by Demi Harper
He was a God Core.
Forty-Two
Mr. Stiff's Sword Sharpener
Benin
The haunting cries of loons were already beginning to rise from nests in the surrounding reeds.
Benin was drained, sweating with exertion, but it felt good to be using his abilities. Every day he felt himself becoming stronger.
He ran his fingers through his hair; it crackled slightly with static.
Maybe I overdid it with the lightning.
He ducked inside his tent, seeking a change of socks. Before they’d begun on Lightning Ball, Bekkit had drilled him yet again on Air Displacement, once more confirming that marshland did not provide the best terrain for magical training. He was pretty sure Bekkit had positioned him near that flooded sinkhole on purpose. Git.
Coll was sitting on his bedroll. Hammer in his lap, he was rummaging through one of his packs, frowning. Without looking up, he waved at a corner of the tent behind Benin. “Can you pass me that bag?”
As he handed over the satchel, Benin’s fingers momentarily brushed against Coll’s, and the other man leapt back with a yelp.
“Calm down, I wasn’t trying to hold your hand or anything,” said Benin, eyebrows raised.
“You shocked me.” The big man rubbed his knuckles.
“Yeah, well, don’t worry, I’ll warn you next time.”
“No, I mean you actually shocked me. With electricity.”
“Huh.” His mouth twitched into a smirk. “Are you saying—”
“No.”
“—that there’s a spark between us?”
Coll groaned. “Shut up.”
Benin clapped him on his mailed shoulder. This time he saw the blue-white spark jolt between his fingertips and the metal. Practicing air magic will do that.
Though air was a pyromancer’s secondary element, he was still surprised at how easy it had been to master the basics. What Bekkit was teaching him was far more complex than at the Guild, but somehow it made much more sense. His instructors had had it wrong; the world’s fabric was not simply “divided” into the four elements. Or rather, those elements were not so diametrically opposed as they’d been led to believe.
All those times he’d envied his peers for their abilities; how long he’d wished to have been born with a different affinity. The other elemental schools were permitted to use their magic freely past a certain point in their education; after the age of sixteen, those he’d grown up with flaunted their new skills before him, teasing each other with personal rainclouds or sending misty butterfly messengers to one another in the hallways. Benin was strictly banned from any such activity.
Even the chemspheres that lit the hallways had supposedly been established to replace torches and braziers. According to the Guildmaster, the fewer opportunities there were for a pyromancer to lose control, the better, though Benin didn’t really understand how removing sources of fire from the reach of someone who could simply conjure it from thin air was meant to help. But it was the intention that had always grated. That he alone could not be trusted.
Benin had been stifled, never explicitly told but always reminded that his fire affinity was a source of shame. The few occasions he’d gotten to practice practical skills rather than the dull theory that was the majority of his existence, it had taken place in a stone room deep underground. And his instructors—Knox and Holloway, who’d undoubtedly undergone the same stifling program during their own time under Varnell’s tyranny—had little to teach him that he hadn’t already taught himself.
Their freedom hadn’t been the only thing for which he’d resented his peers. He’d also been painfully envious of their ever-present familiars—another thing he’d remedied on his own.
Sort of.
He glanced habitually at Pyra, then started in surprise. She’d followed him into the tent and was right behind him. She met his gaze and twitched her tail, as if to say, “Don’t get too excited.” Then she licked her lips.
Every day since rescuing the emberfox, he’d offered her a piece of jerky from his own rations. She liked to find her own fresh meat, and could easily fend for herself, but he’d intended the gesture as a peace offering—anything to bridge the gap between them. Every day, she’d turned her face away and ignored him, only eating the jerky when he left it on the ground and moved away.
Now, though, when he unwrapped the food in his pocket, her nose twitched. Hardly daring to hope, he crouched and extended a hand.
He had to stop himself jumping up and down when she crept warily closer. She glanced constantly between his face, his feet, and the dried meat in his hand, also throwing glances at Coll. Her nervousness re-stoked the rage he’d felt at seeing her confined to a cage. Whoever had been in charge of the Menagerie had clearly made the little creature’s life a misery.
Varnell has a LOT to answer for.
Nose still twitching, she edged closer. Stretching out her snout, she bared her teeth and reached delicately for the jerky in his open palm.
A spark of static leapt from his fingers. The emberfox flinched and backed away, eyes wide and startled.
Damn it!
To his utter amazement, she began to creep forward once more.
When she neared his hand, the same thing happened again. This time when his skin sparked she retreated into a corner, where she let out a little sneeze and then stared at him balefully until he gave in and tossed the jerky at her feet.
He cursed himself and the elements, but at the same time he also rejoiced. This was definitely progress.
Fingers crossed it doesn’t deter her from trying again.
Oblivious to everything that had just occurred, Coll continued rummaging noisily in his satchel.
“Hah!” He finally pulled his hand from the bag. “Knew you were still in there somewhere.”
In his meaty fist was clutched a bottle, spherical, with a cork in its thin neck. “Borrowed some sword sharpener from my roommate months ago,” he explained. “Never got around to using it.”
“You don’t have a sword,” Benin pointed out.
Coll paused in the middle of pulling out the cork. “No. But I think it’s just oil, same as any other kind. Better’n nothing.”
With a grunt, Coll pulled out the cork. Several small, cobalt-blue objects fell from the bottle and pattered onto his bedroll.
Benin raised his eyebrow. He took the bottle from Coll and examined the label.
“Mr. Stiff’s Sword Sharpener,” he read out loud. “Guarantees the firmest sword in the kingdom. Stay sharp for hours!” He grinned. “Er… you know this isn’t meant for actual swords, right?”
The curly letters were accompanied by a rather unrealistic sketch of a buxom woman swooning on the arm of a heavily muscled man. Smaller words at the bottom read, “New blueberry flavor!”
“What?” Coll snatched the bottle back and stared at the label.
Benin rolled his eyes at the man’s idiocy, though his grin remained.
Coll was still staring at the bottle, understanding eventually dawning. “That’s a real shame.”
“Why? You don’t use a sword,” he said again.
“I’ve got a little knife.”
“Oh, then in that case—”
Coll pulled a dagger from his belt and waved it around.
“Ah. You’re right. That is quite little.”
Benin had a whole host of quips about Coll’s tiny blade, but the pair of them were distracted by the arrival of two gnomes. Like most of the others, these fellows had no qualms about barging in on their resident humans on a regular basis. The fact that the culprits were most often the cooks made Benin suspicious that they were hoping to catch him sleeping, or maybe even dead. The meat of an entire human would keep the tribe going for weeks, after all. And I bet mine is delicious.
The latest arrivals were indeed cooks—Benin could tell from the size of their stomachs. After a quick assessment of the tent’s interior—including what he took to be a disappointed grumble at the sight of both B
enin and Coll awake and alive—their eyes fell upon the spilled pills. The pair began to mutter excitedly among themselves, nudging each other with their elbows. With another shifty glance at the humans, the cooks hurriedly gathered up the blue spheres and scurried away to stash them with their other ingredients.
Eyebrows now raised as high as they could physically go, Benin glanced at Coll. The look on the big man’s face made him splutter, and then they were both laughing. A passing gnomish warrior leaned in and shushed them fiercely, as though they were in a library rather than a camp in the wilderness. It only made them laugh harder.
“I hope they don’t put Mr. Stiff’s magic pills in the communal stew,” said Benin, wiping his eyes.
“I dunno. Might be having three legs instead of two’ll help them walk faster.”
Benin chortled, stretching out on his bedroll. He’d been sleeping a lot better since Corey had started sending the scavengers out in the evenings to do… whatever it was scavengers did. It was nice to finally have his bedroll to himself again, though the scruffy little rascals still managed to sneak in during the night when they returned, determined to leech his body heat.
There was a crunch, and he looked over to see Coll crushing some of the blue tablets into powder, which he then rubbed into his weapon with an oil-stained rag.
“Don’t stay up all night rubbing your dagger,” he yawned. “Or your hammerhead for that matter. You’ll go blind, you know.”
The warrior nodded sagely. “Working in dim light’s bad for the eyes, it’s true.”
Outside, the loons continued their lament. The eerie cries were a stark contrast to the distant snigger of a third voice. The vague sense of someone else’s amusement he felt confirmed that the Core had been listening to the entire exchange.
Benin shook his head again, though he found he was still smiling.
Loons.
Forty-Three
Gno Man's Land
Corey
Time remaining for Exodus: 15 days, 21 hours, 40 minutes
“Will these marshes never end?”
I was getting more than a little tired of the mage’s complaints by now, but I couldn’t disagree with the sentiment. It felt as though we’d been slogging through the wetlands for months rather than days. The swath of low ground was represented on the humans’ map as a darker-shaded section of forest between us and our destination; nowhere had it indicated we’d face such impossible terrain.
What began as occasional wisps of ground mist eventually became a thick carpet, obscuring the uneven footing and making it near impossible to avoid the sucking bogs and flooded sinkholes it concealed. Our environment grew darker with every step, the atmosphere more oppressive.
Laughter was already a distant memory; adults and children both were confined to the wagons, trusting the badgers to find a path through the murk. Longshank and the four remaining scouts were each mounted atop a badger, helping to steer them through the murk. Gneil also sat astride Bruce’s back, murmuring encouragement to the badger alpha and to the acolytes huddled miserably on the chariot behind him.
I found myself missing the forest we’d left behind. The root-laden ground had played havoc with the wagons’ structural integrity, but at least it hadn’t tried to kill us with every step.
Even the flora here seemed out to get us. Everywhere I looked there sprouted some sort of carnivorous plant or murderous mushroom. Not the playful danger of ghoul’s beard and blackwort; these marshy monstrosities could dissolve bone and necrotize flesh. Judging by the expressions on my denizens’ faces, they reeked just as badly as you’d expect them to.
The badgers’ innate toxin resistance made them immune to the evil plants, as well as the marsh snakes and biting bog-skippers that Insight showed me lurked within the pools of water we had to cross. However, the dangers here didn’t just come from below.
The trees were getting sparser, each one’s sprawling roots pushing the nearest gray-black trunks away as though trying to hog all the space for itself. Despite this, the canopy was thick and tangled; the branches were longer, growing up and out from the trunk like the ribs of an umbrella and tangling with those of the surrounding trees. From it all dangled leafy vine-like branches.
I was watching one of the clothiers—an old man I’d dubbed Cotton—skilfully mending a holey sock when a sinuous shape dropped from one of those hanging branches and onto the wagon. Cotton cried out and collapsed.
Ris’kin was already pushing her way over to investigate when another clothier gave a shout, grabbed his knitting needle, and stabbed the snake. The force of the blow drove the bone needle through the snake’s body and into the wagon’s wooden bed, pinning it in place. It hissed and thrashed, but the gnomes had managed to back far enough away that the head could no longer reach them. The other clothiers were armed with their own needles now; a few more stabs and the serpent fell limp.
Just before it died, I recovered enough presence of mind to use Insight.
Tree Viper
Reptile
This venomous serpent makes its home in the swamps, marshes and jungles of Kelaria. As a member of the pit-viper subspecies, the tree viper possesses heat-sensing pit organs on either side of its face, allowing it to detect prey using infrared ‘vision’ even in the limited visibility of its typically mist-laden environment.
And I thought tiger owls were bad.
The dead tree viper was twice as long as most gnomes were tall. Its scales were acid green in color; the brown-black camouflage it had assumed while in the tree faded as rapidly as its life.
It can see using heat detectors as well as normal vision… unfair advantage, but neat. My mind was already beginning to race with new Creation possibilities when Ket pulled me back down to earth.
“Poor Cotton,” she moaned.
My sprite was perched on the edge of the wagon. Her wings drooped as she watched the clothiers attempt to revive their fallen fellow. The old man lay awkwardly where he’d fallen. Sweat covered his flushed face, and his eyelids fluttered but did not open. Blood soaked his neatly darned toga, spreading from the pair of puncture wounds in his shoulder.
Where’s Longshank?
I located the hunter quickly, and ordered him to take the scouts out and bring back as many different non-toxic leaves and plant samples as they could find. One of nature’s rules was generally that where there was harm there was also healing: stinging nettles grew in the same vicinity as soothing dock leaves; fire wasps made their nests in gellan trees, the sap of which neutralized the pain of their corrosive stings. Chances were good that we’d find an antidote to the viper’s venom somewhere nearby.
Soon enough, the scouts returned, Hindmarch proudly brandishing a sprig of verdroot. But no sooner had the nearest cook unlocked the recipe for a brew to counteract the viper’s venom when Ket announced sadly, “We’re too late. He’s dead.”
Gods damn it!
I had to force down a surge of unexpected rage. At first I was shocked because I thought myself angry at Cotton for dying. Then I realized I was angry at myself; at my lack of control.
Ket’s concern and reassurance flowed across our bond, which soothed me somewhat. I also took comfort in what Bekkit had said back in the Grotto. The exodus isn’t a rout. It’s a controlled relocation. I’m still in control.
We’d reached a patch of raised ground, high enough to be damp but not entirely waterlogged. I called a halt.
While the gnomes climbed down to stretch their cramped legs, I gazed around at the marshy expanse. There were hanging vines everywhere.
There’s no way this won’t happen again. We’ll have to go back. Find a way around.
Even as I thought the words, I realized how impossible it was. We barely had two weeks remaining. If we turned back now, we might never make it out of this damned forest before the timer ran out.
If we don’t turn back now, we might not make it out at all.
“We have to find another way around,” I grated.
�
��Or we could have the gnomes construct shelters for the carts,” offered Ket.
“Oh. Yeah. That would also work.”
I felt a little foolish for not thinking of that myself. We already had an abundance of hides and sticks; a moment’s Divine Inspiration conveyed the idea from Gneil to the builders, and within a couple of hours we had the prototype and the blueprint. I decided we’d remain camped until the following morning, allowing the builders time to erect snake shelters for every cart, and giving the gnomes time to bury and grieve for their dead elder. I made sure the warriors combed every inch of the rise for threats before setting up portahuts. When they were done, there was a pile of dead vipers.
I also had the scouts bring back as many of the verdroot leaves as they could find. The rest of the cooks gained the antidote recipe from assessing the leaves, and I set them to producing as much of it as they were able to store.
Of course, the cooks still had to provide food for the tribe, and we had a bountiful supply of ingredients at hand. Though the tree vipers and swamp asps were venomous, they were not poisonous.They were delicious, judging by the enthusiasm with which the gnomes devoured their snake-meat skewers a short while later. Benin grumbled louder than ever when I bullied him into conjuring flames in his palm for the gnomes to grill their meat, though the emberfox didn’t seem to mind being used for the same purpose. The little fox was like a four-legged charcoal brazier.
Our legless new nemeses came with a few unexpected perks. When one of the chefs harvested the venom from the snakes’ fangs, he unlocked the ‘apothecary’ vocation—as did Swift and Cheer, who managed to disappear a sizable number of the fangs for themselves, the reasons for which I preferred to remain ignorant.
Another upside was that my denizens soon found a use for the discarded snake skins. The clothiers seemed to take vengeful satisfaction in turning them into clothes. It was rather heartwarming to watch.
