Sovereign (The Gods' Game, Volume IV)

by Vider, Rohan M.

  “Then we don’t fight. We flee,” said Kyran.

  “But how?” said Mirien, letting her eyes stray to Gaesin and Adra’s injured forms.

  “I will slow the goblins down while you four escape,” said Kyran, a plan slowly taking shape in his mind.

  Aiken looked up from where he lay and huffed in protest.

  “There is no other way, brother,” Kyran said. “Aiken will carry Gaesin and Adra, and you will lead them,” he said to Mirien. “Is there anywhere else nearby where we can take refuge?”

  “I don’t think so…” she said, pursing her lips in thought. “Perhaps if we come across another river or stream, we can use it to disguise our trail. If we can stay ahead of the goblins until then, maybe we can escape. But, I don’t think we can evade pursuit that long,” she finished reluctantly.

  “Leave that to me,” said Kyran. “I’ll buy us the time we need.” Somehow. “You just worry about getting the rest to safety.”

  Mirien nodded, though he could tell she didn’t think much of their chances. “Alright, Kyran.”

  ✽✽✽

  Battle Log (Goblin warbands)

  The battle has ended.

  Combat results

  Creatures bonded: 0.

  Hostiles killed: 201 of 201 forest goblins.

  Levels gained

  Kyran: 1 level (9 SP, 2 AP). New combat level: Level 35.

  Adra: 1 level. New combat level: Level 33.

  Gaesin: 1 level. New combat level: Level 32.

  Aiken: 1 level. New combat level: Level 34.

  ✽✽✽

  Kyran and Mirien strapped the unconscious Adra and Gaesin onto Aiken’s back, and in only moments the four were ready to set off. Squatting down, Kyran ruffled Aiken’s coat. “I will see you shortly, brother.”

  “Stay alive, brother,” Aiken ordered.

  “I’ll do my best,” replied Kyran wryly. He stood up and turned to face Mirien. “You’re all set, then. Head north as quickly as you can, but don’t take any risks. Aiken will reach out to me if you get in trouble. And don’t worry about leaving me a trail. I’ll find you.”

  “How?” asked Mirien sceptically.

  “I’ll be in worg-form.”

  Mirien nodded in understanding. She turned to go, then hesitated, seeming like she wanted to say something. “Don’t die,” she said finally, in unknowing echo of Aiken’s words.

  Kyran smiled. “I’ll try.”

  With a final wave, the whiesper turned around and set off with Aiken trailing in her wake.

  Kyran watched their receding forms until they were swallowed by the trees. “Bye, brother,” he whispered. Swinging south, the direction of the goblin horn’s insistent call, he shifted.

  He opened the well of his consciousness and pulled himself into the mindscape. Then he called up the form of the worg and, letting his elven-self slip away, pushed his worg-self out of the mindscape.

  Kyran has shifted into a jade worg.

  Kyran examined himself. In this body, he would run slower and tire faster, yet since he was covered in jade he was better protected. Because he was going into battle alone against the goblin warband, it was a trade-off he was willing to make.

  Raising his head, he sniffed the air and made the mistake of taking in a too-deep lungful again. Damn, he thought as he sneezed uncontrollably. How did I forget how bloody sensitive this nose is? He dropped to all fours and pawed furiously at his snout to clear it of clogging filth. The stench from the party’s previous camp was overpowering and filled with a cloying, foul odour that he assumed must be the goblins. Just be thankful the rest of party are not here to see your antics, he thought.

  When he finally snorted out the last remnants of the stink, Kyran sat back on his haunches and took a careful whiff of the scents on the wind. From the south, he detected traces of the same odour as in the party’s camp. The warband.

  His mouth dropped open, and he took off in a loping run southwards.

  ✽✽✽

  Twenty minutes later, concealed in the forest’s dense underbrush with only his nose poking through, Kyran watched the small goblin army pass by. Mirien had been right. The warband of nearly three hundred goblins were far too numerous for the party to handle.

  The goblins marched in loose order, half on the ground, the other half running through the treetops above. At the head of the groundlings marched five diminutive figures who matched Mirien’s description of the goblin witches. In the middle of the column, well separated from the first contingent, was another handful of witches. Each bore a tall staff and was surrounded by a flickering shield of magic.

  Patrolling around the main force was an oversized company of scouts. If not for the fact that Kyran had concealed himself in his present position well before the warband neared, he doubted he would have been able to pierce the scouts’ net and get this close to the goblin army. As it was, he still feared detection and was braced for flight on a moment’s notice.

  As successful as his infiltration of the warband’s perimeter was, he was still faced with a quandary. How did he slow down a force as large as the goblin army? Given the spellcasters’ numbers, he realised his original plan would not work.

  His own essence, while half-filled, was of no use in worg-form, and changing forms took five minutes—too slow to be of any practical use in combat. Yet he dared not shift to his elf-form for battle.

  As an elf, he was not up to the challenge of detecting the stealthy goblins, and alone and unsupported he could not afford to be blind to the enemies’ movements. His acute worg senses, on the other hand, seemed more than capable of sniffing out even the most light-footed of their scouts.

  He would have to do this with psionics alone. And of course—his eyes fixed on the ten glowing shapes—the witches are the primary threat. He lowered his head carefully onto his paws, thinking hard on how to adapt his half-formed plan.

  ✽✽✽

  Kyran waited until after the last of the goblin column had marched out of sight and he could no longer smell the scouts nearby before crawling out from beneath the bush. Standing tall, he shook himself and knocked loose the clinging twigs and leaves.

  Then set off north.

  He slipped between the trees, under fallen boughs, and over brambles, roots, and other obstacles, his form a greenish blur as he dashed through the forest at a pace that he could never have managed as an elf. Circling the goblin column in a wide arc, he took care not to enter within range of their scouts.

  As he neared his destination, he dropped into a trot, sides heaving and tongue hanging loosely while he panted for breath. He turned around, took a cautious sniff, and calculated the warband’s distance. He judged the goblins to be at least a few minutes away. Good, that leaves me ample time to prepare.

  Standing in the centre of the party’s deserted campsite, Kyran scanned the area. Mirien and Aiken had left the area a bloody mess. Goblin corpses were scattered everywhere, many of them with their faces frozen in terror. Most sported signs of Mirien’s handiwork: neat, near invisible puncture wounds, while others looked as if they had been torn to shreds; Aiken’s doing, he guessed.

  The gory scene with the blood-soaked ground, hacked corpses, and strewn entrails was almost perfect, thought Kyran. It just needed a few more touches.

  Padding up to a slaughtered goblin whose terrified gaze was sure to disturb his companions, Kyran gripped the corpse’s tunic between his teeth and pulled.

  ✽✽✽

  A few minutes later the scene was set and Kyran, concealed in a dense nearby thicket, waited for the warband.

  The first to arrive was one of the treetop scouts. For a long time, the goblin lay still and unmoving, staring down at the horrific scene in the centre of the abandoned campsite. Kyran could almost smell the scout’s uncertainty and fear.

  It took the arrival of another scout for the first to screw up the courage to drop down from the trees and inspect the gruesome handiwork more closely.

  “Are they dead?”
called the second from the trees. Kyran’s ears pricked forward. Ah, he could understand them. Even better.

  “Of course they’re dead, you idiot!” said the first, his spear held warily out in front of him while his eyes jumped nervously from corpse to corpse.

  “So what are you afraid of?”

  “I’m not afraid!”

  “Then stop wasting time and go check their wounds so we can report back to the hag,” said the second.

  His ears quivering, the first scout ignored his companion’s quips and inched forward.

  Kyran smelled the arrival of a third scout, also in the treetops. “What are you two still doing here?” the third hissed. “You should be ranging much farther ahead than this. Duzal will have your heads if he catches you lazing on the job.”

  “We’re not,” said the second, pointing down. “Look.”

  The third glanced downwards, and even from where he crouched, Kyran could see the horror that froze his face. “What is that?” the scout whispered, aghast.

  “What does it look like, you fool? That’s Lulula’s troop. Or what’s left of them. Slaughtered like pigs.” Even though the second scout tried to maintain a brave face in front of his fellows, Kyran’s worg-sensitive ears could pick out the tremble behind his words.

  A fourth scout entered the clearing, this one on foot. His face an expressionless mask, the scout—older than his companions—glanced upwards. “You two, go report back to the hag.”

  “Yes, boss!” the two echoed gratefully in unison and slipped away.

  Striding forward, the older goblin shouldered past the still-dithering first scout and studied the pile of corpses artfully arranged in a circle. Crossing his arms, and striving to appear indifferent, the scout peered at the bloody symbol inscribed within.

  Yet despite his best efforts, the scout could not disguise the nervous twitch in his neck and the beading sweat on his brow as he beheld the talon of Xetil inscribed with the blood of his former companions.

  Kyran felt a ripple of grim satisfaction at the scout’s sudden surge of fear. It had been quite the feat for his worg-self to drag and arrange the bodies, not to mention drawing Xetil’s mark on the grass using only his paws. Yet he had done it, and he had to admit the bloody worg-prints that surrounded the marking only added to the symbol’s menace.

  Despite the terror the talon drawn in blood seemed to strike in the goblins, that was not its purpose. Or at least, not its only purpose.

  Briefly, he considered leaping out of hiding and ending the lives of the two scouts, who were oblivious to the danger lurking nearby.

  But it was better not to improvise. So far, his plan was working. Better than he’d expected, actually. No need to jeopardise it now.

  Lowering his head onto his paws, he schooled himself to patience. All that was left for him to do now was wait and see if the rest went according to plan.

  ✽✽✽

  Hamen stepped out from the cave and stared upon the frozen brightness of the mountain’s lower range. For the last few nights, the cave had sheltered the dwarves from the weather’s wrath. But the cave’s protection was necessary no longer.

  The storm had finally broken.

  Six nights ago the dwarven squad, in a tale that he was sure their children and children’s children would tell for years to come, had marched for hours through the storm’s fury, and even scaled the escarpment in a bid to find safe haven. They had succeeded, only by the dint of good old dwarven stubbornness and the enchantments of young Dhoven.

  The apprentice was no ordinary enchanter. Hamen had seen enchantments being used by others in the clan before. By and large, they had all been trinkets containing minor magics and nothing extraordinary. Hamen himself had never bothered using them.

  Dhoven’s creations were something else entirely. While the enchantments he had embedded in the three rings had not been powerful spells, the boy had managed to keep the rings charged for nearly a full day with very little rest. That had given them enough time for the dwarves to scale the inner mountain and find shelter in a cave on the Skarral’s northern slopes.

  Hamen wondered if Dhoven’s master, Thoril, realised how powerful his apprentice was. Dhoven should never have been sent out here, thought Hamen again. His gift is too precious to the clan.

  “Do you still mean to take us into that?” asked Borin.

  Hamen turned at the voice behind him before glancing back at the topic of Borin’s attention: the wide expanse of snow-speckled trees stretched out before them. “We must,” he said.

  “Why?” asked Borin, scratching in confusion at his beard. “Dwarves aren’t built to be traipsing through forests, Hamen. You know that. And since the storm has broken, this is our last chance to return to the clan before winter sets in fully. Do you want to spend the winter locked out of the mountains?”

  At Hamen’s continued silence, he added, “Haven’t we taken this chase far enough? We should turn around and head back to the clan.”

  Hamen sighed. “When was the last time you heard of trolls marching through a mountain winter, Borin?” he asked, staring out at the Elder Forest.

  The armoured warrior hesitated before responding, “Never.”

  “And in all six hundred years of our clan’s exile, has Xetil ever sent Yiralla against us?”

  “No,” replied Borin shaking his head.

  “These elves Yiralla chases, whoever they are, are worth all that to Xetil, when even an entire dwarven clan did not warrant such attention. This chase, I fear, is too important to give up on.”

  “But why does it have to be our problem?” Borin persisted.

  Hamen swung back to face his companion. “Because the clan’s return to Durn Duruhl does not only mean an end to our exile, my friend. It also means living in the world again and being affected by the Game once more.

  “The clan cannot bury its head in the sand as we have done these past six hundred years. We dare not ignore the rest of the world anymore. If we do that, we will lose our ancestral home yet again. Durn Duruhl is too great a prize, and the gods will come calling. Do you understand, Borin?”

  Borin sighed. “I understand, Hamen. And don’t mistake me, I’m with you. It’s just…”

  “I know, Borin,” Hamen said, nodding in understanding “I itch to see Duruhl too. But we have to school ourselves to patience. First, we find whoever Yiralla chases and do what we can to keep them out of Xetil’s hands.”

  “Then we can go home?” asked Borin hopefully.

  “Then we can go home,” affirmed Hamen.

  Game Data

  Base skills in air magic, earth magic, and supportive magic have increased to 35. Effective skill: 89.3.

  Base skill in beast bonding has increased to 35. Effective skill: 91.7.

  Base skills in telepathy and body control have increased to 35. Effective skill: 71.4.

  Base skill in light armour has increased to 35. Physical defence: 48.4.

  Base skill in psionics has increased to 35. Psicasting cost reduced by 14.3.

  Base skill in spellcasting has increased to 27. Spellcasting cost reduced by 13.8.

  Remaining: 0 combat SP, 13 combat AP.

  Kyran’s Profile (Condensed)

  Name: Kyran Seversan.

  Combat level: 35. Civilian level: 32. Health: 350.

  Attacks: 44.2 (slash), 71.4 (psi wave), 89.3 (shock bolt).

  Defences: Physical (48.4), psi (35), spell (35).

  Resistances*: 25.5% divine, 17.5% death.

  Class skills

  Beast bonding (91.7), body control (71.4), light armour (42), psionics (71.4), telepathy (71.4), air magic (89.3), earth magic (89.3), supportive magic (89.3), spellcasting (68.9), water magic (51), nature lore (33.6).

  Other skills (0 combat and 0 civilian SP available)

  Fire magic (43.4), longsword (10.4), telekinesis (26.5).

  Commander (16.0), governor (14.4), mage lord (48.0), scrying (14.4), travelling (14.4), feudal lord (14.4).

  New abilit
ies (13 combat and 4 civilian AP available)

  None.

  New items

  None.

  Chapter 19

  05 Novo 2603 AB

  Shapeshifting is an ability best suited to warriors. At first glance it may appear suited to spellcasters too, but a glaring weakness of the ability is that it disrupts the magical pathways between a caster’s body and spirit. This effectively inhibits the shifter from using any essence-based spells. However, a few rare classes are known to confer traits at higher ranks that nullify this weakness. —Johlya Seerixa, naturalist.

  Mirien’s eyes sagged closed.

  It took a nudge from Aiken to jerk her awake again. She stumbled, but caught her footing before she fell. Forcing her eyes open, she shook her head in an effort to clear it of sleep.

  “Sorry, Aiken,” she said, turning to the bear. “It’s been a long night—and day.” The bear bobbed his head in agreement. They were both exhausted yet, if they wanted to stay alive, they had no choice but to keep going.

  They had been travelling for less than an hour, but already the journey weighed heavily on her. Mirien had no idea how they were going to continue in this manner for the rest of the day. Yet they had to. Sooner or later, the goblins would catch up to them, and before that happened she had to find them a defensible location.

  She glanced at the jade bear again. Of the two of them, he shouldered the greater burden. Aiken’s great frame sagged, and his head seemed to bow under the weight of his two passengers. Despite that, he kept going without even a whimper of complaint.

  Mirien ran her hand through his black-green coat. “Brave fellow,” she whispered, before looking up and focusing once again on her surroundings. She had to remain alert or risk them falling prey to some other lurking danger.

  She scanned the treetops. To all but the keenest of travellers, one section of the Elder Forest looked much like the next. But Mirien was more perceptive that most, and she admitted her unusual attachment to the forest helped.