The Rising

The Rising

Act I: The Solemn Cargo

Heat radiated from the stone paved road leading toward the Blackwood foothills. Sensible folk avoided this region due to the Blackfang Brotherhood Gang. But the four dwarves of the logistics corps were not here for sense. They were here for orders.

Dorgin wiped sweat from his brow.

I told the steward, he grumbled to Bruni, who held the reins of the two massive draft horses. I said it is a long haul for a Tuesday. But no. Lord Elowen requires the package and it is to be delivered today. He is having a special guest this evening.

Who is the guest? Kili asked. The youngest dwarf gripped the side of the wagon and watched the twisted trees pass by.

Old Mossbeard, answered the dwarf in the back. Sergeant Othric Embervein, the demolitions expert of the Anvil Guard, sat sharpening a stick of chalk he used to mark structural weak points. The Earthshaper. Probably eats rocks. I should be blowing up bridges, Dorgin, not babysitting a crate.

They arrived at their destination, and the squad fell silent. It was a structure of black stone with jagged spires that clawed at the sky like a gothic cathedral of sorrow. It cut a sharp silhouette against the skyline, an architectural anomaly built by an eccentric Orc and Elf partnership.

Thick plumes of smoke rolled from the high chimneys and drifted over the courtyard like a shroud. The area teemed with activity, though to the dwarves, it looked like grim work. Burly Orcs hauled heavy sacks over their shoulders with faces set like granite, while Elves in utilitarian aprons directed the flow of other wagon teams dropping off supplies and collecting sealed crates. There were no signs to indicate the nature of the business, only the ominous grandeur of the building.

By the stone, Dorgin said, removing his helm. It is a temple. A house of the dead.

A massive Orc lumbered up to the wagon. He wore a heavy leather apron stained with white dust. Dorgin assumed it was bone ash. The Orc carried a clipboard.

Ho there, the Orc grunted, eyeing the horses. Pickup or drop off?

Dorgin sat up straighter. He lowered his voice to a respectful register. We are here for a retrieval. A special requisition for Lord Elowen of Luminara.

The Orc checked his list and ran a thick finger down a column of scribbles. He stopped and let out a long whistle.

Ah. The Elowen order. That is the big cask.

The Orc looked up at Dorgin with a knowing grimace.

That is a ripe one, dwarf. Aged in the dark for three months. You boys better have a fast wagon or the wind is going to be your worst enemy.

Dorgin paled. He gave a stiff nod.

We understand. Nature takes its course. We shall be swift.

The Orc waved them toward the loading bay and walked off while muttering about fermentation.

The heavy oak doors creaked open. From the shadows, eight elves emerged. They wore pristine white robes that trailed on the ground. They moved with slow steps and carried a long, ornate trunk of dark wood between them. It was bound in silver and sealed with heavy wax.

One elf walked ahead and swung a censer that billowed thick clouds of frankincense. Another walked behind, sprinkling rose water from a crystal vial and chanting in High Elvish.

Kili leaned in close to Othric. His eyes went wide as he watched the procession.

What are we hauling? he asked. His voice did not carry past the wagon wheel.

Othric stopped sharpening his chalk. He eyed the dimensions of the trunk and the pageantry of the elves.

I am not sure, he said, keeping his voice low. But it looks like a body.

They loaded the trunk onto the wagon with the reverence usually reserved for fallen kings. The lead elf, a tall figure with sorrowful eyes, placed a hand on the shoulder of Dorgin.

Great care must be taken, the elf stated. It is still active. It is currently undergoing a necessary internal fermentation. We have sealed the cask as best we could to contain the vapors, though I apologize. I know it is not always pleasant to transport one this ripe. But do not break the seal. The gases must not escape too soon or it will fail to rise. The final result will be flat and lifeless.

Dorgin frowned. Confusion warred with his respect for the dead.

Flat and lifeless? Forgive me, master elf, but is not the poor soul already devoid of life?

The elf sighed. He looked pained by the amateur question.

Not in the way that matters. If the seal is broken before the final presentation, it will lose its internal structure. It will be sunken. Collapsed. A shell of what it was meant to be.

The elf leaned closer.

Though you may still get a whiff of it now and then. That is to be expected. The trunk has vents to keep it from building too much pressure. We cannot have it bursting before the unveiling.

Dorgin widened his eyes at the image of a pressurized corpse bursting. He nodded.

We will not let it collapse. Or burst. We will get it to the ceremony while it still has its volume.

Bruni clicked the reins and the horses pulled away from the smoking gothic structure. Othric sniffed the air. He smelled only the heavy perfume of roses and incense masking something earthier beneath.

Too much fanfare, Othric grunted. He lit a black cigar to combat the smell. If I die, just pack me with gunpowder and light the fuse. Cheaper funeral.

Act II: The Heat of the Day

Two hours later, the rose water failed.

The sun reached its zenith. It hung in the sky like a judgmental eye. It baked the stone road, the iron fittings of the wagon, and the dark wood of the ornate trunk. Inside, the cargo began to react to the rising temperature. The pressure vents engaged with a soft hiss. It sounded like a dying breath.

At first, it was merely a presence. A heaviness in the air made the lungs work harder.

Othric Embervein noticed it first. He frowned and took the black cigar from his mouth. He stared at the glowing cherry with a look of deep betrayal.

This tobacco has turned, he grumbled. He flicked the expensive import onto the road. It tastes like wet socks wrapped in old cheese.

It is not the tobacco, Sergeant, Bruni gagged. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the reins. It is the vents. The elf said it would vent.

Dorgin turned the color of cave mushrooms. He pulled his heavy cloak over his nose but the fabric offered no sanctuary. The smell was small but sharp. It slipped through the weave of the wool.

It must be the natural gases, Dorgin gasped. He tried to maintain a respectful tone suitable for a funeral transport. The body is settling. It is a natural process.

The wagon hit a pothole. The trunk bounced. A visible puff of green gas burped from the silver seam.

Settling? Kili squeaked from the back. Tears streamed from his eyes. It smells like he is fighting his way out.

The smell thickened. It soured. It became a physical weight that sat on the tongue and coated the throat in a layer of grease. It was the scent of a cheese shop that had burned down, flooded with sewage, and sat in the sun for a week.

Kili made a wet, hiccuping sound. He turned to the left and emptied his stomach over the side of the moving wagon.

The sound broke Dorgin. Upon hearing his subordinate heave, his own stomach revolted. He leaned over the right side to join him. Othric let out a curse that was cut short by his own gag reflex and he followed suit. Finally, Bruni lost the battle while trying to keep his eyes on the horizon.

For a mile, the wagon rolled on. Four sick dwarves manned it, a rolling convoy of misery.

Halt, Dorgin gasped. He wiped his mouth with a trembling hand. Stop the wagon. We need countermeasures. We cannot arrive at Luminara covered in this.

Bruni hauled on the reins. The wagon skidded to a stop near a patch of mountain meadow lush with wildflowers. The four dwarves tumbled off the vehicle. They scrambled away from the payload and into the roadside brush like desperate badgers. They gulped down the clean air.

We need to mask the signature, Othric announced. His voice sounded raspy. He pulled his combat knife. Camouflage the scent.

Flowers, Dorgin commanded. He pointed a shaking finger at the hillside. Rip up everything with a scent. Lavender. Sage. Pine. Bury the smell.

They ravaged the hillside. Othric hacked down pine boughs with military precision. Kili wept as he gathered armfuls of wildflowers. Bruni uprooted entire bushes of mountain sage. They returned to the wagon and piled the greenery around the trunk. They created a fragrant mound that nearly reached the bench. They tucked sprigs of mint into their beards and stuffed lavender into the gaps of their helms.

It is working, Bruni wheezed. He buried his face in a pine branch as he climbed back onto the bench. It smells like a forest.

Move out, Dorgin ordered. He looked more hopeful. We can do this.

The wagon lurched forward. The heat of the trunk began to cook the flowers. The smell of the cargo did not vanish. It merged. It permeated the lavender and the pine. It twisted them into something sickly and sweet. It now smelled like a funeral home built on top of an open septic tank.

Then came the humming.

It started low, like a distant dynamo, but quickly grew into a roar. A black cloud rose from the tree line ahead. Not smoke. Flies. Thousands of them. Fat and iridescent. They buzzed with gluttonous joy, drawn by the song of the venting trunk.

By the stone, Othric yelled. He swatted at the air with his knife. Aerial assault. Incoming.

The flies descended on the wagon. They coated the horses and drove the beasts into a panic. The massive draft horses screamed and bucked.

They are stampeding, Bruni yelled. He fought the reins as the wagon lurched. I cannot hold them.

The tarp, Othric roared. He grabbed a heavy canvas sheet from their supplies. We have to seal the breach. Kill the scent at the source.

The elf said it would burst, Dorgin screamed. He held onto the side of the bucking wagon.

Let it burst, Othric shouted back. Help me.

They threw the heavy tarp over the flower covered trunk and lashed it down tight while the wagon bounced over stones and ruts. For a glorious minute, the air cleared. The flies dispersed, confused by the sudden disappearance of the scent.

Then the tarp hissed.

The gas concentrated beneath the heavy canvas. It built up pressure and permeated the weave. It did not leak out. It exploded out in invisible waves. It hit them with a renewed vigor. It carried notes of hot tar, ancient bog water, and spiritual ruin.

The horses caught this new concentrated wave. They abandoned all training and surged into a full gallop.

We are going to crash, Bruni shouted.

Reinforce the driver, Dorgin ordered. Othric, grab the left rein. Bruni, take the right.

It took two dwarves pulling with all their strength just to keep the terrified beasts from running the wagon off a cliff. But sitting on the bench meant sitting directly in the slipstream of the stench.

I cannot breathe, Kili yelled from the back. My eyes are swelling shut.

We rotate, Dorgin commanded. His face was a mask of grim survival. Two on the bench to hold the horses. Two on the road walking behind. We switch every mile. It is the only way to survive the exposure.

For the rest of the afternoon, they endured a cycle of torture. Dorgin and Bruni would sit on the wagon, wrestling the horses with green faces, while Othric and Kili jogged fifty paces back, gasping for clean air. When the drivers could take no more, they would slow the wagon just enough to swap. The fresh team climbed aboard with the look of men walking to the gallows.

The sun began to dip and cast long golden shadows across the road. They passed a group of human travelers camped on the side of the road. The humans enjoyed a midday meal. They laughed and shared wine.

They stopped laughing as the wagon approached.

They saw the two green faced dwarves wrestling the foaming horses. They saw the two other dwarves stumbling behind. They were covered in wilted flowers and looked like the walking dead.

Then the wind shifted. It carried the payload to the campsite.

The humans did not wave. They did not ask for news. They dropped their food. One man covered his face with his cloak and pointed at the wagon. He screamed something about a curse. They ran into the treeline. They abandoned their camp, their tents, and their dinner as if the wagon were the herald of a new apocalypse.

They think we are the end times, Othric groaned. He trudged up to take his turn on the bench. And I do not blame them.

Just get on, Dorgin wheezed. He slid off the bench and fell to his knees in the road to breathe. Get us to the city. Even if it kills us.

By the time evening fell and the white spires of Luminara came into view, the four dwarves looked like they had marched through the seven hells. They were covered in dust, sweat, and wilted lavender. Their eyes were red and hollow. They were sick and terrified. Not of the war. Not of the Orcs. But of the moment the wagon would finally stop moving and the air would catch up to them.

Act III: The Banquet

The gleaming white spires of Luminara came into view. The four dwarves huddled on the very edge of the driver's bench. They fought for inches of distance from the payload. Their eyes were red rimmed. Their skin was clammy. They gasped for air like fish on a dock.

The elven guards at the gate of Luminara stepped forward to challenge them. They raised their spears with practiced fluid motion.

Then the wind shifted.

The guards stopped. Their noses twitched. Their eyes widened. Without a word, they stepped back and lowered their spears. They pointed toward the citadel of Elowen and covered their faces with their silk cloaks.

They know, Othric wheezed. He clutched his chest. They know we carry a biological weapon.

They rolled into the courtyard of the sanctum. The wagon stopped. The four dwarves fell off the bench. They scrambled away from the vehicle and gasped for the clean air of the Faewood.

Lord Elowen descended the stairs in silver robes. Old Mossbeard, the ancient Earthshaper, walked beside him leaning on his staff of living wood.

Ah, Elowen beamed. He clapped his hands. The special delivery. And just in time for the banquet.

Dorgin pulled himself to his feet. He swayed. He saluted, though his hand shook.

Lord Elowen, Dorgin croaked. Tears of relief cut tracks through the grime on his face. We brought him. But by the stone, he did not keep well. The heat. The journey. I fear the body is past its prime.

Elowen blinked. Confusion clouded his face.

The body?

The elf, Kili sobbed from the ground. The poor rotting elf in the box.

Elowen looked at the dwarves. He looked at the ornate trunk. Heat waves radiated from the wood. A look of dawning comprehension crossed his face. He did not look horrified. He looked overjoyed.

Oh marvelous, Elowen cried. It is fully ripened.

He strode to the wagon. The dwarves flinched. They expected the miasma to strike him down. Elowen threw open the latches. He lifted the heavy lid.

A wave of odor rolled out. It would have stunned an ox. Dorgin covered his eyes.

Do not look. Preserve his dignity.

Elowen reached into the trunk. He did not pull out a limb. He pulled out a massive, dark, crusty loaf of bread that oozed a thick grey paste.

Goblin Rot Bread, Elowen declared. He held it aloft like the Sunlit Shard itself. The stench of a thousand battlefields. The texture of a cloud. Mossbeard, look. It sweats with precision.

Othric stared. His mouth fell open. The black cigar he had clutched between his teeth dropped to the paving stones.

Old Mossbeard sniffed the air. His eyes lit up.

Ah. A vintage year. Smells like the bottom of a bog in high summer. Delicious.

The four dwarves stared. They looked at the bread. They looked at each other. They looked at the coffin.

Othric Embervein retrieved his cigar from the ground and dusted off the ash. He looked at Dorgin.

Bread, Othric said. His voice lacked all inflection. I was ready to light the fuse. On a loaf of bread.

Not just bread, Elowen corrected. He broke off a piece of the steaming loaf and popped it into his mouth. He sighed. It pairs well with Skaros fire wine. Would you care for a slice?

Dorgin looked at the bread. He looked at the elf lord. He turned to his men.

To the wagon, Dorgin ordered. His voice sounded hollow. We are leaving. If we ride hard, we can be back in the mines by midnight. Where the air only smells of sulfur and honest sweat.

The wagon rattled away and left the elves to their feast. Kili looked back one last time at the wizards.

I do not care what they say, Kili whispered. He shuddered. That bread was somebody's uncle.

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