the same ochre sandstone that made up the rest of the building but the floor had been laid with red sandstone which had been polished till it gleamed. There was a broad fireplace in one corner of the room, replete with an entire log on a bed of wood chips ready to be lit at a moment’s notice. There was even a magnificent silver chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Yet the most prominent feature of the room was the large desk made of polished dark wood that took up most of one wall and the orc sitting behind it.

At first glance, Torak Silveros was – nondescript. He didn’t have the morbid obesity and broken tusk of Gura, he lacked the musculature of Kreg, or his characteristic scar and baldness. He was excessively average. The only thing that made him stand out a bit was the pair of silver rimmed spectacles placed above his snout. The pieces of polished glass held in the circular wire frames magnified his beady eyes, making his gaze more intense.

Yet, what he lacked in appearance, he made up for with his presence. Just sitting there behind his desk, peering at them from above his interlaced fingers, his glasses gleaming white in the sunlight streaming in through the window, he seemed to fill the room.

“You barely met the target this time. Last month you delivered more ore. Why?” he asked mildly.

Kreg stiffened and replied hastily, “Sir, I got a new batch of slaves. Training ‘em cost more rations so the rest couldn't work as much.”

“Oh? And?”

“It’s good news Sir. We got two mages out of ‘em.”

Torak raised an eyebrow and inspected the two humans, his eyes glowing with a mysterious gloss behind his glasses. Crooked shifted uncomfortably under his gaze while Sand kept his eyes lowered, pretending not to notice.

“Not bad.” He nodded. “Come with me.” Getting up from his seat, he walked towards one wall of the room and drew aside a black woollen carpet with the insignia of the Silveros family, two interlocking rings, embroidered onto it with silver thread. Behind it, was a plain stone door only sufficient for a single person to file out of. They followed Torak through it to a balcony that overlooked a large cavern beyond, Kreg having to duck his head to avoid hitting the frame.

Turning to Sand and Crooked, Torak’s expression grew genial as he wrapped an arm around both of their shoulders and brought them over to the railings. Crooked fidgeted uncomfortably in his grasp but didn’t dare to shrug his arm off while Sand simply endured stoically.

As though unaware of their discomfort, Torak indicated towards the scene beneath the balcony. “Look, this is what happens to all that ore you mine.”

The entire cavern was lit up with torches recessed into the walls, revealing the tranquil pit of sand at the bottom. Sand noticed a door, similar to the one they had entered through, set into one of the walls of the cavern raised a little way above the bed of sand.

As he watched, the doors swung open and two nervous human slaves rolled a wheelbarrow full of ore to the edge of the door and Sand realized that the door was connected to the warehouse where they had deposited their cargo. Clenching their teeth, the men tipped the cart and with a crash, the ores tumbled out onto the sand.

For a moment nothing happened. Then the sand seethed and churned as a circular maw lined with row after row of razor-sharp teeth burst out of the sand chomping down on the ores. The long sinuous body of the sand-wyrm followed its mouth, drawing an arc in the air before diving back into the sand and disappearing without a trace.

The two slaves cowered in the shelter of the tilted barrow as the constant trickle of ores attracted more and more of the creatures and they devolved into a feeding frenzy, snapping and biting at each other as they fought over the rocks. The entire bed of sand seemed to boil as the commotion attracted the ones hidden at the very depths of the pit.

Finally, a serrated maw much larger than all the others burst out of the sand, crashing against the door frame in an attempt to get at the source of the ore. The impact caused the entire cavern to vibrate. Screaming, the two slaves dropped the barrow, desperately backpedalling on their hands and feet to distance themselves from the monster.

Frustrated, the wyrm queen grated its teeth against each other releasing an agitated rustling before it fell back into the sand and vanished. Soon, the rest of the wyrms polished off the last of the ore and the sand bed returned to its previous tranquillity.

But now, Crooked’s gaze as he gazed down at the pit was filled with dread, his knees knocking against each other in abject terror. Even Kreg looked daunted. A wyrm nest led by a Tier 3 wyrm queen. If he somehow fell into the pit, his odds of survival were miniscule.

The only ones unaffected by the scene were Torak and Sand. Sand because he had seen beasts much stronger than these in his lifetime and Torak because he was busy laughing. “Did you see that?” Torak asked as he slapped their backs, causing them to stagger dangerously close to the railings.

“Did you see the looks on their faces? Pale as ghosts and looking like they’d piss themselves any moment.” He grew pensive, “Maybe they did. Ahaha…”

Torak devolved into raucous laughter, destroying the dignified image he’d built till now.

Clutching his stomach, he gasped for breath after his mirth ran its course. Straightening up, he took off his glasses and wiped away the tears from his eyes. “Oh. That always cracks me up.” he said with the same genial tone he’d been using to address them before. But this time, it only sent a chill up his listeners’ spines.

“Now, I was told that the two of you were promised skill shards.” He smiled warmly as he pointed at the pit below them. “Each of those little wyrms has one. Why don’t you try and persuade them to give you one? If you need any tools, let me know. A sword? A spear? Or maybe… a whip?”