“I guess you could call it a spontaneous prisoner transfer,” the half-elf replies, raising her voice to make sure the Feykin can hear her. When she sees one of the warriors roll his eyes, she draws a dagger from her belt and playfully waves it in front of her face. “These abominations were in Anpress awaiting a trip to the Judges, but that’s no longer an option. My squad and I have been walking them through the jungle for a while since nobody knew what to do. We finally received orders to bring them here. It’s only for a few days before another method of execution can be chosen. Though I’m not sure why we’re not allowed to simply lop their heads off or set them on fire. No offense, sir, but there’s too much pageantry and these creatures don’t really deserve any of it if you ask me.”
“You youngsters are always more ruthless than you have to be,” Emil replies as he waves for his men to check the prisoners for weapons. Reaching into his pocket, he searches for a crimson stone that is tied to a simple chain. “Our campaign is about sending a message, which these monsters simply aren’t getting. Then again, you can’t expect them to kill themselves, so maybe we do have a bit too much fun with them. Forget I said that. I’ve lost too many friends and family to their unprovoked attacks, which is what started this whole war. Now these are all standard Feykin, right? No shamans or spirit channelers?”
Nyx scratches her head and turns back to point from one prisoner to the other, pretending to think about the answer. She can feel Delvin’s impatient stare boring into her, so she snaps her fingers at him. He shrugs and grunts until she sternly points toward his shoelace, which has become undone. Nyx relaxes now that her companion’s attention is on tying the cords that are nothing more than illusions on top of the real ones. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Emil’s pendulum stretch toward the Feykin and spin. With a gentle twist of his arm, the enchanted object aims itself at the channeler and hangs limp. Before she can breathe a sigh of relief, the stone circle jumps a few times before dangling again.
“I don’t believe so,” Nyx answers, yawning to feign exhaustion. Her eyes fall back on the pendulum, which twitches and spins for a second. “Is there a problem, sir? Should I have brought those types of prisoners somewhere else? These were the only ones I was given. Well there’s the dead one, but he didn’t show any signs of being a shaman.”
“I only ask because we’re not supposed to keep those types here. Anyone with spirit channeling abilities or a connection to the Four Sisters has to go to Caurea immediately,” Emil answers while lazily swinging the stone. As if realizing what he is doing, the halfling stops the pendulum and tucks it into his sleeve. “Sorry about that, youngster. This trinket picks up on different aura types like Feykin and casters. Didn’t realize you were one of the latter. Thought all of you stayed in the big city since there isn’t any need for you out here.”
“There isn’t much for me to do in Caurea either,” Nyx claims, hoping she is getting the location right. Seeing no sign of confusion on the halfling’s face, she relaxes and lets a broad grin take over her face. “I was getting bored and decided to annoy my superiors for something to do. They thought escorting prisoners wouldn’t be too hard. It seems they lost track of me since you’re the first to recognize my true strength. Will my magic be an issue?”
“Only because we have a few abominations that can feed off it.”
“That would definitely cause a problem.”
“We keep them in the underground cells, but you have to escort these prisoners there. You might get a bit too close for my comfort.”
“Then how am I supposed to do my job?”
“Put this blocker on and we’ll let you in.”
The warden hands Nyx a golden ring, which she slips on her finger without a second thought. A light tremor runs up her arm as the simple aura dampener attempts to restrain her potent magic. She manages not to laugh at the artifact’s feeble effect, but she lets her energy sink into her core in case the halfling checks her again. Flexing her fingers and pretending to admire the ring, Nyx moves aside to let the swordsmen return to the entrance. She smacks Delvin on the shoulder to get him to stand, his shoelaces becoming done before his eyes. He glares at his companion, which causes her to make an exaggerated shudder of disgust and pretend that she is about to vomit. The hint of a smirk appears on her face and she turns to watches the iron doors open. Cracking her knuckles and snapping her fingers at the prisoners, she steps back into the path to lead the Feykin to their new home.
“Was all of this necessary?” Delvin whispers as they pass under the long archway. Angry at being made a fool, he smacks the half-elf’s finger away from her lips. “You were supposed to follow my lead. Now they think you’re in charge and you don’t know enough to make it believable. The entire plan is in jeopardy.”
“Shut up and keep your voice down. That mouth is what got your throat nearly slit down to the bone,” Nyx retorts while she keeps her eyes on Emil. She relaxes once the halfling steps into a shadowy doorway, the other cultists too far ahead to hear her. “We couldn’t take the chance that we’d be recognized. You’re become infamous here and I tend to stand out because of my eyes. More importantly, I took the lead because you’re too emotionally involved. Last thing I want is for you to be sloppy and say an insult at the wrong time.”
“What do you know about being patient and subtle?”
“I know that I’m in the mood to play with my food.”
“That’s all the Order is to you now?”
“Cute that you think they’re the only ones I’m toying with.”
Stepping into the main courtyard of the prison, the champions stop to take in their surroundings. Only a few rag-covered prisoners can be seen in the open, the gaunt Feykin being ordered to clean a collection of pots and pans. Most of the guards are using leather armor with a handful of platemail-wearing knights standing like statues in alcoves. A stone well has been built near the far wall where a droopy-tailed calico is pulling up the bucket for a drink. None of the open doorways look like they would lead to the cells, several of them taken up by barely clothed cultists who are resting between shifts. The smell of filth and sweat fills the champions’ nostrils, the occasional aroma of rotting vegetables mixing with the stench whenever the breeze is just right. Pressing her nose against her shirt collar, Nyx notices several gratings in the ground and nudges Delvin with her elbow. The pair briefly see a tiny hand reach into the moonlight before a passing guard violently stomps on the fingers.
“So what do we do now?” asks the channeler while leading the Feykin further into the prison. A nearby archer points toward the furthest doorway, his mouth too full of food to give verbal directions to the newcomers. “We bring the prisoners to their cells, make sure they’re locked in, get a feel for the place, and . . . then what? You never really explained this part of the plan.”
“Not much to explain,” Delvin admits, frowning at the way people recoil from him. Passing a collection of polished shields, he sees how he has a bloated nose, a bulbous eye, and a lower jaw that extends further than that of an orc. “We wait. Are those patches of scales instead of hair on my head? Did you really have to make me this hideous?”
Nyx fixes him with a stern glare and looks like she is about to shout. Instead, all she can bring herself to say is, “Yes. Now shut up and get back to work, Nelson.”
*****
Crawling along the ground, Timoran smirks at the brief thought of what Delvin might look like under Nyx’s illusion. The humorous idea helps him remain calm while he nears the dark, looming prison. He has covered himself in mud and leaves, the muck sticking his crimson hair to his face and back. The Feykin are more comfortable in their coatings, but there is still an occasional murmur of complaint. None of them are happy about the winding path that they are taking thanks to the clouds being thinner than they were during the day. Even as they suffer from stiffening muscles and tense stomachs, the warriors follow the champion around patches of moonlight that dot the clearing. Several times they have to stop w
hen a cloud moves and one of the four moons shines directly on their path. When in danger of being revealed, Timoran and the Feykin are forced to roll out of the way, which costs them precious minutes. The movement also covers them in more mud and debris, including the occasional small bone or scrap of flesh that failed to be thrown into a mass grave. By the time they reach the prison, the attackers cover their mouths to breathe a sigh of relief and take a moment to let some of their tension flow out of their muscles.
Pressing themselves against the prison wall, the thirteen warriors silently draw their weapons. Once ready, they watch Timoran press his ear against the building. He frowns at the muffled noise that could be clinking armor or rustling shackles. Even his keen ears are unable to make it clear if he is hearing guards or prisoners through the solid rock. Finding a small crack between two stones, the cautious barbarian moves in front of it and takes a long sniff. Along with the mild aroma of mortar and sweat, he catches a whiff of fouled water and cheap alcohol. The odors are still not enough for him to be certain that he will only be hurting enemies when bashing through the wall.
The click of a crossbow makes the barbarian tense and prepare for the telltale creak of a trigger. A long minute passes with nothing happening, so Timoran slowly looks at the nearby tower. He watches the next shift of guards taking the place of the previous squad, both groups taking a few moments to talk. Their laughter and a few drunken slurs drift to his ears, including some talk of the hideous cultist who arrived. Seeing their distraction as a perfect opportunity, Timoran silently walks by the waiting Feykin and signals for them to creep along the wall. They do not move as far as he wants, but the barbarian knows that he may only have seconds to strike without being noticed from above.
Feeling exposed, Timoran takes a deep breath and focuses on the Ring of Aintaranurh. All he thinks about is destroying the tower, which sends a quivering pulse through his muscles. The stone ring turns blood red and an orange energy runs along his arms, the light remaining dim as it highlights his veins. The barbarian’s primal rage bubbles to the surface of his mind and coats the world in a crimson tint. Unleashing a booming roar for an extra burst of strength, the Snow Tiger King swings his great axe at the tower’s base. As the shadowy figure attacks, the alerted guards do nothing since they expect to have more than enough time to fire their crossbows. So they are stunned stupid when the blow shakes the entire prison and the lower half of the tower flies into the courtyard. The remaining section falls toward Timoran, who delivers an overhead strike that shatters the stone and sends the terrified guards crashing into the far wall.
Not waiting for orders, the Feykin rush through the opening and are immediately pushed back by a swarm of crossbow bolts. They retreat into the nearest room with minimal injuries and charge through the hallways to attack the guards who are still in their quarters. A few of the stronger and more experienced warriors deliver numbing shocks of lightning or blinding flashes of light to incapacitate the more prepared enemies, allowing the others to attempt the killing blow. Some of their targets shrug off the effects quickly, but they are still no match for the viciousness of the intruders. Used to hunting as a team, the Feykin steadily make their way through the fortifications to the next tower with the intention of taking the high ground. It is only when they reach the bottom of the narrow stairwell that they realize Timoran is no longer with them.
Confident that the barbarian can take care of himself, the warriors focus on finding a way into the tower. Whenever they step into the doorway, a crossbow bolt comes racing out of the shadows to scare them away. It is clear that the guards are firing blindly whenever they hear movement below, but it is enough to make the Feykin think twice about advancing. Their thoughts are disturbed when the entire area shakes and pillars of fiery light explode from the gratings in the courtyard. The smoking remains of metal bars and a few unlucky cultists rain down upon the jail as the prisoners and Delvin’s group scramble out of the holes. Cheers from the Feykin meet the bellowing insults and threats of their enemies, the guards finally organized enough to put up a decent fight.
Three armored knights charge toward the warriors that are gathered at the bottom of the stairs. One of the trio is felled by a well-placed arrow, but the other two reach the Feykin unscathed. Unable to back into the protected tower, the invaders stand their ground and do their best to hold off the more experienced swordsmen. It is a desperate fight as they find their weapons are unable to pierce the knights’ platemail. The cultists kill three of the hunters before a muscular form crashes through the wall and slams into them. Not wasting their chance, the Feykin leap onto their enemies and stab into the armor creases.
“Do not linger!” Timoran orders as he stands and faces the hole he came through. Blood is dripping from his mouth and his body is covered in fist-shaped bruises, yet his face is adorned with a proud smile. “Regroup with the others and stay within the fortifications. If you wish to take the remaining two towers then do so. Just be careful because the Order has unleashed several stone golems. I will do my best to keep the monsters at bay.”
“There are three towers left,” one of the Feykin points out. He dives away from the barbarian, who shatters the curved part of the wall and sends the corner fortification flipping into the clearing. “We’ll take care of the others, King Wrath. See you after the battle and don’t take any risks.”
The barbarian scoffs at the suggestion while stepping back into the courtyard, his body seeming to become larger with every step. A loud crackling draws his attention to the wall behind him and he watches one of the gargoyle faces loom out of the stone. The beaked golem pulls itself free of the rock to reveal the four-armed body of a gorilla. No sooner does the construct land than Timoran smashes it with his axe, the orange energy of the ring now coating his entire body. Spinning around to face a bigger enemy that lumbers across the courtyard, the red-haired warrior cannot stop himself from bellowing a joyous war cry. As if answering his call, more of the golems emerge from the walls and several skeletal creations crawl out of the ground to surround the champion. They pay very little attention to the swarming Feykin, the greater threat being the red-haired barbarian who is already turning the first row of constructs into lifeless chunks of debris.
*****
As the Feykin take over the walls and rush into the remaining towers, Delvin and Nyx sprint toward a metal door at the back of the courtyard. Incoming crossbow bolts are grabbed by a coiling breeze and launched back at the guards, typically flying a little wide of their fleshy targets. A dog-like golem charges at them from the side, but it is swiftly beheaded by Delvin’s bastard sword. The body flails wildly until Nyx melts the useless dampening ring into her palm and fires a swarm of metal needles that turn the living statue into pebbles. Both of the champions curse when they turn back to the door and see the warden dart inside. A series of clunks and thuds follow, ending with the shriek of chains grinding against each other. When the champions take a step forward, a barbed arrow sails out of a waist high slit and passes harmlessly between them.
“He really thinks this will stop us,” Nyx says, incinerating the next projectile. A yelp of surprise and the sound of someone falling off a chair can be heard from the protected room. “Do you want to question this guy? He did claim to be the second-in-command of the Order. He might be able to tell us about Caurea’s defenses.”
“If I had a piece of gold for every second-in-command of the Order that we’ve captured then I’d be able to buy the entire jungle,” Delvin replies while coming at the door from the side. He signals for Nyx to flank the entrance with him, another arrow appearing at the sight of his waving hand. “Although, he has to be high up in the ranks. Get me inside and I’ll see how cooperative he is. You can help Timoran with the golems.”
“Because our friend is so helpless without me,” the channeler mutters, nodding her head to where the barbarian is gleefully decimating the constructs. Seeing a group of Feykin pinned behind a pile of pots, she hurls a bolt of lightning that se
nds two of the opposing archers sailing into the clearing. “This guy might have something magical up his sleeve. Not exactly sure what I felt from him, but he does have power. So it’s best that I stay with you.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Ignoring her companion’s charming smile, Nyx cracks her knuckles and puts her back against the wall. A churning inferno appears on her fist, the outer flames hardening into a crimson shell. She knocks on the door with her free hand, causing the jittery halfling inside to waste his next shot. Leaping in front of the entrance, Nyx punches the solid iron and unleashes the compacted spell. The doorway bloats inward for a second before exploding into the room with a shower of superheated shards. An impressive onslaught of creative curses and threats spews from the chamber, proving that the warden is still alive.
With steam wafting off her arm, the channeler steps inside and is immediately sent crashing into the far wall. Whirling around, Nyx jumps away from an incoming ice wave that makes the stone floor brittle enough to crack. Struggling to get a clear view of the warden, she keeps moving as a lightning bolt and a spinning chain of force nearly hit her. An invisible whip takes out her legs, but she rolls away from a fist of stone that erupts from the ceiling. None of the conjured spells are done with words and are too fast for gestures, but the champion doubts she is fighting another channeler. Diving behind a table, she is pelted with chunks of wood that used to be a chair before an explosive orb struck it. Erecting a reflective shield around her hiding place, Nyx peeks out to locate the source of the wildly varied attacks. Crouched in the corner, Emil has two of his wooden sticks drawn and sparks of magic are dripping from their ends. With a flick of his wrists, the halfling puts the wands away and chooses two more to batter the channeler’s defenses. The fireballs and ice waves ricochet off the shield, each blast weakening the room’s stability.
Charms of the Feykin Page 22
