by Drew Hayes
“Holdram?” Elora took a single step forward, squinting as though she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing. “Is that you?”
“My goodness, Elora?” The man, Holdram, gave a thin smile. “Why, it’s been decades. What on earth are you doing breaking into my humble little base?”
“I trailed your friend here back after he met with the mercs you’ve got beating up on some minions.” She nodded to the other man, who wore a long dark cloak and had stayed silent thus far. “Which is work that should have gone through us, as you damn well know.”
“Come now, did you really want me to pester the shadows with something as trivial as the roughing up of a few of Grumble’s more devoted?” The smile became deeper, more animalistic. “I assumed you’d all have more important things to deal with.”
“If we did, we’d pass, but you tried to cut us out entirely,” Elora said, taking another step closer. “So maybe you’ve got some—”
Everything happened so fast that Eric’s eyes could barely track it. There was a small flicker of motion from the silent man in the cloak as he pulled forth a strange weapon, like a crossbow bottom with a long tube strapped to the top. Eric had been so focused on Holdram that by the time he looked at the cloaked man, it was already too late to move. Holdram had succeeded in drawing almost everyone’s attention to him, giving his partner an opening. Only one person seemed to have kept an eye trained on the silent man, and he was the one who reacted as the weapon began to rise.
Timuscor raced forward, successfully raising his shield and planting himself between Elora and the cloaked man just before the attack came. A boom filled the air as something shot out from the odd weapon, followed by a loud clank at it struck Timuscor’s shield. Relief started to flood Eric’s mind at the near-miss until he caught sight of the horrible vision in front of them.
Something like a crossbow bolt, but thick as a small wooden beam, had hit Timuscor’s shield. No, it had gone through the shield, and the armor, and the body, and then the armor on the other side. The sharpened metal head of it was sticking out from Timuscor’s back, the dark stain of his blood coating the metal surface.
Wordlessly, Timuscor fell forward and collapsed on the ground.
Chapter 32
The… hell?
The hell?
The hell?
Elora stared in shock as Timuscor’s limp body fell. She could hear the others yelling. Thistle rushed to the knight’s side, no doubt to patch the wound that should have turned Timuscor into a corpse. Holdram’s minion had been keeping a mini-ballista under his cloak, which no one could have expected. Those things were so expensive to enchant, even Elora rarely saw them outside of massive operations. Timuscor couldn’t have known what was coming, what he was stepping in front of. Surely he’d expected the ranged projectile to bounce harmlessly off his shield, or at worst, to drive him back a few feet. It wasn’t like he’d knowingly laid down his life for her.
Except that none of those rational thoughts mitigated the sharp ringing in Elora’s ears, or the furious pounding of her heart. With exceptional effort, she forced her gaze from the fallen knight, looking instead at Holdram, the man who had once been her student.
He was still smiling. No, his grin was even wider now, as though he were proud of the accomplishment. Catching her eye, he gave a small nod and called out, “You’ve brought some exceptionally loyal pawns in tow this time.”
“That shot was aimed for me,” Elora said. “Just like that, you try to take me out?”
“We both know you’d have dodged it, although not unscathed,” Holdram replied. “I saw an opportunity to weaken you or take one of your pawns entirely off the board, so I did what any good rogue would do: I seized it.”
Next to him, the man in the cloak had yanked out another massive bolt and was trying to load it into the weapon. Mini-ballistas might have exceptional stopping power, but they were bastards to reload. Which gave her team... er, the others, a window to move.
“Thistle, tend to Timuscor. Everyone else, kill the guy in the cloak.” Elora twirled her daggers once, taking some measure of comfort in their weight resting against her palms. “Leave Holdram to me.”
She didn’t bother to wait and see if they obeyed her directions; their bloodlust was palpable as they stared at their wounded friend. All they’d needed was someone to give them guidance, permission to let it out. Within five steps, she heard Gabrielle’s screech of rage tear through the air, followed by the sounds of everyone—save for Thistle—beginning to charge.
To her surprise, a figure appeared at her side, managing to keep up despite the swift speed of her elven legs. Mr. Peppers was running right alongside her, tusks lowered as the boar barreled toward Holdram, no doubt intent on taking vengeance for his owner. Why Timuscor’s pig was attacking the one who pulled the strings instead of the one who pulled the trigger was curious, but Elora put it out of her mind. She needed her focus for the battle to come, and there was no sense in questioning why she’d been given help.
Despite her brave words, Elora wasn’t entirely sure how she’d fare against Holdram. As a rogue, he’d been lacking at the finer arts. He never quite disappeared into the shadows; the locks he picked always left telltale scratches. But in terms of martial ability, he was among the best she’d seen, let alone trained, and for someone who measured her lifespan in centuries, that was saying something.
Which was why she was the only one who might be a match for him. Elora had sparred with Holdram countless times; she knew his moves, his tactics, and—she hoped—his weaknesses. Oddly, the idea of fleeing or trying to bargain didn’t even enter her mind. It should have, though. They had history. Favors could be called in, cards could be played. If she’d really thought about it, Elora could have secured safe passage for herself, albeit not anyone else. That idea refused to come, however. It was being blocked by some part of her mind.
Some part shaped like a steadily bleeding knight upon the ground.
* * *
Timuscor had brushed against death before. He’d been wounded in the assault on an ogre outpost back when he was traveling with his old group, during that strange time he could never fully recall. He’d thought he was meeting his end when Eric pressed the Bridge to his chest—although that time, he couldn’t have been further from the truth. He’d faced the end willingly in the hidden temple in a mountain outside Briarwillow, only to be saved by an unknown force.
This wasn’t like any of those times. Then, there had been pain, and fear, and the sense that something he was clinging to had started to slip out of his grip. As the massive bolt pierced his stomach, Timuscor experienced all those sensations in a flash, but by the time his vision faded into darkness, he’d found that the only thing left within him was peace. It had been a hard life, a strange life, and one he might have liked to see stretch on longer. But his end had been swift, and though he’d moved almost without thinking, his instincts had put him between someone the party needed and death. As a man who’d dreamed of and chased the mantle of paladin, it was as good a death as he could have possibly hoped for.
Death is not the price for a paladin.
Timuscor blinked, suddenly aware that he felt his body once more. No, that wasn’t right. This was not his body, standing on a dark, foggy road. His body was lying on the ground, back where the others were no doubt fighting for their lives. Timuscor’s spider web of peace was suddenly ripped apart as his awareness came rushing back. They needed him; those enemies had been far too strong to handle with one of their own down. Worse, it would be two, because Thistle was no doubt working to try and save him. There was no time for strange voices or mist-covered dreams.
“Grumble!” Timuscor yelled, sweeping the landscape for any sign of a kobold. “The others have told me of seeing you in their dreams, so I must assume that’s what this is. Please, send me back; give Thistle the power he needs. When the battle is over, I will freely return, if you so demand it. Just let me see them to safety first.”
The voice was like the fog, shapeless, coming from every direction at once. Though Timuscor’s eyes searched all about, he could see nothing but empty road and creeping mist.
“Then who has brought me here? And are you able to send me back?”
No name you would know. No temple you have entered. I am ancient and buried, but not yet forgotten.
“Tell me what you want. What price you’d ask of me in exchange for the opportunity to help my friends.” Timuscor had stopped yelling; now, his voice was barely louder than a whisper. There was no sense of dread or fear, despite the unwelcoming scenery. It was unlike when he’d seen the priest calling upon Kalzidar’s wicked magic. This place felt strange, yes, but more distant than foreboding… as though he were standing somewhere that stretched back through history, bearing witness to more than he could fathom.
No deals. No price. They will save you, or they will not.
“If you can do nothing, then why have you brought me here at all?” Timuscor demanded.
Because you have potential. But you are mistaken. You believe that paladins are defined by their deaths, that falling in service is the inevitable price of donning the mantle.
“To be a paladin is to lay one’s life down for the greater good,” Timuscor said, raising his voice once more.
An aspect: nothing more. When you grasp the true price for a paladin, seek me out. It may be that not all have given up on one who lacks the heart of a servant.
“So, I will survive?”
That is in the hands of those you trust.
“If I do live, then how am I to tell you once I know the answer to your riddle?” Timuscor asked. Strange as it was, he couldn’t ignore the carrot that had just been dangled before him.
Once you grasp the price for a paladin, merely whisper it to my herald. He will guide you from there.
Timuscor would have asked more, so very much more, but he was stricken speechless by the sudden burst of pain in his chest. He fell to the ground, choking on the thick mist. The pain grew worse and worse, as did his coughing, until it wasn’t the fog he was choking on anymore.
It was his own blood.
The room around him snapped into view as Timuscor’s blurry eyes began to focus. Thistle was standing over him, sweat dripping down the gnome’s face as the last flickers of light faded from his hands. Gingerly, Timuscor pressed his hand to his stomach, exposed thanks to the gaping hole that was now in his armor. His hand came away bloody, but it seemed the giant projectile was no longer embedded in his flesh, which was a marked improvement from how it had been when he lost consciousness.
“Couldn’t... couldn’t get it all,” Thistle panted, visibly staggering on his feet. “Had just enough to get you stable.”
No, he hadn’t; Timuscor could see that clearly. Thistle had pushed himself well beyond his limits, drawing in more divine energy than he was able to handle. Forcing magic through willpower wasn’t unheard of, but it was difficult and always came with a heavy toll. As Timuscor tried to rise, he found his legs protesting. It was all he could manage to sit up.
“You need to... rest…” That was all Thistle managed before he fell forward, caught only by Timuscor’s quick hands. With no other options, Timuscor groped around until he found his sword, then pulled the gnome in close. If the others failed in their battle, there was little chance an injured knight could protect an unconscious paladin.
But he would still try, all the same.
* * *
It was like trying to hit a snake, one that had slithered up from a slimy pit, one with scales that made everything slide right off. Furious as Gabrielle was—and there was no shortage of anger to fuel her, in spite of her weariness mere moments before—the damned man in the cloak always seems to be a hair out of reach of her axe’s blade. Even with the combined efforts of herself, Grumph, and Eric, he managed to avoid them, resorting to parrying with one of his short swords only rarely.
He’d dropped the ranged weapon as soon as they’d charged, but their enemy was no slouch at melee combat, handling a pair of swords as easily as daggers. They had some sort of enchantment on them, too, that much had been made clear when he sliced through Gabrielle’s armor as easily as cloth. Sturdy as demon-hide was, it offered her little protection from those speedy blades. Grumph had fallen a few steps back, his own strikes slowed by his wound. Against a normal enemy, this was an inconvenience. But one mistake against this one, and it might cost Grumph a limb, if not his life. None of them could count on healing, either. It would take everything Thistle could manage to pull Timuscor out of Death’s grasping fingers.
Bad as their fight was, some part of Gabrielle, buried beneath the rage, was thankful they hadn’t tried to attack Holdram. Every now and then, she would catch sight of him battling with Elora, both of them trading strikes so quickly that it was all Gabrielle could do to follow even a fraction of their movements. Not that she could stare for long, as even a second’s distraction invited attacks from the cloaked man.
As she slid out of the way, barely dodging yet another attack, saved only by the fact that Eric took a swipe at their opponent’s back to split his attention, Gabrielle heard Grumph muttering under his breath. She’d known he was going to cast something—he wouldn’t simply bow out of a battle because of an injury—but she dearly hoped it would be something guaranteed to hit. If he wasted mana on a ranged blast, there was a good chance it would be dodged, or that it would even strike her or Eric. She’d have happily taken the blow if it meant wounding their enemy, but if either she or Eric was distracted for so much as even a moment, he’d almost certainly seize the opportunity.
Grumph’s words were getting faster; the power around him actually made the hair on the back of Gabrielle’s neck stand on end. Something was coming, and it was going to be a doozy. Gabrielle tried to ready herself, preparing to dodge if he called for it, yet she was still taken by surprise when Grumph’s meaty hand pressed against her back. The final verse of his spell was muttered, followed by a series of rapid, half-panted words.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I have to leave it to you.”
Then Grumph pulled away, making it a few steps before falling to his knees. Gabrielle barely noticed; she was too distracted by the sudden surge of power flowing into her. Every muscle in her tired body was flooded with energy, with strength. More than her rage had offered, more than her enchanted axe had provided, more than she’d ever experienced in her life.
She knew this spell; she’d seen Grumph cast it in the mage trial. He’d turned his mana into raw physical power, and then infused her with every bit of it. The magic wouldn’t last long, but while it did, she was stronger than she’d ever been before. Her grip on the axe grew so tight she actually heard the thing creak, enchanted durability be damned. With a long breath to get her bearings and some sense of the force flowing through her veins, she trained her eyes on the cloaked man trying to skewer Eric.
One hit would do it. That was all she needed. One hit before the spell ended, no matter what it cost.
Chapter 33
In spite of what little hope Elora had been clinging to, it seemed Holdram hadn’t slacked in his training since they’d last seen each other. That damned blade of his was as fast as ever, moving like a blur through the air. It certainly didn’t hurt that he’d traded up in terms of gear, either. The rapier was all but glowing with enchantments, and despite seeming to be made of leather, his armor deflected all save for the most direct of her blows—no small feat given the amount of magic on her own daggers. Mr. Peppers, brave as he was, couldn’t even land a single goring tusk, not that they would have broken through if he had. As it stood, the only thing keeping Timuscor’s boar alive was the fact that Elora would strike in the seconds Holdram would need to kill it, and her former student was too smart to give her the opening.
From the corner of her eye—which was all the attention she dared spare for the others, with Holdram pr
essing his attacks—Elora noticed Grumph wobble and collapse. She dearly hoped he’d managed to cast something useful before falling. If they couldn’t handle Holdram’s lackey, she was done for. Keeping Holdram at bay took everything she had; one more fighter in the equation and there would be nothing left of her but chunks of bloody elf.
“Why in all the hells are you doing this?” Elora spat, fury and frustration cracking through her normally carefree facade as she swung her daggers through suddenly empty air yet again. “You were trained by the shadows of Camnarael; there was never a need to go around us.”
“Need? It isn’t need that drives a rogue, Elora. It’s greed.” Holdram’s verbal counter was paired with a physical one as he thrusted forward, capitalizing on her miss and nearly driving the tip of his rapier through her leg. “Your people have done well for a long time, but change is inevitable. It’s time for someone new to step in, someone who’s not afraid to shake things up. Someone who can really squeeze that city for every last copper it has.”
Elora darted back, narrowly avoiding his follow-up attack. “That’s it? You decided to oust the people who trained you, who taught you what it meant to be a rogue, just because you thought you could?”
“I thought you would understand. You’re the one who showed me what it was to be a rogue, after all. Heartless, merciless, loyal only to whomever was currently paying the most coin.” Holdram took a short step away, readying his stance for another series of strikes.
“You took the wrong lessons,” Elora said, backing away as well. She needed room to work, to think. Holdram was a better fighter than she; there was no question of that.
But she was still the better rogue.
“Perhaps you merely didn’t realize what you were teaching.” Holdram’s voice was excited, half-mad with joy. If she didn’t know better, Elora would have sworn he’d been hoping for the opportunity to speak with her. “I know I am in the right. After all, the very thing that brought you here was an extension of Tristan’s will. I’ve been chosen, Elora. He’s come to me in my dreams, asked me to do his bidding. There is much work ahead. Scaring the minions away from that temple is less than a drop in the sea of what’s to come. Killing them would start a war, but with fear, we can empty the place of faith and take the artifact inside. Once we have the funds from that, Camnarael is as good as mine. I am sorry it had to be this way, Teacher. I’d offer you a place at my side, but we both know you can’t be trusted. Although, if you kill your pawns as a show of loyalty, I may at least consider it.”
