The rock-people continue to be a force to be reckoned with inside the Dungeon. Despite their stubbornness, their infighting, and their somewhat archaic views, they endure against pressure better than almost any other society.
High Blade Balta was displeased. He’d marshalled the forces of his House, called in favours, and splashed coin to ensure he would lead this expedition. He did all he could to pull in veteran Warriors and equip them with the best available gear he could find. Time constrained him in this regard, as well as the remote location. Deeper in the core of the empire, he would have been able to muster double the numbers with higher Levels and better Classes, but he’d been satisfied with what he managed to assemble.
Ants, even intelligent ones, should have stood no chance against the golgari might he brought to crush them with. Yet here he stood, looking down at his nephew who knelt at his feet, reporting that the insects had pushed him back when he attempted to claim their pathetic fort.
“I do not want to hear words of failure from your mouth, nephew. Failure is not something we accept in our House. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
The younger golgari Blade trembled under the simmering anger of his elder that lurked just beneath the surface. He’d been brash and taken his force to assault the insects without waiting for the other commanders to organise their forces. Had he been victorious, the glory would have belonged to himself alone. In failure, he received every ounce of shame that went with such a defeat.
“Were you not of my own House, I would have expelled you from this expedition and sent you home in disgrace,” High Blade Balta spat.
“Please, uncle, give me another chance!”
“You weren’t given a chance! You just decided to seize one for yourself. Arrogance is only accepted when it is backed by ability. You have proven you lack the latter but hold an abundance of the former!”
Real anger blazed in the eyes of the elder now. This promising youth had achieved the rank of Low Blade at a young age. The House had great expectations for him, only for the fool to grow impatient and make himself a laughingstock. Defeated in pitched battle by ants.
“A hundred of our people lie dead due to your ambition and stupidity. That is the price of your arrogance. I will give you another chance. Not to lead, but to demonstrate your ability with a sword is not as useless as your head. When the next assault goes, you will personally head the charge.”
“I hear and obey!”
Hironus Balta, on his knees before the leader of his House, tried to disguise his sigh of relief. Had the High Blade wanted, he could have done far worse. He would get a chance to prove to his rivals that he deserved his rank. It would suffice.
In the east, the other half of the invasion force was progressing in their advance, though with less haste and more success. Yet Titus wasn’t pleased with what he heard.
“A root of the Mother Tree? You’re sure?” he asked.
“I’ve seen them before, Commander. It’s hard to mistake something like that.”
Titus could only nod. It was true, the Mother Tree wasn’t the sort of thing that could be described as small, or be accused of blending in.
“What happened?”
“The target fled toward the root and burrowed itself in the soil in an obvious and slightly ridiculous way. We decided it best not to disturb the root and retreated.”
“Wise,” Titus said, acknowledging the squad leader with a nod. “Take your team to the mess and get some food in you. You’ll be back out there soon enough.”
With a crisp salute, the man left Titus to his thoughts.
“I don’t like it, Titus,” Aurillia warned her commander. “A root showing up here? This isn’t going to be good.”
“We don’t know if it’s going to be active,” he cautioned.
“After that idiotic creature burrowed next to it? I’d be shocked if it didn’t start sprouting tomorrow.”
As much as he hated to admit it, his Tribune was most likely correct. From the moment his Legion first engaged the enemy, things had not gone according to plan. An intelligent colony, a wave likely coming, his allies proving untrustworthy, and now this. Another variable into the mix was the last thing he needed.
Titus growled in frustration. He’d feel a lot better once he started cutting down insects. It was time he headed out on patrol. His axe was thirsty.
92. Death Comes
The Old Races against the New is a troubling rivalry that has arisen in the centuries since the Cataclysm. Perhaps it is understandable that those who existed on Pangera in a time before the Dungeon would view those that came after with suspicion. They know for a fact, in essence, that they are free of the corruption that the Dungeon brought to the world, whereas the same cannot be said for those who came later.
The New Races rose to sapience and formed their societies after the surface was breached and damaged by spawned creatures. Their peoples have never known a world without monsters, never walked the surface without fear and certainly do not value the surface in the way their elders do.
The humans, ka’armodo, golgari, and Chal initially viewed the newcomers with hostility and attempted to push them out of the Dungeon. The sophos who fell, originally an Old Race, were hunted to the brink of extinction once the Cataclysm subsided and conquest of the Dungeon began. When contact was first made between Old and New, conflict erupted. Only after the New Races demonstrated their ability to defend themselves and their interests—once they came into contact with each other and formed a mutual cooperation agreement—did the Old and New begin to enter discussions and deescalate.
The bruan’chii, the Folk, and the brathian, being the most prominent among the New, proved to be bold players in the fierce competition for resources that goes on in the Dungeon. Sometimes working together, sometimes in opposition, they have displayed a fearlessness and willingness to take on great risks that their elders would avoid. Some argue this is due to their lower intelligence or lack of stable foundations, whilst others believe it to be a necessity, given that they arose so much more recently than their competitors and need to catch up.
The origins of most New Races continues to be a contested matter amongst many academics. The bruan’chii, for example, arose within the wildlands of the south, though it is not known exactly where, or when. The Folk are a loose amalgamation of many peoples with a similar philosophy, and were first encountered in the Dungeon itself, leading many to believe they are monstrous in nature. It has since been proven they are able to live and thrive on the surface, taking away the credence of that theory.
How the people of Pangera will coexist moving forward, no credible theorist is willing to say. Shifts and changes within the Dungeon are capable of shattering centuries old alliances in a matter of days. Nothing is permanent and all is in flux. It is safe to wager, however, that the Old and New Races will continue to hold to their own for the most part, preferring to trust in those similar to themselves.
The conflict was proving to be a nightmare for Sloan, one she simply couldn’t wake from.
“News from the front, General!” announced an exhausted runner, crawling into the command post.