BECMI Chapter 24 – Runes and Running About

The Third Circle, the Runes of Energy, was about control of energies, and where I considered the real power to be. Fire, lightning, gravity, sound, light, darkness, and such all fell within the limits of the Runes. Amusingly, this allowed a Runecaster to approximate the abilities of many other Secret Societies between the First and Third Circles.

Each such Rune required the research equivalent to learning a Valence V.

All of this was important because it took a significant library, as well as a lot of gold, to research spells properly.

Of course, none of this was really prepared to cope with the effective eidetic memory capabilities of a Visual File, and the ability to read any book really, really fast with , especially up-Cast to a variant, something only someone as smart as I was could possibly have been able to process using multiple thoughtstreams.

My mental library was already stuffed with tomes from down in the City of Stars, full of the shadenelves’ own biases, and now I was joining them with a bunch of other tomes from my current teachers.

Being able to build up a virtual library didn’t save me all the expenses, but it did save me a lot of time running around and building up a physical one of my own. Indeed, this was a task perfectly suited for a few Simulacra to happily pursue, dumping Visual File contents on top of them and letting them work through the structure of finding out Rune after Rune after Rune, with appropriate experimentation.

I also tasked one with condensing that down into an appropriate primer for the First Circle, as the Cryptomancers didn’t seem to have one.

Joining the Cryptomancers also involved a magical Ritual that included an up-Cast and very powerful to not teach the arts of the Cryptomancers to anyone outside of the bounds of Zanzyr. Simulacra didn’t count, of course, and I had no issues with that. Bringing someone I wanted to teach somewhere in Zanzyr would effectively satisfy the , and permission from the upper Circles wasn’t necessarily required, only punished if you picked the wrong type of person.

I also had the ability to break the if it led towards Evil means, but that didn’t seem to be the case here. It was basically a form of Zanzyr nationalism, and since development of the art seemed based on the magical field that pervaded Zanzyr, completely believable, and was actually not required.

Aye, a magical field.

A field, to be precise. One far more powerful than the remnants radiating from the underground or the surface of the Bleaklands. It was powerful enough that I could see the direction it was coming from, and that direction was from Zanzyr City.

Zanzyr was a nation of magic because magic was possible here that was possible nowhere else on the planet. I could only imagine the consequences of what would happen if it became known that here could be developed magic that surpassed anything else in the world, magic that could be used anywhere, but not RESEARCHED anywhere.

None of the arts of the Secret Societies could be taught anywhere else in the world. Zanzyr really did have something special here.

It made Zanzyr the #1 place to advance the art of magic in the world, although only those living here believed it.

Now, getting actively involved in Zanzyran politics, that was a hornet’s nest for me to stir up. I was also quite certain that there was an Immortal directly involved with this gammathauma field, here in Zanzyr referred to in hushed terms as , a thing of mystical reputation that all the native mages hungered for.

It was the same magical field tapped by the Priestesses of Gaebrel, using Soul Crystals.

There was no way I could go to Zanzyr City and study under the eye of an Immortal without being older. They’d see right through me.

So, I was going to have to go time-skipping, one way or another, and get years in outside the normal flow of time.

Mmm.

The trips to extend my Lived-lines to other surface cities involved a lot of marathon-level running. Thankfully magic and helped with such things, although my tendency to get involved if I saw things I didn’t approve of did slow things down a bit.

You know, brigands attacking caravans, monsters ready to attack camps, nasty flying things attacking travelers on the ground, humanoids ambushing non-humanoids…

I couldn’t seem to help but stumble into such things, and oddly enough, my very unique style of magic made sure I was noticed and remembered… as well as being a young elven lass throwing around said unique magic.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

A lot of helmed heads with beards bristling forth underneath them poked out over the tops of grim stone walls, and the sentries sitting there at the gates jumped to their feet in shock. I was standing right in front of the doors thirty feet away, and they hadn’t seen me approach or acknowledged me.

“An elf-girl!” the nearest plate-armored sentry exclaimed in shock, as I was a bright red and black splash of color that should have been visible for miles. “Where did you come from?” he demanded awkwardly, leaving off fumbling for his shield to gape at me.

I turned around slowly to look at the road winding through the foothills behind me along the glittering shores of Lake Stahl, turned slowly back, and arched an eyebrow as the dwarven guards tromped up to me. They were about the same height as me, and outweighed me probably four to one in their armor.

That said, they stopped well outside my reach at just the tiniest movement of my chin, and any attempt to intimidate me was cut short.

“Well, we didn’t see you until just now!” the brown-bearded younger of the two spluttered defensively. “Stand, stand and identify yourself and your purpose here, elf!”

I blinked slowly at him.

He flushed under his helm as I repeated my words, feeling even more like a fool than before. There was already an officer coming through the gate, his beard a dark slate gray, looking both grim and confused.

The sentries stood there, heaving to attention and clapping axes to breastplates as the officer came up. He was a bit taller than me, and no doubt found it satisfying to look down at me. He deliberately looked back and forth around me.

“Young Lady Edge.” He definitely sounded curt and skeptical of the title. “What is this about fallen sons of the mountain, then?”

I returned his skepticism in equal measure. “I was told to wait for a dwarf-cleric to remand the remains to. You are not a cleric, Elder.” I emphasized the last to remind him that he had not introduced himself.

“I am not. I am Hrogi Grunvaldson, of the Clan of Wurhelm, and I am a Captain here at Fort Greeston,” he stated with the grim authority of someone with a job they didn’t really like. “And I’ll not be risking a priest of my people with a strange black-eyed elf-girl without very good reason, little miss!” he stated with certainty.

I asked him archly, and the whole fort could hear clearly, meaning I was drawing a crowd out here to see this.

He made a show of looking around. “I see no remains, young elf,” he stated pointedly.

“I will show , because I dislike wasting my spells.” The four Scrolls with the caskets peeled out of my sleeves, making him back up and thin his lips in distaste as they hovered before him. “Pick one, Captain Hrogi, son of Grunvald.”

He eyed me uncertainly, but rather curtly pointed at the second one. “That one!”

The other three zipped back into my sleeve, while I waved up a flat for the casket to land on, and then calmly tore it apart as the unamused dwarves watched.

The Scroll evaporated, and the stone casket materialized and fell down upon the floating there, making all of them blink. I lowered it down so that he could read the top of it without having to jump or something.

Still suspicious, the captain nevertheless refused to show any unease as he stepped up to the edge of the casket and bent over it.

Seeing the words written in elegant Denthek in a very elven style made him blink, for it looked far more artistic and flowing than the normally blocky script of his people. Nevertheless, it was clearly legible, and he read it out loud.

“The remains of Orgmul Son of Goimlu of Clan Brukkel, found in the hoard of the red dragon Conflagrus the Unequaled. To be returned to home and hearth in Rukheim.” His eyes dropped to the note at the end. “”

I swear every dwarf there straightened instantly at those words.

“Goimlu Briggarson runs trade through Castle Karrak to the desert humans to the south, and he’s of Brukkel!” a voice called out from the watching dwarves above.

The dwarf-captain gave me an odd eye, but carefully lifted the cover of the casket open, pausing a moment to inspect the workmanship before the hinges creaked open and showed the contents.

It was obviously a dwarven skeleton, but broken in several places, and its armor mangled by powerful claws ripping great gouges into the metal. Still, it was all there, even the beard still intact.

The captain slowly closed the lid, giving me a wary eye as he did so, but more consideration in it. “How did you know his name, girl?”

“I asked his spirit, of course. How else was I to learn it, Elder?” I replied calmly.

There was another flash of distaste in his eyes, vanishing as he caressed the smooth stone, and looked upon the words again. “Well, you’ve indeed brought a Brukkel back to his kin, and we’ll see him home. Revered Korgil! If you would join us down here!” he called out loudly.

“Coming!” a rather younger voice answered immediately. I waited patiently for short legs to work the stairs and doors. Soon enough a rather younger dwarf with a startlingly black beard and bright orange eyes hustled through the gates to join us, a holy symbol of a mountain beneath a pick, axe, and hammer slung about his neck.

He examined me most curiously as I waited patiently for him. “I am Korgil of Clangyr,” he introduced himself. “You have brought back one of our own, Lady Edge. You said you’ve three others?”

I bowed slightly to the priest. “Yes.” I flicked out the Scrolls again, but there was no Disk this time. Instead, they were spread upon the ground and torn apart there, promptly disgorging three more smooth stone caskets upon them.

Both captain and cleric leaned forward to read the scripts there. “Rugal Dornson of Clan Gudspiel.” His voice caught a moment as his eyes widened. “Remains found in the hoard of the red dragon Conflagrus the Unequaled.” His hand fell to the words below. “”

Somberly, he opened up the lid, and looked upon the corpse and the mangled armor encasing the dead dwarf-priest within. “This is he. I recognize my brother’s armor,” Revered Korgil breathed quietly.

A rather large number of dwarves had made their way much closer, and a deep hum arose from all of them at this news.

“Kram Otalsvrom,” he began.

“I knew him! He’s of Dworxen!” a dwarf in the crowd spoke up, shouldering his way forward.

“Aye, and so it reads, ‘of Clan Dworxen. Remains found in the hoard of the red dragon Conflagrus the Unequaled.” His eyes dipped down further. “’”