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

by Drew Hayes

  His players unfolded their pages, cheer giving way to concern as they noticed the expression on Russell’s face. Together, they began to read.

  * * *

  In spite of their victory, it was a dour mood that had settled over those gathered at the tavern. Neither Brock nor Jolia were talking much. Fritz sat in the corner with Kieran, whispering fervently. Simone was having an in-depth discussion with Timuscor and Gabrielle, leaving Eric and Grumph to sit quietly with Thistle, who kept staring off into space for long stretches at a time. Only Mr. Peppers, once more returned to his normal size, was cheerful, sitting around munching on some scraps Brock had put out.

  They’d won, technically. Lumal still stood. All of the adventurers were alive. The Helm of Ignosa was recovered, and no automaton army had marched on Notch. It should have felt like a good day. But the price was too high. Deep down, they knew they hadn’t truly come out on top of the exchange. The tolls they’d taken on Kalzidar were ones he’d planned for, pawns he was willing to sacrifice. Removing them weakened him, but not any more than he’d expected. While Kalzidar hadn’t gotten everything he wanted today, he’d gotten enough.

  Sitting at the bar, Jolia licked her lips as Brock set a fresh glass down in front of her. Her hands gripped the mug and lifted. For a moment, she happened to catch sight of the rest of the room in the metal reflection, giving her pause. She turned the bronze mug, made durable to survive the usual roughhousing of a tavern, taking in the worry and uncertainty on each of the younger adventurers’ faces. She’d worn that same expression many times before. Adventuring wasn’t always about winning the day. Sometimes, it was about slinking away, licking one’s wounds and trying to find the strength to go back out there. In the young days, it was easy. No loss or deed lingered in an adventurer’s mind.

  For the ones who changed, the echoes, it was a different matter. Every pain weighed on their shoulders, and some carried the guilt of each kill in the backs of their minds. Jolia silenced those ghosts in her own way, but that didn’t mean she wanted to see others start carrying specters of their own. Not before they had to.

  “That’s about enough moping, I think.” Jolia spun in her stool, away from the mug, to face the rest of the tavern. “We took some lumps on this one. I won’t deny that. Thistle’s wife has been stolen, Kalzidar has one-third of an item that could destroy the entire world, and the bastion of Lumal was half-razed to the ground. It would be easy to look at this day and feel nothing but loss, which you would all be damn fools for doing.”

  Jolia hopped down, summoning her staff with a gesture and leaning on it as she began to move through the tavern. “From what Simone told us about the fight, it sounds like you made serious progress during the battle. Gabrielle, you discovered enough power to destroy the enchantment of a deadly creature with a single swing. Thistle, you learned to direct your mana in the heat of the moment; do you know how long it takes most paladins to master that skill? Grumph and Eric, without you two helping to control the battlefield, the day would have been lost. And Timuscor…”

  At his name, the man turned in his seat, beaming at her. To her, he looked much the same. Whatever confidence he’d wielded in battle had faded once the blades were sheathed. Still, there was something different in those eyes. Before, Timuscor had always looked as though he had an unspoken question on the tip of his tongue. He wandered through his own life as if he’d find an answer to his existence around any corner. The questions were gone now. In their place was simple, yet stalwart, resolution.

  “Timuscor, you did something that most would consider impossible. Something not even one of us has ever seen. You bound your soul, your very essence, to the aspect of divine magic that lives in all mana. You became a paladin of your own accord, with no god to aid you—the first free paladin in untold centuries, if not millennia. That is astounding.”

  “Also dangerous,” Fritz added. All attention swung in her direction, an experience she was plainly familiar with. “Do you know one of the other popular names for what he is? Some call them true paladins, implying that the ones made by the gods are lesser. How do you imagine some of the more devoted sects will respond to the idea of that kind of paladin?”

  Of all the things to feel at such a statement, Timuscor looked a touch embarrassed by the term. “I meant no offense. I merely wished to serve the greater good without owing allegiance to a god’s agenda. I certainly wouldn’t use such a term to describe myself.”

  “Doesn’t matter. If they know what you are, they’ll see you as a threat. Especially if they see you light up that sword.” Fritz nodded to the blade set before Timuscor on the table, housed in a sheath. He had offered to return the borrowed weapon upon arriving, but so far, no one had taken him up on it.

  “Aye, the sword is something special, too,” Jolia agreed, forcefully trying to keep things on a more positive note. “But you needn’t worry about it activating willy-nilly. A Divine Blade isn’t some cheap sword that burns or sparks. Those are rare weapons indeed, forged with magic long ago lost to modern mages. In an ordinary warrior’s possession, it is nothing more than an especially sharp blade. In the hands of a worthy paladin, it becomes keener and more dangerous, even slightly amplifying a paladin’s abilities. When wielded by a worthy paladin against a proper foe, a being of great danger and evil, the weapon takes on its true form. Blazing with light, it tremendously aids the paladin, as well as becomes a weapon that can cut any armor and wound any evil creature. That latter situation is fairly specific though, so unless someone as skilled as me is inspecting it, they won’t know what you have.”

  Timuscor took the words in heavily, looking down at the sword. “Knowing what this is, I cannot in good conscience accept such a gift. It is too powerful to entrust to one as new as me. Please, find a more worthy paladin to carry such a blessing.”

  The snort came from across the room, where Kieran was finally hauling himself up. “Doesn’t work that way. At a certain point, magical items develop preferences. Not a full personality, not everytime, but they’ll have quirks, especially weapons. That sword glowed for you, Timuscor. It recognized you as worthy. It chose you. As a swordsman myself, I would say that to ignore the blade’s will would be disrespectful.” He made his way over, leaning down and looking closely at the sheath.

  “Besides, who do you think we would give this to? Paladins don’t come here, not ones that can still fight, and I shouldn’t need to tell you why. We could store it, certainly, though what good it would do, I can’t fathom. These weapons are meant to be in the world, to be in use. If you meet another paladin who you feel can wield the sword better, and the weapon will accept them, then it is yours to pass on. Until then, you are the paladin meant to hold this blade. It is a noble obligation, one not to be cast aside without consideration.”

  “That said, we might want to throw an enchantment or two on the sheath before you leave, just to help keep a low profile,” Jolia added. She was annoyed at how the conversation had gotten away from her, but at least they were discussing practical issues. Talking, planning, that beat silent moping any day. “Although, you’re welcome to stay and rest for a bit more, if needed.”

  “No. Thank you very much, for all of your kindness and hospitality through this unusual situation, but no.” It was the first time Thistle had spoken in some while—since recounting his dream from his brief nap, in fact. There was still distance in his gaze; however, at least some of his attention was now in the room with them. “Time is of the essence. The longer we take, the greater the danger my wife is in. I’ve been given a task, a direction to follow. Until I take that step, I can’t plan any further ahead, so I hope you’ll all understand my eagerness.”

  A solemn cloud spread back out over the tavern, the reminder of Madroria’s situation pulling almost everyone down. The sole holdout was Gabrielle, who suddenly stood from the table, marched up to the bar, and had Brock begin filling mugs of various sizes. One by one, she passed them out, until every person in the room was holding a dr
ink. Only once that was done did she raise hers.

  “This was a bad day. Let’s not sugarcoat that. We won, in that we survived and grew stronger, but Kalzidar definitely walked away with more of the victory than we did. What he did—to Lumal, to Madroria—all of it is unforgiveable. So let’s not forgive him. Let’s do what Kalzidar did when we—yeah, this party—destroyed a piece of his divinity. Let’s learn from our failures and come back even stronger. This was a bad day, but it’s nearly over. Tomorrow is a new one. Tomorrow, we start the journey to reclaim Madroria, and make Kalzidar regret he ever laid a finger on her to begin with.”

  The room didn’t break into spontaneous applause, and the mood wasn’t suddenly cleansed of sadness. Everyone did drink, though, lifting their mugs and celebrating the toast. Gabrielle had managed to get everyone looking forward, for now, and that was the first step in getting them moving.

  Thistle appreciated her efforts, overt as they could often be. For him, however, the toast wasn’t required. His mind was already looking ahead, well past what he’d told any of the others. As the room filled with sounds of toasting and sipping, as well as scattered conversation, he looked across to Fritz, meeting her eyes and nodding to the door. With no more than that, Thistle made his way out, looking to anyone watching like he was doing nothing more than getting some air.

  It took nearly ten minutes before Fritz arrived. Thistle didn’t know what it would take to extricate herself; he’d just been sure she would do it. She appeared from the tavern looking much the same as usual. Same worn, well-made traveling clothes, same arrangement of bags and pouches slung across her body, same easygoing manner that put people off guard. Placing her had taken Thistle quite a while, long after they’d parted ways in Briarwillow. Funnily, it was her parting demeanor that provided the final clue. While she’d meant to scare him off, Fritz had accidentally shown him the kind of authority she was used to wielding.

  Once she was outside, he began to walk, and she followed. They made their way out of the town square, up the road, to a nice path of purple and white flowers. There was nothing special about the plants, save simply for the fact that they were positioned in a place where it would be hard for others to overhear. The people of Notch might still be capable of spying, but Thistle wasn’t trying to hide this from them.

  “Let’s start with what I know. As I’m going to ask a favor, that feels like the gracious opening move.” Thistle’s voice was gentle in the night. Not lowered, but not raised either. He was working to sound as casual as possible. There was a chance Fritz might kill him before this was done, so he wanted to offer as few reasons for her to do so as possible. Unfortunately, his next words were the likeliest ones to see him slain. “The prime portion is this: I know who you are. Or rather, who you were, before.”

  The elf’s eyes narrowed, examining his carefully, with a far more intense expression than she would ever let the others see. “If you’re expecting me to confirm some theory of yours by bursting out in agreement, you need to think more of me.”

  “Not at all. I was simply waiting to see if I’d get a chance to continue or not.” Slowly, Thistle bowed as best as he was able. He couldn’t quite manage the formal version of showing vulnerability, but as he looked back up, Fritz was looking slightly less fearsome.

  She nodded to him, cautiously. “Tell me what you think you know, and what you want. We’ll go from there.”

  “I haven’t filled in all the details yet,” Thistle admitted. “What I have figured out is that you seem to have woven a spell beyond anything I’ve ever seen or heard of. You rewrote the minds and history of the entire kingdom, of several kingdoms, to remove yourself from it. Except, I can remember you. When I take a sincere look at myself, at what makes me unique, the answer for why becomes obvious. The Bridge. You used the Bridge to create your spell; it explains how you could have managed something so incredible. We already know that being around pieces when they’re active causes unusual effects. I’ve been around the Bridge plenty while the others used it—enough to weaken your spell, I’d imagine.”

  There was no change to Fritz’s expression as Thistle spoke. She took in every word with sincere consideration. If she was going to stab him or hug him, Thistle couldn’t guess, which was clearly the point. All he could do was speak the truth and hope it worked. If not, he’d have to come up with a new plan, something far more dangerous.

  Finally, Fritz spoke. “An interesting theory, though it fails to account for a simple question: if I was someone of note, why is it that only you remember me? The others have been around the Bridge just as much, if not more. Past that, even if it were true, what would you hope to gain by talking about this with me?”

  “Help.” Slowly, all too aware of how easy it would be to fall, Thistle lowered himself to his knees. Fritz’s impassive expression widened for a flicker of a second; even she was shocked to see a paladin beg. “Grumble and Mithingow mean well, but Kalzidar’s cunning is substantial. This was not a haphazard move. He is putting things in motion, and what we saw was a mere first step. I’m afraid that if I follow blindly, we will lose. Were it my own life, that would be acceptable, but I will not risk the others, and certainly not Madroria. We need more. We need to attack from angles Kalzidar won’t predict. We need the power of the Bridge, and a master to wield it. Because, if you can do one impossible thing, like make a world forget you, then maybe you can do another. Perhaps you can help me topple a god.”

  “An interesting proposal.” Fritz might have denied her talents more readily, were Thistle not supplicating so. He had cast aside his pride to ask for her help. She could at least answer him honestly. “Whatever I might have been before, I am a trader now, Thistle. You’re asking for something significant, so I assume you have something to trade.”

  Still kneeling, Thistle gave a quick nod. “We now have two pieces of the Bridge. Aid us, and they are yours, as are any others we claim in our efforts to save Madroria. I would promise you the one we’ve hidden as well, but only Eric knows its location, and I cannot make an oath for another to keep.”

  Only because Thistle was looking away did Fritz permit the spark of interest in her eyes. She cleared it quickly; giving away one’s desires in a negotiation was tantamount to failure. “And what makes you think I have need of more pieces? If I cast such a spell as you’ve implied, then I must already have at least one.”

  “More than that, I suspect. However, you don’t want some of the pieces, do you? The others don’t recognize you because they didn’t know who you were in the first place. I was more traveled than them, than even Grumph. I saw some of the Mage Guild’s celebrations, the ceremonies where even their highest members were present. I cannot imagine that anything less than a completed artifact would satisfy an archmage, especially when she’s given up her seat at the Table of Mages to search for the pieces.”

  Killing him would have been easy. Some of the people of Notch would see through whatever excuse she used—a lingering evil plant bursting out of the flowers, perhaps—but few were likely to care. Adventurers died constantly; it was part of their lifestyle. Fritz stayed her hand, however. In just the time she’d known them, this party had run into or uncovered four pieces of the Bridge. She’d been actively hunting shards of it for so long, and not even she had ever managed to find so many in such a short time. Whether it was fate or happenstance, these adventurers had momentum. While Fritz didn’t relish the idea of having someone out there who knew her secret, Thistle hadn’t tried to exploit it. He’d made her a deal—a very fair one, at that—rather than trying to push his leverage. On top of it all, Fritz rather liked this group. They did interesting things, and she was nothing if not a fan of new experiences.

  “Very well, Thistle. Rise to your feet. I will not make you any promises yet, but I will listen to all you have planned. If it pleases me, I’ll help. If not, you will tell no one of this meeting or what you know. Does that present an issue?”

  “None. I am grateful for even the opportunity t
o explain myself.” It didn’t take long for Thistle to return to his feet. There was fire in him now, an urgency he’d been clamping down in front of the others. Every minute standing still was torture, yet he endured it out of necessity. Planning and forethought were his strengths, his best chance at overcoming Kalzidar. Next time they clashed, Thistle had no intention of being the one caught by surprise. God or mortal, it made no difference. Kalzidar had stolen the soul of someone Thistle loved.

  Even in a paladin’s heart, there was no mercy for that kind of sin.

  Epilogue

  The morning sun rose over a peaceful settlement, dotted with farms and cottages of styles from a dozen different lands and kingdoms. If one looked close, they could see figures walking the lines of their properties: folks in simple wear, without finery or blazing magical items to show off wealth. All that marked this town as unusual, from a glance, was the fact that everyone seemed especially young and healthy. There might have been a few other indicators—a scar here, a quick motion to the side there—that betrayed the truth, but few would ever draw near enough to notice them. Notch was a quiet, isolated hamlet, and the last several days of excitement had been more than enough for the residents.

  Perhaps that was why there was little fanfare as the adventurers saddled their horses in the town square. Thistle hadn’t been kidding about not wasting time; they weren’t even taking a day to rest. Physically, they were all healed—the town priest had seen to most of them. A few summons had helped Gabrielle fuel her axe, which in turn removed her own wounds. The weapon was still a burden, and her condition a curse, but merely knowing how it worked made the whole endeavor more manageable. The detour would have been worth it for that alone, if not for the terrible cost Kalzidar had added.