by Demi Harper
I took advantage of no longer being in mortal peril to bring up the blesmol blueprint I’d recently gained (thankfully only I could see the Augmentary overlay; it did not impede Ris’kin’s vision in any way) and skim-read the rest of the Augmentary’s information on our ugly rivals.
The blesmol might be short-sighted, but its sense of smell is incomparable, albeit unorthodox. Millennia of digging underground mean it’s evolved with nostrils fused together, and can only sense things through the nasal cavity in the roof of its mouth.
Though mammalian, this fossorial—(burrowing)—rodent regulates its body temperature in the manner of an ectothermic—(cold-blooded)—creature, allowing it to thrive in the extreme conditions of its native desert habitat—
Desert? Buddy, you are very, very lost.
I hurriedly sifted through the information in search of something useful. A bullet-point list of known weaknesses would have been handy. Instead, all I found were overly long words and depressingly superpower-esque strengths.
In addition to its thermoregulatory capabilities, the naked mole-rat is astoundingly resilient to physical pain, and can survive for hours with minimal access to oxygen.
Okay, so not only was their hide as tough as teak, but they were immune to pain and could survive basically anything, including not breathing.
Not that I was planning on trying a chokehold or anything.
Add to that the fact they were smart enough to spring an ambush, and it would appear they were unstoppable. How are these things not the apex predators of the underground realm?
Frustrated, I flipped back to the blueprint image and scanned it for weak points. The gnomes had managed to kill several of these creatures on their past expeditions; how had they done it? And why weren’t they doing it now?
I narrowed my eyes at the useless information in the Augmentary, then swiped it away.
Ris’kin was raring to throw herself back into battle; I could feel her urgency, like her entire body was a coiled spring waiting to be released.
Ket had gone quiet, for once heeding my request for peace, and perhaps sensing my need to focus. Still, I could almost hear her voice in my head urging us to retreat. I knew deep down that this was a fight we were not going to win.
But the thought of running away left a bitter taste in my mind. I was done being the victim. Done being naught but a desperate defender. And I could tell the rest of our little group were too.
Besides, Ket would kill me if we came back without Shanky.
I gritted fox-sharp teeth, then relaxed into Ris’kin.
Go, I told her.
Three
Hunter
Corey
My consciousness had barely formed the word “Go” before Ris’kin sprang back into the fray like an arrow from a bowstring. Nearby, the two gnomes who’d lassoed the mole-rat were picking themselves up from the ground, wincing at the rope-burns on their palms. My avatar leapt over them and sprinted after the disappearing Longshanks.
My lead scout was being dragged backwards into a side-tunnel. He looked about ready to pass out with pain, and with good reason. He’d been stabbing his half-spear up beneath the blesmol’s chin, but had achieved nothing much except to accidentally impale his own leg, trapped as it was by his captor’s wicked incisors.
The weapon, now abandoned, remained lodged in his calf, until a particularly vicious shake of the blesmol’s head loosened it enough to send it clattering further down the tunnel, accompanied by yet another yell from Longshanks.
“Corey…” came Ket’s voice again.
“Not now, Ket,” I growled.
The mole-rat had yet to notice Ris’kin—yay for its species’ short-sightedness, I suppose—and so we began to ascend the wall once again. If we were quick, we could scramble above the creature, then drop down onto its back. Surely not even the toughest of hides would protect it from a spear thrust to the top of the skull.
I hoped not, anyway.
As Ris’kin shimmied sideways, black-furred fingers gripping a narrow shelf of rock near the ceiling, Ket’s voice came again.
“I can sense your anxiety, Corey. Seriously, what are you doing? Are you okay? Is there anything I can—”
“NOT. NOW.”
My sprite’s hurt feelings washed through me, as did the sour taste of her own anxiety, but I let my irritation sweep it away. Ket always presumed the worst about me. Why did she assume something must be going wrong right now? Didn’t she trust me at all?
An agonized whimper from Longshanks below made Ris’kin push herself harder until we were almost in position above the mole-rat. I barely noticed. I was still seething about Ket’s lack of trust. And trying to ignore the fact that my defensive anger felt a lot like guilt.
Seriously, though. The sprite was always lecturing me from the high ground. Or was it her high horse? However the saying went, she was always high when she lectured me. She was—
Wait. That was it.
Stop!
Ris’kin, about to drop down onto Longshanks’ captor, resisted her instinct to ignore me and maintained her grip on the rock, though I sensed her frustration and confusion.
We have to get higher, I told her. Just for a moment.
Thankfully she obliged, hauling herself just a few feet higher, toward the dark patch I’d spotted on the rock.
Higher, higher, right up towards the ceiling—there. Got it.
Her forearms were trembling, both hands now clutching items in addition to holding on to the rock, her spear hand in particular beginning to cramp with the strain.
All right, Ris’kin. Now!
She let go, body twisting in the air once again as she plummeted downward. This time, there was no well-meaning idiot to get in her way, and she landed exactly where she intended—right on top of the mole-rat with the scarred eye. Her feet thudded down an instant after the tip of her spear drove into the back of its neck, where it embedded itself between two vertebrae—and stubbornly stayed there.
The creature let out a horrifying shriek and shook its head even more violently than before, whipping Longshanks’ limp form from side to side. The scout managed a squeak of his own before his head smacked against an outcropping, knocking him out.
He’s having a really bad day.
The mole-rat still hadn’t let go of his leg. In fact, the amount of blood now pouring from the limb was frankly alarming.
After one more attempt to yank free the spear, Ris’kin abandoned the weapon, instead reaching forward to take hold of the overlarge front teeth and try to pry the jaws apart.
Ris’kin was made for dexterity, not strength, but she was no weakling. I’d made sure of that when I created and evolved her. But the blesmol’s jaws were on a whole other level. They were clenched around Longshanks’ leg in an iron grip, and wouldn’t budge an inch, no matter how much my avatar strained.
That was, until Longshanks regained consciousness. With an awareness of his surroundings that was impressive for someone who’d just been beaten against a rock like a dusty carpet, the scout groped for his fallen weapon. Gritting his teeth against what must have been agonizing pain, he heaved himself forward and jammed the blade into the mole-rat’s eye.
A normal animal would have had the decency to drop dead. This one, clearly being spawned from the pits of hell, opened its jaws wide and let out a bone-rattling screech, but stubbornly refused to die. However, Longshanks’ well-timed recovery allowed two things to happen.
First, the mole-rat finally let go of Longshanks’ leg, freeing the scout to make his triumphant escape. Well, not so much triumphant as boneless, and not so much an escape as simply lying where he’d fallen, clutching his ruined leg and moaning, but still, it was an improvement on his previous situation.
Secondly, the sprig of ghoul’s beard—harvested from the ceiling a few moments ago, and somehow still clutched in my avatar’s fist—disappeared as Ris’kin shoved it inside the mole-rat’s mouth.
She snatched her arm free just in time
. The jaws snapped shut, and the creature bucked fiercely, forcing Ris’kin to reach backward, toe-claws digging into wrinkled flesh, and held on to the still-embedded spear for balance. Who would’ve guessed the blesmol’s tough hide would work in our favor?
Unfortunately, the spear’s shaft was less tough. It snapped in half with a crack, sending us tumbling nose over tail to the hard stone floor for the second time that day.
She landed on all fours—shiny new reflexes for the win!—though my avatar’s bruised ribs continued to scream their objections at this continued rough treatment. She spun around, broken spear in hand and held defensively before her, but the mole-rat was no longer attacking.
In fact, it no longer seemed to care about anything.
The psychedelic moss had done its job, and done it well. The blesmol’s tiny eyes were now entirely pupil. They stared off blackly into the distance, looking at the tunnel wall but seeing… well, gods only knew what they were seeing. Pink elephants, perhaps? Something as colorful as it was terrifying, anyway.
Thank you, ghoul’s beard.
I sighed with satisfaction at having resolved the situation without anyone’s guts ending up on the floor. Then I realized the sounds of combat from back down the tunnel had fallen quiet. Had my gnomes successfully defeated their foes, or were their gnomish intestines even now decorating the ground just out of sight? Dread clenched at my subconscious. Ris’kin sensed it, and we began to hurry back toward the rest of our party.
Then Longshanks lurched to his feet. Before we could even think about restraining him, he stumble-hopped toward the drooling mole-rat and stabbed it in the eye again and again until finally its legs buckled and it collapsed forward, dead.
My Augmentary dinged, but I barely noticed. Breathing heavily, face almost purple with exertion, the furious gnome turned to face Ris’kin and me. We both felt a flash of panic as we registered the intensity of his expression and the weapon still clutched in his now-bloody fist. Then it became clear his attention was on something behind us.
We whirled around, then flattened ourselves against the wall just in time to avoid being trampled. The other four mole-rats—including the extra-large one I’d mistakenly assumed to be the alpha—were charging down the tunnel toward their fallen leader.
No; not charging.
Fleeing.
They ran right past the corpse of the scarred mole-rat, barely even bothering to skirt the spreading pool of blood and skull-juice, until they’d disappeared into the darkness.
The rest of the gnome scouts followed a few seconds later, yelling triumphantly and jabbing their weapons at nothing, as though they’d been the ones to drive the creatures away. Longshanks raised his hand to high-five them, then toppled sideways, unable to stand any longer.
Two of the scouts dashed forward to inspect their leader’s mangled leg. The other three made a beeline for the leg-mangler’s corpse.
As they pulled out obsidian hunting knives—formerly belonging to kobolds; we had a whole stockpile back in the Grotto, looted from our fallen enemies—and started to get to work sourcing more material for future outfits, a flashing dot in the corner of my vision caught my eye. I gratefully looked away from the grisly proceedings below and expanded the Augmentary.
Now that it overlaid my entire field of vision, I saw that there were actually two flashing symbols. Both of them were above Longshanks.
The first was self-explanatory: a red droplet inside a red circle, clearly denoting the gnome’s critically injured status.
The second symbol, however, simply looked like an exclamation mark, again inside a circle.
Well, that’s not helpful. What’s that supposed to mean? That Longshanks is surprised, perhaps?
That was fair enough. If a creepy naked monster had bitten most of my leg off, I’d be surprised too.
When I investigated further, however—focusing on the little icon and willing it to explain itself—I was greeted with an unexpected message.
Advanced vocation unlocked!
Hunter
The life of a hunter is dangerous, yet rewarding. After days of tracking, stalking and sleeping rough, what better feeling is there than finally bringing down your bestial foe and mounting its head above your fireplace?
Oh, and providing your people with meat and materials, obviously. You rugged hero, you.
Prerequisites: Scout vocation, 1x creature rivalry (basic)
Oooh. A new vocation! And a noble one at that.
An image of Longshanks viciously stabbing the hallucinating mole-rat pushed its way into my mind. I blinked it away and was instead treated to the sight of the other scouts skinning its dead body while nearby their bloody leader grinned deliriously from the ground.
Okay, maybe “noble” wasn’t the right word. But any new vocation was a step in the right direction, wasn’t it? Gnomish hunters would be useful, especially if the tribe’s population continued to expand the way Ket and I had planned.
I was extremely tempted to assign Longshanks the hunter vocation right now, but I hesitated. There were a few things I’d need to unpack first—“creature rivalry,” for one thing—and which I knew my sprite would want to discuss before I made the decision. Besides, having spent the last few minutes focused on the Augmentary, I was already missing the sights and smells of our blood-infused surroundings.
Trying not to think about how psychotic that last part made me sound, I mentally blinked my Augmentary out of existence. Another blink and I was once more looking out of my avatar’s eyes.
Ris’kin was surveying the tunnel, alert for danger as always, and her nose was twitching at the foul odors emitted by the bloody mole-rat carcass.
I sensed revulsion from my avatar, which was unusual. At first I assumed it was in response to the sight of the gnome scouts rolling up the ragged strips of freshly-skinned pelt and stuffing them in their backpacks. Then I realized her disgust was actually directed at the mole-rats. Ris’kin was almost angry at the creatures’ lack of intelligence, the way they’d all run off the instant they lost their leadership.
More interestingly, my avatar felt sullied for being involved in the killing of something so brutal and basic, and I got the sense that she craved a real challenge, one that would stimulate her tactically as well as just physically. A rival of her own, perhaps.
I was also surprised to discover that a good portion of her disgust was directed at Longshanks. Something about the way he’d killed a helpless enemy didn’t sit well with her, or perhaps it was simply that she felt he’d stolen her kill.
I felt a rush of warmth toward my avatar as she pushed those feelings down and went to help Longshanks to his feet. When it became clear he could not walk by himself—partly from blood loss, partly because his left leg was dangling uselessly, attached by only exposed bone and sinews—she handed her spear to one of the other gnomes, then bent to pick up their leader as carefully as she could.
Holding Longshanks in her arms, Ris’kin led the way up the tunnel as we began our journey back to the Grotto. The rest of the scouts hurriedly finished packing away their newly-acquired skins, then collected their fallen torches and followed, the dead mole-rat now just a shapeless mound in the growing darkness behind us.
Four
The Menagerie
Benin
“Why are we here, again?”
“For the thousandth time, Coll, keep your voice down. Your feet are making enough noise already. No need to get your mouth involved too.”
The sound of Coll’s footsteps ceased, then resumed at the same volume, except now he was clearly walking on tiptoes. His question came again, this time in an exaggerated whisper that somehow managed to be even louder than the first time.
“WHY ARE WE DOING THIS?”
From one of the cages nearby came an alarmed gobble and a rustling of feathers. Both men froze momentarily before continuing on.
Benin bit back a frustrated reply and instead took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose be
fore hissing, “Every self-respecting mage needs a familiar. I can’t get one without having a license—which, given our current situation, is not likely to be forthcoming.” He had to swallow a surge of bitterness. “Ergo, here we are.”
“Stop calling me Ergo.”
Benin let out a strangled sound. “I wasn’t. It means—”
“I know what it means. I was kidding,” the big man huffed. “And I get why you want a familiar. I’m not an idiot. What I mean is, why did we come here?”
“What?”
“Well, aren’t there other menageries in other regions?”
“Probably. Like I said, though, to get a familiar from any of those I’d need a license—”
“To break in and steal one?”
Benin stopped. Of all the Guild menageries in Kelaria, why did I insist we break into the one under the jurisdiction of the psychopath who apparently wants us dead?
He was prevented from pursuing that line of thought when Coll walked right into the back of him.
The warrior was approximately twice Benin’s mass; the collision sent Benin stumbling into a stack of empty cages, yet somehow the big man kept his feet, grabbing a fistful of Benin’s robes and hauling him upright with a mumbled apology.
One of the cages on the top of the stack was now teetering precariously. Benin lunged forward and managed to stop it from falling, but the metallic disturbance had already roused the inhabitant of the enclosure beside them, and the rattling of the cages gave way to rattling of a different timbre as the flat head of a huge snake rose into view.
The serpent’s eyes were glowing yellow, the pupils vertical black slits, and a leathery hood snapped into view, spreading to frame the head threateningly. All Benin could see of its shadowy body was the outline of coils in the shape of an alarmingly large beehive, and a dark bulky tail. The latter was vibrating vigorously, presumably with the snake’s outrage at having its slumber disturbed by a pair of idiot humans.
