Sovereign (The Gods' Game, Volume IV)
Page 29
In the odd twist of a bark here, and the unusual shading of leaves there, she recognised the trees nearby to be grandfathers. She knew most of the forest’s simpler predators would instinctively avoid the ancient trees.
And while it was no great surety that danger didn’t lurk nearby in the presence of the grandfathers, Mirien’s shoulders eased slightly. Treading amongst the sleeping giants comforted her like little else in this world did.
She glanced at a nearby ancient oak, wondering if she dared appeal to him for help. But she could not count on the forest assisting her again. Despite the other grandfather oak’s willingness to aid her last night, Mirien knew her lineage was a blade that could cut both ways.
If she relied too heavily on the ancient trees for aid, without setting to rights her family’s broken oaths, she risked the wrath of the Elder Forest. And that I will certainly not survive, she thought with a shiver of unease.
She would call on the forest’s aid only as a last resort, she decided. That was as it should be. Family lore—which had been drilled often and ceaselessly into her during her youth—cautioned against needlessly disturbing the grandfathers. If whatever Kyran attempts works, perhaps the trees’ help won’t be necessary.
Where is he?
She hoped the plan Kyran had concocted was working. Although she had no clue how he could possibly stop what had to be a sizeable warband of goblins, she had long since stopped underestimating the free agent. She smiled crookedly. If anyone could do it, it would be him.
Her eyes glinted with amusement at his awkwardness earlier that morning. It was almost as if he—
Dark clad figures dropped down from the trees, scattering her thoughts.
Mirien dropped to a couch and, gripping the hilts of her blades, instinctively reached into her mind to draw on her psi. A moment later, she remembered her reserves were depleted.
Gods damn, she swore and pulled free her weapons. Beside her, Aiken huffed in weary disbelief and drew up short. He, too, had been surprised.
Their ambushers did not immediately attack.
With bared blades still in her hands, Mirien turned around in a wary circle. The party was surrounded. Clad in dark leather armour, their attackers were masked and hooded with only their eyes revealed.
There had to be twenty of them, each with a bow nocked and centred on either Mirien or Aiken’s heart. Their ambushers—humanoid and whipcord thin—held themselves impressively still.
What are they waiting for?
If her psi and essence had not been depleted, she would have taken the fight to their assailants. But as it were, any move to attack would only foolishly endanger the party. They were not going to battle their way out of this. She lowered her gaze and met Aiken’s eyes. The jade bear seemed to have reached the same conclusion.
“Wait,” he advised.
Mirien nodded imperceptibly. There was little else they could do now.
Ahead of them, the line of silent figures parted and another padded forward, this one with his bow clipped to his back, and a longsword sheathed at his hip. She assumed he was their leader but couldn’t be certain.
Stopping four meters away, the leader’s brown eyes peered inquisitively at each of them in turn, his gaze lingering the longest on Mirien. Then pulling something from his back, he flung it at their feet.
Mirien’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. Keeping her stare locked on the leader, she did not look down. Only when he stepped back did she warily glance downwards.
Her stomach churned as she studied the objects on the ground. They were manacles, made from orichalcum. Meant to hold spellcasters.
They were to be prisoners.
✽✽✽
A short while later, the main column of the goblin warband clattered into the clearing that had served as the party’s campsite. At their fore, rushing forward to examine the dreaded symbol—as Kyran hoped—were the ten witches.
Drawing out the witches had been his true purpose in carving the symbol. If his plan was to succeed, he needed all the warband’s spellcasters gathered together. The witches gathered together in grim silence as they studied Xetil’s bloody insignia.
One witch, who bent over and leaned on her staff for support, stood slightly apart from the rest. The hag, Kyran guessed. The rest of the goblins—witches, scouts, and warriors alike—appeared to be waiting on her word.
As the hag scrutinised Kyran’s work, more of the warband entered the clearing. Kyran was content to wait. The more goblins he managed to lure into the small clearing, the more effective his plan would be.
All the goblins were nervous. Many shot fearful glances at the encroaching trees or stared at Xetil’s mark with open-mouthed horror.
“It is not Xetil’s mark,” pronounced the hag. Kyran’s ears swivelled towards the old witch. Now how does she know that? After a moment of silence, a nervous titter ran through the anxiously watching goblins.
“Are you sure, Old Mother?” asked a heavily muscled and scarred goblin, stepping to the witch’s side.
“Of course I am,” croaked the hag. She waved her staff at the circle of goblin corpses. “This is a distraction meant to delay us.”
This has gone on long enough, thought Kyran. The hag was too perceptive by far. He could not risk the greater part of the goblins leaving the clearing before he cast his spell.
Unshielding his consciousness, he dipped his awareness into the mindscape and spun threads of psi into a closely knit ball of beckoning slumber.
Targeting the mass of minds gathered around the hag, he dropped the spelled construct into their centre. The weaves exploded outward, unravelling into an unstoppable tide of violet that surged over the goblins’ consciousness and swamped their minds with the irresistible urge to sleep.
One by one, the goblins began to topple, slowly at first and then faster, in a rapidly expanding outward circle, until the entire clearing rang with their distinctly unmusical snores.
Kyran has cast mass sleep (radius: 7.1m, chance to resist: 5%, duration: 71 seconds), 10 goblin witches, 15 goblin scouts, 85 goblin warriors induced into sleep.
Warning: any hostile action against the targets will cause them to awake.
Of course, not all the goblins were affected; most were still outside the spell’s range and escaped unscathed. Yet the felling of their leader, especially so soon after the old hag had confidently pronounced the mark in the clearing as not belonging to Xetil, struck the other goblins as ominous.
The warriors still standing in the clearing fled, and none of those outside dared to enter, which suited Kyran perfectly. The goblins above, who gathered in clumps in the trees, stared down and whispered fearfully.
Kyran would have chuckled if he could. Now to see if I can get them to flee. Ignoring the sleeping goblins, he cast confusion, targeting the largest gathering of goblins in the trees.
Kyran has cast confusion (radius: 40m, chance to resist: 5%, duration: 7 minutes), 38 goblins confused (18 dazed, 7 stunned, 5 enraged, 3 unconscious, 4 charmed, 1 terrified).
Chaos erupted.
Dazed and unconscious goblins lost their footing and fell to their deaths. A few, unluckier than their fellows, had the misfortune of remaining alive and howled in agony as their bones were shattered or flesh was ripped apart by protruding roots and passing branches.
The other goblins, who were witnessing the sudden and inexplicable madness of their fellows, shied away. Their courage wilted, and first in ones and twos, then in droves, the goblins fled, forsaking the seemingly cursed grove.
Kyran sniffed the air. A few unaffected goblins still hovered around the clearing. He didn’t know if it was from fear of their leaders’ fury or their own sense of obligation, but they appeared unwilling to abandon their companions.
Kyran rose to his feet. He was running out of time, and he needed to chase off the stragglers quickly so he could conclude matters in the clearing. Drawing on his essence again, he picked one of the remaining goblins and began casting mind—
Aiken’s projection had been weak, made even fainter by the distance between them, and all Kyran received was a jumbled confusion of images: a grove of trees, Mirien… orichalcum?
Kyran shook his head and tried to understand the bear’s sending. What was Aiken trying to tell him? Slipping into the mindscape, he sent his awareness racing after Aiken, but the bear’s mind was closed, likely busy dealing with whatever troubled him.
Kyran glanced upwards into the trees and hesitated. From Aiken’s sending, he had an inkling something was wrong, but he could not hurry back to the party—not if he didn’t want to compound their problems by letting the goblin warband trail behind them.
He had to finish what he started first. Gathering strands of psi together again, he resumed his casting and sent a flurry of mind shocks hurtling towards his chosen target.
The unfortunate goblin staggered at the mental assault and lost his precarious perch on a branch. Shrieking, he plummeted downwards. His terrified cries cut off abruptly as he hit the ground with an audible thud.
This proved too much for even the staunchest of the warriors that remained and they too fled. Kyran dashed out of cover. He had less than a minute remaining before the mass sleep spell expired, not nearly enough time.
Stepping carefully between the snoring goblins, he made his way to the hag. Once he reached her, he sat back on his haunches next to witch’s still glowing and active magic shield. He canted his head to the side and studied the diminutive witch for a moment. Asleep, the goblin seemed no threat.
Yet for the party’s sake, he could not afford to let her live.
He reached into the mindscape and sent tendrils of psi into the hag’s consciousness. Finding her motor cortex, he applied his will to disrupt the goblin’s nerve impulses and paralyse her.
Kyran has cast hold against a goblin witch (chance to resist: 30%, duration: 26 seconds), paralysed.
Hostile action taken. The target is no longer asleep
His tongue lolled out in a doggy smile as the spell took hold on the first attempt. It made the rest of his task much easier. The hag’s physical appearance did not change in any way after the spell went into effect, the hold spell allowing not even a single muscle to twitch.
Though in the mindscape, he could sense she was awake. The goblin witch, radiating rage, battered futilely against her induced paralysis. But despite the hag being aware, her eyes were kept sealed by the hold spell, leaving her with no line of sight to target him.
Ignoring the menace and frustrated fury that rolled off her in waves, Kyran flew forward and assaulted her magic shield with tooth and claw.
Kyran has hit Old Mother for 0 damage (67 blocked by magic shield). Remaining shield: 223 / 290 HP.
Kyran has hit Old Mother for 0 damage (75 blocked by magic shield). Remaining shield: 148 / 290 HP.
Buffed with boxer’s strength and dancer’s grace, it took only a few seconds to destroy the witch’s shield.
When the hag’s shield collapsed, Kyran rushed forward and clamped his powerful jaws onto her exposed neck. Biting down viciously, he broke the hag’s neck in a single twist.
Kyran has killed Old Mother with a vital strike.
Kyran raised his bloodied muzzle and surveyed the grove. It was done. With their leader dead, he hoped the goblin warband would collapse entirely, and if they didn’t, it would hopefully take them some time to recover.
He had planned to kill more of the witches while they lay helpless, but he couldn’t afford to linger further. The mass sleep had almost run its course and soon the other goblins would stir and awake.
Leaping through the mindscape, he teleported away and dashed north towards the party. He hoped that whatever trouble they had fallen afoul off, he was not too late to help.
✽✽✽
Yiralla stared up at the glistening gold dome and the clear blue sky above. After days of inaction and chaffing, the storm had finally broke, and it was time to resume their chase.
In many ways, the delay had been as difficult to bear as the march through the snowstorm. Yiralla knew that someone would be made to pay if the free agent escaped, and while she was too valuable for Xetil to discard, there were many other ways he could still punish her.
“Captain, send out the scouts,” she snapped. “I want the free agent’s trail and the two missing trackers found. And make sure the men are ready to march.”
The scouts she had sent out before they had left the ogre settlement had not returned. She could only hope they had managed to track down the free agent before the trail had disappeared altogether in the snowstorm.
“Aye, Champion,” replied the captain, turning around to fulfil her orders.
“Oh, and Captain,” she said, causing him to turn and stop. “Make sure the men understand there will be consequences if the free agent escapes. Dire consequences.”
The troll swallowed then nodded quickly, under no misconception about whose fate was being discussed.
Yiralla pursed her lips as her gaze followed him. A week ago, her god had left her mind, freed of whatever malaise had forced him to take refuge with her. And as happy as she was to have her mind to herself, she wondered at his silence. He had not contacted her since.
Did he know where the free agent was? She knew he had marked the signatures of the elf’s party. If so, why had he not contacted her? Should she contact him? She licked her lips. No, better to wait for the scouts to report back first.
PART THREE
Chapter 20
5 Novo 2603 AB
The sovereign’s pledge is an archaic and ill-conceived concept. No divine would consider using it to gift a mortal with a player’s power, not when it binds the player by only the thinnest of threads to the divine. What was Eld thinking by including its likes in the Game? —Xen Lize, high priest of Balkar.
As Kyran raced north, he grew more troubled.
For the last few minutes he had been trying to contact Aiken, to no avail. He had even reached out to Adra and Gaesin, though both were unconscious.
Yet he had received no sense of any of the three in either the mindscape or the ether. Their bonds to him had not been severed. That he would surely have sensed. No, what he felt was an absence, as if somehow their links were blocked.
It was concerning.
And now, as he drew near to the party and their scents grew stronger on the wind, he smelled the presence of others. What had happened to the party? And who were the others?
He slowed from his sprint. Slinking down low, he stalked warily forward. The party, their scents overlapping with the strangers, were less than fifty metres away, stationery and unmoving. From the smells on the wind, he guessed there were at least a dozen others present.
He padded forward and slipped silently from shadow to shadow. The low murmur of voices from up ahead grew louder with each step.
Ten metres away from the party, he froze.
His nostrils flared as he caught the sudden scent of another of the strangers less than three metres away from him. Slowly, he swung his head in the direction of the smell.
Sitting in the lower branches of a tree to his right, and staring directly at him, was a masked and hooded figure. Somehow, up until this point, the stranger had managed to wholly conceal his scent from Kyran—which would have taken a remarkably high level of stealth. Kyran dropped into a crouch and bared his teeth in silent warning.
“Now what are you doing here?” asked the stranger, his voice an even and relaxed timbre.
“What is it, Astran?” a voice called from beyond.
“A strange worg, nothing more,” said Astran, not taking his eyes off Kyran.
A pause. Then, “Get rid of it.”
Kyran spun around and leapt away. Legs pumping furiously, he raced to the closest cover.
&nb
sp; But the archer was too quick. “Sorry, fellow,” said Astran. Raising his bow, he fired in one smooth motion. The arrow unerringly found its mark and thudded into Kyran’s haunch just as he dove into the thicket.
Astran has hit Kyran for 62 piercing damage (25 damage resisted). Remaining: 358 / 420 HP.
Kyran bit off a strangled yelp as the arrow sank into him. The arrow lodged deep, but thankfully not as far as it would have if he’d been unarmoured. Not pausing to inspect the damage, Kyran wriggled deeper into the thicket and narrowly escaped being skewered by a second arrow.
He fought back an angry growl and crawled onwards. Another arrow screamed through the brush, this one farther off the mark. He realised the archer was firing blindly.
Once he was nestled in the thicket, he swung his head around and bit off the shaft. Mouth open and silently panting, Kyran waited for a heartbeat. Then another. No more arrows followed.
Judging it safe, he inched his way silently through the bush until he reached his destination. There, he stilled his heaving sides and waited.
“Did you get him?” called the second voice again.
“I think so,” replied Astran. “He ran off, but I got at least one good shot into him. He will bleed out soon enough,” the archer said confidently.
Astran was wrong.
Kyran had not run off. Instead, he had used the thicket to cover his final approach to the party. He carefully stuck his nose through the brush.
He inhaled in sharp relief when he saw that the party was all there, and uninjured.
But captive.
Adra and Gaesin were laid out on the floor, both unconscious. Aiken, his great head bowed, lay down on all fours, a glittering collar peeking through the scruff of his neck.
At the sight, a tremor of rage shook Kyran and turned his vision red, so overwhelming him that he nearly forgot himself and burst out in attack.
Aiken’s head turned around. Seeming to pass his gaze over the thicket by accident, the bear huffed once in assurance.