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

by Drew Hayes

  “And I wish I wasn’t giving it away now. Unfortunately, that seems to be where we are.” There was no getting past it, so Fritz opted to tell the truth. If nothing else, it might convince Kieran to lend some help. On this task, she would accept any aid she could get.

  “Yes, Kieran. I’m the one who created the Stones of Severing. Which is why I know how important it is that we keep them from Kalzidar.”

  55.

  No storm this time; no howling wind screaming in Thistle’s ear. No tavern, either. He was in a temple of Grumble, one that looked quite similar to Ulkin’s in Alcatham. Thistle had barely made it off the battlefield before he was overwhelmed with exhaustion. While it was possible that the events of the fight and the revelation at its end had overtaxed him, Thistle suspected this was more divine in origin than physical. It had been quite a while since he’d been able to speak with Grumble, and gods were not renowned for their patience.

  The moment Thistle had found a chair and shut his eyes, he was in the temple. It was a tad brusque, but given the situation, Thistle appreciated the lack of theatrics. At the front of the temple, sitting in front of the altar, sat the mundane-looking kobold who was anything but. While hardly haughty, Grumble did tend to carry himself with the aura of confidence that belonged to gods, beings of incredible power beyond the scope of mortals. Today, that aura was substantially dimmed, and there was a sincere look of sadness on his scaly face. Wordlessly, Thistle made his way over, slowly pulling himself up next to his god and taking a seat.

  “I’ve gone over it in my head a dozen times already, just in the walk from outside to the tavern. As angry as I am, and please do not mistake my calm for a lack of fury, I cannot in good conscience hold you accountable for what happened. Kalzidar outplayed us both. He sealed me away, kept our eyes from the real target, and went so far as to use a piece of the Bridge to cut off the communication between us. Even if you knew everything that happened in there, what can I expect you to have done? I’m the one you would task with tackling such a problem; with me sealed away, you had only priests and followers to turn to, none of which could stand against the kind of power I saw today.”

  It was not an easy thing, to forgive when the pain was so fresh. But Thistle was more than just his emotions; he was capable of seeing moves ahead. There was a chance he was being too easy on Grumble, letting the god off the hook lightly; however, in the long term, it was essential. Thistle couldn’t expect to mount a rescue campaign against a god without one in his own corner. Preserving this relationship was more important, and if he did so in a way that left Grumble feeling in his debt, all the better. Should Thistle need a touch of help down the line, it would be nice to have some leverage. Besides, the simple truth was that Thistle didn’t really blame Grumble.

  Thistle blamed himself.

  “Kind words. Exactly the sort of forgiveness and decency I would hope to see from my paladin. Yet we both know that I am not without fault. I brought you to this life, Thistle. If I’d left your group alone, you’d certainly be dead, but compared to what you face now, perhaps that wouldn’t be so bad. I am sorry for the situation you’ve found yourself in. Were it in my power, I would steal Madroria’s soul back this moment. Sadly, she dwells in Kalzidar’s domain now, and not even we gods can pluck souls at our leisure. To remove one takes exceptional power and access to specialized tools. I can no more remove her than I could steal the soul of any of his own faithful.”

  “Aye, that’s about what I’d suspected.” Thistle didn’t know everything about the gods, but he assumed that Kalzidar wouldn’t have gone to such trouble if it were that easy to shuffle souls around. “Which means that, if I want her back, I have to play his game.”

  The kobold twisted, looking Thistle over carefully. “Play his game? You haven’t realized the danger you’re in yet, have you?”

  “I’m sure Kalzidar intends to kill me, but I don’t plan on letting him until Madroria is rescued. I’m an adventurer. I’m always at risk. One more person after my death doesn’t change things.”

  To his surprise, Thistle felt a scaly claw fall on his shoulder. The moment it landed, a feeling of peace and security trickled through his mind. Grumble was comforting him? Like most things gods did, it was more effective than the mortal version.

  A heavy breath was Thistle’s first clue that the kobold had more bad news to share. Thankfully, Grumble didn’t leave him in suspense long enough to figure out what it was. “Thistle, you are at risk in a way you never have been before. Do you remember your condition for becoming my paladin? The one thing you asked for in return for service?”

  “To be reunited with my wife.” It hadn’t been an accident; the fact that faithful paladins who served their gods well were raised into higher heavens after passing was part of the selling point for those who joined. A chance to stand in their god’s glory—in a position of reverence, no less—was appealing enough for many to lay down their lives to obtain. Thistle had needed to ensure that he and Madroria ended up together, even if his position would warrant something different.

  The hand squeezed, bringing in a fresh wave of comfort. “My exact words were: ‘I will ensure your spirit is reunited with your wife’s.’ I know that, Thistle, because I gave you my word. A god always knows their promises. We are bound by them. This time, that phrase feels especially appropriate.” Grumble took a moment, gathering himself. It was the first time Thistle had ever seen the god, any god, do such a thing, and it unnerved him more than Thistle would have expected.

  “Thistle, Kalzidar has done more than take your wife. He has stolen your own afterlife, as well. By my own promise, I must see you reunited with Madroria when you die. If that should happen now, as things stand, then the only way that I could do such a thing would be to release all claim on your soul and turn it over to Kalzidar. In his realm, torturous as it would be, you’d have your reunion.”

  The last pieces fell into place as understanding fully set in. It was a realization he’d have come to on his own, with a little time to think. Perhaps that was why Grumble had called him so quickly; he wanted to be there as Thistle came to terms with the true situation. “So, Kalzidar not only has Madroria, but if I fall before we save her, I’ll be lost as well. It pains me to say it, but that bastard played us well.”

  “Loss is part of my religion,” Grumble told him. “Minions, as a rule, rarely taste victory. More often, they are trod upon or kicked around. The luckiest ones get ignored. But I do not teach defeat, Thistle. We fail, we learn, we try, we fail again, yet we persist. To be a minion is to live without hubris. You must learn every failing you have and take ownership of them, if you wish to keep another from exploiting such weaknesses first. Yes, we lost this day, but we did not lose everything. Kalzidar’s intent was to leave you truly alone, to kill off your friends so you had no aid to call upon as you rescued Madroria. And the tactics Kalzidar used came with costs of their own. Attacking Lumal stirred up more gods than just me. As for stealing a soul, that is no small crime.”

  “No, it is not.”

  The voice came from the front of the temple, a soft noise alerting Thistle to another figure arriving in the same spot he had. The person was of his and Grumble’s size—gnomish, and female, with a familiar insignia stitched across her robes. With a glance, Thistle knew her. How could he not? Even if she had never been his god, in his lowlier days, Thistle’s chief job had been cleaning and caring for one of her major temples.

  Thistle stepped down, then inclined his back as best he was able to with a warped spine, managing a serviceable bow. “A welcome to you, Mithingow, god of the gnomes.”

  “You’re never that quick with the bows to me,” Grumble complained.

  “Your dogma is less formal than hers. Besides, I am not inclined to be rude when courting allies.” Thistle looked up from the ground with no shame at his words. This was a meeting of people angry at Kalzidar; he needed the formation of a coalition. Whether Grumble realized it or not, Thistle was on more than a rescue
mission. God, mortal, it didn’t matter. Kalzidar had crossed a line. Once Madroria was safe, Thistle planned to take Kalzidar’s head, a warning to all the gods of what would happen to those who stole the dead. He hadn’t figured out quite how he’d do it yet, but there was plenty of time for that. Right now, he needed allies more than schemes.

  Mithingow nodded, looking Thistle over with a critical eye. “You know my ways well. I, however, am not familiar with you, paladin of Grumble, nor did I know your wife. Countless souls dwell in my realm, and I meet relatively few. But that does not matter in a situation such as this. Madroria was a dutiful follower and servant, who earned her place through a lifetime of devotion. What Kalzidar has done is about more than just one soul. It threatens the entire system by which we reward our faithful. Hear me well on this, paladin. Were Madroria my dearest friend and companion, I could not be more incensed by her abduction. Kalzidar has made an enemy today.”

  “More than one.” Grumble rose from his seat as well, taking a stance next to the god of the gnomes. “Many gods had followers and temples in Lumal. An attack like that is a blow to their egos, and while it’s not quite the same as the personal slight dealt to Mithingow, you will find many sympathetic to our cause. With preparation, we can gather a force capable of recovering Madroria.”

  The words were heartening, yet Thistle remained unmoved. This was all nice to consider, good ideas to think about, but the fact remained that with every passing minute, Madroria was in that monster’s grip. A plan, a campaign, who could guess how many obstacles there would be to clear before he’d get the merest chance of seeing Madroria, leaving her to who knew what fate in the time between.

  “Useful as I hope that will be, my patience for such tactics is lacking.” Thistle noted that both gods were surprised by his response. They hadn’t expected him to talk back, not at a time like this. “I had hoped that, as this was a divine issue, it could be quickly resolved by the gods. Seeing as that is not the case, I’m going to pursue a faster means of recovery.”

  Though Mithingow said nothing, Grumble shook his head. “Thistle, I know what you’re thinking. If a piece of the Bridge was capable of stealing a soul, Kalzidar would have used that technique instead of going to such trouble. Those artifacts have never reacted well when dealing with divine realms or magic; it’s the reason so few have used them to challenge the gods. I’m sorry, but you can’t use one as a shortcut.”

  No, Grumble was probably right. Thistle couldn’t use one piece of the Bridge and hope for such a miracle. But it wasn’t like there was only a single piece of it out there. In fact, with the priestess’s death, her chunk of glowing crystal had fallen into their possession. Before, even that might not have inspired Thistle with much hope. Seeing Eric lose his mind when holding two pieces together had made it clear there was a limit. After Fritz teaching him how to control it with rituals, though… no, he almost certainly wasn’t there yet. Fritz was, but her help would come with a high cost—one Thistle would gladly pay, assuming he was able. Still, there was no reason to put all his potions in one bag. If the gods wanted to help, he would play along with their plans as well. More plans in motion meant more room to maneuver if one went awry.

  Mithingow, perhaps misreading his eyes, perhaps subtly aiding his plans, spoke up. “While I certainly understand your concern over Madroria’s well-being and the corresponding need for expediency, you need not worry quite yet. Kalzidar has stolen her, but she is not without some protection. As a devoted soul connected to my divine realm, she is still tinged with my power. I will do all I am able to extend and prolong that protection. It won’t last forever, but Kalzidar is not able to do her any true harm yet.”

  “I see. Then I apologize for my brusqueness,” Thistle told them. “What would you have us do next?”

  Reaching over, Mithingow tapped Thistle lightly on the forehead, sending a ripple of light across his skin. “Follow those directions to a temple of mine just inside the eastern border of Thatchshire. There are implements there that we’ll need, tools and magics purposefully sealed away. Not every object of power was hidden in Lumal; many are tucked away across the kingdoms. When you arrive, help shall be waiting. From them, further instructions will follow.”

  While Thistle did nod to signify his understanding, his eyes went to Grumble for confirmation. Mithingow was indeed a god, but she wasn’t his god, and it was a foolish paladin indeed who forgot where his orders came from. Thankfully, there was no dissent as Grumble met his silent question with a toothy kobold smile, one that Thistle found less troubling the more he saw it.

  “Very well. I shall spread the word among the others, and we’ll ready ourselves to head out right away.” Thistle hesitated, unsure of whether or not to broach the topic of Timuscor. What he’d done certainly seemed worthy of the gods’ attention, yet neither had mentioned it thus far. Was this, too, a test? Maybe, but still, the gods were in his debt right now. If there was a time for them to talk about the emergence of a new paladin, this seemed the opportune moment. “And Timuscor?”

  The scaly claw hit his mouth as soon as the words were out. “Fear not, he will recover. Do not waste words on such things now; our time is short, and we must focus on the important matters.”

  Thistle’s mind raced, quickly puzzling out his god’s strange actions. Nothing he’d said was a lie—Timuscor had been injured, so his recovery was real, and Grumble was right about there being more pressing issues. However, the way he’d shushed Thistle was odd, perhaps not to other gods, but certainly to those who knew how Grumble treated his followers. That, combined with the offhanded dismissal, painted a clear picture: this was not something to discuss with another god around.

  Much as Thistle might have liked more answers, he could see the wisdom in Grumble’s prudence. What Timuscor had done was supposedly impossible, possibly blasphemous in some religions, so making it immediately public could come with serious risks… risks they didn’t need right now, especially when trying to build an alliance with other divine beings.

  “In fact, Thistle, I’m afraid your time grows short. I have work of my own to do. We will speak again when I am able. Until then, follow Mithingow’s directions to the temple. And take no unwarranted risks, my paladin. I don’t need to tell you that your death currently comes with eternal repercussions.” One orange claw tapped Thistle in the chest, popping his astral form like a soap bubble and sending him back to the world of the waking.

  With him gone, the surroundings faded. There was no longer any need for a setting. Mithingow looked at the spot where Thistle had been for several moments before turning to Grumble. “He’s more dangerous than he lets on.”

  “When I met him, the bloodlust was faded,” Grumble replied. “Life outside of adventuring had warmed him. I won’t say that I’m happy to see that kind of ruthlessness rekindled, but I’m not sad about it either. To be a minion means to be weak and to live in fear. Perhaps it’s fitting that their paladin be more deadly than most.”

  “And you still think he’s the right one?” Mithingow asked.

  Grumble merely shrugged. “He’s the first in a very long time. Whether he’s right or not is up to him to prove. That is the beauty of mortals—with every choice, they define their own destiny.”

  56.

  “Sweet sorcery. I was expecting epic quests and fun loot, not a mad sprint for the exit.” Cheri set her dice aside and poured herself a fresh glass of wine. “On the other hand, nobody got possessed and none of our shit started to glow, so I’d call this a success, especially since we didn’t lose any characters. Plus, Hoit gave us teleportation stones to return once Lumal is open to visitors again, so we can give this place another try.”

  The rest of the table’s players were stretching and relaxing as well. With their successful escape, the session was officially coming to an end. There was still more side tasks they could do; however, the Lumal section of the module was finished.

  “It was the timing that killed you all,” Russell explaine
d. “Taking the isolated routes instead of dealing with non-player characters pushed your arrival back. When we unsealed the section, I did some reading. Except for the helsk fight, this whole thing runs on a timetable. If you’d gotten there sooner, you could have done stuff in Lumal. I bet there was even a way to prevent the attack. By the time you made it, you were too late.” Although he didn’t bring it up out of politeness, the module revealed there actually had been a way to theoretically win: the whole army could be stopped by killing a single enemy, just like the helsk fight had taught them. Of course, that information worked better when the party arrived with enough time to use it.

  “I liked it,” Tim said. “Even though we didn’t get to do what we expected, showing up mid-battle made the world feel more lived in. Like they weren’t just waiting for our characters to show up. There was other stuff happening around us.”

  A few of them twitched slightly at his words, all too aware that Tim might be more correct than he’d intended. But Cheri was right; even with the surprises, it was a normal game session. After playing through almost an entire module without incident, their games had become gradually less tense. Russell hoped he wasn’t about to undo all of that, but he really didn’t have much choice. They deserved to know the truth. What came next was in their hands. Russell was the GM, and only the players decided what a character would do, which direction they would go. If the party didn’t want to pursue this lead, then he’d have to let it pass.

  From behind his screen, Russell pulled out four folded pieces of paper and began to hand them out. “One last thing before we break. I recently received this email. Now that the session is over, I felt it only right that you read it, too. The copies are identical; just take one and pass it down.”