by Cale Plamann
Magma sprayed across the nearby Durgh that had formed a circle around the two of them to protect the sanctity of their duel. It wasn’t quite enough to kill any of the veteran warriors that made up the Khan’s honor guard, but more than one burst into flames as the superheated rock touched the dry cloth and leather that padded their armor.
Krosst’s form blackened, the heat disappearing in an instant. The Luoca screeched defiance and lunged forward, its wings shattering the hollow statue. Inside the rubble of his defeated combat form lay Krosst’s normal body, naked and gasping for breath.
Before anyone could react, the Luoca’s tail darted forward and impaled the Khan. The tail extended, holding the body high above the battlefield. The entire conflict settled into a lull as the eyes of every Durgh not actively fighting a daemon focused on their crippled Khan.
Krosst twitched, his hands—each the size of Micah’s head—reaching for the tail lodged in his chest. They grasped at the limb as he tried to pull himself free.
Then the Khan started to dissolve. His hands. His torso around the wound. Great drops of flesh and refuse dribbled from them as they seemed to melt.
Krosst looked up and opened his mouth as if to say something, true fear in his eyes for the first time. Instead, his mouth remained slack as the light left his gaze.
The Luoca bellowed an incoherent sound of triumph and challenge. It smashed the still form of the Durgh leader into the stone, crushing the lifeless body into a paste of meat and bone.
The Durgh surged in rage. Where before they’d attacked joyously but cautiously, now they struck out with abandon, uncaring as they wasted their lives and mana in an attempt to bring down Micah’s daemons.
His summons responded to their ferocity in kind, ignoring their injuries and counting on Micah’s hasty castings of Regeneration to keep them in fighting shape as they reaped life after life.
A Brensen fell, its lower body encased in stone after a shaman summoned a great hand of rock to pluck it from the air. Tens of Durgh lay injured or dead around it before a glaive finally clove the great vulture’s skull from its shoulders.
Then another. Micah had to change positions as an Earth spellcaster turned the ceiling next to him into a great fanged maw that snapped at him. Without even looking, he directed a Luoca to the caster and a pair of insect wings bisected the man.
He began to lose track of time. A spell or attack would wound him, Micah would heal. A spell would run out on his daemons and he would renew it. The world became a blur of action as Durgh and daemon alike fell, bathing the dark battlefield in blood.
Finally, a horn blew from the Khanmoot itself. The remaining Durgh began to extricate themselves from combat. With a tired thought, Micah called back his daemons. What remained of them anyway.
One Luoca and three Brensens had survived, all well below half health. The Luoca that had defeated the Khan was targeted almost immediately by the Durgh. Even though it out-leveled everything around it, the unending string of attacks eventually ripped the wings from its back, crippling the daemon. That battle had drawn the attention of the Durgh host’s elite for almost fifteen minutes.
Without its sacrifice, Micah tiredly realized that he would have died. Even if the Luocas were more powerful than any of the Durgh other than the Khan himself, quantity had a quality of its own. That monomaniacal focus on their leader’s killer had allowed the rest of his daemons to regenerate enough hit points with the aid of his magic to survive to the end of the battle.
In a half-hour, his summons had managed to kill just over fifteen hundred of the Durgh. Not even half of the host. Another five to ten minutes, and his skull would’ve joined his Luoca’s on the cavern floor.
A large Durgh stepped forward from the army as his soldiers claimed trophies from the fallen on both sides.
“Micah Silver!” the Durgh’s voice boomed forth over the background noise of the crowd. “You have fought honorably for a half-hour, and I would parley with you.”
Reluctant but exhausted, Micah flew down from the ceiling of the cavern, his clothes burned and torn to shreds. Each hole and tear was a testament to a deep wound that he’d healed in the heat of combat.
The floor was cold under his single bare foot. He’d lost it entirely to a Durgh warrior whose blessing let him throw a spinning blade that would boomerang effortlessly back to him. Regeneration had regrown the limb, but it still felt strange and new as Micah put his weight on it for the first time.
“I stand before you, Laghra, Khan Candidate and third in command for Khan Krosst.” The Durgh nodded pleasantly at Micah, his face devoid of hostility. “You fought well today.”
“As did you,” Micah replied tiredly, the accumulated stress of combat dulling and clouding his perception like great puffs of cotton. “I am sorry about Krosst; he seemed to be a good man.”
“He was,” Laghra agreed, “but he also died well under the approving gaze of Ankros. No Durgh could ask for more. Now” —Laghra nodded at Micah—“Krosst made a deal with you, that you might request a cessation to our hostilities and preparations to invade the surface if you survived a half-hour of open combat. Do you make that request?”
“I do,” Micah replied, unable to put any energy behind the words.
“Very good.” Laghra nodded. “Congratulations on your victory, human. The next time we meet, the Durgh will be better prepared.”
Without a further word, the Durgh turned and walked away, attempting to organize the chaos of the post-combat cleanup.
Micah began walking away, his daemons trailing after him. Each step took his entire focus as he tried to line one foot in front of the other. Micah’s vision faded and flickered, transforming his journey into a vignette of carved rock and darkness.
Finally, he came upon Telivern, a shining white beacon in the heavy night of the Great Depths. Not knowing how, where, or why he came upon his friend, Micah stumbled forward, tripping and collapsing into the deer’s soft white fur.
46
Victory
Micah opened his eyes in the cave, his body covered in mostly healed bruises and cuts that he barely remembered. Telivern lay curled against him, its fur having warmed and cushioned him through the long night.
“Congratulations, Blessed.” The voice Micah had come to associate with class selection and growth spoke from nowhere. “You’ve reached your second milestone and are eligible for a class specialty. A series of options have been presented to you based upon your affinities and skill levels. This message has repeated two hundred and sixty-four times without response. Please make a selection.”
The voice continued its even tone and measured cadence, unfazed by Micah’s wry amusement. “For your achievements in learning the martial art Wind Spear, you may upgrade the martial art to Uncommon rarity, increasing the effectiveness of all abilities associated with that martial art. Due to your increased physical fitness, you may specialize as an athlete and gain additional hit points upon each level-up. For following The Path of the Spear, you may specialize as a spear adept, making you more effective in many small ways with a spear. For your achievements in Wind magic, you may specialize as an Aeromancer, decreasing the mana cost and increasing the effectiveness of your Wind magic. For your achievements in Wood magic, you may specialize as a Healer, decreasing the mana cost and increasing the effectiveness of your Wood magic. For your achievements in Time magic, you may specialize again as a Chronomancer, decreasing the mana cost and increasing the effectiveness of your Time magic. For your knowledge and achievements in ritual magic, you may specialize as an Occultist. For your knowledge and achievements in enchanting, you may specialize as an Enchanter. For your knowledge of Elsewhere, you may specialize as an Arcanist, increasing your understanding of, and chances of surviving direct contact with, the corrosive mists of that plane.”
The rocky ceiling of his cave stared back at Micah as he pondered his options. After everything he’d done, the risks he’d taken, the timelines he’d abandoned, it was all over.
>
Micah didn’t hold any illusions. Someone with his level of power would be forced to fight again. Karell simply wasn’t the sort of peaceful place where he’d be allowed to retire and rest on his laurels.
Still, Micah had earned himself a moment of peace. For once, his decisions didn’t need to be focused on the next moment, on grabbing every last mote of power that he could. The all-consuming threat of the Durgh invasion was gone. He had the luxury of picking something that he truly wanted to do.
Everything he’d done, every sacrifice he’d made, ran through Micah’s mind. The friends he had watched fall only to see them standing and joking again in the next timeline. The moral quandaries he’d ignored, sure that the ends would justify his means.
Hells, that put him closer to the Royal Knights than he’d like. He kept telling himself that he’d never sunk to the same lows as his former mentors, but it was a thin distinction. He’d trafficked in blood and time to save his friends and family, and there was no doubt in Micah’s mind that he’d do it again, if necessary.
He raised his hand up. Even with his eyes open, it glowed slightly red with the light of Elsewhere. He curled his fingers into a fist.
For now, he could relax. He could afford to live a normal life for a time, to recover from wounds both physical and spiritual.
“Congratulations, Blessed,” the voice repeated itself. “You’ve reached your second milestone and are eligible for a class specialty. A series of options have been presented to you based upon your affinities and skill levels. This message has repeated two hundred and sixty-five times without response. Please make a selection.”
“Enchanter.” Micah spoke the word aloud, waking Telivern with his voice. Beside him, the deer stirred, lifting its head to look at Micah with concern.
He wouldn’t live the rest of his life as a craftsman, but it would give Micah a chance to relax and focus on his research.
“It’s fine, buddy.” Micah patted Telivern’s flank. “I don’t know if it’s all over, but it’s over for now. It was a close thing, but we did it.”
Relief. Wrongness. Sick.
Micah stood up and walked out into the clearing beyond the cave. He put his hand to his forehead, shielding himself from the sun after his time in the Great Depths. Birds chirped nearby and a pair of squirrels chased each other from branch to branch.
He’d have to get used to the cave again. The grove was gone, one of the many sacrifices he’d made to gain the power needed to save Basil’s Cove. Still, it was nostalgic in its own way.
Micah called up his status.
Micah Silver
Age 18 [ERROR] / 28
Class/Level Thaumaturge 40
XP 31,200/150,000
HP 785/810
Class Specialty
Chronomancer, Enchanter
Attributes
Body 10, Agility 10, Mind 65, Spirit 64
Attunement
Moon 17, Sun 2, Night 23
Mana
Moon 3224/3224, Sun 3204/3204, Night 3246/3246
Affinities
Time 10
Tier V - Foresight 6, Time Echoes 1, Temporal Transfer 2, Haste 7
Wood 6
Tier I - Refresh 10, Mending 9, Plant Weave 9
Tier II - Augmented Mending 13, Root Spears 11
Tier III - Heal 8, Paralytic Sting 3
Tier IV - Regeneration 5, Healing Wave 6
Air5
Tier I - Gale 7, Air Knife 15, Air Supply 4
Tier II - Wind Shield 6, Sonic Bolt 11
Tier III - Updraft 2, Pressure Spear 6
Tier IV - Flight 3
Blessings
Mythic Blessing of Mursa - Blessed Return, Ageless Folio
Skills
Anatomy 7
Arcana 8
Enchanting 11
Fishing 1
Herbalism 5
Librarian 5
Ritual Magic 23
Spear 11
Wind Spear 8
Spellcasting 27
Telivern followed Micah out, resplendent in the sunshine. He turned to the deer and leaned against it after it approached him, its fur soft against the side of his face. Micah smiled as the bristles tickled his cheek. He wanted to see his family. He didn’t even know how long it had been since he’d had a moment to actually sit down and talk with them.
Support. Concern. Frailty.
“I suppose they are a weakness of mine,” Micah said with a chuckle. “There’s plenty that I need to protect in this world. You and they are at the front of the list.”
The walk back to Basil’s Cove was a dream. Even his bare feet didn’t really bother him. Stones dug into him, but he barely even felt the pain. 800 hit points had toughened him beyond what Micah would ordinarily consider human.
The gate to the city barely slowed him. The guards took pity on Micah based upon his ragged appearance and waved him in without forcing him to pay the toll.
Internally, he chuckled. His clothes were grimy, burnt, and filled with holes. Half of his hair was missing, burned from his head by a near miss. Even his spear was covered with divots and burns from the shrapnel and spells that had targeted him during his battle with the Durgh. To all the world, he looked like nothing more than an adventurer returning after biting off more than he could chew.
Inside Basil’s Cove, he took in the regular day-to-day bustle of the city as he walked toward his parents’ house. Merchants shouted the virtues of their wares in the marketplace while day laborers told jokes as they worked. Occasionally, a messenger would run by, a hand on their satchel as they darted through the crowds in an attempt to ward off thieves or interception.
Micah smiled. This was what he was protecting. The chaos and beautiful normalcy of a city going about its business, entirely unaware how close it had come to complete destruction.
Finally, he arrived at the front door to his parents’ house. Next door, his father’s shop bustled as the assistants—all forgotten that his parents were trying to aid—helped clients with their fittings. His dad would be busy with work until after sundown, but Mother would be home, likely tutoring Esther or preparing dinner.
He knocked on the door. Inside, his mother shouted something indistinct at Esther before he heard the sound of footsteps leading to the door. It opened.
Before Micah could say anything, he was wrapped up in a hug.
“Micah!” Esther shouted from inside. “Momma, did you know that Micah was coming home?”
“Hush, poppet,” his mother replied, tears sparkling in her eyes as she looked up at him. “Trevor said you ran off on some sort of big mission. You disappeared for a week. Seven whole days without any news. I know you’re an adult, Micah, but you can’t do that to your parents. You need to stop by now and again, or we’ll worry about you. It’s what your father and I do.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.” Micah’s voice caught in his throat. “You won’t have to worry about it again. I have all the time in the world now. Before, something came up that threatened the entire city. I was the only one that could do something about it. If I didn’t, everyone would have gotten hurt. I just couldn’t stand by and let that happen.”
“Esther” —she turned to her daughter—“get your father and Trevor. Let them both know that Micah’s back and that I expect both of them here for supper. We’re having a family dinner tonight no matter what. Tell them that I won’t forgive them if they’re even ten minutes late.”
Esther scampered past the two of them, pausing briefly to look back at Micah before she ran over to the clothing shop. Micah’s mother looked him up and down and clucked her tongue before pulling him into the house.
“Look at you, Micah Silver.” She shook her head. “You look like someone dragged you on a rope through all of the hells, one after another. I’m not sure I even want to know how you managed to let your clothing get to that state.”
“It feels like it, Mom,” Micah chuckled, “and honestly, I’m not sure you’d believe me if I told you.�
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“Well,” she continued, pulling him into the kitchen and motioning for Micah to sit at the table, “it doesn’t matter. You’re back, and you’re going to eat dinner with the family for the first time in years. That’s what matters.”
Dinner was perfect. The years spent mostly in the forest or under the thumb of the Royal Knights faded into an unpleasant memory as Trevor complimented their mother on the dinner rolls and Esther hung on to Micah’s and Trevor’s words as they described their various adventures.
As dinner came to close, Micah’s mother sent Esther to the washroom to get ready for bed and his father brought out a bottle of the good port. Usually, the fortified wine was reserved for big sales, such as an entire line of blouses to a noblewoman or a contract to exclusively make the suit jackets for a major noble house’s servants. Today, his father beamed as he poured four large glasses of the expensive amber liquid.
“Micah” —the older man held up his glass—“no matter how old or strong you may grow, this will always be where you belong. To always returning home again.”
Micah drank a sip along with his parents and brother, savoring the sweet burn of the liquid. By the Sixteen, there was no way that he’d ever touch juushk again.
“So, Micah.” His father sat down, a slight flush on his cheeks. “Now that you’ve accomplished whatever your mysterious goal was, do you have any plans? From the way Trevor talked about it, you probably have enough attunement to retire, but that sounds like an awfully boring path to take when you’re only eighteen.”
“It’s not anything exciting.” Micah’s face twisted into a wry smile. “Certainly not anything as harrowing as how I’ve spent the last couple of months, but I’ve learned a thing or two about enchanting. I’ll still probably raid a dungeon now and then, but I’d really like to buy a little shop up by the market and start selling things to adventurers. I know how useful those sorts of things can be during a tough run, and if I could save a couple lives by ensuring that some of Trevor’s guildmates have what they need, that seems like a more than worthwhile pastime to me.”