by Deck Davis
“I didn’t say she couldn’t change me back. No, grub. She won’t change me back. We fell out two hundred years ago, and we’ve barely spoken since.”
“That’s sisters for you.”
“You’re a funny one. Let me give you this advice; if Zaemira ever does anything for you, even if you don’t see it as a gift, be sure to thank her. The reason she hasn’t changed me back is because I still haven’t thanked her for changing me in the first place.”
“That’s insane.”
“To her, living so long has been a gift to me. That’s my crazy sister for you.”
He’d already guessed that he didn’t want to get on Zaemira’s bad side, but how could she do this to her own brother? And now Dantis was supposed to thank her? He’d rather strangle her.
What would Ethan have done in his place? Adapt or die, that was his mantra. You could face any situation with that mindset. Life in the heroes’ guild wouldn’t have taken much adapting to, but if Ethan were in Dantis’s place, he’d have restored half of Yutula-na by now. He’d have given it a hell of a try, anyway.
“Okay, show me what I need to do.”
~
A breeze swirled on the outskirts of the ancient city of Yutula-na, before threading through the stones and whistling against the obsidian rock. It blew dust off one stone to reveal ancient rune marks, only to cover a separate stone in the dust it had lifted. The smell of the wind pinched his nostrils; old, like parchment in a library archive.
“The same wind blows through the ancient city eternally,” said Wisetree.
Although Dantis had left him a kilometer behind, Wisetree’s voice came through as loud as before. Wherever the old tree’s roots spread, his voice would carry, amplified by the magical knots.
“The breeze is trapped in with the rocks,” he continued. “The spell that has preserved the city and keeps it hidden from intruders, also trapped time itself within its boundaries. Never try and grow your roots into Yutula-na. Never. To step into a time void is to lose your mind.”
“Time voids are bad. Noted.”
“Do you know about the Cataclysm?”
“Only that something happened to the Fire Isles before people came here. They say it was thousands of years ago.”
“More than that, actually. And that something was the Nevergods. Not many people know about them, and the people who do, are usually called crazy. Like that damn Brotherhood in the lava fields. People think they’re a bunch of lunatics worshiping a god who doesn’t exist.”
“You mean they’re not?”
“The Nevergods were real; that’s not why the Brotherhood are insane. No, it’s the things they do. Their fire trials and all the guff that comes with it. If the Nevergods were still watching, they wouldn’t be waiting on a bunch of robed lunatics to sacrifice terrified young boys to them.”
“What does that have to do with the cataclysm?”
“The Nevergods caused it, grub, when they came to claim the isles as their own. Yutula-na was already here, and its lord, Tula, didn’t want to surrender his city to gods from another ethereal plane. He knew he could never kill the Nevergods – if they’re as powerful as they say, nothing could kill them – but he could protect his people. By casting a time void over Yutula-na, he stopped the Nevergods destroying it.”
As confusing as it was, Dantis found it fascinating. Hearing about it sparked his academic interest, the same way Mr. Garick used to when he taught them about how the Soul Wars started, and about how the Fire Isles were settled. He never mentioned Nevergods, though.
Dantis idolized Mr. Garick. He was a small man, and his wide eyes made him look like a mole. He used to blink a lot, and Dantis could tell that he was uncomfortable speaking in front of dozens of children but he pushed through it because he loved history. Ethan had hated him, of course. He always used to complain about the extra lessons Mr. Garick tried to make him study.
“Drain some spirit,” said Wisetree, breaking his thoughts. “And send it to Yutula-na.”
Dantis drained spirit from a weed patch. Once refined, he wondered which rock to send it to. Did he send it into the city and let the breeze distribute it, or did he pick a particular rock?
“Send the spirit out already,” said Wisetree.
Dantis picked the rock closest to him, shaped like a witch’s index finger. He sent a gust of spirit at it, enough so he was empty.
“Nothing happened,” he said.
“See the base?”
Ah. At the bottom of the rock, barely a centimeter in height, part of the rock had turned from obsidian black to an ocean blue. If had to change the whole city of stone, and a breath of spirit had restored barely a centimeter, how long would this take?
“A lungful of spirit, and that’s all it does? This is going to take centuries.”
“Luckily for you, grubs live forever.”
“And Zaemira won’t give me my body back until I’m finished.”
“Spirit comes from living things, grub. Right now, all you can see are weeds. But the more sophisticated the life, the more potent the spirit.”
“I need to attract people here, don’t I?” said Dantis.
“Exactly.”
“It comes down to, what kind of schmuck would want to travel all the way out here? And do I really wanna meet the kind of person who’d do that?”
“A conundrum. Who’s known for visiting places in the arse-end of nowhere? The places nobody else dares go?”
“The heroes guild?”
“Correct, grub.”
It made sense – heroes’ guilds explored places nobody else wanted to. Whether they did it for loot, for adventure, or on commission, they travelled to the far-flung and dangerous parts of the fire isles.
Another thought hit him, this one strong enough to make his leaves shake. If the Wolfpine heroes’ guild came to the barrens…would Ethan be with them?
Screw attracting people here to drain spirit from them, screw Yutula-na, this was why he’d do it; to see his brother. If he had to throw some spirit at the city to keep Zaemira happy, so be it.
So, what was the surest way to draw the heroes guild here? Simple.
“I need to build a dungeon,” he said.
With this realization came two problems, as he saw it; one, he needed materials. Two, once he found them, he needed a way to lift them. His plants hands weren’t much good for that.
Movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention. Oil-black forms scuttled over rocks, their backs hunched, heads low. A dozen of them crawled in Dantis’s direction. They reached the outskirts and then went beyond, leaving the borders of the ancient city of Yutula-na, and heading straight for him.
He was too slow to react. Even as he retreated on his roots, feet scratching on the desert became louder behind him, until two black blurs sprang in front of him. He stopped. Figures joined at his sides, while others lurked in the background.
“I thought they were in a time void, or whatever?”
“They were,” said Wisetree.
“And what happened to never setting foot in a time void or something bad happens?”
“Do they look normal to you, grubseed?”
Up close, he could make out more detail. Although the creatures moved on four legs when they ran, they stood on two legs when they were at ease. Their features were sharp, with big, wide eyes and sharp teeth protruding over their lips. They sniffed in Dantis’s direction, their large snouts flaring with each breath.
One of them, the biggest of the bunch, had shining white eyes, like an endless pit of light. His impossibly long ears flopped around, sometimes wagging excitedly, other times meeting above his head to form a circle.
“Taa’g arr,” it said, in half-speech, half-growl, its ears flapping with every word.
“Eserek nar,” answered another.
He didn’t understand their words, but he could read their tone. Even without an alchemical scar like Ethan’s, street life had made him an expert in rooting out hostilit
y, and he sensed none here. He relaxed a little. Seeing this, the black forms relaxed too.
“Shadow fiends,” said Wisetree. “They were already in Yutula-na when Lord Tula cast a time void to save his city from the Cataclysm. Trapped in the void, they became helpers of the city. Because they weren’t cast from the stone themselves, as Tula was, they can leave it. They used to do things for the grubs before you.”
“What happened to the other grubs?”
“They couldn’t do what Zaemira needed.”
The implication was clear; if Dantis didn’t do what the mage wanted, or didn’t do it well enough, he was dead. Focus on the dungeon. Just draw Ethan and the heroes’ guild here and figure out the rest later.
Dantis approached the shadow fiends. As he got closer along his root, he noticed something; there was no breeze in the air, yet the black outlines of the fiends seemed to blow, curling to the side like hairs. Then, fragments broke off them, dust-like, and blew away, carried by a wind Dantis couldn’t feel.
One fiend pointed at the black ether drifting off the creature next to him. It was as though their bodies were disintegrating. “Gagar! Gagar!” he shouted.
All six raved, yelling and pointing at each other, before scampering across the ground at back to Yutula-na. They only stopped when they reached the city borders, stepping back into the never-ending breeze.
Dantis watched them leave, and he tried to take in everything he’d learned from Wisetree. He realized something. As insane as his predicament was, maybe he had a chance. Sure, he was trapped here, but at least he had an idea about what to do. If he could restore the city, maybe Zaemira would let him leave.
Chapter Twelve
Ethan
“Yuren says it’s going to scar,” Bander said. “You should look on it as a lesson. Every time you see it, you’ll remember that morning.”
The spear wound on Ethan’s cheek hurt like hell. After his accident in the training yard, Bander summoned him to the guildmaster’s office. Ethan was sitting, blood smeared across his cheek, as Bander inspected him.
He’d wanted to ask Bander about the kid in the training yard who moved like a blur. Nobody else had commented on it except Reck, who tried explaining it away by saying he as fast. Ethan had seen fast before, but the recruit had been something else. Calling him fast was like calling a giant ‘kind of tall’.
But he couldn’t say anything yet, because the mage was here. Lillian was standing by Bander’s desk, arms folded, his robe wrapped around him. “Let the boy get it fixed. A scar’s no way to learn a lesson.”
“What lesson am I supposed to learn?” Ethan said. “What happened to the novkill? I thought we weren’t supposed to get hurt in the training yard?”
Lillian waved his hand dismissively. “A mistake, that’s all. A bad batch can happen to anyone.”
Yeah, if you’re a crook. Ethan’s parents never made a bad batch of anything in their lives. Nothing left Dad’s alchemy desk unless he was certain it did what it was supposed to. Whoever supplied the guild was conning them.
Ethan wished he’d paid attention when Dad tried to teach him alchemy. Whenever Dad laid out potion ingredients and, with the grin he wore whenever he practiced alchemy, explained how to make a healing balm, Ethan’s mind wandered to swords and duels. God, he wished he could go back. Maybe if he’d been a good son and become Dad’s apprentice, the whole chain of events would have been different. Fate worked like that; one thing led to another, a domino effect of circumstances. Who knew how things would have turned out for them all if Ethan listened?
Bander opened a drawer in his desk and took out a cloth pouch. He placed four gold coins in front of him, each showing faded images of the emperor. “Scars are beyond Yuren’s expertise,” he said. “Go find Hulftim Chinwise in Wolfpine; he’ll take care of it. The slightest hint of trouble, and you’ll never get this freedom again.”
“You’re letting me leave the mountain?”
“Wolfpine isn’t going to come to us, is it?”
Ethan suppressed a smile. A day pass was his way out, an escape. And all it had taken to earn one was a hideous scar. As soon as he left the mountain, he’d make a run for it.
A figure appeared at the door. “Glen, right on time, for once” said Bander, nodding at the teen. “Escort Ethan here to the town. Don’t screw around; I know what you like to do.”
He was a tall teen who sported a sparse-looking beard waxed into an arrow on his chin. He had chestnut skin and although he was mostly human, his sharp-tipped ears pointed at some other race mixing with his blood somewhere down the line.
Ethan felt jealous. Growing up, he’d always wanted to be a satyr, who were lumbering, goat-legged forest men with giant horns, and who never wore shirts. In his head, being a satyr was the perfect way to get out of history and lore class, because there were no schools in the satyr forests.
When he’d grown up and learned how life worked, and that you couldn’t just will yourself into sprouting horns – unless you were one of the shifters in the mage college – he changed his goal; he wanted to go to the forests of Helb and live with the satyrs for a year and write a book about them.
Glen’s racial mix was ninety-nine percent human, one percent kitsune, by the looks of it. He held his clenched fist in front of him, and he deftly rolled a rune coin over his knuckles, tumbling it perfectly with barely a single movement.
Ethan felt the thief bug stir in him. Rune coins were worth a fortune. He’d stolen one once, but couldn’t find a buyer, and one trader reported him for trying to sell it. He and Dantis had ended up being smuggled out of town on a cart, hidden under two tons of horse shit.
“Ah, the thief likes my coin,” said Glen. He flipped it in the air, turned on the spot, then let it land on his palm, before snapping his hand shut. “My grandfather gave it me. I’ll do you a deal. You can try and steal it from me, but when I catch you – and I will – I’ll cut your head off, hollo it out, and use it as a pencil holder.”
His plans were dashed. He’d made a point to study every recruit in the guild, and he’d seen Glen around. After serving the guild for two years, Glen held the ‘senior’ rank, and with that came responsibilities. It was his job to keep an eye on Ethan, which meant day pass or not, there was no way he’d be escaping today.
“Ethan?” said Bander. “The slightest hint of trouble…”
~
Glen, four inches taller than Ethan and rivalling even Bunk, Yart’s bodyguard, in height, barely said a word as they travelled. He fixed his gaze on the distance, on the ever-increasing dot that was Wolfpine, as if a beacon beckoned him.
“What are you staring at?”
“Never you mind, Elliot.”
“Ethan.”
“Your name can be Baraclus the Fortunate, for all I care. Still hiding food under your pillow?”
Ethan looked away. Even a fortnight into his guildship, he couldn’t shake old habits. If you see a chance for food, take more than you’ll need. Take anything that won’t spoil. With this thought, he’d hidden grains and oat biscuits under his pillow, much to the amusement of Reck, who uncovered them on one of his morning inspections.
The stolen food might have tickled him, but what Reck found on the eighth day, didn’t. Reck, who gave Ethan’s bed a more thorough inspection than most, patted his pillow. He dug inside it, pulling out a meat knife.
“What’s this?” he said.
“I’m no genius, but it looks like a meat knife,” said Dullzewn, watching with a grin.
Ethan had stolen it out of instinct. On the streets, he slept with his sword at hand, and only closed his eyes when Dantis was next to him, on watch. He wasn’t used to sleeping in a room full of strangers.
“Don’t let me find something like this again,” Reck said.
In the last two days, Ethan had held back all his instincts. It was like holding back a desperate urge to pee. The more he tried, the more he thought about it. Would he ever get used to guild life?
�
��Glen, let me ask you something.”
“Yeah…”
“Have you seen any guys in the recruit acting…I don’t know…strange? As in, they can do things they shouldn’t be able to?”
“If you’re talking about Roycey and how he can fit a dozen oat biscuits in his mouth…”
“I mean speed they shouldn’t have. Maybe strength to. Anything strange.”
“Just listen to me,” said Glen. “Do yourself and me and favor, and don’t talk about this. Especially not on guild ground, okay?”
“So you do know about it.”
Glen gave him a shove. “I said don’t talk about it. I’m not just being an arse here, I’m helping you.”
Great. Another guild yes man, scared to talk about anything Bander or Reck or any off the other instructors didn’t like.
After walking hours down the mountain pass, the Wolfpine gates loomed high; black steel bars, in the center of which were an ornamental wolf, and an ornamental tree, which met when the gates closed. Guards were standing in turrets on either side, no more alert than an innkeeper on a quiet day.
“Ho!” said one guard. “State your name and your business.”
“Cut the shit, Dylan,” said Glen. “You enjoy this tiny scrap of power, don’t you?”
Dylan, a guard who wore a chainmail around his head so his sunburned face peaked out like an oyster in a shell, laughed. “It’s the only bloody thing I get to do all day.”
The winch creaked, and the gates swung open.
Trade shops lined cobbled streets, and young boys and girls, employed by the vendors, advertised their wares. One girl held a basket of mana sticks, pieces of wood brushed with mana potion, which served as torches. A boy, wearing an apron covered in flour, tried to entice hungry passersby into his master’s bakery.
People filled the streets of Wolfpine today, celebrating two festivals which were inexplicably held on the same day. One was the annual ale festival, while another was the bounty hunter’s collective celebration. Drunks and bounty hunters – great mix.
Drunks from nearby settlements swarmed the town. Ethan loved ale festivals, but not for the beer. Ale festivals attracted drunks with bulging coin purses, and they usually drank so much amber they forget all pretense of guarding their money.
