Demonborn's Fjord

by Dante Sakurai

  Rowan smiled. “It’s no trick. Your Divine Intervention backfired. You didn’t read the fine-print, did you?”

  Those hideous facial structures scrunched tight. “There is no fire print! Zar’took is all power—” A hunk of sulfur landed on the Troll’s scalp, and that stringy, greasy mess of hair ignited violently. Screaming, he tossed Rowan and dropped to the ground.

  There was no time to gloat; the rain was intensifying.

  It’s actually happening!

  A mad laugh escaped Rowan’s lips, but he didn’t care if he looked deranged. This was making great footage either way. He pushed on his scraped elbow, then sprinted for the gate, his run now steadier. His feet stepped on multiple jagged pebbles, but little pain registered. He ducked a falling scrap of burning wood. A sulfur globule landed on his forearm, slid off, leaving only a shallow burn, with a few percentage points of damage eaten from his health bar. He felt little pain. His body, notably, was more durable, in particular against high temperatures and sharp points.

  Naturally, there were likely trade offs—major weaknesses to balance this race. Nothing was overpowered by Synaptic’s guarantee. Maybe he was vulnerable to cold temperatures, maybe holy water… or some other obscure game mechanic.

  “Retreat,” Jin’tal croaked from somewhere behind. She appeared outside the gate in a swirl of leafy dark-green mana, and the Elf slaves nowhere to be seen. Her frightened eyes flicked back to Rowan. “You!” Her index finger shook, her eyes widening. “I do not… believe—”

  “Believe it, old hag!” Rowan barked, but perhaps out of foolishness. He was a level ten up against a forty. And where was the dagger? Where was Moonfyre? That guard had stashed them somewhere. He growled, pausing in his run, unsure whether to double back for those items.

  Jin’tal was chanting, staff pointed at Rowan.

  He was already running, coughing along the fence. Green magic sparked and splashed against wood—a hail of bolts, but the bolts stopped coming only after a dozen yards. He jumped over a fallen section of fencing, a spike nicking his nip, drawing blood. His run degraded into a haphazard limp.

  Where was that damned Storeroom?

  Then Hell erupted. At the forest’s edge, a column of blue flames blasted a hundred yards into the air.

  A lagging shockwave sent Rowan to his palms and knees under fat-melting heat, his back and ribs cooking with a sizzle against his dirty linen garb. His ears were ringing with a painful bite. His health bar ate a hefty chunk of damage, down to seventy percent, and above the bar glowed a char-grilled icon in bleak red tones.

  Debuff: Heavy Burns (Torso and left leg)

  Requires medical aid

  20% reduced maximum Constitution, Agility, and Resistance stat points

  Not good.

  Something roared. The ground shook.

  Draesear again?

  Another roar boom from close by, but Draesear was not among the clouds.

  Stiff tendons whiplashed Rowan’s neck. Realization gripped his throat—the corpse pile. It had latched onto the ambient Demonic magic, animated. Extremely not good.

  Rowan spat a curse and dashed for that storeroom, turning on the grid overlay. Many labels were missing. He limped faster. He rounded a melted corner, almost came face-first into a falling glop of sulfur, and around a collapsing bedroom a large green block shifted into view. By the some Luck, the stone storeroom was mostly intact; that slanted roof of clay shingles didn’t burn.

  He hurried in on clumsy feet, but a falling beam blocked the entrance. Sulfur drops landed on his eyes, blinded him for a moment. A slice of his health bar vanished. “Ah, shit!” he spat, wiped his face, then ran down the path and jumped through a flaming hole in the back wall. He swept up and down shelves and tables. The smell of fish and fungus was putrid, and the communal lavatory ten feet away did not help the stink.

  Where is Moonfyre?!

  By that, he was seeking the mithril dagger and, not to forget, any other valuables. The best time for looting , after all, was during an apocalypse.

  Promptly, he found his items under a table… along with a muddy sheathed sword, a few workshop tools, a fishing rod, and a bent staff tipped with a knuckle-sized cloudy opal gem. All good loot. Tying everything together with rope, he shook off the tempt of those grilled kebabs, scoured the shelves with a parting glance. His masterwork unstrung bow was nowhere to be seen, unfortunately.

  The roof buckled. Sulfur dripped and ignited a shelf of mushrooms.

  Rowan was out through the hole in the back wall. The extra weight was no easy burden, at fifty pounds worth. His stamina bar was draining at double the rate, his muscles begging for a reprieve after only a few dozen steps. He pushed onward.

  In the distance, whatever the corpse pile had turned into yet again roared.

  No, barked. It was a bad doggy.

  Rowan gulped and checked his avenues, eying a three-sixty. The fence was all on fire, refused to burn at a helpful rate with something and slimy on the wood, tar-like. There was no other option apart from the lake. Time for a swim.

  And where was Gabrielle? Eloping.

  Stamina empty, limbs and back burning, he dodged sulfur every three steps, checked her party entry every heartbeat. He prayed to Draesear that she was safe and coming home to her master soon. But his prayers were not heard. She was still not done. Please! Clearly, the gods of this world wanted more than pleases and thank-yous.

  A Troll child was crawling from the Town Square, burned, at death’s door. “Help.”

  Uncaring, Rowan sprinted onward. Damned these Trolls. They could’ve avoided this. They could’ve cooperated. Now they were in Hell. No doubt, the gods had done something to Nargol’s portal spell; they had whisked Rowan here for a purpose, for judgment. For punishment against any and all transgressions they had done throughout the millennia. It certainly smelled as so, char and brimstone upon these savages.

  This was the beginning of the end for Trollheim.

  He passed the disgusting, never-cleaned lavatory. Green light flashed from behind, bright enough to blot out yellow and red fires. A monstrosity was blasted across the lake surface, steaming as the water put out its bluish-white flames. Corpses held together in the shape of a two-headed dog fuming with crimson gasses was swimming for the fishing dock. It had a wolf corpse for one head and a boar for the other. Fiery orbs spun in its four eye sockets. The gag-inducing smell was the worst part of it all.

  Corpse Hound (Level 39)

  Health: 12%

  The system clock at the top right had not blinked twice before it was over halfway to the dock. It leaped through the shallow water with stocky legs made of multiple squirrel bodies. Its heads barked, deafening.

  Rowan held his breath and did the only thing he could: run. His strained legs were begging for reprieve, his luggage growing heavier by the step. His burned skin sending periodic stinging pangs through his nerves whenever his linen garb chaffed. Times like these made him detest the unbridled realism.

  Then something flashed at the left—Gabrielle’s part icon. Her animated watercolor portrait winked, which of course meant she was back in the area, hopefully.

  Biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, Rowan spammed pings at her and even spared the effort to type out a message.

  Rowan LeMort (Party Chat): Get up!!! It’s coming for you!!!

  Gabby LeMort: What’s coming?

  Rowan LeMort: Just RUN for the GATE!!!

  Gabby LeMort: Kay! ^_^

  She caught up with impressive speed, yelling over her shoulder, “Bad doggie! Bad doggie! Draesear, smite this bad doggie!”

  “It doesn’t work like tha—” As he charged through the gate, his lungs were screaming for a stop. His stamina bar was empty.

  Someone—Gabrielle—yanked the roped loot from his arms. “Dummy! Leave the loot for later!” She hoisted him by the armpit, pressed up against his burns, and helped him up the watchtower. The flimsy rungs taunted them with harsh bends under their weight.

  Th
ey missed the Corpse Hound by two of Rowan’s heartbeats. It made a few swipes at the ladder, then brainlessly gave up and sought easier prey—the remaining Trolls fifty yards down the meadow. And the slaves.

  “Row,” Gabrielle said as she dumped him on the creaking floor. She was clutching her stomach. Wounded?

  Splinters poked into his burns as he sat up against poorly-crafted railings. “What?”

  “If my Sun Elves die, it’ll be your fault.”

  “Why?”

  “That corpse pile was your idea.” She gave him a weak smile.

  He smirked and watched the show. Six Trolls versus one Corpse Hound, six Sun Elves aiding.

  They had a spread-out spear formation, attempting to retreat with hasty steps. Two melee tanks protected the front while two Archer Trolls positioned at their flanks. Jin’tal supported from the center. The slaves lingered much further behind, thankfully; they lacked any battle equipment.

  Their lone Mage, next to Jin’tal, held an ivory-sapphire staff high. Perhaps on the off-chance she was channeling a portal skill, but it was for naught.

  Charging head-on, the Corpse Hound made quick work of their front-line tanks. Two swipes sent them hurling through the air. One crashed into a bush, the other onto a sharp boulder. Both death, necks broken.

  Jin’tal’s healing spell was far too late. Green sparkles danced on the two bodies, and dispersed, useless.

  The Hound sent her to the ground with one stomp from its right front leg, snapped her staff with a second. She rolled downhill. Grass and weeds offered no help. She struggled to stand, and dodged a fatal blow with her blink-type skill. She reappeared on the lake’s shore next to the burning fence, bleeding from her nose. Her eyes were the epitome of defeat as she collapsed like a poorly-crafted scarecrow.

  While their Archers were safe to shoot arrows two by two, the lone Troll Mage was forced to duck and roll. But she was quick to recover with a backward tuck and roll. Her ruby-topped staff twirled. Air crumpled with rising heat.

  A stream of white-hot flames engulfed the wolf head. The bottom half of a jaw fell to the grass, and along with explosive arrows to its boar head, enough damage was dealt to bring the fight halt as though someone hit a pause button on the show. The whole construct slumped, drained of animating Demonic magic.

  Rowan whistled. “That was quick, but I guess we missed most of the fight.”

  Gabrielle mumbled something.

  The Corpse Hound’s health bar blipped to zero. Eddies of magic gathered within its chest cavity.

  Then detonated. A vortex of blue and yellow claimed the remaining Trolls. A white flash lit up the heavens and surrounding valley.

  Rowan tore away his gaze, shielded his face, superheated air singing his palm. The smell of burning animal corpses was not something he wished to remember, and the fallout of smoke and blue flames didn’t clear until the sky, on cue, rained cold water—not magical flaming sulfur.

  It was over.

  And Gabrielle, still clutching her stomach, whined in severe discomfort. She threw up over the railings. Her body swayed, then rolled over the edge, down the broken ladder.

  Shocked paralyzed Rowan for a moment too long. He lunged for her. Blackened, numb fingers missed her arm by inches.

  A sickening crack came from below.

  Vertigo watered his eyes, his heartbeat stammering.

  15

  Rowan wasn’t strong enough to look down the ladder, glancing leftward.

  The health bar—a tenth remaining—beneath Gabrielle’s frowning party icon was alternating between red and yellow flashes. She was alive. By the mercy of the gods, alive. Stable. She was going to make it, and that was all that mattered. He swallowed sour spit and peered down the ladder again.

  She was utterly mangled.

  Under the dim light of the twin moons, under a medium drizzle rain, Gabrielle laid in the tall grass, her face buried into the mud. Her left arm and left leg were broken, he saw even from up here, splayed at unnatural angles. The stench of her vomit, pungent and sharp, made this all the more unbearable. At least the rain was washing away the tainted mushrooms. Pieces of grayish-white chewed lumps fell from the wooden railings.

  An annoyed moan loosened his torso as he climbed down the broken ladder, careful to not let his tired legs slip. His stamina bar was refilling at a ridiculously slow rate thanks to these injury debuffs. “I told you not to eat those mushrooms!”

  Her reply came after a long moment, “Gabby isn’t here right now. Please leave a message at the cough.” She rasped a half-cough.

  “No raw food from now on.”

  “But—”

  “That’s final. I’m your Demon lord.”

  “Hehehe. If ya say so, but what about apples?”

  “Cook them too. Cook everything ourselves; we’re not taking food from strangers again.” He jumped the bottom five broken rungs. His feet pressed into the dampening soil, the rain treating his burns well. The health bar wasn’t rising. This new body didn’t seem to fancy healing.

  “I hear the Dwarves make delicious candy—” She hurled a mouthful of watery vomit. Few mushroom pieces came up.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “What do ya mean?” She was sure talkative for a sick person, which was very good news.

  With a mellow smile he said, “No food from potentially dangerous persons.”

  “Yay.” She was quiet for quite a long moment, gazing up at the rainy moon. She then giggled.

  At least she was in a good mood. “What are you so happy about?”

  “Didn’t ya see? My Sun Elves made it. They’re waiting by the lake.” By Jin’tal’s body. “Go claim them, kay?”

  “How?”

  “Thought you might know.” Her tongue clicked. “Just go say hello to them and—” She coughed up less vomit. No chewed mushroom pieces this time.

  “Sure, but you’re coming with me.”

  “Ah… My leg is kinda—”

  He scooped her up with both arms, his Demonic skin pressed against hers. The sensation was not uncomfortable—just different. Her body was firmer. Her eyes… Well, he might grow accustomed to those crimson cat eyes over time; they were a tad too striking for his tastes. She also looked a few years younger, physically nineteen or twenty again, and he didn’t mind this change, naturally.

  He said softly, “Is your stomach empty?” He was limping downhill step by tired step. “Hmm?”

  “I think so.” She nestled closer against his chest. “My Food Poisoning debuff is getting worse though. It’s at Moderate now.”

  “Can it kill you?” He didn’t know why he even asked. All things of this world were potentially lethal.

  “Err… I think read somewhere there’s a chance it can develop into lethal.”

  “Forums?”

  “Yup.”

  A very trustworthy source. “Well, it’s good you have twelve points in Luck. I think you saved us back there, actually. Might’ve saved your fall too.”

  “There? Back at the ritual?”

  “Yeah. When Draesear intervened… he also told me things. He was in a good mood.”

  “Gonna explain or just feel smug?”

  He chuckled. “For all Divine Intervention sacrifices, if they use a Demon or Demonborn, there’s a chance Draesear shows up instead and causes havoc—like he did back there.”

  “Hehehe. Told ya my build is genius tier.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” He shrugged and approached the Sun Elves with a relaxed stride. They all wore blank faces, and their brands, as before, were very-faintly glowing—still slaves, bound.

  How can they be claimed? Rowan glanced around for a sign, and his eyes hitched downward.

  Next to that snapped emerald-tipped staff, Jin’tal was sprawled on the grass. She was the image of imminent death, bloodied, burned to the bone in many places, but alive. Barely alive.

  Jin’tal : Woodland Troll (Level 45)

  Health: 1%

  “Give me a moment.” Rowan
was reluctant to set Gabrielle down onto the grass. He reached for the dagger, only to find that he had dropped it sometime before. He instead unfastened Moonfyre from his back. Why had he equipped it instead of the axe or sword? Only the gods knew.

  “Great… Demon,” Jin’tal wheezed.

  He said in a grim voice, “I have come to deliver judgment.”

  Her eyes were destroyed, milky. She croaked, “Mercy.”

  He let his neck roll left and right. Bitter raindrops landed on his lips as he said, “We could’ve avoided all this. All you had to do was hand over a hundred gold. That was your final test, but sadly…”

  “Mercy, great Demon.”

  “And then you had to poison my wife.” A seething hatred rose from his mid-section. “You knew those mushrooms were off, didn’t you? Or did you have the slave add something in?”

  “I… didn’t.”

  “Moderate Food Poisoning just from mushrooms? They were mostly clean, too.”

  “I beg… Mercy.”

  Lightning flashed from afar, followed by its boom, and Rowan was sure some god of light or nature was angry right now. Good. He spat on the grass. “She’s all I have in this world, you know? One of the few good things I wouldn’t burn to the ground like your puny village. Now tell me what you put in those mushrooms. Last chance.”

  “No— Nothing.”

  “Lies,” Rowan growled and kicked her in the side. A rib snapped.

  She choked up more blood. “Mercy, Zar’took.”

  “Your god is nothing compared to Draesear.” This was fun.

  And Gabrielle was choking up more vomit, which was not fun in the slightest, the sound of her pain stabbing icicles into his gut. She whined, “Row… Dun’ overreact, but… I’m at Major Food Poisoning now. I might lose consciousness… and die. You might have to go on without me.”

  Maybe she was playing it up, but maybe not. Either way, he didn’t enjoy the thought of going on alone. “What did you put in those mushrooms?!” His yell was far louder than he thought his new voice could produce. At full volume it came out monstrous and distorted.