The Sting of Victory

by S D Simper

  In one arm, he cradled Etolié, and with the other he held Flowridia to his side. As they passed the other side of the carriage, she saw that her worst fears had come to pass. All the guards – all eight – lay dead and mutilated on the ground.

  No sign of Sora, however. Flowridia prayed the half-elf found help quickly.

  They walked, surrounded by a sea of dwarves, but Flowridia dared to speak. “Will she live?” she asked Thalmus, and the half-giant nodded.

  “If I could remove the arrows from her back, she would be more comfortable. But Celestials are sturdier than they look.”

  Flowridia realized Etolié watched her. The Celestial smiled. “Don’t worry, Flowers. Worst that can happen is I party with the acolytes for the rest of eternity.”

  The dark humor caused Flowridia’s head to grow light. Tears prickled at her eyes, and she clutched Thalmus’ shirt in her hand.

  Skalmite mounds lay scattered across the scenery, growing dense in frequency as their group walked. Each mound was dotted with holes large enough for a dwarf to pass through with ease. Dwarves historically were underground dwellers, making homes of elaborate stone fortresses and simple burrows in the ground. Flowridia had never seen them, but it was well-known, and she wondered what interest they would have in grand, dirt towers.

  Ahead, one structure jutted out far higher than the rest. Rising hundreds of feet into the air, the main entrance looked capable of accommodating even Thalmus with ease; two of him, even, one stacked upon the other. Full rings circled the odd structure. She wondered if it extended as far down as it did up.

  At the base of the structure, a large encampment awaited them. Fires burned, even in the midday heat, and dwarves rushed between tents. All of them carried similar, painful sunburns. As underground dwellers, the sun didn’t treat their pale skin with any kindness. But the brutality of it was unlike anything she had ever seen – raw blisters and peeling, angry burns coated every inch of exposed skin.

  It was said Sol Kareena’s light would burn those who lost her favor. Flowridia wondered what they had done.

  Centered in the camp, there stood a cage filled with odd creatures, ones Flowridia had never seen. Standing as tall as she, they resembled vibrantly green insects, with skittering claws and enormous, bulging diamond eyes. They languished in the bright sunlight, most of them collapsed onto the ground.

  Skalmites, Flowridia reasoned. Creatures not meant for this realm, or for the sun. With their insect-like physiques, she was reminded that there were bugs who chewed and spat. Perhaps this was how they had assembled the enormous towers.

  They were stopped before a particularly large tent. A squat, muscular dwarf met them at the front, a parasol in hand. Perhaps stolen from an unfortunate traveler, it held a floral pattern, an odd juxtaposition to his leather armor and scarred skin. Flowridia, however, wouldn’t have dared to comment on the dainty accessory, for fear of him ripping her lips from her face.

  He surveyed their group, his large eyes settling on Flowridia. “They tell me you’re the envoy from Staelash.”

  “Yes,” Flowridia replied, holding tight to Thalmus. “We were on our way to Tholheim but your people-”

  “Did exactly what I asked them to.” The man stepped closer, his head not quite reaching her chest. “Which of you is Queen Marielle?”

  Etolié looked out weakly, but Flowridia realized she was in no position to negotiate. Desperation fostered her courage, and she said, “I am Queen Marielle.” Standing tall, she trembled as she stared. “Why did you attack my companions?”

  “I sent for you. Don’t you think I can forge my father’s signature? I am Prince Falrir of Tholheim.”

  Whatever trap Flowridia had anticipated, this hadn’t been it.

  “We’ll make this simple,” Prince Falrir continued, studying her form. Flowridia’s grip on Thalmus’ shirt grew tighter, uncomfortable under the scrutinizing view. “Where’s your orb?”

  “My orb?”

  “Queen Marielle always carries an orb in her breasts. You have no room to hide anything in those peaches of yours. Where is it?”

  His crass choice of words unsettled her. When Thalmus pressed her closer to his side, she knew she wasn’t the only one. “I don’t often travel with it.”

  The Prince of Tholheim stared at her a full three seconds, his eyebrow furrowing, before barking out an order. “Tie them up!”

  “Wait!” Flowridia cried, but her words meant nothing. Rough hands began to pull at her, ripping her away from Thalmus. “Do what you will, but let us heal my companion, please!”

  “Who is she?”

  “Magister Etolié, Chosen of Eionei-”

  Scarcely had the words left her mouth before the prince cried, “Stop!” The dwarves immediately stepped away, unhanding Flowridia and the rest. “Eionei?”

  Flowridia gave a quick nod.

  “Chosen of the Drinking God?”

  This time, Etolié managed to give a quick wave. Thalmus helped her sit up and face Prince Falrir. “And granddaughter, technically,” Etolié said weakly. “Not for much longer if I keep bleeding out, though.”

  “Set her down! Give this woman some help!”

  Thalmus watched them closely as he set Etolié on the ground. For the first time, Flowridia saw the wounds ravaging her body – her shoulder had become a bloodied mess, the fabric of her borrowed gown drenched in gore. Arrows embedded in her back added to the ravaged mess, and her wings, fully visible, hung limp and lacked their lustrous glow. The delicate skin, entirely translucent, had torn, puncture wounds leaving them ruined.

  Had she been a mere mortal, Flowridia held no doubt she would have bled out.

  When the dwarves tried to approach, Thalmus raised a hand to bat them away. “Leave her to me,” he warned and plucked the offered rolls of bandages from their hands and proceeded to stop the wounds himself, ignoring the Celestial blood staining his arms.

  As he worked, Flowridia turned to Prince Falrir. “What do you want from us?”

  “A trade,” he replied. “I’ll forge a letter for you to sign. Your kingdom sends the orb, and we return their queen. Your kingdom sends the orb and a generous sampling of Etolié’s personal brew, and we return their queen unspoiled.”

  “And what use have you for an orb?” Flowridia asked, not daring to contemplate what ‘unspoiled’ might mean.

  “A gift for our God,” Falrir said, and he gestured to the enormous dirt mound. “And we’re promised a great reward.”

  Flowridia stared up at the colossal cave entrance, where no light seemed capable of breaching. “What’s in there?”

  “There’s an artifact that would fetch a high price, but these bug bastards are protecting the damn thing. Our God has sworn to give us this and more in exchange for the orb.”

  Demitri shuffled fitfully in her arms. Flowridia adjusted her protective hold. “Who is your god?”

  “You’re a poor negotiator to be asking so many questions.”

  Bruised at the slight, she dared to follow when he returned to the entrance of his tent. “One more question, then, from the poor negotiator. What use has a god for an orb? Gods have no physical forms to wield them.”

  “The true Gods of this world have every use for them.” The prince turned, and Flowridia followed his gaze to the Celestial lying on the ground. Blood-soaked bandages staunched the wounds littering her body. “These are our honored guests,” his voice boomed. “And with the promise of ale, we’ll be treating them kindly, you hear?” He turned to Flowridia, any good humor draining from his face. “If any of you try to run, we won’t hesitate to roast the rest of you on a spit.”

  Flowridia barely managed a nod before the prince disappeared into his tent.

  She nearly collapsed at Thalmus’ side. He kept his focus on Etolié, but he leaned into her touch. “I overheard,” he whispered.

  “Something’s going on. Something bigger than merely us.”

  Blood stained Thalmus’ arms and hands as he pulled them away
from Etolié’s form. The Celestial stared up at them weakly and smiled. “Don’t worry, Flowers,” Etolié managed, though she cringed when she inhaled a pained breath. “Staelash will pay through the nose to keep us.” Etolié sat up, though not without a whimper and Thalmus’ hand on her back. “And if any of us can get more information from them,” Etolié struggled to say, “I have the best chance. Dwarves love their alcohol.”

  “They already demanded a ‘generous sampling’ of your wares in exchange for a safe return.”

  “Help me stand,” Etolié said, and she held out a hand. “I’ll strike a deal with them.”

  Before Flowridia could object, Thalmus held out a hand, helping to leverage the wounded Celestial into standing.

  * * *

  Flowridia would never understand how Etolié could enthrall drunken men with such ease, but within the hour a roaring party had kindled by the largest bonfire. Even with her egregious wounds, Etolié managed to stand – with support – and captivate them with tales of her slavery-ending exploits. The ale in their barrels never seemed to end, and as the party continued, even the prince himself joined in the celebration.

  Evening fell, and Thalmus and Flowridia watched the ruckus from afar. None dared approached them, not with Thalmus’ palpable anger.

  The ale kept flowing, and Flowridia attributed that to Etolié: if Eionei willed it, why would their alcohol run out? They said if one fell out of favor with Eionei, your brew would go sour or simply disappear. Their change in demeanor toward Etolié was a shot of luck she hoped would flow as endless as the stream of alcohol.

  This meant gods could channel magic through the void, she realized.

  Thalmus never went farther than an arm’s reach from Flowridia, watching the growing shadows and unruly crowd with concern. The dwarves seemed at no risk of blacking out from drunkenness.

  Flowridia whispered, her gaze kept to Etolié. “It was clever of them, to claim there was a slave camp. How could Staelash resist?” When Thalmus said nothing, she looked up to follow his gaze, far beyond the camp. “Are you thinking of running?”

  “If I thought I could succeed, I would have already grabbed you and run.”

  Music met their ears. Etolié led them, despite her teetering form, in a riotous song, singing praises to the Drinking God who bestowed their ale upon them.

  “And if I thought you could run,” he continued, voice barely rumbling, “I would do what I could to cause a distraction. If your magic wasn’t muted, we could succeed.”

  “You’d die, though.”

  “My life is mine to forfeit, if I so choose,” he said gently, sincerity in the words. “I’d do it for you.”

  “Why though?” she pled softly. “You could run. If you left me, you’d survive. You could even take Demitri with you.”

  “It’s my sworn duty to protect you, Queen Marielle,” he replied, his fond smile revealing his jest. His arm settled against her back, holding her close. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save my little flower girl.”

  Her fingers dug into his shirt.

  She saw a flicker of movement – a frantic gesture from a lithe, dark-hued hand. Flowridia withheld a gasp when she saw Sora waving to get her attention from behind a tent.

  With her hood pulled up over her head, it seemed the fire didn’t dare to cast a shadow upon Sora’s form. She moved quickly, darting silently between tents toward them. Flowridia nudged Thalmus, drawing his attention to the half-elven interloper as she crept into the open, but vanished after only a moment behind Thalmus’ bulk. They stood back to back, and she offered a quick wink to Flowridia.

  Thalmus sat on the ground, and Sora matched pace, keeping in the dark shadow cast by his back. Flowridia watched, aware of the dwarves who wandered the tents. Not all were drinking. Surely they’d notice a half-elf.

  But Thalmus’ body blocked her from view of the fire, at least. “I thought you would have gone to get help,” Thalmus whispered.

  “I couldn’t send help if I didn’t know where the camp was,” Sora replied, and Flowridia swore anyone listening would only hear the wind. “But I overheard what the prince said, that they wanted an artifact in the Skalmite mound. I went inside to find it.”

  “None of them saw you, right?” Flowridia dared to ask.

  Sora shook her head. “None of the dwarves know I’m here, trust me. They have camps set up inside, but the cave is enormous. I swear it goes deeper underground than it does above. And it’s all a maze. They’ve barely tapped the surface. But I thought if I could fetch the artifact for them, they’d let you go, orb or not.” She hushed her words, exhaling when a trio of dwarves came within feet of their small group.

  But they continued on, seeing nothing amiss. “I found the Skalmites,” Sora continued. “They’re holed up at the bottom, thousands of them, all surrounding an enormous green crystal.”

  Flowridia remembered Etolié’s comment about crystals capable of diluting magical energy. This must have been the dwarves’ prize.

  “They saw me, but they didn’t attack. They let me come forward. Their leader spoke to me.” Sora’s gloved hands stroked lines against the dagger at her hip, prepared at a moment’s notice to grab it and strike. “They don’t speak like we do, but he touched my hand, and I swore it felt like he was riffling through my brain. Like, an initiation or something. Then, I heard a voice in my head. He asked for my help. The Skalmites are highly sensitive to magic. It drives them mad, and so they worship these crystals. The underground area used to be full of them, and for thousands of years they’ve protected them and lived in peace. They assembled them together into a single rock, sealing it with their own spit, but as it’s grown larger, it’s grown more powerful. It’s attracting attention.

  “The dwarves have been camping here for months now,” Sora continued, “but they don’t know how to navigate the tower. They come in raids and take prisoners, but now the Skalmites huddle in the center for safety.”

  “They won’t stop,” Flowridia said, forcing her trembling voice to stay quiet. “They say their god will come to steal it for them.”

  “We have to protect the crystal,” Sora said. “God’s will or not, these people will die without it.”

  But what hope did they have? Marielle would surely cave to Prince Falrir’s demands. Within days, the orb would be delivered. In the meantime, there were only four of them, all with talents but stunted in their magic. Sora seemed unhindered, and Thalmus maintained his strength and will, but Etolié could only distract their capturers for so long. Even with magic, Flowridia knew she hadn’t a wish to try and save them.

  . . . a wish?

  “Sora,” she said, shifting to hand Demitri to Thalmus, “how important is this?”

  “You’re asking me the importance of preventing genocide?”

  “Yes, but if you had three wishes in the whole world, would you use one on this?”

  Sora frowned. “That’s oddly specific.”

  Flowridia stood up as her hand plunged into the collar of her dress. She withdrew the ear and immediately felt both sets of eyes on the ghastly accessory. Flowridia looked up at the mouth of the cave, imagining the poor Skalmites huddled at the center, recalling those who languished within the camp, and trembled as she contemplated what to say.

  “What is that?” Thalmus asked, his tone severe.

  “A gift from Nox’Kartha,” she said, purposefully cryptic. “Marielle entrusted it to me.”

  Sora remained in the shadow. The bonfire sat only twenty feet away at most, and dwarves still walked freely back and forth. “What does it do?” the half-elf asked.

  “Grants wishes. We have three.” Flowridia stared at the eerie artifact, the smooth lines, the pointed tip. It felt cool in her palm, and the earrings, as blue as the eyes of she who owned the other set, glittered in the firelight. “I don’t quite know how it works,” she admitted, and braced herself. She took a deep breath and spoke. “Ayla, I-”

  “Ayla?” She only vaguely heard Thalmus�
� voice.

  “I don’t know if you can hear me, but . . . Protect the crystal, and let us go home. Please.” Then, to punctuate the words, she kissed the ear, right on the lobe, just as cold lips nibbled at her own.

  Flowridia gasped, turning to see Ayla’s disfigured face peering from behind her shoulder. “Hello there, Flowra,” she cooed, and she placed the twelfth rose into Flowridia’s hand.

  Ayla vanished. Flowridia heard nothing but her own breathing.

  Screams erupted from the bonfire. Flowridia turned in time to see Ayla’s entire arm burst through the chest of one of the dwarves. She withdrew; his spine came with it. Whirling around, the force shattered the skull of another, the spine embedding itself within. She dove at Etolié, but missed her body, vanishing instead into the Celestial’s shadow.

  Ayla emerged not a second later from a larger dwarven shadow, twirling as she ripped his back from base to neck with a single swipe of her dagger. She threw it at another’s neck and pulled a second from her belt.

  Each light step held such grace as she danced through the battlefield. Any partner who dared to match her met a swift, choreographed end. Creative cruelty became her signature; she sliced one’s stomach with careful precision, then plunged her hand into the slit and withdrew a ribbon of entrails. She pulled the viscera apart and wrapped it around another’s neck, a noose she dragged behind as she continued her onslaught.

  Blood sprayed. Screams muted. Ayla danced, and each smooth motion brought death. The stage cleared in mere seconds, decorated with severed heads and blood-stained dirt. Ayla turned to Flowridia, delight in her wide grin, her eyes void of color. Fangs jutted from her gore-splattered face.

  She dove into Etolié’s shadow, the Celestial the sole survivor among the display of mutilated bodies.

  Flowridia’s frantic heart nearly stopped when Ayla stepped out beside her. Claws gripped her arms. “Care to spark the main attraction?” When Flowridia didn’t immediately respond, Ayla released a gleeful laugh.

  The claws on her arms suddenly gripped tight, and Flowridia gasped when nails pierced her skin. Blood welled, but Ayla kept her hold strong, pressing into her arms. Flowridia whimpered, fear outweighing the pain, and still Ayla laughed, withdrawing her hands and running for the mouth of the cave.