Season 4: Blighterghast
By William Shick & Aeryn Rudel
Northern Wyrmwall Mountains
Caelan craned her chin up toward the grey slope of the titanic Wyrmwall Mountains. Thick, menacing storm clouds roiled above, coloring the sky an unnatural grey-green. As she and Rochlof climbed the scree-covered slope, she felt the hairs on her body begin to stand on end, her skin tingling from the barely restrained electricity that saturated the air.
A storm was coming to this place.
She turned to look at Rochlof, who was slowly loping his way up the grade just behind her. He should have been easily outpacing her, given his more nimble, predatory form, but their recent encounter with the dragon had left him drained. He moved with a slight unsteadiness, and his form still sporadically shifted and twisted under his sable fur, though far less violently than when he had been in the presence of the dragon. When it occurred now, it looked like some massive worm or snake burrowed just beneath his flesh, distending and stretching his skin as it moved. Sometimes this was a prelude to a bony spine ripping bloodily through his skin; other times the shape would simply swell and pulse before his flesh returned to normal. Regardless of the outcome, Caelan could hear Rochlof’s breathing intensify each time he steeled himself against the forthcoming agony.
His condition had made their ascent take far longer than she had wished, though she was careful to conceal any hint of her impatience from him.
“You need not wait for me, Waykeeper,” he said as though reading her mind, panting for breath.
Caelan repressed the urge to take his offer and hurry on. “I will not abandon you now,” she said. After all, there was no guarantee Morvahna would already be at the site waiting for them. The potent would come when she willed.
“I can smell your anxiety. Your haste.” His words were interrupted by a low, uncontrolled growl that reverberated from his throat as a wave of warping reached its crescendo. “I am only slowing you down.”
Much to her chagrin, Caelan was again gripped by the thought of abandoning Rochlof. She viciously chastised herself for the lapse and firmly banished the thought. She had abandoned too many others already. “We will meet with your mistress together or not at all.” Her tone brooked no argument.
Rochlof’s yellow eyes fixed on hers for several more seconds before he finally wheezed in assent. Though it was nearly impossible for her to read his lupine facial expressions, Caelan thought she saw gratitude in his eyes.
The sky continued to darken in its sickly shade as the pair made their ascent to where Rochlof had said Morvahna the Dawnshadow might be found. Though Caelan burned to deliver news of their mission and her terrifying conjecture as to the truth behind it all to Lyvene, she had been unable to contact her superior or ascertain her location. Rochlof had rightly argued that, given the critical nature of their report, it was imperative they deliver their findings to someone of comparable authority.
Despite the chill of the elevation, Caelan wore a thin sheen of sweat by the time they reached the intended meeting place. It was an old site, in a state of disrepair. The standing stones that marked it were overgrown with plant life, their granite faces eroded from possibly millennia of exposure to the elements.
Caelan could feel the thrum in the veins of Orboros below as she stepped within the perimeter of the stones; the current here was strong. “I see we are the first to arrive,” she said, scanning the empty sacred site.
“The druids have always moved at their own pace,” Rochlof said softly. “Trust that they will be here in time.”
Caelan nodded, but her insides twisted with growing impatience. She opened her mouth to respond but thought better of it and instead turned her face to the stormy sky. She watched as lightning streaked across the green-tinged clouds. She found herself silently counting as she waited for the rumble of thunder. She could feel the ley lines below stir with increasing intensity as they reacted to the primal energies of the storm above.
A growl of pain from Rochlof brought her attention back to her companion. She could see the warpwolf’s flesh swell and pulsate, the muscle and bone writhing as if a living thing independent of the warpwolf himself.
“The blight continues to affect you?” she asked.
The warpwolf snarled and nodded. The uncontrolled warping made it impossible for Rochlof to alter his vocal cords to approximate human speech. Without thinking, Caelan reached out, drawing upon the power of Orboros focused within the ancient sacred site. With some hesitation, she placed her hand upon Rochlof. The memory of his spines ripping through her flesh mere hours ago flared fresh in her mind.
This time there were no spikes—only the feel of tormented muscles and rapidly re-forming bone beneath coarse fur. Concentrating, she tapped into the connection they had shared, the one she had used to provide momentary respite to Rochlof so he could save them from being crushed beneath the dragon’s claw.
She let out a sharp breath as she plunged into the turbulent blight that raged within the warpwolf. Bracing herself, she gently probed at the energies within him. The feeling was surprisingly similar to what she had felt within the corrupted nexuses.
An idea slowly formed in her mind. Carefully she channeled the power of Orboros from within her into Rochlof, guiding and manipulating the tendrils of pure energy to slowly ensnare and entrap the blight raging through the warbeast. As she worked, she realized the blight traced back to a single source: a black, churning void in the primal spirit of the powerful pureblood.
Slowly she folded and forced the blight back to that center, using rituals similar to those she had used on the veins of Orboros to contain and segregate the blight. Rochlof fell to his knees and then to the ground, but as the blight was pushed back, she felt the familiar sensation of his primal magic joining with her own, empowering her efforts to trap the corruption back inside the unnatural tumor.
Her task completed, Caelan withdrew her power from Rochlof. The warpwolf lay on the ground, his body shaking from exhaustion.
“Thank you.” His words were barely intelligible; he struggled to reassert control over his body. Caelan made only the barest show of acknowledgement. Instead, she let her focus drift as she considered the blighted core she had just discovered within him.
Slowly Rochlof rose to sit on his haunches, bringing his snout level with Caelan’s face. He sat motionless, his eyes locked on hers for several moments. Even with all they had been through together, Caelan still found the warpwolf’s stare unsettling. Caught in his gaze, she felt unable to give voice to the questions swirling through her mind.
“You wish to know about the blight within me,” he said at last. Caelan nodded but said nothing. Rochlof’s body slumped with a heavy sigh. “It is a long story, filled with death and pain and fear. The short of it is, in a bid to save my life, I drank from water I should not have. Driven by my desperate thirst, I allowed the blight to enter me. My fear of death damned me to an even greater torment.”
“How long?” Caelan asked. “How long have you carried it?”
“Since the death of my original mistress. Too long.” His voice trailed off, and he looked toward the lightning storm that raged above them. “Morvahna taught me to bind the infection. To keep it contained. But recently I have felt its sickness growing. I fear her methods are no longer enough to keep the blight at bay. I am tainted—physically and spiritually. Our encounter with the dragon has proven what I feared: the blight will soon consume me.”
“No,” Caelan said, “you are too strong for that. Even in the presence of the dragon, you did not lose yourself completely.”
She thought for a moment and then added, “If the ley line network can be healed of the blight, there must be a way to do the same for you.”
Rochlof lowered his gaze to the ground and let out a disdainful huff. “I have been told by several that they believe a cure is possible, though it will not be simple. It requires time and the effort of those too busy to attend to such as me. I was told I must earn such care. This mission was my last obligation to earn my redemption.”
A brilliant bolt of lightning split the sky above them. Caelan looked up in surprise. A chill wind rose, and the first small drops of rain began to splash down on her face as more lightning flashed overhead. Yet the roar of thunder that followed came not from the world around her but from within her own mind. She felt a sudden surge in the currents of Orboros below her.
Another flash of green-hued light blinded Caelan, filling her vision with nothing but white. She blinked several times to clear her sight, and as she did, a black silhouette slowly materialized before her.
The figure was tall and lean. A great cloak hung about his shoulders, similar to the kind preferred by most druids of the Circle. The hood, however, was pulled back, revealing a sharp, angular face and a bald head. Tiny bolts of electricity crackled and arced about the forked spear the druid held in his hand. Rochlof immediately knelt and lowered his head in a display of subservience.
The lightning storm above raged to a new frenzy of activity, as if spurred on by the druid’s arrival. Confusion clouded Caelan’s mind. The figure before her was clearly not Morvahna. Instinctively she drew on the power of Orboros, ready to wield it in self-defense. “You are not the Dawnshadow,” she said even as she realized who stood before her. Fear filled her.
Krueger the Stormlord looked at Caelan briefly before turning to the kneeling warpwolf. “It seems you have done more than your assigned task.”
Rochlof dropped his head even more beneath the druid’s gaze. “Yes, Stormlord. Arriving at the third nexus was unexpected and unplanned.”
“Thankfully, your initiative did not jeopardize the ritual—it only assisted in hastening its completion.”
Caelan stood dumbfounded as she listened. She had never met Krueger in person, but she had heard much about him. Her old mentor Donnovus had thought him as dangerous and unpredictable as the storms he controlled. Ever since he had ignored the orders of the omnipotents and had taken the title Stormlord, Lyvene had considered him a traitor, even to the point of voting for his death at the Grand Conclave Tribunal. In all, his presence here could not be good. The way Rochlof spoke to him, it seemed clear the warpwolf was not surprised by his arrival; in fact, he had apparently been expecting the Stormlord. She had been misled, but to what end?
Krueger turned and considered her again, and Caelan could not help but tremble at the unimaginable power held just behind those cold, staring eyes. She realized the feeling was similar to what she had felt when she was held in the dragon’s gaze.
“Rochlof tells me you have proven most capable.” His eyes bored into her; he seemed to assess her like a merchant assessing a prize horse at auction. “I understand you believe these acts against the nexus are a deliberate deed by one of our order. Tell me, why would someone do such a thing?”
Caelan swallowed hard. “I do not know, Potent. To willingly invite blight to infect the veins of Orboros is madness.”
One side of Krueger’s mouth turned up in a sneer. “Madness, indeed.” He paused. “And what of our order’s failings to curb the growing influence of Everblight? Its refusal to truly acknowledge the danger the disembodied dragon poses to everything we claim to stand for? What about the omnipotents’ dogmatic dedication to archaic traditions and meaningless protocols as cataclysm looms over everything? What would you call that?”
Caelan tried to answer, but her mouth was dry and she could summon no words while held transfixed by Krueger’s stare. From what she had heard, it was Krueger himself who had stood in the way of progress against Everblight in the recent past. She felt confounded. Lightning flashed again, and thunder boomed after it.
“What you suspect is true,” the Stormlord said. “The dragon’s attacks on the veins of Orboros have been coordinated by one within our Circle. Each attack is actually part of a greater ritual.”
The shock of Krueger’s words finally overrode Caelan’s muteness. “But why? Why would one of our order do this?”
“Everblight is unlike any other of his kind. He is divided among his chosen warlocks. This division makes him weaker physically than his fully formed brothers, but it also makes his elimination nearly impossible.” Krueger motioned toward the ring of standing stones surrounding them. “Those of our cabal have a unique relationship with the power of Orboros flowing beneath the crust of Caen. We are always connected to it. Even the weakest among us can feel its pulse. The strongest of us can tap more deeply into those currents to sense the world through its flows. We are all connected by its strands.”
Krueger did not wait for her to respond. “In a similar fashion, so are the dragons connected through the blight and the power of their athancs. If certain nexuses are infused with the dragons’ blight, the resonance of their energy will react to it as the dragons move across the face of Caen. The echoes of their movement will be perceptible by those of us attuned to it, through the veins of Orboros. Like a spider feeling vibrations from disturbances in its web.”
Realization dawned on Caelan as she took in Krueger’s words. “You did this. You’re going to use the ley line network to track Everblight’s warlocks.”
Krueger’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and it took all of Caelan’s strength not to quail before his glare. He said, “With this I will be able to track all of Toruk’s progeny. Never again will we be blind to their actions or movements. The elimination of Everblight by his siblings is only a part of what I have set in motion.”
“But your actions have compromised the entire network,” Caelan protested. “There is no telling what long-term damage the blight might cause.”
Krueger dismissed this with a deep breath. “Everblight has already roused his siblings against him. There is no more time to wait, no more time to plan. What matter is some minor damage to the ley lines when compared to the potential devastation of the cataclysm already at hand?” Krueger scowled, and the storm above seemed to darken with his expression. “I will no longer cower in the shadows and do nothing, as the omnipotents would have it. My actions will give us the power to guide the inevitable conflict to a conclusion that will see our order thrive instead of ending with this world reduced to ash.”
Caelan shook her head in shocked disbelief. She could not even begin to fathom what had just been revealed to her. Before she could speak again, she felt a gut-wrenching sensation overwhelm her—the sudden presence of something else entering the sacred circle.
Behind Krueger, atop a rocky outcropping farther up the mountain peak, stood a slender figure draped in flowing robes. Despite the distance, Caelan could see the flesh of his exposed hands, which looked unnaturally rotted as they clasped a long, slender staff of white wood.
Krueger turned and spared the figure a moment’s attention before turning back to Caelan.
“There are many who believe as I do. Who wish to return our order to the guiding force it once was.” The Stormlord’s hard voice softened. “The goals I seek cannot be achieved by me alone.” He turned and motioned for Rochlof to rise. “You, much like Rochlof, are imbued with unique gifts. What you have accomplished cannot be discounted.” His fierce gaze locked once more upon Caelan. “Join me, Caelan. Help me finish the ritual and destroy the threat that Everblight represents.”
“No,” Caelan said, the strength and immediacy of her conviction surprising even her. “I cannot condone or be a part of what you are doing. You have no idea what the consequences of these actions might be.” She heard Donnovus’ words ring in her voice as she spoke. “This rashness will only lead to greater strife. I will not allow this.”
The air around Krueger began to crackle with power, and any softness in his voice vanished instantly. “You will not allow it? You overstep your authority, Waykeeper. You will obey me. Remember your place.”
“I serve Lyvene, not you.” Caelan swallowed hard but her nerve held. “And beyond her, I serve the omnipotents, whose will you openly defy.”
Caelan looked back up at the figure above them. She sensed something, a blighted echo that told her this strange individual was a messenger of a dragon. She hastily considered all the knowledge of the dragons she had heard during her time within the Circle and what she had personally witnessed. She imagined looking down on Immoren from high above, picturing the scars she had witnessed across its face. The pieces fell into place, and she knew where she needed to go.
Krueger sent lightning dancing across his spear. “You cannot stop me, Waykeeper. I will not allow it.”
Caelan was painfully aware of how easily the Stormlord could strike her down. If he had intended to kill her, though, she felt certain he would have done so immediately upon his arrival. He had enough enemies to deal with now without creating more within his own order. She suspected he did not wish to antagonize Lyvene if he could avoid it.
She fixed Krueger with her own defiant stare. “Perhaps not. But as you said, I will not cower in the shadows and do nothing when devastation looms.” As soon as the words left her lips, power flooded her as she tapped into the energies below the site. There was a loud crack and a flash of verdant green and then Caelan was gone.
—
“She presents a . . . difficulty,” Krueger said.
Rochlof’s eyes narrowed, and he felt the cold weight of his potent’s implication settle over him. “It will not come to that,” he said.
“Can you be sure?” Krueger replied. He took a step toward Rochlof. Despite towering over the druid, Rochlof felt the urge to shrink back, away from the undeniable power of the Stormlord.
“I will convince her that what we do is necessary,” Rochlof said.
Krueger nodded. “I would rather not waste such a resource— she is skilled—but she cannot hinder this work. It is nearly complete.”
“I—” Rochlof began, but his body was suddenly wracked by a powerful spasm. The blight surged beneath his skin, and pain hammered him to his knees. He felt spines erupt along his back, then melt away in a tide of caustic slime. The fur on his right hand sloughed away, revealing thick, grey scales. Through the pain, he bent his will toward containing the spasm, pouring his flagging energy into controlling the warping that twisted his body. He succeeded—mostly. His right hand remained a scaled talon, which he clutched to his chest as he rose to his feet again.
Krueger stood, unmoving, only paces away. The Stormlord’s eyes were twin glaciers where pity or compassion could find no purchase. “I could not have stated your personal stake in our success better than this,” he said, his lips turning up in a cold smile.
“Yes,” Rochlof grunted. “The cure you promised. . .”
“The cure I still promise,” Krueger replied.
“I need it now,” Rochlof said.
“If it were so easy to bestow, I would have healed you already. We must finish this endeavor before there is time for such work. Succeed, and you will be cured. Fail, and . . .” Krueger inclined his head toward Rochlof’s twisted claw.
“I will not fail,” Rochlof said. “I will do what must be done.” Krueger nodded. “Preserve this resource if you can, but its sacrifice would be a tolerable loss.”
Anger blazed within Rochlof’s chest. The Stormlord would not even say her name; to him she was only a tool, a means to an end. Rochlof had felt Caelan’s spirit mingled with his own during the cleansing rituals, and he had come to admire her relentless strength and optimism. The thought of crushing the life from her body or tearing her apart with tooth and claw turned his stomach.
“We have an understanding,” Krueger said. It was not a question.
Rochlof had no reply. There was nothing left to say.
—
Krueger watched the pureblood disappear in a flash of emerald light, his course guided by the Stormlord’s power. He paused for a moment to consider, then turned again to look up toward Blighterghast’s emissary. He could feel the dragon’s immense will pressing down on his mind, channeled through the wasted creature. The time was nearly upon him.
A shadow moved just outside the circle behind him. Krueger did not bother to turn toward it. “I will send you after them. Ensure neither attempts to interfere with my plans.” The shadow shifted and formed into the shape of a massive figure clad in fur and armor. The Wolf of Orboros’ bronze wolf helm was missing, revealing a wild tangle of jet-black hair and a thick beard on a square face.
The Wolf answered Krueger, the pitch of his voice far higher than one would expect from such a mountain of a man. “As you command, Stormlord, so I shall obey.”