Chapter 7: The Dreaming Fever

Over the course of the remaining ten days before the day of the cavalry charge, the mages of Irrkengrond subtly built up slopes leading towards the Acretia’s line at the head of Thinker’s Gorge. When the day finally came, the cavalry of Irrkengrond smashed through the line of Kilkretha, opening a gash through which Ulrich and his force moved quickly through, setting out on the road to find the weapon. The plan went smoothly, as the cavalry of Irrkengrond was able to herd the forces of Kilkretha away from Ulrich. As Ulrich intended, his force marched for a day and met the great engine on the road on the morning of the second day.

Great was Ulrich’s wrath when his warriors fell upon the engine. Swiftly they drove the guards away from the machine and slaughtered the great oxen that pulled the vile contraption. If he did not have another purpose he would have pursued and slaughtered every last soldier of Acretia that had come with the weapon, but the engine demanded his attention. Taking with him four soldiers, he circled to the back of the great wagon and threw open the great black doors.

But what he found was not the hideous inner workings of a machine of war. Rather, inside was an empty wooden room, as though the structure only consisted of a wooden box with a scaffolding built around it to affect the appearance of a great engine on the outside. Sitting cross-legged at the far side of the room, facing the door was a shriveled old man. His hair had mostly fallen out and what remained was thin and grey. His limbs were thin, like those of a man who had not eaten in weeks. In his lap he held a clear glass jar that seemed to hold nothing within. As the doors swung open he raised his head and his hollow eyes met Ulrich’s. His jaundiced skin reflected the sunlight that now poured into the room and he could be seen to be naked save for a loin cloth with a rope belt.

“Ahhggghhgghehhh…” croaked the ragged husk, his head lolling to the side and then falling so his chin touched his chest.

“Careful,” cautioned Ulrich, turning to those who followed him, “We know not what the dark lady has in store for us.”

Slowly, Ulrich stepped forward into the room. As he approached the decrepit man, he could see that around his waist and wrists were iron shackles chained to the floor and walls. Clasped between his hands, he held a large glass jar sealed with a cork stopper.

The floor under Ulrich creaked as he approached, and the man again let forth a dry and tortured noise.

“GGggguuhHUh HrU haUgg,”

He again raised his head and met Ulrich’s eyes, before his head again fell.

Ulrich paused, drawing his sword, before continuing toward the man, his blade held before him. One foot in front of the other he crept until he could hear the man’s ragged breathing. A foul stench radiated from him.

Ulrich stopped directly in front of him and knelt down to inspect him. As his face came level with that of the man’s, the sound of shattering glass filled the great wooden room. The shards of the jar tumbled to the floor of the wagon, the hands of the chained man bloody from crushing the vessel he held.

“Gguuuiaaa Guha.. GuhAH HAgh HA HA… HA HA AH HAHAHAHAHAHA AH HAHHAHA” broke forth manic and wild laughter from the gaunt figure. His head raised again, but now his eyes blazed a deep red as if they were bottomless pools of blood, and in a voice that shook the very walls he spoke, “NOW YOU HAVE BECOME MY WEAPON AND I WILL UNDO YOU ALL!”

Upon finishing this declaration, the man tumbled over dead. Ulrich drew back from the man. Silence hung in the air, save Ulrich’s heavy breathing. He stood completely still for a moment, before bending down to see if the man was truly dead. Feeling no breath in the man’s lungs, he turned away from the body to those who accompanied him. His eyes seemed hollow and distant, as though he were not truly present in the room. For a moment he shook as though some foul spirit passed through him, but this passed quickly, replaced by the face of a man who knew he had been beaten on the field of battle. Then, he moved slowly and rigidly towards the door, quelling the rushing urges and fears of his heart, pushing past the others till when he reached the door he spoke, “Let’s go, there is nothing left for us to see here, and we must prepare to cross the line again. Do not speak of what you have seen here.”

So Ulrich railed his troops and burned the great wagon to the ground. They proceeded unimpeded to the point at which they were to return to the territory controlled by Irrkengrond. All this journey Ulrich spoke to no one of what transpired inside of the great wagon. When the day came, the cavalry of Irrkengrond once again broke the line of Kilkretha and Ulrich and his force crossed safely again into the lands of Irrkengrond.

When Ulrich returned, he immediately went to Devlos, and shared what had transpired on his mission. Devlos greatly concerned by Ulrich’s report called for the council to meet again. Thus, a week after Ulrich’s return, the king and his most trusted advisors met again in the war hall with Ulrich in their presence. He described all that occurred to him and upon the conclusion of Ulrich’s tale, Tara-ta-sata stood, turning away from the others.

“Do we have any indication of what she may mean when she says that you are to be the weapon?” inquired the king.

Ulrich, weary from his journey and his grief, spoke, voice tired, “No Lord. I do not know. I have told no one of what occurred, and those who were with me and witnessed it have been sworn to secrecy.”

“And we are confident that this was in fact the weapon?” questioned Tara-ta-sata

“Aye,” replied Ulrich, “we saw no evidence of any other weapon. And we found it late in our search. I doubt that we missed another weapon.”   

“Perhaps this is all some trick to sow mistrust among us?” posited Lady Moss, “She could simply seek to rob us of a skilled commander and warrior through mistrust.”

“Perhaps,” responded Devlos, “though it seems as though a great amount of effort and resources went into spreading the rumors and preparing the wagon. It seems more likely that it was a show of force, to breed in us fear because of the influence her lies and deceits hold over our decision-making. She has caused us to waste precious time and even sacrifice many days of marching for what is in the end a wild goose chase.”

At this, the room fell silent for a moment before Kertriss the Archmage spoke.

“Do we know what was in the glass?” the elf asked thoughtfully.

“As best I could tell the glass was empty, wise one,” answered Ulrich, “there was nothing that I could see in it and nothing spilled out of it when it was broken on the ground, nor was there any change to the smell of the room or of the feel of the air. As best I can tell nothing was in the jar.”

“It may be that the breaking of this jar marks Ulrich for some sort of ritual, and she has now set in motion some hideous sorcery. It may be wise if I examine him thoroughly to ensure that he is not an unwitting player in a magic that is not easily seen. I have never heard of a broken glass being used to mark someone for a spell like this but perhaps she has been creative as well as devious in her time away from the battlefield,” replied the Archmage, “It is a shame that you did not collect the glass and bring it back with you. It may hold some answers.”

“Aye, I have thought that as well,” said Ulrich, “But I fear I was somewhat shaken by the ordeal and it did not occur to me.”

Silence settled over the hall.

Tera-ta-sata turned back to the table and counselors.

“Will you submit to Kertriss’ request to be examined, Ulrich?” asked the king.

“I will,” said Ulrich, “May he find whatever best serves our purpose.”

But the investigations of Kertriss uncovered nothing. No trace of marking for some hideous ritual. No sign that Acretia sought to turn Ulrich’s mind. Nay, there was not even an indication that any physical harm or change had transpired upon his body. This greatly troubled the council for a time, but the demands of war soon turned their minds to other things and Ulrich himself returned to his duty. And though all who knew of what happened in the belly of Acretia’s fraudulent engine were sworn to secrecy, as before, rumors began to swirl.

“What happened on that strange mission that was so important all Irrkengrond’s defenses were rearranged to accommodate it?”

“What was the engine intended to do? Will another like it come?”

“What did Ulrich see inside? He would not tell anyone of what transpired inside. Perhaps he saw some horror that scared him.”

“The plans went so smoothly, perhaps the Lady of War intended for her engine to be destroyed.”

After two months, it seemed as though these rumors would die down until Ulrich took ill. At first, it was just fatigue, a step slower on the battlefield, and nights of restless sleep. But then came the fever. Coming and going at seemingly random times, Ulrich began to run a temperature and his mind would be filled with horrid visions: nights of war, the death of Aphnoss, and ramblings of the horror that was to come. Soon after, many of those who were close to Ulrich became ill and the disease began to spread throughout the army of Irrkengrond. With the disease came the rumors, revived by Ulrich’s illness, this Dreaming Fever. “This was the engine of Acretia!” spoke many in camps at the line. When knowledge came that it was Ulrich who first was ill, they changed still. “Our hero is going to be our doom! Wasn’t he the one who was sent to destroy the engine?” was the whisper around the campfires. No longer did cries of his name ring out in the battlefield. Rather the forces of Irrkengrond fell silent in their duties, and this silence pleased Acretia.

As the disease ran its course, Ulrich’s mind was more and more consumed in the waking nightmares of the fever and his body began to grow thin and distorted, as though some unseen beast gnawed at both his mind and his body. His vibrant blue and white feathers lost their sheen and fell out. Around this time many a human, elf, dwarf, astrugar, and dragonkin all began to die, though Ulrich himself held on, determined to see the war through to the end and return home. But still, the dead piled up, and as they did Acretia began to squeeze the forces of Irrkengrond. Riddled with the disease, they were forced to retreat to the great city, and Acretia besieged them.

Naught but a shell of himself, Ulrich, with the aid of Urstra, stood on the walls of Irrkengrond and sought in his lucid moments to aid in its defense. For weeks after the siege began he struggled, now a strange, thin contorted, featherless creature whose legs could not support him, and whose mind was reduced to a hollow shell of what it once was. Urstra was ever by his side in these days, building for him supports and crutches to help him stand. However, three months after the army of Acretia encircled the city Ulrich died, set free from the suffering of the Dreaming Fever.

And this was Acretia’s greatest victory. For in the manner of Ulrich’s death she not only took from Irrkengrond the man himself but also his memory, for forever Ulrich’s name would be associated with the horrid nightmares and decrepit ragged forms of Ulrich’s Fever. The hope he brought them had been utterly consumed.

As the siege of Irrkengrond continued, times grew increasingly dire for those within as the numbers of the sick and the dying grew. Even those of the royal palace were not beyond its grasp and Tera-ta-sata, king of the city, fell ill in the fifth month of the siege and saw hideous visions of Irrkengrond’s wall crumbling in fire. As he was already aged when he first became sick, he did not suffer long under its disease. And so the crown of Irrkengrond was passed to his son, Tem-sata-tan, who came of age in the war. He set about quickly organizing what had fallen into disrepair in his father’s brief illness. While others had not noticed or not sought to leverage the fact, Tera-ta-sata assigned the dwarves of Lady Moss to keep and run the defense of the city, for they were hardy folk, and it seemed that the dreaming fever did not overtake them as often or as quickly. He tasked Kertriss with finding some way to slow the horrid illness that slowly undid the city. But these measures only slowed what grew to seem ever more inevitable.