Siege Tactics (Spells, Swords, & Stealth Book 4)

by Drew Hayes

  “I presumed they might spend more time fully discussing and considering their situation,” Simone said, a shard of defensiveness in her tone.

  “We left the thinkers to the thinking. I’m more on Team Doing.” Gabrielle reached back and took hold of her axe, giving it a firm tug that failed to so much as budge the weapon from its sheath.

  Shuffling forward, Jolia raised her hands and whispered a few words. There was a click from Gabrielle’s back, and then her arm came forward holding the axe. Spell done, the gnome hopped back quickly. “Aside from our obvious curiosity to see whether or not this works, we came out to unlock the weapon so the test could proceed. When this is done, we’re going to re-seal that axe. I realize this is going to make your feedings inconvenient, but I’m afraid we can’t let you all walk around Notch while armed. Especially not with an implement that hosts such a potent anti-magic property. If you cut the wrong ward or enchantment around here, you could cause serious trouble.”

  Hardly an ideal situation, and it certainly hadn’t slipped Gabrielle’s attention that while her group had been largely disarmed, the rest of the town had no qualms walking around with weapons on display. Even Simone was still holding her dark staff as she waited on the sidelines. Bothersome as it was, Gabrielle also couldn’t help noticing that they seemed to know quite a bit about her axe’s powers—more than Gabrielle had when she first acquired it. If they could uncover all of that in only a day, perhaps with more time she might be able to get some real answers about this weapon, and her condition. But that meant playing nice, so Gabrielle didn’t object to stowing her axe when the testing was done.

  She moved forward, hopping over the wooden fence of the pen. Sheep were crammed into the space, ten at a glance, possibly more, if she’d taken the time to count. Steadying her grip, Gabrielle set her sights on the nearest one.

  It stood there, bleating, seemingly unaware of the killer that had just stepped into its pen. The kill would be easy, virtually effortless, yet Gabrielle didn’t move quite yet. Something about this felt… wrong. She had killed before—demons, monsters, even humans. She’d hunted as well, even more so now that they lived largely on the road. Never like this, though. It was always done out of need, to feed or protect her party from those who sought to do them harm.

  “Don’t worry. They’re just summons. In an hour, they won’t be here, anyway,” Jolia called from the sidelines, trying to ease her obvious hesitation.

  The reminder should have been helpful, but Gabrielle couldn’t help glancing at Mr. Peppers. Maybe most summons were nothing more than mana shaped into flesh, but at least one had possessed the potential to be more. Who was she to say one of these sheep couldn’t be the same?

  Closing her eyes, Gabrielle blocked out the sound of bleating. This wasn’t killing for the sake of killing. She had to keep that in mind. This was hunting, gathering food for survival. She’d eaten meat all her life, and when she was with the goblins, Gabrielle had even helped them trap and clean on occasion. What was happening here was simply a hunt for food. Even if the situation had been warped and distorted, that was what lay at its core. This wasn’t cruelty, or bloodlust, or any of the other things she’d been waiting to feel creep through her mind since the change.

  That had been her greatest fear since the shock of her new situation had worn off. Would she turn? Would being this new thing draw her into darkness? Undead were commonly thought of as inherently evil, and while she’d seen enough at Briarwillow to know that wasn’t always true, part of her couldn’t help but think that the association had to come from somewhere. In spite of the brave face she put on, Gabrielle was terrified of what she might become, and the kinds of things she could do to her friends if the change came suddenly.

  She didn’t want to kill these sheep, and so far as Gabrielle could tell, that was probably the best indicator she could get that no secret evil was influencing her thoughts. There was no glory in this. It was like a bowel movement: done out of pure necessity.

  Whipping her axe around, Gabrielle took the head of the nearest sheep clean off. The least she could do was keep any of them from suffering. A sliver of warmth ran through the shaft of the axe; Gabrielle knew that feeling well. It had gotten something from the sheep. Not a lot, but something.

  “Interesting. Since the creatures are technically flesh, the axe seems to absorb a small part of the damage back into it; however, their shaped-mana nature creates a diminished output.” At some point while Gabrielle was making peace with her task, Jolia had donned a pair of oversized spectacles with glowing green runes running down the sides. “Today, we can make it up in volume. I’ll tweak my summoning spell tonight and see if there’s not a way to alter the summons so they have a more substantial presence.”

  “I have to kill all these sheep, don’t I?” Somehow, Gabrielle had suspected it would end this way the moment she arrived.

  “And probably another batch after,” Jolia confirmed. “On the bright side, you’re halfway competent with that thing, so it shouldn’t take you long.”

  With a tired, resigned sigh, Gabrielle raised her axe once more. A thought struck her, and silly as it was, she couldn’t banish the idea from her head. “Timuscor, turn Mr. Peppers around. I’d rather him not see me doing this.”

  Her request earned some confused glances from Simone and Jolia, but Timuscor complied without question. He, at least, understood where her head was. With Mr. Peppers now staring back into town, Gabrielle began to cut through the sheep.

  They vanished as soon as they died, which was a very real mercy. If the bodies had lingered, she wasn’t sure she could have finished the job, both because the corpses would haunt her and because the ground would soon be slick with blood. Summons meant never having to deal with cleanup, thankfully, so Gabrielle whirled through the ordeal, killing the final sheep less than a minute after her culling had begun.

  No question about it now. The axe was definitely getting something from these attacks. Gabrielle already felt better, livelier than she had stepping into the pen. Unfortunately, Jolia’s estimates were right. She wasn’t back to full strength yet. In other circumstances, she might have risked working on a half-full metaphysical stomach, but this was not the place to take stupid chances. They were in a place with no confirmed allies and powerful potential enemies around every turn. If she had a chance to feed, Gabrielle was going to use it to the fullest.

  Even if she was pretty sure she’d never be able to eat mutton again.

  * * *

  When the others left, there was little actual discussion to have. Thistle and Grumph went over a few worst-case scenarios, laying out possible contingencies and signals for if they felt an attack was imminent, but the truth was that they simply had too little to work with for anything thorough. The town was unknown, and so far, all they’d learned about the population was that it was supposedly small and disproportionately strong. They had been flying blind since the ambush in the forest, and all the talk in the world wouldn’t change that.

  So, with the others heading back to the same location they’d already seen, Grumph and Thistle decided to explore the rest of Notch. Brock nodded to them as they made their exit, and they returned the greeting casually, both waiting to see if he’d leap across the bar and stop them from leaving. The burly bartender made no such moves, and seconds later they stepped out into the early afternoon sunshine.

  Looking around, Notch didn’t seem especially different from any other village they’d been to. Even back in his pre-adventuring days, Thistle had ridden through untold towns like this one. He’d always thought them simple and pleasant, a nice place to spend one’s remaining days. That was why he’d settled in Maplebark, when the opportunity arose. Well, that, and Madroria had fallen in love with the village on sight. Thistle had accomplished many great tasks in his life and conquered more challenges than most would expect from looking at him, but never had he possessed anything near the strength it would have required to deny his wife’s ambitions. Nor would he
have wanted to.

  Thistle blinked, wiping away the unexpected sheen of tears that had appeared in his eyes. He had no shame about missing his wife, especially in the company of Grumph; however, this afternoon demanded that his vision stay clear. What they saw, the details they noticed, might prove pivotal in the days to come. Duty came first, and his was to keep the party safe. Thistle wasn’t the kind of paladin who could storm onto a battlefield and slay every enemy in sight. His best weapons were forethought and research. And it was time to get started on the latter.

  Exploring Notch’s town center was a relatively brief affair. Whatever else Kieran might have said, his claims about the population were bearing out to be true. Brock’s tavern could, if people were willing to stand, comfortably accommodate the entirety of the fifty people who purportedly lived there. That didn’t seem to be a coincidence. No structure was larger than the tavern, not that there were even many contenders. Notch was absent a town hall, or any manner of official gathering place, which made sense for a village with no mayor or formal ruling body beyond the town council. The tavern probably worked as a makeshift communal meeting place when the need arose, with the bonus of available refreshments.

  Outside of the tavern and the church, Notch boasted shops owned by a blacksmith, an alchemist, and an enchanter, as well as a storefront bearing a staff and a wand, and a vacant trader station with a note saying that the next showing would be in a week’s time. None of the establishments they visited were open, however. Each was marked by some manner of sign that either indicated the owner was off fishing, eating, or engaged in another form of amusement.

  This much, at least, was familiar to Thistle and Grumph. In a village this small, there was little sense in minding a shop all day. If someone needed to make a purchase, they would simply find the owner and have them open up. When everyone was on a first-name basis, it was the most efficient way to run a business. The only exceptions were when adventurers came through town and, of course, the tavern owner. One never knew when thirsty townsfolk would come wandering in for a drink.

  Beyond the shops, they found little else in Notch’s core. A few houses were set up along the edge of the area, but most of the residents seemed to prefer more space. Judging purely by the number of roads leading away from town and the large estates visible at a distance, Thistle guessed there were no fewer than five homes he would have called mansions within walking distance. Others, who came from higher up the social ladder, might not have viewed the houses in such grandiose terms, yet it remained undeniable that they were far nicer than what an average peasant could ever dream of inhabiting.

  All of which served to back up Kieran’s description of the town. Thistle had already begun to experience the difference in gold accumulation between adventurers and everyone else. In his old life, a single gold coin was substantial income, enough to make a real difference in someone’s life if budgeted correctly. Back in Camnarael, they’d all traded thousands of those coins for single items, barely giving it more than a passing thought. How much wealth would those like Kieran and Simone have gathered before they retired? It was hard to say, but surely they had saved more than enough to finance these sorts of accommodations.

  The sprawling nature of the housing also told them something else of value: Notch, in its entirety, was much larger than just the town center. To accommodate the plot sizes, it would have to go on for a couple of miles, Grumph estimated, at minimum. This wasn’t just some small patch of land locked tightly under some makeshift wards. It was a civilization that had been sealed away from the world, hidden so well that seemingly no one knew about it. Thistle prided himself on keeping an ear to the ground for gossip and information, both of which flowed freely between minions, but he’d never gotten so much as a whisper about this place.

  By the end of the day, as they headed back to the tavern to meet for dinner, Thistle was feeling slightly better about their situation. It hadn’t actually improved—in fact, his research had only served to confirm just how deep in the thick of it they really were—but Thistle always preferred having some knowledge to being completely in the dark. After their examination, they didn’t learn much about the people who lived here; however, they were able to come to a very important conclusion.

  Either this was the greatest con ever employed on anyone, going to such severe lengths it over-stepped into madness, or Kieran had been telling them the truth about Notch. The former was possible, if not viable, but more and more, with every detail they learned, the latter appeared to be the clear-cut truth. That presented them with some interesting opportunities, as well as some very real dangers. For Thistle, the most relevant point was that, if Notch really was what Kieran claimed, then it raised at least one burning question, a riddle he knew he would have to solve before they could leave.

  If Grumble had put them on the path to find this village, then what were they supposed to find here? And if it had been some other deity who had led them down this road, then whose game were they now being used as pawns in?

  Until he knew the god that made this happen, Thistle couldn’t trust anything about Notch. Fortunately, there was some recourse for that. When dinner was over, Thistle would do one of the things paladins did best.

  It was time to pray.

  12.

  Timuscor couldn’t sleep. The bed was soft, the night soundless, his door secured, yet he was unable to drift off. Every time he closed his eyes, the questions came flooding forth. What was he? What had he been before? Was he the same person as the man he’d been prior to touching the Bridge? Before today, when he was the only one, it had been easy to shove those thoughts aside. Getting hit by an incredibly powerful blast from a magical artifact was an idea he could wrap his head around. If his memory was a little blurry, if he didn’t feel quite like himself, if something seemed different, well, wasn’t that to be expected after such an encounter? He should just be happy to not have ended up a frog or a statue.

  Notch killed all such delusions. True, the Bridge was still part of it, but there was so much more. There were others out there like him, people with the same piece missing, people who had faced the same questions. This wasn’t something he could write off as a side effect of potent magic any longer. It was a condition, one that others had faced and apparently worked through.

  Rising from his bed, Timuscor found Mr. Peppers awake and waiting. Brock hadn’t objected to lodging the boar in Timuscor’s room; he’d barely even registered the question when it was asked. Evidently, Notch’s citizens had enough quirks that keeping an unusual pet didn’t raise so much as an eyebrow. Timuscor was grateful for the company; he reached down and scratched his friend’s head. It was easier to lean over without his armor, but Timuscor still wished they’d been permitted to keep their gear. Being exposed like this made him feel uneasy. In armor, Timuscor knew who he was: the knight, the tank, the front wall that enemies would have to fight past if they wanted to get at his allies.

  Here, with no armor, no weapons, and no enemies to fight, Timuscor found himself adrift. Even in the party’s peaceful times, there had always been some looming threat to occupy his concerns: a Grand Quest they knew nothing about, a secret evil and missing citizens, a series of assaults upon minions to hinder. Tonight was different. They had so little information that he had nothing specific to focus on, turning the worry into a general kind of anxiety that let those damned inner questions rise to the forefront of his mind.

  Perhaps what was needed was chemical assistance. Since he would still be inside, going back down to the tavern didn’t really invalidate their agreement to stick together. Plus, he would have Mr. Peppers at his side. A tall glass of mead might be just the thing to quell those rebellious thoughts and permit him to rest.

  After quickly redressing—a process made far faster by the lack of armor—Timuscor took Mr. Peppers down the stairs and into the tavern. The tables sat completely empty. It was, after all, a village. People had things to do in the morning; they weren’t adventurers drinking th
eir nights away in frivolity. The sole other person present was Brock, who set a glass of dark liquid down on the bar as soon as Timuscor stepped off the stairs.

  “Had a feeling you’d be down eventually. We all had trouble sleeping when we first started to understand that we were changed. Different. Makes it hard to figure out who you were, who you are, and where the lines between them are etched.”

  Timuscor took a small sip from the glass, surprised at the wonder that awaited him. This was worlds better than the mead Brock had served during the evening meal—a strong, potent liquor with a flavor that lingered on the tongue. He tilted his head, implying the question even as he went back for a second taste.

  “Something special I picked up from a trader that comes through every now and then. In fact, she’s due fairly soon. Much as we like to stay secret, trusting a couple of people makes it much easier to get things from the outside world. I save that one for moments too weighty to trust to ale.” Brock produced the bottle from under the bar, as well as another glass. After pouring himself a serving, he topped off Timuscor. “So, what do you want to ask?”

  The shortest, truest answer was “Everything.” There was so much he didn’t fully understand, so many mysteries surrounding his life. Brock wouldn’t be able to give him all of that, sadly. He was just one person, with his own life and uncertainties. At most, he’d be able to offer some insight. Timuscor decided that it was best to start broad, then narrow things down as his understanding grew.

  “You’ve talked about adventurers, and you refer to echoes as former adventurers, but I’m still questing. I haven’t given up the old life, only who I spend my days with. My question is, what’s the line between normal adventurers and echoes? Can I be both, or I am missing some piece of this puzzle?”