Chapter 11: The Screaming Winds and the Spectral Guardians
The decision to leave Ser Desmond Grell to oversee the "integration of Hilltop Cross and the meticulous maintenance of Lord Tully's peace" was met with an earnest, if slightly bewildered, acceptance by the young knight. He clearly felt the weight of responsibility, though Ainz suspected he was also somewhat relieved to be away from the more overtly supernatural undertakings of Lord Elian and his unnervingly capable advisor.
Under the guise of a detailed survey of House Hollow's northernmost (and largely imaginary) territorial claims, Ainz and Sebas departed Greywater Keep. They traveled light, just two figures on horseback, their supplies meager but sufficient. Nyx, Demiurge's unseen shadow, observed their departure, noting their small party size and the north-easterly direction of their travel. Her report, relayed via the obsidian shard, reached Harrenhal swiftly.
Ainz, clad in simple but durable traveler's clothes, the obsidian amulet a comforting weight beneath his tunic, felt a sense of liberation being away from the constant need to maintain the Elian Hollow persona for a wider audience. With only Sebas for company, he could speak more freely, plan more openly.
Days earlier, on a desolate stretch of coastline where the Trident's delta bled into the Bite…
Albedo's skeletal mages returned from their swift, brutal reconnaissance of the nearby fishing hamlets with gratifying speed. One of them presented a trembling, wide-eyed fisherman, his face a mask of pure terror. The skeletal mage, its voice a dry, rasping whisper that promised oblivion, had "persuaded" him to share all he knew.
"Speak, human," Albedo commanded, her voice a silken purr that did little to soothe the fisherman's abject fear. She had established a temporary, heavily warded command post within the crumbling ruins of an ancient coastal watchtower, her death knight sentinels standing like obsidian statues at its perimeter.
The fisherman, prodded by a skeletal finger, babbled incoherently at first, then words tumbled out – tales of the Riverlands, of the recent war, and then, more pertinently, of strange happenings further inland. He spoke of a place called Greywater Keep, a previously insignificant holdfast, now ruled by a young lord, Elian Hollow, who was said to possess strange powers. This boy-lord, the fisherman stammered, had slain a monstrous beast from the Blackmorass, a creature whose skull was larger than a longship's prow. And he was always accompanied by an ancient, wise advisor, a 'Master Tian,' who some whispered was an undying sage or a sorcerer in disguise.
Albedo listened, her golden eyes blazing with an almost painful intensity. Greywater Keep. Elian Hollow. A powerful young lord with an unnervingly capable elderly advisor. It had to be him. Her Ainz-sama, in a new guise, with Sebas Tian at his side. The description of the advisor, his quiet wisdom and implied power, matched Sebas perfectly.
A radiant, possessive smile stretched her lips. "Excellent," she breathed. "You have proven… useful, human." She gestured dismissively, and the skeletal mage dragged the still-babbling fisherman away, his fate uncertain but likely unpleasant if he ever spoke of what he had seen.
"Prepare to move inland!" Albedo commanded her undead retinue. The death knights stamped their hooves, their balefire eyes flaring. The skeletal mages bowed in unison. "We march for this Greywater Keep. My Lord Ainz awaits, and his most devoted servant will not keep him waiting longer than necessary." She briefly considered sending a swift, magically summoned aerial scout to pinpoint their exact location, but her desire to manage her own grand entrance, and to ensure Ainz-sama was not alarmed by an unannounced demonic beast appearing overhead, made her opt for a more… stately, if still rapid, advance. She would arrive, and all would know the glory of Nazarick had come to this world.
Demiurge, from his shadowy seat in Harrenhal, processed Nyx's latest report: Lord Hollow and 'Tian' had departed Greywater Keep, heading north-east, leaving the Tully knight behind. This was a significant development.
"So, the master and his butler venture forth alone," Demiurge mused, tapping a clawed finger on the ancient stone. "Towards the mountains, perhaps? Seeking something? Or merely creating an opportunity for me to probe their defenses further?" He reviewed Nyx's previous report – her infiltration attempt, her near capture, her assessment of 'Tian's' formidable capabilities. It was now almost certain that 'Tian' was Sebas Tian. A being of considerable power, a loyal servant of Lord Ainz, and a significant obstacle to casual observation.
Demiurge's smile was a chilling thing. An opportunity indeed. With Lord Ainz and Sebas away from Greywater, the keep itself was vulnerable to closer scrutiny. And Ser Desmond Grell, the earnest Tully knight, might prove an unwitting source of valuable information.
"Nyx," he transmitted via the communication shard, "Lord Hollow's absence is a gift. Shift your focus. Cultivate Ser Desmond Grell. Learn his temperament, his loyalties, his knowledge of Hollow and Tian. Discover what tasks he has been set. He may be a key to understanding Lord Ainz's current strategies without risking direct confrontation with Sebas Tian." He also made a mental note to accelerate his plans for a more… direct form of observation should Nyx's efforts with the Tully knight prove insufficient.
The journey into the Whispering Peaks was arduous. Ainz and Sebas left the relative familiarity of the Riverlands behind, venturing into rugged, broken hill country that gradually rose towards the jagged, snow-capped silhouette of the Mountains of the Moon. The air grew colder, the winds keener, and the signs of human habitation scarcer. The obsidian amulet around Ainz's neck pulsed with a steady, insistent rhythm, its faint glow a comforting presence, guiding them along the invisible ley line.
They encountered wildlife aplenty. Packs of gaunt shadowcats, their coats the color of twilight, stalked them from rocky outcrops. Ainz, reveling in his significantly expanded mana pool, dealt with them with contemptuous ease. A [Fireball] spell, no longer needing to be maximized to be effective against such lesser threats, would scatter a pack, while targeted [Magic Arrows], imbued with a touch of negative energy, dispatched any that dared to press their attack. Sebas, ever the vigilant protector, handled any stragglers with swift, almost invisible movements, his simple walking staff a blur.
Further into the hills, they were ambushed by a colony of enormous, crag-dwelling spiders, their fangs dripping with venom. Ainz, remembering their chitinous exoskeletons, opted for a wider area-of-effect spell. "[Acid Spray]!" he incanted, a YGGDRASIL 2nd-tier spell he hadn't used in centuries. A cone of corrosive green acid erupted from his hands, dissolving the monstrous arachnids into sizzling, bubbling ruin. The souls he absorbed from these encounters were less potent than the Blackmorass guardian, but they were numerous, each kill adding another small increment to his ever-growing power.
"Your control improves with each passing day, my Lord," Sebas observed one evening as they made camp in a sheltered ravine. "And your mana capacity… it feels significantly more robust than when I first found you."
Ainz nodded, looking at his youthful hands. "This body adapts quickly. And this world's system of soul-based mana growth, while grim, is undeniably effective." He flexed his fingers. "I believe I could now cast some of my 4th-tier spells, perhaps even a few weaker 5th-tier, if the need were truly desperate. Though my repertoire is still limited without my staff or access to Nazarick's libraries." He paused. "The true challenge is not merely accumulating power, Sebas, but understanding the nuances of this world's magic. The amulet, the standing stones… they resonate with something primal, something different from YGGDRASIL's structured system."
Back at Greywater Keep, Ser Desmond Grell was finding his new responsibilities… unexpectedly engaging. Lord Elian had tasked him with overseeing the integration of Hilltop Cross, the newly vassalized hamlet, and ensuring the smooth administration of justice and defense in the rapidly expanding (albeit still tiny) Hollow lands. He spent his days riding between Greywater, Oakhaven, and Hilltop Cross, listening to petitioners, settling minor disputes, and attempting to instill some semblance of Tully discipline into the local levies.
He was surprised by the quiet competence he found. Old Tom, the steward, though set in his ways, managed Greywater's meager resources with a canny wisdom. Maester Hannis, though often flustered, was diligent in his duties. And Hal and Timms, Lord Elian's primary men-at-arms, displayed a surprising degree of tactical acumen and discipline, especially when drilling the new recruits from the vassal villages. 'Master Tian's' training had clearly taken root.
One afternoon, a band of desperate, starving brigands, remnants of some broken company from the Rebellion, attempted a raid on Oakhaven, perhaps thinking it an easy target with its lord away. Hal and Timms, leading a combined force of Greywater guards and Oakhaven militia, met them at the village perimeter. Ser Desmond, who happened to be visiting Oakhaven that day, found himself drawn into the fray. He fought bravely, his Tully training evident, but he was astonished by the ferocity and coordination of Hal and Timms' defense. They used flanking maneuvers, feigned retreats, and concentrated volley fire with their shortbows – tactics far more sophisticated than he would have expected from such rustic soldiers. The bandits were repulsed, leaving several of their number dead, their desperate raid a bloody failure.
Ser Desmond, wiping sweat and grime from his face, looked at Hal and Timms with newfound respect. "You fought well," he admitted. "Master Tian has taught you more than just spear drills, it seems."
Hal, his chest swelling with pride, just grinned. "Lord Elian and Master Tian expect the best from us, ser. We aim to provide."
Later that week, Nyx made her carefully orchestrated "chance" encounter. Ser Desmond was visiting a small market in a village a few leagues from Greywater, assessing grain prices for Tom, when a young woman, dressed as a traveling minstrel with a lute slung over her shoulder, her elven heritage subtly hinted at by the delicate curve of her ears, approached him. She introduced herself as 'Lyra,' her voice soft and melodic. She spoke of her travels, of the hardships faced by common folk, and skillfully drew Ser Desmond into conversation.
Nyx found him to be earnest, deeply loyal to House Tully, and somewhat overwhelmed by his current assignment. He spoke with a mixture of awe and trepidation about Lord Elian's "strange powers" and Master Tian's "profound wisdom and hidden strengths." He clearly believed them to be forces for good, if profoundly enigmatic ones. Nyx stored this information, her assessment of the Tully knight solidifying. He was not a threat, perhaps even a potential, unwitting pawn, if approached correctly. Her report to Demiurge would be detailed.
Days into their expedition, following the insistent thrum of the obsidian amulet, Ainz and Sebas arrived at their destination: a desolate, wind-scoured tor that rose from the broken hills like a clenched fist. The wind howled around its peak, a constant, mournful cry that seemed to carry voices on its currents – the 'Hill of Screaming Winds,' as local legend named it.
"This is the place," Ainz said, his voice barely audible above the gale. The amulet was blazing with an inner light now, its warmth spreading through his chest. "The ley line terminates here."
They tethered their horses in a sheltered spot at the base of the hill and began the ascent. The ground was littered with jagged rocks, like the broken teeth of some colossal beast. As they neared the summit, the wind intensified, tearing at their cloaks, its cries sounding almost like words of warning, or perhaps lament.
Atop the windswept hill, they found what they were seeking: another circle of standing stones, older and more weathered than those in the Blackmorass. Several had toppled, their surfaces scarred by centuries of exposure. In the center of the circle was a large, crumbling stone cairn, unmistakably a First Men burial mound, its presence exuding an aura of immense antiquity and sorrowful power.
As Ainz stepped into the stone circle, the obsidian amulet flared brilliantly. The wind around them seemed to coalesce, the mournful cries sharpening into distinct, guttural shrieks of rage. From the very air around the central cairn, and seemingly from the stones themselves, spectral figures began to materialize – tall, gaunt warriors clad in archaic bronze armor and ragged furs, their eyes burning with a cold, ethereal light. They wielded ghostly spears and axes, their forms translucent yet radiating an intense, life-draining chill.
"Ancient guardians," Sebas murmured, stepping protectively before Ainz, his hands instinctively moving into a defensive posture. "Spirits of the First Men, bound to this barrow."
There were at least a dozen of them, their spectral forms solidifying, their chilling cries echoing in the howling wind. They fixed their baleful gaze on Ainz and Sebas, clearly perceiving them as intruders, defilers of their sacred resting place.
"They are not truly alive, Sebas," Ainz observed, his mind racing. His negative energy affinity often healed undead, but these were spirits, ethereal beings. "Physical attacks may be less effective. Their weapons… they carry a necromantic chill."
Indeed, as the first spectral warrior lunged, its ghostly spear passed harmlessly through Sebas's hastily raised arm – yet Sebas flinched as a wave of icy coldness washed over him, a tangible drain on his vitality.
"Their touch drains life force, my Lord," Sebas reported, his expression grim. "And they are insubstantial."
Ainz nodded. This was a different kind of battle, one that brute force alone would not win. His vast knowledge of YGGDRASIL magic, however, offered numerous solutions for dealing with ethereal and spiritual foes.
"Then we shall fight them on their own terms," Ainz declared, a grim smile touching his youthful lips. He raised a hand, his own aura of negative energy flaring, a dark counterpoint to the ghostly light of the First Men spirits. "[Turn Undead]!"
It was a gamble. In YGGDRASIL, Turn Undead was effective against lower-level mindless undead. These spirits felt ancient, powerful, and certainly not mindless. But perhaps the fundamental principles would apply, or his sheer power as an Overlord, even in this diminished form, would overwhelm them. The power of faith, even a dark one, against ancient spiritual guardians. This would be a true test.