by Drew Hayes
Without hesitation, Thistle approached. “I’m here. I presume this has something to do with why I wasn’t permitted to be killed?”
“Indeed it does.” The priestess faltered, letting out a hack of a cough. “Damn it. I wish I could savor this moment, but time draws short. I’ll content myself with savoring your pain instead. Kalzidar doesn’t want you dead; that’s too easy a punishment for a paladin. He wants you to suffer. There were many reasons to break into the Vault of Sealed Magics, not just to take the Helm of Ignosa. In that place are many wonders and items to do seemingly impossible things… things like enter the Hall of Souls and pull one from its afterlife.”
The realization hit Thistle harder than one of her giant punches ever could. He’d been wrong. Kalzidar wasn’t going after Grumble at all. No, the god of dark magic was targeting Thistle, but not by coming after him directly.
“That’s right. Kalzidar took her while you were busy fighting with me. I’m so close to passing, I can feel my master’s delight. He says to follow the crows, paladin, and eventually, perhaps, you will find her.” She looked over at him, empty sockets gazing directly at Thistle. “Tell me, before I join her, any words for your beloved wife, Madroria?”
Thistle’s hand was on his dagger, raising the weapon overhead, but it was pointless. The priestess slumped to the ground as the light in her guts faded out. She was dead. Timuscor’s attack had done its job.
Which left Thistle no other outlet for his rage and pain than to scream, stabbing his dagger pointlessly to the ground. No one interrupted him; they were still reeling from the news themselves.
Finally, after a few minutes, Thistle managed to calm himself. When he rose, however, something had changed.
There was coldness in his eyes, an expression that almost none of them had seen before. Without meaning to, Grumph shuddered. Unlike the others, he did know that look. And he understood what side of Thistle Kalzidar had just set loose.
54.
The platform was finally in sight. Unfortunately, in the time it took them to reach it, the situation had grown substantially more dire. A new wave of automatons was pressed against the guards, and several more inhuman adversaries now blocked the pathway to the platform itself. From where Wimberly and the others were standing, there was a long, glass-like bridge running to the golden-trimmed area where portals flickered into and out of existence as escaping people ran through them. Given that the bridge material was supporting several guards and automatons, the latter of whom were smashing against it, all while getting only small cracks, it seemed a safe bet that this was not mundane glass, if it was in fact glass at all.
But strong as the material was, the automatons were causing cracks. Small as they might be, every repeat blow added to them. With enough time and attackers, they would bring this bridge down just as they would break the platform itself. There was no stopping the automaton army; the most any of them could hope for was to escape while there was still time.
Timanuel and Hoit led the charge. It was their only option, and everyone knew it. Fighting was out, and there were too many automatons to distract. All they could do was run forward and pray that they’d survive. They were nearly to the first set of automatons when a figure landed hard on the bridge in front of them, causing the group to hurriedly skid to a halt. At a glance, there was something about this man that spoke deep into their souls and told them to be wary.
It wasn’t just the rippling muscles, or the glow of untold enchantments racing across his skin, or the way shadows kept his face unnaturally obscured. It was in the way he moved, in the calm that rolled off him even as he stared down the impossible odds. Was this one of Lumal’s elite? Wimberly glanced over to Hoit and the guards, all of whom were looking extremely confused. Not one of theirs, then. So, just another adventurer?
“If you’ve got a heartbeat, and you want to keep it that way, stay behind me. Been some while since I fought seriously, and the augmentation spells my wizard cast only make me more dangerous. I can’t promise you won’t get caught in the splash.”
No one had time to ask what “the splash” was before the hulking man before them became a blur, too fast to properly track. His fist smashed into the nearest automaton, shattering the arm it managed to raise in the nick of time. The second blow was on the heels of the first, less than a second behind, and this one connected with the automaton’s metal head. Chunks of scrap tore through the air, debris from the automaton turned into a makeshift projectile by the sheer force of the blow.
Wimberly’s breath caught within her chest at the sight of such strength. At least that explained what “the splash” meant. Against a normal enemy, it would have been incredibly impressive. Against an automaton that had taken three fully trained and well-equipped guards to subdue, it was outright miraculous. Who in the hells had this kind of power, and why didn’t she know them?
As the thoughts hit, a blue smoke wafted down onto the battlefield. Turning her head up, Wimberly caught sight of a fellow gnome floating above, sending the smoke spiraling towards them. When it touched her, Wimberly’s eyes grew unfocused for a brief instant, before returning to normal. Except, as she looked at their savior, Wimberly noticed that he remained out of focus. Wait, had it even been a he? She couldn’t quite picture the warrior anymore, just an overwhelming image of muscles and power.
The gnome was casting a memory spell. Had it been viable, Wimberly would have yelled at the woman, demanding an explanation. She was too high up, unfortunately; Wimberly would catch the attention of automatons long before the wizard took notice. Moving fast, Wimberly yanked out her sketchbook and began to draw. Usually, this was where she put down design ideas for new gadgets, but at that moment, her only goal was to capture the memory before it faded completely. Wimberly didn’t try to bring up the face in her mind; the more she tried, the further away it slipped. She just drew, trusting her hands and instincts to remember what her brain refused to. There was a chance that this had no point—the man was a stranger to her even before the memory spell—but someone didn’t want Wimberly to remember this. That alone was plenty enough reason for her to consider it worth hanging on to.
It took Wimberly under a minute to finish her sketch, which was enough time for their savior to clear every automaton off the bridge. He ran toward the platform proper now, viciously hurling or shattering each enemy he encountered. Their way forward was clear, so the party pushed ahead, not wasting this opportunity.
It didn’t escape Wimberly’s notice that the platform was beginning to sway, however. The automatons below had done too much damage—two of the four support pillars were compromised. As fast as the unmemorable warrior was, there was no way he’d be capable of making it down there in time. Were they hoping to evacuate everyone before the platform fell? It was an ambitious plan, to say the least, but given the chaos Lumal was in, that might be the only option they could manage.
Sounds like an earthquake, a deep rumbling, were Wimberly’s first clue that she had miscalculated. With the memory fog engaged, it appeared the wizard had turned her attention to actually aiding the people in need. Four sets of huge arms, made of dirt and stone, burst out of the ground, followed by four heads and bodies. A quartet of gigantic earth elementals rose, two taking the place of the damaged pillars, two working to sweep away the attacking automatons. Although the metal saboteurs didn’t seem damaged by the elementals, the sheer size difference between them made it simple for the earthen behemoths to send automatons flying.
Wimberly’s eyes went back to the other gnome with a new level of respect. Those elementals had to be ancient, for them to be so large. Summoning even one took a mage of exceptional skill. To summon four at once, this woman must have been among the top casters in the entire world. Wimberly wasn’t even surprised to notice that her eyes went unfocused when she looked at the wizard. These two didn’t want to be remembered, and with the kind of power they were throwing around, Wimberly could think of ample reasons why.
All of tha
t was interesting, but also secondary compared to their race for the portals. Getting through, making it out of this place where they were little more useful than mere farmers or peasants, was their primary goal. This short time of feeling helpless had given Wimberly a new appreciation for what non-adventurers must feel like in a world of monsters that could kill them with a single blow. Already, the gears inside her head were turning, contemplating new types of gadgets that anyone could use. Wimberly shoved such notions aside. They were good, useful thoughts for down the line, but today, her focus was on living through the next hour.
An unmistakable din of colliding metal rose from behind them, and Wimberly already knew what she’d find as she turned. A new battalion of automatons had arrived at the head of the bridge, at least a dozen strong. Worse, the huge warrior was already on the platform, meaning that the party itself was blocking him from getting over to help. That was assuming he’d even noticed the new trouble brewing; the man was a blur as he sent one enemy after another flying off the platform’s edge, but there were so many. He wouldn’t be done in time to help, even if that was his desire.
“Run!” Timanuel gave the order, not that they had any other real option. On this bridge, with no room to maneuver, they’d be ripped through in seconds. At least on the platform, they would have a chance to get out of the way. The party and guards sprinted as one, dashing across the cracking, glass-like bridge with all they had.
Most of them made it. They could be forgiven, in the heat of all that was happening, for failing to remember that one of their members was smaller—and proportionally slower—than the rest. As soon as he made it to the platform, Timanuel stepped aside, clearing a path while preparing to hold off any automatons on their heels, and looked back, if only for a few seconds. It was only then that he saw Wimberly, their eyes meeting as she raced with all she had, still substantially behind the others. He tried to move toward her; however, the rest of the party rushing past barred his route.
When the shadow fell across Wimberly’s path, she knew what it was immediately. No other creature would be casting such a broad, unnatural shape in the light of Lumal’s burning buildings. She turned, not because she wanted to fight, nor imagined there would be some surprise waiting. Wimberly merely decided, in that moment, that if she was going to die, then she would face her end head-on. What awaited her was precisely what she’d expected—an automaton raising its fist. She readied for the end, even as her brain scrambled to find some weakness to exploit. Then, the fist moved.
For a flicker of a moment, Wimberly thought the blow was so strong she’d died without even feeling it. But the attack never actually hit her. She could still see the fist, frozen, roughly a foot from her face. Peering around it carefully, Wimberly noted that the other automatons behind her would-be killer were frozen as well. In fact, as her eyes scanned the area, she couldn’t see so much as a single trace of moving metal.
What had been Lumal’s greatest threat was now a collection of statues dotting its landscape, all perfectly frozen, some midway through a step or attack. A few fell over; however, the majority were balanced enough to stay standing. With slow, terrified steps, Wimberly backed away from the automaton, half-expecting it to fly back into action. There was no movement as her pace picked up and eventually turned into a run. She joined the others on the platform, and still there was nothing. Not from the nearby automatons, nor any of the ones they could see throughout the city.
All of Ignosa’s Unfeeling Army had gone still as the grave.
* * *
Slipping out of a room that connected to another plane, carefully closing her bag, Fritz noticed a fleck of blood on the floor that hadn’t been there earlier. Using her long, elven ears to give a proper listen, she realized there were sounds coming from farther along the tunnel. It didn’t seem to be fighting, which meant the battle had probably already finished. Turning, Fritz made her way up the hall, easily avoiding a few traps and countermeasures meant to slow or kill thieves when the Vault was locked down.
It only took a few minutes before she found what she’d expected. This room might have been a lounge or a study, one of the spots designated for visitors to peruse tomes they weren’t permitted to remove. Whatever furniture had been here was largely in splinters, save only for a single chair. In it sat Kieran, holding the head of an unremarkable man with dark hair upon which perched a metal crown. Scorch marks ran up and down the walls, and a half-dozen automatons were scattered about in various states of disrepair. The image it painted was of a hard battle, but Fritz knew better. At best, the priest would have let loose one torrent of magic before Kieran reached him. This whole scene had probably manifested within the span of seconds. Long fights were the realm of knights and paladins, not assassins.
“I see you did the job.” Fritz was careful to keep her tone neutral. It had been a long time since Kieran dressed in black; he unnerved even her in such a state. There were few things that still scared Fritz, but the people of Notch were ones she didn’t dare take lightly. Especially those who watched over it. Everyone else had put the killing behind them, but Notch’s guardians were willing to soak their hands in blood if the need arose, if only to make sure the rest didn’t have to.
“I’d hoped to simply take the crown. He either invoked a spell to bind it to his head, or the crown can create such an effect on its own. Whatever the case, it wasn’t coming off. So I found another way, as I always have.” The head in his hands was dripping, yet not so much as a spot stuck to Kieran’s outfit. Having it enchanted against blood was one of the most practical purchases he’d ever made, a fact that sometimes still kept the man up at night. “Hopefully, it was just me. If Jolia saw someone and failed to save them, she’ll be down the bottle for a month, and last time Brock had to kill again, he locked himself away for weeks to work on the tavern.”
Fritz didn’t have comfort to offer on that front, so she stuck with the truth. “I didn’t see anything besides automatons here. Odds are good that’s all they’ve had to deal with.”
“There are at least three other priests out there, though I imagine most of them have escaped by now. That’s how they managed to get so much from the Vault before it was sealed off. All of them struck simultaneously, stealing their targets at the same time. Once the safeguards kicked in, they already had everything they wanted. The Chronoglass is over in the corner; it had to stay here to work. They escaped with two other items, one of which concerns us on a personal level, and the other that should worry us for practical reasons.”
“Your priest managed to talk that much before he died?” Fritz asked.
In response, Kieran produced a sheet of parchment from a pocket on his shirt and held it out. Stepping around the debris, Fritz made her way over and took it from his hand, giving it a thorough perusal. “Huh. He knew he was going to die here, so he made a taunting monologue in letter form. That is… dedication?” As her eyes kept going, the pieces clicked together. “Well now, this makes more sense. Stealing the soul of Thistle’s wife out of the heavens, that is diabolical. Even for Kalzidar, it can’t have been worth all of this, though.”
“Keep reading,” Kieran encouraged. “It wasn’t just about vengeance.”
When Fritz reached the end of the letter, her fingers inadvertently tightened. “Are you fucking kidding me? They got one of the three Stones of Severing? Those are supposed to be stored in completely isolated pocket planes, accessible only to the owners. Do you have any idea of what those three can do when united?”
“They can create a permanent rift between the planes, allowing beings of hell, chaos, and shadow to come through, along with any other type of planar resident,” Kieran replied. “With all three, Kalzidar could unleash a wave of death in any location he chose. He could turn this entire world into the playground of monsters.”
Kieran didn’t know the half of it. Those stones were capable of opening countless permanent rifts. In the wrong hands, the world wouldn’t just be the playground of monsters: it woul
d be theirs in every measure and sense. They would overrun the cities, slaughter adventurers and normal citizens alike. Knowing Kalzidar, he would make bargains to ensure his faithful were spared, if only so they could keep feeding him their devotion, even as he purged every other god’s followers. A world ruled by monsters, overseen by Kalzidar—that was what those stones could create. And if he succeeded, it would be Fritz’s fault.
Folding the paper carefully, she handed it back to Kieran. “The good news is he doesn’t have them all. I would know if he did. My guess is that he went after this one first, because as soon as word got out that someone was hunting them, Lumal’s protection would have grown even tighter. The bad news is, I can’t stay for long once we get back. I need to warn one of the owners, and then start putting in protections to make sure Kalzidar doesn’t get any others.”
“I appreciate that you’re taking this seriously, but I’m surprised to hear you getting involved,” Kieran admitted. “Generally, you stick to the merchant and messenger role. It’s rare that you roll up your sleeves and participate anymore.”
“Would hardly fit my new role if I did.” Fritz sighed, annoyed at herself that she’d need to do even this much. There was no getting around it, sadly. “These stones are an exception. I have to make sure they don’t fall into the wrong hands. I’m responsible if they do.”
From his chair, Kieran watched her face. Against most people, Fritz’s expression said only what she wanted it to. A master assassin was an expert in body language, however, and he saw more than she wanted. “Once, you told me about an experiment that failed horribly, an attempt to create your own version of the Bridge, rather than hunt down all the pieces. You told me you considered it your greatest mistake, but you never told me what it was.”
