by Drew Hayes
While she was scanning, Gelthorn noticed a balyon near the back that was breaking from the crowd. It wavered; one of its sides appeared to be facing Wimberly’s direction. Without hesitation, Gelthorn fired her last regular arrow through one of the balyon’s eyes, sending a deflated mass to the ground. Much as she might have liked to do one more attack on the helsk, she couldn’t risk a balyon raising alarm. Not when they were this close.
Wimberly stopped soon after, flashing Gelthorn a signal that only her half-elven eyes could make out from such a distance. At last, they were ready to continue. Unfortunately, Gelthorn wasn’t the only one to notice the gnome’s new position. Their luck had seemingly run out: the helsk began making a new set of noises, drawing the attention of the balyons. Tentacles began to rise from its body, heading toward the intruder lodged on the ceiling. They would reach Wimberly easily, and the instant they did, this fight was as good as over.
No time to worry. No time for fear, or doubt, or uncertainty. No time to notice the way Timanuel was barely standing, or the blood running down Chalara’s body, or the increasing amount of balyons swarming their position. The world fell away as her hand clutched the softly glowing arrow, light in her hand as she pulled both it and the bowstring back. A face. She had to hit a face, had to make the helsk hurt as much as possible. For an instant, all of existence was gone, leaving only Gelthorn, her bow, and her target.
It felt like everything happened the second she let go, time stumbling back into flow at an extra brisk pace to make up for how long she’d lingered in a moment. Her aim was true, the arrow drilling deeply into the center of another face. The howl came again, and Gelthorn barely bothered to fight it. Her attention was entirely on Wimberly. It was only now, with her task finished, that she registered what the gnome had done.
Wimberly was falling before the arrow had landed. She’d let go as soon she saw Gelthorn fire. Too trusting, that one; although, in this case, it paid off. Dropping through the air, Wimberly was ignored by the tentacles; she’d targeted the section knotted together with vines. Landing heavily atop the purple flesh, she dug her hooked boots and left hand in, leaving her right one free. Her impact came seconds after the arrow’s, meaning that she was at the epicenter of the howl as the screaming faces opened.
The breath in Gelthorn’s chest refused to leave as she watched, every part of her aware that if Wimberly lost control, then everything would have been in vain. It was a prudent fear, albeit a wasted one. Despite the auditory assault, Wimberly refused to yield. From her side, she produced an orb with a glow just like the enchanted arrows had borne. With a few flicks of her thumb, Wimberly activated the device and jammed it down the nearest open howling mouth she could reach.
Unlike with some of her previous devices, there was no explosion or visible effect when this one triggered. Of course, that might have been because it was hidden inside the body of the helsk. Learning how the balyons fed the helsk had actually been quite the useful revelation. The fact that they spat it into those faces meant the food went somewhere. The helsk had internal organs of some manner, so that meant it had parts it needed. Having Timanuel use the last enchantment on Wimberly’s “blade grenade” gave them a way to seriously injure the helsk internally, the only way they might actually manage to kill it.
That wasn’t to say there was no show at all, however. In place of the usual explosion effects, the helsk began to shake as purple goo-coated chunks of what might generously be described as food began to fire out from its various mouths. The tentacles whipped about wildly, no longer displaying any discernable pattern. Likewise, the balyons were losing their focus, all but those directly in front of Timanuel wobbling on their legs, halting the push forward.
Drawing her own blade, Gelthorn stabbed the nearest balyon she could reach over Timanuel’s shoulder. With her now able to pitch in, they managed to cut down the few balyons still attacking. Gelthorn traded positions with Timanuel, guarding him and Chalara while they each downed a potion. The wailing from the helsk was getting worse. Some of its legs had already collapsed, yet it wasn’t dead quite yet.
The moment Chalara and Timanuel were ready, they dashed forward, knocking aside the unfocused balyons. Racing at a sprint, revitalized by their potions, the trio reached the helsk in no time. Dodging the wild tentacles wasn’t easy, but it was a far sight simpler than if the appendages had been targeting them. Together, they stabbed the helsk over and over, coating the ground in its viscous purple blood. There was no more strategy or tactics; it had taken all they had to reach this point. Either the helsk would recover and kill them all, or they would slay it first. There was no middle ground.
At long last, the helsk gave a shudder and collapsed to the ground, its body deflating like the dead balyons. Gelthorn didn’t stop, though. She kept hacking, slicing away tentacles until she at last found a small pair of legs poking out from a nearby section of legs. Carefully, being sure not to touch the toxic defenses, she dragged Wimberly out. Aside from being paralyzed, their gnome didn’t look much worse for the wear. Just to be safe, Gelthorn poured a potion down her friend’s throat.
It didn’t manage to free her completely, but by the end of the vial Wimberly was moving her head once more. “Please, please tell me we got it.”
Chalara would have joked about failure, but that was not Gelthorn’s way. “The helsk appears to have been slain. If this is a trick or a defensive measure, then it is a highly effective one.”
“Seems doubtful. Nothing about these monsters is subtle.” Wimberly paused, using visible effort to turn her eyes toward the balyons, who had all collapsed into a heap when the helsk died. “How about that? It actually worked. Honestly, I was not giving us great odds.”
She looked away from the balyons and back toward her team. “Hey, Timanuel! When you pray to Longinus next, tell him I said thanks for playing along. We couldn’t have done it without his help.”
“My pleasure,” Timanuel replied. “Although, you’re welcome to send the prayer yourself. The gods listen to all, not just their paladins. Especially those who rush into danger to protect those that can’t protect themselves.”
“Pass. Mithingow is a jealous one.” Wimberly tried to move her arm and found it sluggish, but responsive. Glancing over at the helsk, it seemed crazy to think that the four of them had managed to bring down something so huge. “And I’m pretty sure I just used up all the good luck I had allocated for the week. Or month. Or maybe year. Point is, I’m not going to push it.”
Chalara wandered over, offering her wineskin to the group. “I’m with Wimberly. You have to enjoy the wins while you can. They don’t last forever.”
36.
When Timuscor had been referred to Notch’s blacksmith, he hadn’t been quite sure what to expect. Eric, having spent some time assisting the smith, assured Timuscor that she was cordial, but also admitted that they’d spoken little. The people of the town were nice, yet undeniably eccentric, as was often the case with those of such power. Shandor, somewhat conversely, as it turned out, was the quiet type. She was also eight feet tall, with thick muscles and a pronounced jaw with matching forehead. If not for a few faded memories of his prior incarnation—the time from whoever had come before him—Timuscor might not have recognized her for what she was: a half-ogre. Unlike half-orcs, such as Grumph, half-ogres were much rarer. Ogre-human interbreeding was difficult for a multitude of reasons, but a few half-ogre tribes had managed to spring up through the years.
They were renowned as warriors. Mixing the raw strength of an ogre with the tactical capacity of a human often created dangerous foes. Given that Shandor had made it to Notch, she must have been such a case; although whatever deadly arts she knew weren’t exactly on display. If not for the location and the oversized furniture, Timuscor could have been visiting any blacksmith shop throughout the kingdoms.
“Good morning.” Timuscor’s greeting was met with a gentle grunt of acknowledgment from Shandor, who was sharpening a longsword that was as much a pie
ce of art as it was a weapon. Trotting in at his side, Mr. Peppers stayed quiet. “I wanted to see if there was any progress on the order I placed yesterday. Obviously, I don’t expect it all to be done, but given the threats on the horizon, I’ll take as many pieces as I can get.”
With care, Shandor set her current project down, then rose from her reinforced chair and walked over to her counter, where she cracked open her leather-bound ledger. A thick hand moved down the surprisingly well-written entries, settling on one of the most recent orders.
“You ordered boar armor, yes? With magic.” Shandor tapped the entry heavily, eyes moving between it and Timuscor, then down to Mr. Peppers. “You seem strong enough. Is it necessary to drag your pet into battle?”
That was a fair question, one Timuscor had asked himself more than once. Lacking a better answer, he decided to respond with the same truth he’d ultimately settled upon. “I’m not entirely sure that Mr. Peppers is my pet. Maybe he’s my friend. Maybe he’s my partner. Maybe he’s something else. All I know is that every time I’m in a fight, he gets in it with me. I could buy a pen or a cage, but that doesn’t feel right. I’m not going to tell another creature what choices it can or can’t make; that hits a little too close to what everyone in this town has lived through. But at the same time, I care about Mr. Peppers. So if he’s following me into battle, the least I can do is give him the best protection I’ve got the gold to afford.”
From his side, there came an audible snort from the boar’s snout, though what it meant was lost on Timuscor. Shandor, on the other hand, looked between the two once more before nodding. “Good. I don’t make armor for tools. Only for people and partners. You have truth in your eyes, and your partner has loyalty in his.”
It was more words in one go than Timuscor had gotten in the entirety of placing his order, a process that mostly consisted of nods, sighs, and annoyed grunts. From behind the counter, Shandor produced a small wooden chest that appeared light, until she set it down and it produced a sonorous thud.
“Armor shifts in size, as requested. Also had one more enchantment added: the metal will be as strong as the bond between you. More you trust each other, the better defended he’ll be.”
That was beyond anything Timuscor could have asked for or envisioned. It wasn’t just a boon—not purely. Shandor evidently meant what she said about not making armor for tools. If he didn’t treat Mr. Peppers like a friend, or at least with respect, then the armor would weaken, potentially becoming worthless. A blessing or a curse, depending on the kind of partner Timuscor chose to be.
“Thank you very much. Anything that makes him safer, I am happy to pay for, and an enchantment like that might prove lifesaving in the battle ahead. I will not forget the kindness you have shown.” Timuscor lowered his head in a respectful nod to Shandor.
When he looked up, he saw the first visible expression on Shandor’s face: surprise. She hadn’t expected that reaction, but unless Timuscor was getting the wrong message, she looked pleased by it. It faded after several seconds, just before Shandor reached out, holding her enormous hand open in front of Timuscor.
“Show me your sword.”
Timuscor had already trusted this blacksmith with Mr. Peppers’ safety; a blade was well below that in terms of importance, so he handed the weapon over readily. It wasn’t as if anyone in Notch needed to take his weapon to kill him.
Shandor examined it closely, turning the longsword around in her hands. “A good sword. Strong. Simple. Sharp. Not for you. Durability was traded for speed in the design. Meant for attackers. Paladins defend above all else. Need a sword made to last.”
Setting it on her counter, Shandor made no motion to return the weapon. “But I will do my best to sharpen and repair it before sunset. Can’t offer to make you a new one. Shandor weapons are distinct, famous. Even after this long.”
“I understand. Notch isn’t part of the rest of the world, and that includes its crafts. Sending new weapons by a renowned smith out into the kingdoms at large would eventually tip someone off that you were still around.” Timuscor was tempted to point out that, in theory, she could forge him one solely for use in the coming battle, but held his tongue. Shandor probably had ample duties one her plate before this evening, and that was assuming it was even possible to make one of her weapons in a day. While she’d gotten the armor done fast, it was obvious from the gentle enthusiasm and expertise in Shandor’s voice that weapons were her true passion.
His response earned him a grunt that didn’t seem as annoyed as some of the others. “Glad you understand. You still need a better sword. A sword for a paladin.”
“Much as I appreciate the compliment, and can understand the confusion given my choice of weapons and armor, I’m actually not a paladin.” The words pained Timuscor to speak, as they had every time they’d left his mouth. “It is my dream, but I’ve yet to find a god who would allow me into their service without also gaining my allegiance and devotion.”
To his surprise, Shandor leaned forward, grabbing his chin in her dense fingers and tilting it upward so they were staring into each other’s eyes. “Missed the doubt before. There it is. Strong. Deep. Holding you back.”
With unexpected care, she released her grip on Timuscor. “Except for the doubt, you have a paladin’s eyes.”
“Does that mean something?” Timuscor was mentally stumbling, trying to keep up with all the sudden turns in the conversation.
“It means you are almost paladin, which is the same as not being close to paladin at all, in effect.” Shandor shook her head as she picked up Timuscor’s sword. “More paladins these days, but I liked the old way better. Oaths and truth, the will of one who refuses to yield. More isn’t always better. Come get the sword this afternoon, before dinner.”
With that, she retreated to the rear of the shop, leaving Timuscor with Mr. Peppers’ new armor and a sudden burst of unanswered questions.
* * *
The room was simple: stone walls, floor, and ceiling, only a single door to break up the monotony. That door was something, however. Made from a gleaming metal unlike anything Eric could place, with different minerals racing through it like veins of ore in a mine. Except these veins glowed with a shifting array of colors. Just touching the door had nearly bowled Eric over from the ambient power. Whatever intention Jolia had intended for this room, she clearly didn’t want anyone getting in or out.
That worked well for their purposes. Fritz had specifically requested somewhere heavily fortified, so anyone who discovered them couldn’t make an easy kill while also stealing the artifact—apparently, they would be virtually helpless while controlling the Bridge. How long she’d been working was anyone’s guess. Eric had been led to the room by Kieran, only to discover Fritz covering the entire space in arcane signs and symbols, using a softly glowing chunk of purple chalk.
Every surface, ceiling included, had some degree of drawing on it. Lines and circles, plus shapes Eric didn’t recognize and that hurt his brain to look at for too long, all of it naturally leading to a single area on the floor. In that space were two circles, directly across from one another, with a smaller circle between them. Blinking away the unnatural shapes, Eric focused on the circles, one of the few places in the room he could look at comfortably.
“For a trader, you sure do know a lot about magic rituals,” Eric said.
“For a rogue, you sure do announce your presence when walking into a room,” Fritz shot back. “You here to learn about me, or controlling the Bridge?”
Eric wasn’t completely sure those subjects were as different as Fritz wanted him to think, but this was absolutely not the time to go down that particular rabbit hole. They had hours until an entity claiming to represent Kalzidar was supposedly going to overrun the town with an army of automatons. Dealing with that took clear precedence over his curiosity.
“The Bridge. Am I supposed to sit in one of those?” Eric pointed to the trio of circles, earning a nod from Fritz.
“Eith
er of the big ones is fine. Bridge goes in the small one in the middle. I’m almost done, so we can start soon. Based on my conversations with Kieran, I think the first task everyone wants is to find out how true the line about an automaton army coming here is. If we can punch through the barrier blocking our communication, we can find out what the situation actually is. That work for you as a starter project?”
Breaking through a barrier didn’t seem too tough, given what Eric could recall about holding the Bridge. Those memories were choppy and hard to string together, but he could never forget the daunting sense of power that came with touching this artifact. What it could do wasn’t the question; the Bridge was capable of feats beyond their dreaming. They, as the wielders, were the ones who might be lacking. Seeing Fritz’s handiwork throughout the room put Eric at ease, however. She knew what she was up to. Under her guidance, they could break through.
“After everything Notch has done for us, reestablishing their links to the outside is the very least we can offer. Tell me what to do, and I’ll comply,” Eric said.
“Well, for now, go sit in the circle out of my way and wait. I need a few more minutes to finish up before we get started.” Fritz turned her attention back to drawing her odd patterns through the room.
As he waited, Eric forced himself to stare at the unnatural parts that hurt his head, pain be damned. One day, he might need this knowledge. A mere inkling of it could make the difference; adventuring had taught him that every tidbit and tool could mean survival. Even if it did eventually feel like someone was slowly pushing a dagger through his head, Eric continued.
Pain, he could bear. Losing one of his friends because he came up short, that would be too much. It had almost happened once. Eric wouldn’t permit it to happen again.
* * *
While the adventurers prepared, each attending to their various tasks, Kieran stood before almost the entire remainder of the town. Only those who had work to do, such as Shandor and Simone, or the few like Agramor who never left their domains, were missing. The rest had gathered in the only location large enough to house all the citizens of Notch at once: The Hall Under the Hill.
