Chapter 7 - Part 3

Days passed by, and Monti found himself having to battle Iron Orphan one-on-one, pulling no punches as he trained. The hirelings that Cannith was willing to throw against the warforged just could not cut it anymore. The sparring between the warforged and the condemned man was interrupted by meditation and the occasional major repair or cure spell.

Monti’s curiosity never went away. The path of the monk involved finding one’s inner place, the very central section of the soul that was in touch with the rest of the universe. A monk was supposed to anticipate how his or her soul fit in with the universe at large. This allowed to monk anticipated and dodge attacks before they landed, to summon an inner strength would repel mental and physical attacks, and to use bare hands and feet to bypass all sorts of physical and magical defenses of an opponent. So far as Monti knew, it was impossible for a creature without a soul to do any of these things. But this warforged, this Iron Orphan, was doing all of them.

Monti began to engage the warforged in cautious chit-chat. He could not push too much, for he would give himself away should he do so. He also did not get much of a response, for the warforged seemed to have an intense hatred of him. But he tried nonetheless.

Olarune became Therendor, and winter began to relax its grip. Buds appeared on the trees, and the warforged began to beat Monti with regularity. The warforged let something slip about ‘programming’ after one particularly rigorous session when they were both being patched up. The artificer used up a whole bracer of potions on the warforged, and a dragonmarked member of House Jorasco had to be summoned to put several of Monti’s ribs back into place. When the warforged said that word a House Cannith member standing nearby flinched.

Monti suppressed a smile. It was either a new model of warforged or somehow House Cannith had learned how to transfer a person’s consciousness into a warforged body. This was very valuable information. Information that might make it worth someone’s while to hire a master herbalist and free Monti from his chemical chains.

He was not surprised to find Lo’Paih waiting for him in the main building’s conference room two nights later. He was surprised to see her present him with a bottle of his favorite Aundairian vintage. “Congratulations,” he said, waving a gauntleted hand at the bottle. “You’ve done far more than we expected.”

“Thank you, my lovely,” he said, allowing himself to leer over her armored curves. “So aside from the bottle, what else have you for me?”

“A promotion,” she said. “We’re taking Iron Orphan away soon, but we’ll have more units for you to train. And more rewards. House Cannith is very pleased with you.”

He walked past her to the bottle, and uncorked it. The wine was chilled, and a mist rose up from the neck. It smelled delightful, lively even. He smiled as he stared into the liquid. He had spent years deducing where an attack was coming from. He could smell a feint a mile away. “I’m not going to drink this, Lo’Paih,” he said. “I’m not stupid. I must admit that it is a more pleasant death than having the antidote withheld, but I’m already ahead of you. I have some very interesting information about your warforged sitting with a courier outside of this manor. So let’s talk about my rewards, eh?”

“I know that it is difficult to lie to you,” Lo’Paih said. Her voice sounded strangely muffled. He whirled around, surprised to see an alchemical filter mask over her face. “And I was told that you would not believe me.” He took a step towards her, but his feet were leaden, his mind clouded. “So,” she said, backing up out of caution. “I made sure that the poison was in the trapped air of the bottle, not relying on the spiked wine. It’s actually a compound of the nerve-degenerating substance that you are addicted to, so it works very well on you, and not so well on others.”

“You – you –” he gasped, crashing to his knees. Everything in his body seemed to not want to work properly.

“But I do not believe you either,” she said, her voice sounding very distant to his ears. “Your movements have always been closely monitored. Your talk of a courier is just that – talk.” All sight left him, and the blackness was a real thing that made him feel cold. “Your time is up, child of the Mockery,” she said. “Be thankful we granted you a civilized death such as this one.”

His heart stopped, and he knew no more.