by Demi Harper
“Don’t know. Don’t care. Let’s go.”
With the emberfox on his shoulder and the regurgitated gnome warrior under his arm, Benin hurried along the path in the direction he’d seen the spider disappear. Other than a tense moment in which they triggered one last shrieker shroom, their retreat was uneventful.
He couldn’t help glancing back. Smoke from the burned webbing lingered in the air, hanging oddly among the mist. The broken tree on which they’d impaled the serpent was now a distant silhouette, a vague jagged shape that could as easily have been any old log as the final resting place of an ancient reptile.
I never liked snakes much anyway.
Forty-Eight
Creature Intersection
Corey
Despite my wish to never again set foot in a marsh, sending scouts back later to harvest spores from the shriekers was a must. If we could cultivate them in our new home, the shriekers would basically serve as free guardians, with no mana or Creation cost.
Unless I infuse them with Growth… I wonder if giant shriekers would make enough noise to actually damage intruders?
My thoughts also lingered on the massive snake we’d encountered. The terrifying fact of its very existence notwithstanding, something about the Marsh Zolom’s description niggled at me. The Augmentary had called it a “hybrid”—which, until now, was something I’d only seen on descriptions of god-born, as well as Benin’s emberfox familiar and, of course, my own avatar.
But that was a problem for future Corey. Right now, we had to focus on what was directly in front of us and keep looking forward.
Time remaining for Exodus: 5 days, 13 hours, 59 minutes
The humans’ map had been correct. After finally emerging from the trees, we pushed on through the evening and night, crossing a series of blessedly flat grassy meadows until we finally reached the river in the shadow of the mountains. They loomed before us now, the rays of the rising sun dusting their peaks with misty golden halos.
Coll and Benin caught up with us just as we reached the river. I was shocked to see Ajax accompanying them, since the last I’d seen of the gnomish warrior he was disappearing down the Marsh Zolom’s gullet. I was even more shocked when they regaled us with the tale of his rescue.
“It was Benin’s idea to save Ajax? Really?”
“Is that so hard to believe?” The mage’s usual bitterness was already returning to his voice, the hint of a sneer curling his lip.
Just as being a God Core had changed me, I’d noticed that accompanying us on the exodus seemed to have gradually changed Benin as well. At first he’d been quick to complain, quick to mock, and quick to—well, quick to do anything negative and unhelpful. But in recent days, he’d seemed a little more relaxed, more patient, and even willing to smile. He seemed happier with who he was becoming, and I did not want to be the one responsible for making him revert to his old moody, peevish self.
“Not hard at all,” I lied. “I just… I feel bad that I didn’t even consider it an option.”
That last part was no lie. Ever since laying eyes on Ajax I’d felt a gnawing guilt at how I’d abandoned him without a second thought. It compounded the worry and responsibility that was weighing me down as a whole. I’d sworn to keep the gnomes safe, yet I’d accepted this one’s death as given the instant he disappeared from my sight. What kind of god was I?
“You also grieved for him, Corey,” Ket reminded me. “You weren’t unaffected by his loss. You’re not a monster. You simply had to prioritize the rest of your denizens.”
“You can’t do everything on your own,” Benin surprised me by saying. He looked uncomfortable, but the sympathy in his voice was undeniable.
“Yup. That’s why you’ve got us!” added Coll.
“Indeed,” added Bekkit.
I swallowed, a sudden rush of emotion making it difficult to speak. Luckily, I was spared the need by a minor commotion at the water’s edge.
The gnomish fishers were going wild. They’d dropped their fishing tackle, the better to clap and cheer, and were currently off their tiny faces with surprised delight. I immediately saw why.
One of the fishers had managed to land a river eel. In his excitement he’d lost control of it, and now it was making a break for freedom, sidewinding its way along the grassy bank. The fisher called to the nearest warrior—who happened to be Ajax—who then, to everyone’s surprise, scurried over to Coll. Ajax patted the human’s knee, then gestured at the wriggling eel, miming what was without doubt meant to be a hammer blow. He gave a half bow, as though inviting Coll to proceed with some great honor.
Coll glanced around at us all, then shrugged and strode forward, bringing his hammer down on the rogue eel. I expected an explosion of scales and fish-guts. Instead, the eel’s entire body went rigidly straight, as though upon death it had snapped to attention.
While the gnomish fishers rejoiced, calling over the cooks to remove the corpse and prepare its bounty for later feasting, Coll inspected his hammer’s head, which I now saw was tinted with grains of blue powder.
“All hail Mr. Stiff,” sniggered Benin.
“You know, that’s a good name for a hammer,” said Coll thoughtfully.
“You’re right,” I said. “As God Core of this tribe, let it be known that this great weapon shall henceforth be referred to as Mr. Stiff!”
The cooks chose that particular moment to cheer. They were clearly rejoicing at the sight of the dead eel, but Benin fell about laughing nonetheless.
“When do you intend for us to cross the river?” asked Ket, keen to change the subject.
Since we’d traveled through the night without rest, I’d decided to give my denizens a little down time. Time was running out, but morale and stamina had both taken a hit and we’d be more likely to succeed if my scouts and scavengers were operating at full capacity.
“I’ll send the scouts across this afternoon,” I told the sprite. “The scavengers too. I’ll have them comb the mountainside for cave entrances. For now, though, they need to rest awhile.”
“And bathe,” she agreed, pinching her nose.
The river was quite deep—at the middle of the shallowest crossing even Ajax would have to swim—and the far side was all rocks and gravel. I decided there was no harm in remaining camped on the grass until the time came to move.
Apparently the gnomes weren’t the only ones who needed baths. At Gneil’s suggestion, the badgers waded into the river to rinse off the muck of the swamp. My high cleric and the scouts went over them with combs and brushes to make sure the more caked-on filth came off. Meanwhile the acolytes each picked up an owlet and took them to the water’s edge, gently cleaning their feathers of algae and brown water. The young owls thanked them by squawking with outrage and pecking their hands viciously.
When they were done, and the hoot-hoots were huddled once again on the wagon, preening their bedraggled feathers and muttering crossly to themselves, the acolytes went off to bathe themselves, though I spotted one of them behaving rather oddly.
One of the acolytes, Gnils, was crouched in the shallows, cradling something in her hands. I zoomed over to take a closer look and immediately regretted it.
“What is it about frogs that they love so much?” I complained, watching the gnome stroke the ugly amphibian’s head with her finger.
“What is it about them that you dislike so much?” Ket countered.
“You mean apart from the irritating sound they make, and the creepy way they move?”
The sprite laughed. It was good to hear after so long in the stresses of the oppressive forest marsh. It lifted my spirits even further when she called out to Benin and Coll.
“Why don’t I properly introduce you to some of the gnomes?” she suggested. “You’ve traveled with them long enough now.”
The two humans shrugged and agreed, trudging exhaustedly toward the water in the wake of the sparkling sprite. I was about to follow when Bekkit cleared his throat.
“I appreciate th
e need to rest,” he began, “but we should not tarry overmuch.”
“I’m sending the scouts out this afternoon,” I told him, though he must surely have heard me say the same thing to Ket just a few minutes earlier.
“Every moment idle is a moment wasted. There remains just five days, twelve hours, fifty-seven minutes—”
“And forty-three seconds,” I finished. “I’m more than aware. I’m also aware that morale and stamina are dangerously low. Let them have their rest. We need this.”
“I must—”
“We need this,” I repeated firmly.
I took off after Ket, and to my relief Bekkit did not follow.
Ket was pointing out individual gnomes to Benin and Coll. In their excitement at the prospect of fresh water, most of my denizens had neglected to undress before entering the river, and were now splashing around fully clothed.
Most of them.
“And this, as you know, is Longshank,” she announced, just as the hunter proceeded to drop his pants. Ket squealed and averted her eyes as though Longshank’s privates might somehow start spitting acid.
The pyromancer sniggered appreciatively. “Perhaps you should have named him Dongshank instead. Or Longd—”
“Let’s move over to the fishers,” Ket resumed loudly, her voice growing more and more high-pitched as she led them away from Longshank, who was continuing to strip. My sprite gestured at the nearest fisher. “This young man is named Chub.”
Her usual white glow, already tinged with pink, turned fuchsia when Benin snorted and then immediately began cackling. I couldn’t help but smirk as well at the unfortunate sequence of introductions.
“Why do you call him Chub?” Benin managed to ask. “Seems a bit… judgy.”
“What? He’s a fisher. We named him after the first fish he ever landed: a pale chub.”
She scowled at the now-howling mage and folded her arms. I swooped in to rescue her.
“Chubs were the only kind of fish we had in the Grotto,” I explained. “We named all the fishers after the different kinds. The small gnome beside Chub is Sprat, and the long-faced fellow over there is Bleak. Then you’ve also got Porgy. All different kinds of chub.”
Benin had finally gotten his laughter under control. “What about the last two?” He nodded toward a pair of rotund gnomes fishing further upstream than the rest. Unlike the other fishers, they carried spears rather than rods, both standing patiently in the knee-deep shallows with weapons poised.
“We’d run out of chubs by the time we got to them,” I admitted. “I wanted to name them Bloater and Floater, but Ket was boring—”
“Ket was sensible,” she corrected. “Those two are named Finn and Gill. They’re a little more… practical than the other fishers.”
“The chubs.”
“Yes.”
“By ‘practical’ she means that they don’t throw a party every time one of them catches a fish,” I told the mage. “Which the others do.”
“Every time?”
“Every. Time.”
On cue, a pattering of applause from downstream told us another fish had been landed. The clapping was of standard enthusiasm, suggesting this was probably not a new species of fish, but as usual the other fishers had all dropped their rods into the water in order to free their hands for the celebration. The subsequent splashing while wading out to retrieve their equipment, as usual, scared away every fish within a five-meter radius.
“They’re excited, bless them,” Ket said, clearly sensing my mental facepalm.
“It’s just not efficient,” I told her, not for the first time.
She spluttered. “E-fish-ent. Good one, Corey.”
I glared at her. “Why do you only ever appreciate my puns when they’re not deliberate?”
At least the fishers were getting more opportunity to practice their skills. I’d noticed they’d hit a plateau very early on, and their gains from fishing in the Grotto had been almost non-existent after a time. Now, in new terrain and catching new species, they would level up much faster. They could probably have leveled up their skills further in the flooded marsh, but since most of the creatures that dwelt there were at best inedible and at worst deadly poisonous, I hadn’t wanted to waste their stamina—or risk any member of the convoy consuming their deadly catch.
The abundance of river fish here at least provided plenty of materials to keep my craftsmen busy. The carpenters began to experiment with scrimshaw techniques, carving the larger bones to make new tools and weapons, while the armorer and tanner worked together to try and figure out a way to turn fish scales into armor. And I thought our warriors’ ensemble couldn’t get any dodgier.
The new bowyer—whom I’d decided to name Catgut, after the material that made up bowstrings—also attempted to incorporate the finer fish bones into arrow fletching, though she had yet to succeed in crafting one that would fly as straight as those fletched with the more traditional feathers.
Speaking of feathers, now that the overseer was making them bring every single catch over to me, we discovered something new about Insight and the Augmentary: when I used the ability on multiple different individuals of the same species, it unlocked more detailed information about that species, increasing my pool of knowledge the more of them we encountered. Ket suggested I do it on each of the five owlets, and then proceeded to immerse herself in the new information.
“Did you know that when they’re fully grown they’ll basically eat anything? Voles, woodchucks, ducks…” She trailed off, hands over her mouth as she read. “And even rabbits. That’s horrible!”
I shrugged. “They’re opportunistic feeders. It’s in their nature.”
“But… bunnies, Corey. Bunnies!”
I fought not to laugh at the sprite’s indignation. “Most of the creatures we’ve Insighted—Insought?—have been carnivores, including those grass-cats you found so ‘adorable.’ Hells, the gnomes hunt and eat meat every day. So why does this offend you so much?”
“I just can’t believe they’re such brutes. I’d have hoped for better, you know?”
She was acting as though the entire owl species had personally betrayed her.
“They’re birds of prey, Sparky. What did you expect?”
“Don’t start calling me that again. And I don’t know. They’re so… cute? Look at that one. It looks like it should be running a museum or something.”
It was true. The one she was gesturing toward had developed coloring that made the downy feathers on its chest look like a smart checkerboard jumper. A rumpled leaf hung from the bottom of its beak in an uncanny replica of a bow tie. Eyes closed, it was hooting softly to the owl beside it, seemingly not noticing that its companion was gradually edging further away along the wagon while rotating its head in all directions, as though mightily bored of the checkerboard-owl’s blathering and seeking an excuse to politely leave.
Nearby, in preparation for their imminent epic scavenging mission, Swift and Cheer were sorting through the myriad contents of their packs. Cross-legged, they were surrounded by small mountains of what they likely thought of as treasure, but any sane person would describe as “crap.”
I’d glimpsed them tinkering with some of it throughout the journey, but had been too distracted by other things (like gnome-eating snakes) to pay them much attention beyond ensuring they weren’t extorting other members of the tribe again. Now, though, I got to see it all.
They’d been ‘borrowing’ bits of the materials used by the clothiers, and though they already had their own set of snakeskin leggings and boots, they’d also used hardened skin to make bracers, which they fixed upon their wrists now. Brightly-colored frogs’ legs and berry-painted bones, they hung in their hair and from their belts, so that they looked more like primitive shamans than scavengers.
By far the most disturbing of their belongings were the remains of the tiger owl. I vaguely recalled them dragging its body away after Hoppit shot it from the sky. The phrase ‘waste not want not�
� was apparently a scavenger’s maxim, and they’d utilized every part of the dead bird. I had to admire their imagination. In addition to feathered cloaks and matching shoulder pauldrons, they’d also crafted wicked-looking daggers from the owl’s talons, as well as flutes and what looked like wind chimes from its hollow bones. They’d also used the curved beak to craft what looked like some kind of plague-doctor’s mask.
The mask went back in their bag, as did the musical bones, but everything else they donned or otherwise equipped, Cheer adding the brace of talon-daggers to her already-bristling bandolier and tucking others into her boots and belt.
”I’m not even surprised anymore,” said Ket. “I’m barely even appalled. No, wait—yes I am.”
“Well, I for one look forward to the superb owl party they’re clearly planning on throwing.”
She watched the scavengers with distaste. I decided to try and change the subject. “Hey, since our hoot-hoots have been hanging around with the acolytes so much, d’you think that makes them birds of pray?”
It worked; Ket suddenly no longer wanted to talk about owls.
In all seriousness, the birds offered tremendous possibilities once I regained access to my Creation menu. They were natural predators, and their power of flight made them extra versatile—potentially perfect for guarding my future Sphere of Influence. Wings weren’t necessarily a boon in cramped tunnels and other underground places—hence I’d yet to make any flying god-born, despite having the blueprints for creatures like moths and bats—but perhaps our new home would have more expansive tunnels than our previous territory. I hoped so; as much as I’d grown to love the Grotto and its environs, my denizens deserved something grander.
Not that it takes much to impress them, I thought, glancing down at the latest kerfuffle on the bank.
For reasons unfathomable to me, Gnils the acolyte—apparently bored of playing with frogs—had placed one of the hoot-hoots on Binky’s head and was now calling the others over to look at it. The owl seemed to be enjoying the experience; it kept glancing over at its siblings on the wagons and then lifting its head smugly, clearly experiencing delusions of grandeur at being singled out in such a way. Binky on the other hand just looked confused. He glanced from side to side as though seeking an escape route through the gathering gnomes, all of whom were laughing delightedly at the unlikely duo.
