by Demi Harper
In other words, all being well, they would be back before my month’s deadline was up – just in time to save me from making a hard decision and my gnomes from being sacrificed in cold blood.
My own helplessness still galled me, of course, as did the thought of waiting dependently on a small army of unknown humans. But my recent positive interaction with Tiri’s group had left me optimistic. Grimrock’s ultimatum – sacrifice a few gnomes regularly so that the others might live, or fight and all die – had been weighing on me like a stone cloak. Now, the idea that I might not have to make the impossible choice at all buoyed my spirits for the first time in days.
In the meantime, it was my responsibility to quit moping around, and ensure that my denizens’ settlement continued to advance as though we had all the time in the world ahead of us.
First, though, I really ought to buff up our defenses, which I’d been shamefully neglecting.
If Tiri were to be believed, the Guild would pass by without harming me or my denizens. Just in case I was wrong, and to take my mind off my current helplessness, I decided I should begin repopulating my Sphere of Influence.
Other than steering clear of the areas I suspected were overlapping Grimrock’s – including, of course, the Sinkhole cavern – I saw little sense in changing my previous tactics too much; I wasn’t intending for my god-born to become involved in any real fighting, after all. I simply wanted a buffer against the outside world in case of a surprise attack; safeguards rather than soldiers.
I took a few moments to re-familiarize myself with the Creation interface. At the very top of my vision was the horizontal row of square boxes, five in total. As Ket had previously explained, these were my ’pantheon slots’, and they represented the number (and limit) of available god-born species currently in existence.
At that moment, a different symbol filled four of these five boxes, each representing one of the hybrid species (including their evolved variations) currently in existence: the forrel, the skelemander, the eight-legged cave wanderer, and the boulderskin. That left me with one species still available, since the kobolds’ attack had wiped out every last one of my whipfish.
Below the catalogue of species was the row of thirty much smaller, circular boxes: my ‘Creation slots’, Ket had called them. In other words, the number of individual creatures I could create from any of my five available species. Including the new evolved boulderskin, Binky the spider (whom I’d evolved once), my four skelemanders, and my single basic forrel, I had eight slots filled. That left me with twenty-two to play around with.
I decided to start in the lake cavern, in which I’d just replaced the – sadly exploded – boulderskin that had previously dwelt there. When I’d made the new boulderskin, I’d done so in a bit of a rush, keen as I was to keep Tiri and the others from progressing any further along the route to the Grotto. Because I’d been in a hurry, I’d used a blueprint of a boulderskin that had been evolved once already. That meant this particular Creation process had filled three creation slots, whereas a basic Creation – namely, one that hadn’t been evolved yet – would have used up just two.
Creating the evolved boulderskin had used up a good chunk of my mana – nearly all of it, in fact. The process of replenishment was taking a ridiculous amount of time; my acolytes were still engaged with that nonsense with the Ris’kin statue, which meant they weren’t worshiping, which meant I had to wait for my Sphere’s ambient mana to refill my globes instead. An arduous process indeed, since this took almost an entire day. But it wasn’t like I had anything else to be getting on with. I was learning that a lot of this ‘god’ business was a waiting game. It was time I learned to be patient.
When all seven mana globes were finally full again, I used six of them to create a couple of basic whipfish to accompany the boulderskin in the lake cavern. The boulderskin was ponderous and heavy outside of water, and would benefit from the whipfish’s paralyzing venom slowing down enemies in a combat situation. Besides, the whipfish had proved themselves more than useful in the past.
If it works, why change it?
Like always, the whipfish flashed into existence already glommed onto the ceiling, camouflaged almost to invisibility. I’d chosen to use the basic blueprint because I hadn’t noticed a significant improvement in the performance of the evolved whipfish during the battle. I assumed the additional venomous abilities dealt damage over time, which wasn’t all that useful during a fast-paced fight. So I stuck to the basic whipfish, which cost two Creation slots each.
The cave-climbing fish/whip spider hybrids lurked there silently, the long appendages that gave them their name curving back around their bodies.
I was tempted to evolve them with blueprint strands taken from cockroaches (inspired by Grimrock’s previous comments likening me to those near-indestructible creatures) but in the end decided not to meddle. It seemed impractical to waste Creation slots on the whipfish when I could instead use them on creatures that were much more effective in close combat.
Once my mana had finally regenerated, I revisited the three tunnels that led to the Passage and bunged some forrels into each, just like I had before Grimrock’s raiding parties wiped them all out. I made sure there was one evolved forrel and two basic forrels for each of the three tunnels; the much more powerful evolved forrel had proved its worth during the last fight, and I hoped including three of them here would help tip the scales in our favor in the event of another.
At the sight of company, the forrel that had survived the battle bounded joyfully toward her new brethren, bushy tail flicking with happy excitement. The pack yipped and nuzzled one another contentedly. Feeling guilty for leaving the forrel alone for so long, I created two more basic forrels to keep her company in the Passage. If there was one thing I’d learned from the battle, it was that the more god-born there were between the enemy and my gnomes, the better.
I fervently hoped the Guild would make it back on time; or, failing that, that Grimrock’s offer of ‘alliance’ was not just a ruse. I wasn’t sure I could handle watching my creatures slaughtered again.
Forty-Four
An Unexpected Arrival
Several hours later, with only four Creation slots remaining, I finally came to the Heart. The giant hole in the ground at its center – Septimus’s former lair – lay empty. Sorrow at the loss of the big spider crept over me. Replacing him seemed somehow more callous than replacing the other god-born, and it took me a long moment before I finally shook myself free of my sadness and opened my Augmentary once more.
I couldn’t bring myself to use Septimus’s exact blueprint, so I altered it slightly, just like I had with my forrels in the early days. I used the same two arachnid species as before – my pantheon slot limit would not permit me to do otherwise – but fiddled with the ratios so that the bulbous cave spider’s blueprint would be more dominant over that of the hairy-legged wandering spider. A female this time, she flashed into existence and immediately scuttled over the pit’s edge and down into the darkness.
Before she vanished, I admired her round carapaced form, the sharpness of her two-toed feet, and the fine spiky hairs that adorned her long slender legs – all eight of them.
‘I’ll call you Octavia,’ I decided.
Perhaps I can introduce her to Binky. Now, there’s a thought. Are my creatures capable of producing offspring of their own?
I decided to package that (somewhat disturbing) thought away for later. Plenty of time to think about baby god-born once Grimrock is defeated and the Grotto is safe.
I still had three spare Creation slots. I contemplated simply making more forrels, but in the end I decided to revisit my most crucial defenders. After allowing my mana to regenerate, I poured it into Evolution twice, until I had a double-evolved Octavia guarding the Heart. Her black carapace was now much thicker and tougher, hopefully able to withstand those pesky kobold spears, and she could also fling webs, like Binky. I stared at her perfect form for a while until my mana had recuperated,
then turned my attention to my final Creation slot.
There was no doubt it had to go on making my boulderskin the biggest, meanest creature it could possibly be, and so I poured nearly seven globes of mana into Evolution.
I could have simply used the blueprints from my previous boulderskins to create a ready-made twice-evolved specimen. But that would have taken up four slots, and I’d hoped to circumvent this cost by pouring much more mana than before into a single Evolution. If I could use the extra mana to make a twice-evolved boulderskin as powerful as my previous thrice-evolved one, that would have been useful indeed.
To my disappointment, it didn’t seem to work that way. After I’d invested three globes’ worth of mana, the boulderskin stopped growing, and although I poured nearly four more globes into the process, it had no visible effect.
Damn. So much for finding a shortcut.
Perhaps it had something to do with my current god tier. Maybe when I became stronger, I’d be able to invest more mana and my abilities would become proportionately more powerful.
That didn’t help me now, however.
I tried not to dwell on it. The twice-evolved boulderskin was still a fearsome sight, with its gray bony armor, powerfully muscled legs, and four taloned feet. Coupled with the two whipfish, it would hopefully be able to hold its own in this cavern just like the last one had.
I’d reached my Creation limit. All five of my available species were now in use, and my Creation slots were all full. The tunnels were as well defended as they could be. For lack of anything else to do, I returned to the Grotto to see what else I could contribute to its defense.
Given that all my workers were currently engaged in resource production and ongoing construction projects, there wasn’t really much I could do. But helping the adventurers and exercising my Creation abilities had really perked me up. It felt good to finally be taking action, no matter how small.
Perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed to me that the gnomes were also a tad livelier, going about their daily business with slightly less foot-dragging and a little more enthusiasm. With any luck, the barracks would be finished any day now.
I zoomed over to look down at the building in question. The square-cornered ‘U’ shape of the barracks had already been established, the foundations and half the walls now in place. An extra few inches’ height on the walls and I suspected this most crucial of buildings – for now, at least – would be ready for a roof.
Then when it’s complete I can finally – finally! – begin assigning my gnomes some sort of ‘warrior’ vocation.
That was the hope, anyway. I’d already checked and double-checked the list of available professions for each of my gnomes, and not one of them offered anything remotely relating to combat, but Ket had previously assured me that would change with the completion of the barracks.
The memory of the kamikaze kobold shaman pelting into the Grotto toward my helpless workers still haunted me. I shuddered at the thought of what might have happened had Binky not been there to defend them. I’ll feel a lot better when they’re able to defend themselves.
Just in case.
I turned my attention to the creche. Nestled at the base of the hill – atop which sat my gem, and my shrine – the creche-in-progress was already beginning to dwarf the existing three gnomehomes that surrounded it.
According to my Augmentary, a female gnome would typically birth two to four children per pregnancy, of which the huge (by gnome standards, anyway) circular structure would house up to forty at any given time. As far as I understood it, once the creche was built, I’d need to give up some of my potential warriors in favor of assigning them as nurses within the creche – one nurse for every ten children, or so the Augmentary informed me.
I almost regretted beginning the creche. If I’d known then what I knew now – namely, that an enemy we couldn’t defeat was going to ruin their future – I’d probably have left it until later, if there’d even been a ‘later’.
True, I’d known that the only real way to increase my own power was by expanding my denizens’ population, but still; Grimrock’s ultimatum made the decision to build the creche almost obscene. The idea of enabling the proliferation of gnome children only for them to be sent for sacrifice once they were older was almost more than I could stand.
But there was no way to halt the progress of a building already begun – none that I could see, anyway – and so all I could do was proceed as planned and hope for the best: namely, that the Guild returned in time to make sure Grimrock would never again take another gnomish life.
Movement over in the far corner of the Grotto distracted me before I could start dwelling on our situation. On the north-west side of the cavern, a little beyond my gem, some loose dirt was beginning to crumble from the wall in a spot just a couple of feet off the ground – about two gnome-heights. As I soared closer to investigate, I heard scrabbling noises from inside the wall.
What the hell?
Panic flooded me in an instant. My mind jumped to the worst possible conclusion: the kobolds were tunneling through! Grimrock’s ultimatum was a ruse, and he’d sent sappers in while I was distracted with his offer!
Then I realized: my skelemanders hadn’t alerted me to any intruders. There was no way the enemy could have come this far without my tiny sentries noticing their presence.
In that case, what on earth—
A paw – small, black, five-toed and clawed – burst through the wall. A moment later, the paw was followed by the animal it belonged to, revealing – to my great relief – not a kobold, but a badger.
With a crumbling of dirt, the creature tumbled from the tunnel it had dug and fell to the floor. It did a roly-poly, then rolled around on its back for a moment like a beetle before finally righting itself. It scratched behind its ear, then shook itself off; a shower of dirt and tangled roots pattered to the ground.
The creature peered at its new surroundings. The dual black stripes adorning its white face gave way to a coat of coarse, silver-gray fur that covered its back and sides like a cape, while its legs and underbelly were as black as Ris’kin’s feet had been. I felt a renewed pang of sadness at the unexpected memory of my lost avatar.
Where fox-like Ris’kin had been graceful, however, this badger was anything but. It tipped its weight clumsily from foot to foot as it shuffle-walked along in an unsteady line, like a four-legged drunk making its way home from the tavern, occasionally stumbling and tripping. Movement caught its eye, and it blundered forward – straight for the gnomehomes, where a total of six builders were hard at work on the creche and fourth gnomehome.
Luckily, the workers spotted the intruder’s approach. Within moments, all six of them were running to form a line between the oncoming badger and the buildings-in-progress. The gnome builders waved their arms and shouted obscenities at the creature. Or at least I imagined they were. I still couldn’t speak gnomish – and according to my former sprite, I never would – but that’s what I imagined they were shouting, and there was no one here to tell me otherwise.
The badger skidded to a halt. It’s just a cub, I realized. And a skinny one at that. Still, its snout reached almost as high as the gnomes’ shoulders, and if the animal decided to charge, I didn’t think my denizens would be able to stop it.
Sniffing the air, the badger paced back and forth, five long claws on each foot scraping gashes into the earthen floor. It whined, lifting its head and then lowering it again, as though looking for something.
What did it want?
The workers, still arrayed in a protective line in front of the gnomehomes, relaxed their stances when they saw Granny approaching. The wizened old overseer had been standing nearby, gazing admiringly at the white-spotted redcap mushrooms, as she was often wont to do lately.
Granny held out a hand toward the black-and-white intruder. Closer inspection revealed that she was holding a slug, presumably plucked from where it had been feeding on one of her precious toadstools. If I’d had
a nose, I would probably have wrinkled it at the sight of the fat, slimy, yellowish mollusc.
The badger liked the look of the slug much more than I did. Its nostrils flared as it scented the squishy morsel. It shuffled closer to Granny, snuffling eagerly. She waggled her outstretched arm from side to side, encouraging the cub to move away from the other gnomes. It broke into a stumbling trot, eyes fixed on the slug in Granny’s hand.
When it reached her, it promptly snaffled the slug with a sickening slurping sound. It champed at the thing loudly, mouth open to reveal small sharp teeth and a tongue now coated with strings of slime and chunks of half-chewed mollusc.
Granny was doing an admirable job of concealing her disgust at her new guest’s eating habits. She wiped her sticky hand on the badger’s fur while it was distracted, then patted the animal on the head when it nosed around looking for more.
It bumped its head insistently against Granny’s hand. When it finally realized there were no more slugs forthcoming, it turned and bumbled away. When it reached the wall, it scrambled through the opening it had made and disappeared without a backward look.
Apparently unfazed by the intrusion of a large hungry mammal into their home, the gnomes dusted off their hands, shrugged, and went back to work.
Huh. Perhaps I ought to give them more credit. Perhaps they were capable of taking care of themselves after all.
Forty-Five
Badgers, Badgers, Badgers, Badgers
In my God’s Eye form, I followed the badger cub up through the tunnel it had dug into the Grotto. When I reached its nest, I was faced with a piteous sight: the cub and its three siblings nuzzling the still form of a much larger badger matriarch. The mother was clearly dead, and had been for some time; the cubs were all skinny, and mewling pathetically as they sought milk
