She threw it into the air with some difficulty, and its path was neither as straight or fast as the previous missile, but Neenahwi closed her eyes and its course became truer the closer it got.
Boom!
Crack!
The stalactite was shorn from its root and plummeted to the ground. Kyle watched wide-eyed, time slowing as he saw the tip of the stone stalactite pierce the specter’s flesh. Its body was ripped apart as the ever-broadening spear of stone fell to the floor. The great remains of the root, twice as big as the juggernaut, engulfed the corrupted worm’s body and threw up a cloud of dust and rubble. Kyle covered his eyes, holding his breath.
The dust thinned and Kyle saw the severed head of the spectre slowly rolling away from a pile of rubble. Great chunks of rock covered the spectre’s body closest to them. Where Vidin had been holding on.
“Vidin!” cried Kyle, stepping away from Neenahwi and making to rush to his friend.
“Kyle…” said Neenahwi as she lost her balance. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she cascaded to the floor.
Kyle had a solid grip of Neenahwi’s hand as he looked into her eyes. “Good bye, Neenahwi. Thank you.”
She looked nearly back to health now, though it had been more than a week for her in the infirmary. They had been so concerned that the Forger had even called the old wizard to visit. Kyle did not leave Neenahwi’s bedside, and sat surprised at the wizard’s appearance; and even more surprised by the brief inspection which concluded with an exclamation of “Silly girl, you’ll be fine.” He had kissed her on the forehead before leaving once more.
Now she was on her feet and ready to depart for Kingshold.
“You’re welcome, Kyle. And don’t look so sad. I’m sure I will be back.”
“I’m sorry what you were looking for wasn’t inside the spectre. The locus stone.” Once Neenahwi was well enough, they had gone back to the spectre, it’s body now a green mess of rapidly rotting flesh. It smelled revolting, but Neenahwi insisted on carving it open and searching through its entrails herself. But there was no sign of a locus stone; whether it was long lost or his theory was wrong, Kyle did not know.
“That’s OK. I suppose I didn’t expect it to be that easy. I have some leads to follow from my research, so I’ll find one. Eventually.”
“If there is anything I can do to help, you only have to call,” said Kyle, finally releasing her hand.
“Oh, I’ll hold you to that,” she said, chuckling. Neenahwi reached out and gave Kyle a tight hug, his face blushing at the unexpected affection. The great brass doors of the mountain gate opened a crack, and light from the outside world shone in, making Kyle squint. Neenahwi waved and disappeared into the sunshine.
Kyle sighed a deep sigh. He had places to be. Torkel wanted to show him how the repairs to the juggernaut were coming along, and she even asked him to do some of the detailed carving work—a great honor for one as young as him. And he needed to check on what the miners had done with his cavern, see how big that seam of granthium was. Kyle would be a rich dwarf now; his share of the claim would set him up for life.
But what he really wanted was to start training a new worm.
He had a good name in mind.
Fola.
Jyuth on Magic - Inanimate Sources of Magical Power
Though I previously stated that magical energy resides only in living creatures, upon further research, there are some examples of non-living things that I have found to contain magic of a sort. I do not attest to this being a comprehensive list, it is only what my studies have unearthed so far.
Magical objects.
I have discovered a small number of inanimate objects that have been imbued with magical energy for various reasons, but by whom I do not know. The process of doing so must have been extremely arduous and time consuming, and would likely have required considerable amounts of mana. I have found no commonality in the objects that have been enchanted; in either their purpose, quality, or function. From magical weapons to cloth shirts as hard as steel; jewelry that slowly poisons the wearer to a pot that is always full of a foul porridge; their existence is a rarity. I would postulate that as they have been imbued with magic, they could be contrarily drained. Though why one would destroy objects of this special nature, I do not know (except for the aforementioned porridge bowl).
Locus points.
The earth, rocks, stones, sand. All are without mana. Dead to the wizard.
But the world is alive with magic, and there do exist places that amplify magic. I have heard rumors of a number of such places, but I know one well; the city of Ioth, the heart of the church of Arloth. Whether it is cause or effect from this city being home of a God I do not know. Are these loci fonts of magic spilling from the core of the world, or are they zones of amplification for the natural abilities of the wizard? I do not know. My teacher knew of more such places but would not share their precise locations with me. I should note that I have long suspected that the elves have one such location in their realm.
Demon stones.
There are unique rocks or gems that completely bend my rule that stones are lifeless. Demon stones instead act as reservoirs or conduits of great power. They are extremely rare and quite impossible to identify for the lay person as they are known to look like common rocks or precious gems. Where they come from I can only hypothesize, but for some reason they are highly prized by demons from other realms—which is why I have named them thus. Accessing the power of these stones is fraught with challenges. Anger and blood are the only ways I have discovered to unlock them. And when they are used I am left with a residual anger which takes some time to dissipate.
Demons are beings of anger; does this attract these stones or do the stones create these demons? Are they even part of a demon? I do not have these answers, though I hope that they are not the leftover parts of demon eunuchs.
Of Buccaneers and Bards
Kolsen looked up from his bunk, eyes opening at the approaching sound. Brook, the one and only guard, opened the cell door and led another poor sod into the small bare room. He was a sorry-looking character: bedraggled beard, unwashed hair, eyes glazed and red-rimmed, with dirty, grease-smeared clothes. The man stumbled to the floor, thought about pushing himself up, but couldn't manage it; so he curled up and put his arm under his head, and closed his eyes.
“Ah, I see you brought me another fine cellmate,” said Kolsen.
“Shut up, scum,” Brook growled, closing the cell door and leaving the lockup.
In truth, Kolsen realized he did not appear too much better than the new arrival. Three days had passed since he'd shaved or washed, and his pink shirt was still torn from the stupid tavern fight that had gotten him into this mess. But surely he didn't smell like a distillery, like this one. At least, not anymore.
Kolsen got up from his bunk, walked over to the prone man, and nudged him with his foot. “Hey, what's your name?” he asked.
The man stirred, opening his eyes to reveal unfocused pupils, before he coughed out a sticky glob of brown phlegm onto Kolsen's once-shiny black leather boots.
“Urgh. Well, I guess you're not going to help pass the time.” Kolsen lay back down on the bare wooden bunk and resumed his contemplation of the roaches on the ceiling.
The signs of light coming from the small window set high in the exterior wall told Kolsen it was morning. His new guest was awake on the floor, knees pulled to his chest, staring at nothing in particular. Kolsen sat up, swung his feet to the ground, and regarded him. The man didn't look up or say anything. Just kept up the dead man's stare.
“So, how are you?” asked Kolsen.
“I don't want to talk,” muttered the formerly drunk man, who Kolsen knew must be hurting right now.
“I'm Kolsen, Vin Kolsen. I know how you feel, I really do. I was there myself a few days ago. You feel like somebody put a tap between your eyes and your brain is trickling out. Your mouth tastes like the pissy sawdust from the tavern you were in, and your stomach is
as empty as my purse.” Kolsen appraised the man. Last night, he’d pegged him for just a drunk. He was dirty, but his boots and belt looked like quality and his empty scabbard pointed to someone who could at least afford a length of steel.
“There's not much I can do to help you with any of that, though. The guard might bring some food and water later, but it’s not good. The guard is also the cook. Meanwhile, you’re gonna have to suffer. Though, I can at least help pass the time. We’re stuck here until the next traveling magistrate comes through, and it could be weeks. Who knows, we could be best friends by then.”
“I don't want to talk,” said the man more forcefully this time, looking Kolsen in the eye.
“Suit yourself. Only trying to be neighborly.”
Four days stuck in this shit hole, and no one had come to get him out. He’d only come into this backwater port because the rain barrels were dry and the chickens had all died of some mysterious pox, one after another. It seemed like a good idea at the time: resupply, give some of the crew a little shore leave, and then head back out to do their jobs. It was his idea, the captain going along with it because Kolsen knew about this fishing village, even though it was unmarked on his maps. He’d been here once before, a while ago.
The village was called Little Eaton and it was nothing special, but it had served as a place to hide out for a while back then. He hadn't expected to be remembered quite so clearly by the locals, though; and it was definitely something of a shock when he discovered, while enjoying just his second drink, a young woman and a three-year-old girl behind him.
“Vin, that you?” asked the young woman tentatively.
Kolsen stared at her. Probably early twenties, plain ruddy face like many of the locals in those parts. Soft in the arms, chest and belly. “Aye, that's me, lass. But who are you?”
“It's me. Eara. You don't remember me? This is Neria. She's yours, Vin.” And she pointed to the little girl standing there with wide mooning eyes, dressed in a nightshirt and wearing sandals.
He had taken a moment to consider this, his shipmates around him watching this exchange intently. It probably was nearly four years ago he had been here last, but this was neither the time nor the place to have this conversation. What did she even expect him to do about it? Did she think he had come back to whisk her away, or to marry her and settle down, here at the end of the world? Not likely.
“I'm afraid you must have the wrong man. It's so easy to get us handsome people mixed up when all of you look like a walrus’ backside in these parts.” Kolsen turned back to the crew, who joined him in laughing while the woman cried, only to be led out by her daughter.
The rest of the evening had been going swimmingly. The ale and the rum had flowed freely and the crew had hung on his every word, many of them asking why he wasn't captain instead of just second mate. It had been going swimmingly until three oafs, resembling hairless trolls to Kolsen's eye, shambled into the drinking hovel looking for trouble. Unfortunately, he was the trouble they were looking for. Overprotective brothers with stout pieces of wood. Not the way he liked to end an evening.
And so there had been fighting, Kolsen's crew standing shoulder to shoulder with him. Blows traded, tables broken, glasses smashed. All good fun until one of them had landed a vicious left hook to Kolsen's cheek. It stung something fierce, and Kolsen could feel blood running. Once he got up from the floor he ran the oaf through with his cutlass.
Apparently, the locals didn't appreciate that. The dozen men standing by watching, placing bets on the outcome of the fight, did not enjoy the disemboweling of Fred or Tom or Joe or whatever his name was, and soon their little landing party was outnumbered. Kolsen, who prided himself on being one of the best seamen in the northern waters, knew when the tide was turning. It was time to beat a hasty retreat to the longboat and the ship anchored offshore.
The crew behind him, Kolsen ran for the door only to trip over the outstretched leg of an old lady sipping her summer wine and enjoying the show. Villagers piled on top of him, holding him down and ripping away his sword while his crew escaped.
Four days had passed, and no one had come to break him out. Or bribe the villagers. Or do anything except leave him here to languish, waiting for the magistrate and the noose to follow. Pirates, thought Kolsen, they’re just not reliable.
The next morning the wooden cell door banged open once more. It wasn't Brook, the part-time watchman for the village. This one looked like a pirate. The only problem was it wasn't one Kolsen recognized.
“You two. Get out here,” he shouted.
“Hello, I'm Kolsen,” he said, standing up and walking over to shake his hand as though they were meeting for the first time at church.
“Shut up you. Get outside and line up with the others.” Kolsen was more certain of his initial appraisal regarding this man’s profession. He had the aura of cockiness of one who has made a pact with the devil and is quite enjoying the way it’s working out.
The clothing gave him away, too. The mismatched waistcoat and trousers with a billowing frilly blouse sprouting from underneath were evidence of the magpie-like nature of the common corsair, collecting what they thought of as finery as they went and wearing it proudly. Each new addition to their outfit was as much a badge of honor as the ears worn around the necks of goblin hunters. Tucked into a belt around his waist, the pirate had two short knives. Slung across his shoulder was a miniature crossbow, something he was probably particularly proud of as they were expensive and difficult to obtain. Kolsen had seen better.
Kolsen’s cellmate walked out the door first. He followed and joined the short train of four men and a woman proceeding to the main dirt square of the village. It was early morning.
Scores of villagers had assembled, many dressed in nightclothes and some even in just their breeches. Families and friends stood in groups opposite thirty or forty North Sea corsairs. Two teenage girls were pulled from their families by a handful of viciously armed pirates, much to their father's protestations, for which he received a sword hilt to the face. His wife held him back as he spat teeth. Kolsen had seen these scenes many times before. The wife was wise to hold him back, even as the daughters were dragged off into a nearby house.
Behind the pirates were stacked a variety of supplies: crates, sacks, and barrels. It was probably all they would have to show for a raid on a village this poor, though Kolsen knew they would still want more.
“We'll be on our way if you cooperate,” said a man dressed all in black, clearly in charge. “Don't try any funny business or hide anything from us and you will make it to the end of the day. And then we’ll be gone. And we promise we won't come back, at least for a while. Eh, boys?” The crew members around him laughed on cue, many jeering menacingly at the villagers.
“Bring us what weapons you got and bring us any coin you have. We'll take your food. And in case you weren’t listening, you will not do anything about it. Unless you want to dig some graves.” The pirate leader pointed to where Kolsen stood with his fellow inmates. “These folks here from the gaol, we're taking them with us as slaves, and you should be thankful we’re not doing the same to you.”
One woman stepped forward and pointed at the woman in the group with Kolsen. “That’s my sister,” she said. “She’s not even supposed to be in the gaol. She’s only there because she was protecting herself from the sorry excuse for a man she married. You can’t take her!” Other families called out about Kolsen’s fellow prisoners; though he noticed Eara didn’t beg for him to remain, nor did anyone for his silent cellmate.
“Shut up!” the pirate hollered until there was silence. “This is not a negotiation. We take them or we pick from you lot. Any arguments?” There were no arguments. Becoming a slave was the worst thing these people could imagine. Kolsen had seen worse, but he wasn’t exactly enamored by this change in circumstances.
“Good. Now, any of you boys and girls want to join us? Many of us were like you, growing up in a piss pot by the sea, weren’t we
boys?” More jeers and cheers as the crew remembered the latrines they had clambered out from (into what, Kolsen wasn’t sure). “Join us. Make your fortune. Live a real life. Not just gutting fish and watching the years steal away your youth. Who here would join us?”
“I will,” said a boy, maybe fifteen years old, though big for his age. He was broad-shouldered and one of the few dressed like he was ready to go. He had the look of someone who had already spent several years on the fishing boats and would have been heading out this morning. Smart boy. Not much of a life in fishing.
A boy standing next to him, shorter, skinnier, altogether less of a boy, looked at his friend with concern etched on his face. Then he, too, raised his hand and called out, "And me. I want to come, too."
The first boy turned to the skinnier one and said, "What are you doing, Karr, you ain't even been on a boat. How are you going to be a pirate?"
“You never been a pirate either, Creed. And I don't want to be left here without you. If you're going, I'm going, too.”
“Well, boys,” said the pirate leader, “look at these two lads having a lover's quarrel before they part. Come on. You can leave your ma and da here. We'll take you both. Need someone small to get up the rigging.” He waved over two of his crew to escort the lads to their new life. The villagers contained, he turned to address the raiders. “OK, pick it clean boys. Find everything and get the cargo on board. Miss Carliss, there’s five new mules for your oars. Get them settled. I want to be gone before dusk.”
Miss Carliss had to be the offspring of an ogre. She was over six feet tall. The prow of the longboat, where she sat, dragged in the water from her bulk. Mean, beady black eyes and a thin mouth were just about visible between the menagerie of warts and sores on her face. She barked orders in a high-pitched clip like a yapping terrier. Her whip proved her bite was even worse than her bark.
Tales of Kingshold Page 7