by Drew Hayes
For now, she had to slip away. The trader wasn’t scheduled to arrive yet, but her instructions were clear. She was not to give any sign that someone was camping along Notch’s borders, which meant allowing the usual traffic to pass unimpeded. Although Kalzidar was shielding her from detection by magical means, she could still tip them off by staying in the open view of travelers. A poor morning was one thing; erring on that front risked unwinding the entire plan, and she would not disappoint Kalzidar in such a way. Both out of devotion, and self-preservation.
* * *
Timanuel hurled himself between the roc’s claws and Wimberly, taking a hefty scratch along the back of his armor for the trouble. Better mar his appearance than suffer Wimberly’s guts spread out all over the nest, which was where things had been heading.
It had seemed like a simple task. Climb the mountain, find the home of the golden rocs, take a few feathers, and be on their way. At first, things went to plan. They made it along the road with only a minor skirmish, managed to navigate their way up the mountain with minimal injury, and stumbled upon a nest by pure fortune. That luck had lasted only until they’d stepped inside, however. Circling shadows were their first, brief warning before the golden rocs began swooping in and attacking. They were young, far smaller than the enormous creatures they’d eventually become. The birds known as rocs were famous for being huge, but golden rocs were a type of tremendous all to themselves. Legend said a fully grown one could spread its wings and block out the sun.
The one upside was that, given the fighting, the nest, and the dive-bombs, the party had more golden roc feathers than they could possibly need. They might even be able to turn a small profit on the rest, if they made it out of here in one piece. Monster parts always had some kind of market, be they for mages or collectors.
“We have to jump!” Chalara was holding a magical shield in place over herself and Gelthorn, who was firing as fast as she could reload her arrows. The quiver was not endless, unfortunately, and there were too many enemies to wear them down slowly.
“Won’t that just kill us faster?” Timanuel asked.
“I can cast Light-Fall on us. It will burn up the rest of my mana for the day, though, so you assholes have to protect me on the way down.” Chalara sank to her knees, presenting as small a target as possible while a fresh set of talons raked her wavering shield. “Thing is, I can’t cast while holding this, so we have to jump first. I’ll have to do it in the air.”
Timanuel and Wimberly both glanced over the edge. It was a long way down, easily enough to kill them, but not quite so lengthy a drop that they felt confident Chalara would be able to cast that many spells before impact. As they looked, screeches filled the air and another pair of rocs swooped down. Chalara was right. They had what they needed, and this was too overwhelming a force to defeat.
“On three?” Wimberly called.
“Fuck that. Just jump!” Chalara was already moving, her shield dissolving into light, Gelthorn close at hand. They raced to Timanuel and Wimberly, helping the gnome to her feet before taking surprisingly graceful leaps over the edge of the nest. Timanuel and Wimberly went with them, both keeping careful watch on the circling shadows as they began plummeting toward the ground.
Seconds later, they saw Gelthorn’s fall slow considerably while they raced past. Credit to her: the forest warrior had her bow drawn and ready in case any rocs tried to follow them down. Chalara slapped a hand on Wimberly moments later, mumbling under her breath as she cast the spell again.
It was like someone had tied a rope to Wimberly’s body. She suddenly stopped tearing through the air and drifted like one of the very feathers they’d come to collect. Heartening as it was to see, Timanuel couldn’t help noticing the sheen on Chalara’s face, despite the wind screaming past them. This was taking a lot out of her, and the ground was coming up fast. Still, she hurried on, pressing against him as the arcane words came out so fast they nearly tripped over one another. Timanuel felt the magic take shape at the same time he saw Chalara’s head start to dip. On instinct, he wrapped her in a hug, then flipped over, putting his back between her and the ground.
Before he’d finished the rotation, Chalara was out. Maybe she’d overestimated herself. Maybe she’d known from the start that she didn’t have enough mana to save everyone. Whatever the case, this was all Timanuel could do to try to help now. He wasn’t a mage, he wasn’t especially clever, but he was a paladin. Taking hits for his friends was just one part of what that entailed.
Since he was enchanted to fall more slowly and Chalara was under gravity’s full control, the end result was that they fell together at a reduced pace, just not to the point where they would land without injury. Timanuel came down hard; he felt more than a few bones fracture on impact. He was still alive, though, and based on the gentle snoring drifting up from Chalara, so was she.
Wimberly and Gelthorn were still drifting down, so Timanuel spared a bit of healing magic for himself—enough so he could move properly as they continued their escape. Things seemed to be looking up. The rocs were staying close to their nest, not bothering to give chase. It made sense; all they’d been doing in the first place was repelling invaders from their home.
From his pouch, Timanuel produced a few of the golden feathers they’d gone through so much trouble to obtain. One major item down, some potion ingredients, and two more items to go. He just hoped they wouldn’t be quite so dangerous to obtain.
* * *
The adventurers were gathered in Brock’s tavern, clustered up around Thistle as he continued healing the wound in Eric’s guts. They’d stabilized him in the open before moving indoors to finish. The wound might have been a fatal blow to one with less experience, but bodies that were constantly fueled by mana had a tendency to become more resilient. It was one of the reasons adventurers could keep fighting through blows that would fell a mere farmer. They probably didn’t know that, Kieran realized as he took a quick glance through the tavern window. They were just acting on instinct, much as they had throughout the battle itself.
While the newcomers were concerned with taking care of their friend, Kieran and Simone were sorting through the gear the raiders had been wielding. Most of their standard equipment had been melted by the lightning or crushed by the bears; the majority of what remained to be were the newly-acquired enchanted items. Turning a gauntlet over in his hands, Kieran examined it carefully, using the magical glasses Jolia had lent him for the job.
“Looks like this one is pretty strong. Gauntlet of the Flame Warden, a near-artifact that was handed down by a powerful warrior from the Plane of Fire. No wonder a mere thief couldn’t handle this; you’d need a lot more mana capacity and some primal connection to fire in order to wield it properly.”
“Into the sack, then.” Simone held out the canvas bag lined up and down with runes. Magical bags that could hold more than they seemed were almost commonplace in major kingdoms; this was something more secure. It had enough enchantments to be sure that those who shouldn’t get in wouldn’t, regardless of how hard they tried—a necessary precaution when dealing with this many magical items from various sources.
Kieran tossed the gauntlet in, then removed a ring from a nearby finger unattached to any owner. “This one… just a small bit of protection magic, clearly not enough to help its owner.”
“Potential loot?” Simone asked.
It was wrong to let the adventurers fight so hard and walk away with none of the spoils. Kieran felt that in his gut as surely as Simone and the others did. Former adventurers or current, there was an order to these things, one that Kieran wasn’t going to risk violating while his town was under assault. Then again, Kieran couldn’t very well hand over equipment so powerful it might kill the adventurers, so the best solution they’d come up with was to screen the remaining items. Those that were worth having, but were not so strong as to be dangerous, could be used as potential loot for Notch’s guests—after more thorough examination, of course. Everything else
went into the bag. They would hand it off to the trader when she came through, probably picking up a tidy profit in the process.
“Potential loot,” Kieran agreed, tossing the ring into a more mundane bag slung over his shoulder.
“I’ll make a note.” Simone jotted a few words in the scroll at her side, eyes darting to the corner of her page. It was rare to see Simone uncomfortable, especially with the winds of victory still blowing through the air. “Kieran, be honest with me, what do you think of these adventurers?”
It was more than just a question, she wasn’t even trying to hide that fact, yet without knowing exactly what it was she was fishing for, Kieran had no choice but to offer her the truth. “Good-hearted, and they work together well. That teamwork, along with a bit of divine help, is probably what’s seen them through their travels so far. In terms of raw power, they have a few neat tricks, but it’s clear they started at a disadvantage. They didn’t train for these lives, and it shows. Gabrielle is only now roughly as strong as an average barbarian thanks to being undead, Grumph doesn’t have nearly the mana capacity as most mages at his casting proficiency, Thistle’s weakened form means that he will never properly take a paladin’s place on the front lines, Eric was only obviously just recently trained, and Timuscor…” Kieran trailed off briefly, then shook his head.
“Physically, Timuscor is the only one at the level where he should be. He started off as an adventurer, and the difference is clear. But mentally, he’s still so raw, even though it’s been some while since he was freed. We all lived our first lives long enough to have a sense of ourselves, to mentally divvy things up between what we’d been doing versus who we truly were. I think he might have broken away from his control before forming that, and lacking a sense of self has slowed his growth. The only part he seems to be carrying with him is his desire to be a paladin.”
There was no dissent from Simone; she’d almost certainly reached roughly the same conclusions from her limited time interacting with the party. Assessing someone’s potential abilities was part of the adventuring life—it helped avoid mouthing off to someone who could knock you through a wall—and the assessment of Notch’s newest visitors said only one thing: they were a nice party, not a strong one.
“I know what we decided when this first started. Just a place to rest; maybe a peaceful life, if they were looking to settle down and seemed like a good fit. Does that still feel right?”
“You want to train them?” Kieran asked, already aware of the direction that kind of talk would lead.
Simone held her hand out in the air, palm flat, and shook it along the wrist. “Sort of? I’m not proposing we teach them all our secrets or techniques or anything like that. I was watching Gabrielle when she used her rage today. It was a curious sight, seeing the mana flow in, weaving its way through the axe. I think it’s doing more than just keeping her alive, and I’d like to study their bond. Obviously we shouldn’t try teaching them to slay dragons in a single blow or anything ludicrous, but they jumped into danger without hesitation just to help us with a little subterfuge. Maybe we can teach them enough to survive for a week once they leave.”
“They lived long enough to make it here,” Kieran pointed out.
Simone didn’t reply at first. Instead, she reached down and tried to pick up a longsword near a body that looked like it had been sucked dry of some essential nutrients. She let out a sharp curse seconds later, dropping it to the ground with a clatter. “Shit, no wonder that blade gave Gabrielle such trouble. There’s a hefty amount of divine magic buried in there.”
Walking quickly over, Kieran grabbed the longsword by the handle. It was a fine weapon, keen and balanced. There was more to it, however: old magic, the kind woven by a master of an art long since lost to time. Kieran had encountered a few such items on his journeys. For most, they would be nothing more than sturdy, reliable weapons, yet there were a few who would see different results, wielders who satisfied some unspoken requirements known only to the items themselves. Given the tinge of divine magic that had burned Simone, this was a sword most likely meant for a paladin.
“Assuming this one passes inspection, we’ll let Thistle take hold of this and see if it produces any other effect, such as resizing,” Kieran decided. “If not, then let’s offer it to Timuscor. He’s the only one of the group who uses a longsword, and I’ve got a good hunch about this one. Whatever’s inside is powerful enough to hide from Jolia’s spell, so maybe it can help keep the kid alive once he’s back on the road.”
“I take it you’re on board with helping them?” Simone finished shaking her fingers, the last of her burns already faded.
“We’ll give them enough that they know how to grow from here, and you can untangle any potential issues with the axe or other enchantments they might be hauling around. Don’t forget, these people came here with a piece of that artifact. Someone is using them as pawns, so I think they’re a touch more looked after than you think.” Kieran jammed the longsword into the ground so Simone wouldn’t grab it again by mistake. He’d pick it up when they were ready to head inside, but there was still a lot of work left to do.
Already the town priest, Olipep, was preparing to hold service. Simone had sent her attendants a message to ready the graves, meaning that was one chore they could thankfully skip. They would see these raiders put properly in the ground before the day was done, each one getting a grave on newly consecrated ground. Killing didn’t come as easily as it had before, when they were all adventurers roaming the countryside with nary a second thought for the bloodshed in their wake. It was still necessary, when occasion demanded, but at the very least, they could treat what remained of those they killed with respect.
Even if the others had been pretending to lead the attack, it was really Notch’s defenders who were responsible for most of this carnage. The bears, the lightning, the daggers planted in people’s vital organs—it all traced back to him and Jolia. Brock and Simone had avoided engagement purely by chance; neither of them had needed to intervene. They would have, though, and in a heartbeat at that. Most of the town could enjoy their new lives of peace solely because the town council was still willing to shed blood. Killing was the nature of their world, and disliking it didn’t change that fundamental truth.
It would still be true when the others emerged from Notch and headed back into the kingdoms. Monsters, bandits, corrupt politicians, greedy guild leaders, there was no end to the dangers awaiting those who set to the road and called themselves adventurers. That was a concern to deal with later. For now, Kieran wanted to see his town swept clean. Someone had clearly sent these raiders in, and that person was likely smart enough not to be among them. There was much to sort through, and no indication how long they had to do it.
“After the service, we’ll gather together to share information and theories gleaned from this battle,” Kieran said. “Once that’s done, we can talk to the adventurers about extending their time with us a touch. Until the trader arrives, at soonest. At that point, we can give them a guide, or they can make a home here.”
“You think she’ll have any trouble making it through with whatever is going on?”
At that, Kieran managed to produce a short laugh. “I think she’ll be just fine. It’s a regretful fool who underestimates that one. Let’s just focus on making sure Notch is still standing by the time she gets here.”
22.
By the time the last of the bodies were buried, it was near evening. Together, most of Notch’s overseers returned to the tavern, where Brock was still overseeing the adventurers. He’d never been much of one for ceremony, be it for friend or foe. In Brock’s culture, to die in battle was a glory, not a tragedy, and such accomplishments were meant to be drunkenly toasted. Enemy or ally, he would raise a mug to any warrior who fought valiantly and accomplished deeds worthy of retelling.
Jolia and Simone were largely silent along the trek, making only occasional small talk about their theories on what might be happening. For Kier
an, too, the evening felt heavy, this post-burial walk all too familiar. The cost of living so long as an adventurer, and making it to retirement, was that he’d been forced to go to many funerals such as this. When two sides met in a battle to the death, only one dug the graves. For a time, he’d hoped this part of his life was truly behind him, yet now, a new enemy was at the gates, trying to break inside.
That was part of why Kieran had agreed to Thistle’s plan. Stepping onto a new battlefield and drawing his blade again—that was no small act. If he began to fight in earnest once more, Kieran wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop. In the old days, before he’d gained a sense of self, the killing had merely been part of the job. This would be different. This time, Kieran had a town he’d be protecting. A lifetime of adventuring had taught him much, and one of the most important lessons was that people were at their most dangerous when they had something to fight for.
Such thoughts left his mind by necessity as they entered the tavern to find a semi-festive vibe. Eric had been patched up good as new thanks to Thistle’s healing, and everyone was enjoying mugs of ale that clearly weren’t their first. Since it was nearly night, Kieran helped himself to a drink, then motioned for everyone to draw near.
“Evening, all. With our enemies now properly laid to rest, I think it’s time we dug into what happened here today. A band of Urthos plains raiders, geared to the teeth with equipment they couldn’t control, managed to breach our borders only a few days after you lot wandered in. And before we go down that road—no, I don’t think you had anything to do with it. Not knowingly. But this makes the idea that your artifact or god led you here just that much more suspect. Thistle, as a paladin, I assume you’ve been praying since your arrival. Did Grumble ever confirm that he was the one who brought you to Notch? If we can rule out even one source, it would make our task easier.”
