The dreadnaught exited the cell in two lengthy strides, face-to-face with the psionists, as well as the king’s chamberlain, Drahar; another soldier; and Gan Storvis, the one-eyed human who had been friends with Rol Mandred.
The Voidharrow took great glee in the look of dismay on the one-eyed human’s face at the sight of what his friend had become.
A dismay that increased noticeably when the dreadnaught grabbed two of the psionists around the waist, picked them up, and slammed them headfirst into the third one’s torso. Flesh and bone and muscle and blood commingled in a twisted, pulpy mass from the impact of the three bodies against one another.
The soldier turned and ran away, and Drahar looked as if he wanted to do the same, but instead he seemed to be preparing to cast a spell.
Gan Storvis stepped forward. “Rol, it’s me. Please, you’ve got to—”
With a mighty howl, the dreadnaught opened all three lips and screamed, making it clear to the one-eyed human that he had no say in what the dreadnaught had to do.
Even as the dreadnaught screamed, Drahar cast a spell. The scream modulated from one of anger to one of agony as spikes of pain shot through the dreadnaught’s head.
Drahar was attempting to regain control. The Voidharrow could not allow that, so it resisted.
Gan continued to plead his pathetic cause. “C’mon, Rol, you can do it. Fight this.”
But Rol was no longer a factor. The Voidharrow had taken full possession of this body and transformed it into something better.
The dreadnaught backhanded Gan across the face with its left hand, sending Rol’s friend through one of the doors to the cubicles that held the fighters.
To his credit, Drahar only hesitated for a moment before casting another spell.
One that brought the dreadnaught back to the Astral Plane where the Voidharrow and Drahar had had their last conversation. The multicolored plane was designed differently than before. The ground was earth, not metal, and it was cerulean. The walls were a sickly green, while the ceiling was striped.
But as before, there were three figures on the plane. One was the Voidharrow, one was Drahar—but the other was Rol Mandred.
But no, he was merely a shadow, a remnant of the original consciousness that belonged to the body. Mandred was curled up in a corner of the plane against one of the green walls, not moving, not even breathing.
Even that shadow would be gone before too long.
Drahar faced the Voidharrow. Unlike the previous time, Drahar came in on the floor.
You wish to control me, minion?
“I wish to work with you, dreadnaught,” Drahar said. “We should not be at odds. Together, we can—”
Do nothing. The Voidharrow does not collaborate, I subsume. And then I destroy. Your assistance is neither required nor necessary, minion.
And then the dreadnaught struck Drahar. The walls grew darker, becoming the color of cacti.
“Something’s wrong.”
Komir looked up at his sister’s words. He was standing in the arena, looking up at the wooden seats in front of the obsidian walls. With no people in the seats, the black walls were intimidating as hell. He felt as if he was staring right into the Abyss.
Karalith had come in through the entryway to the holding area. Remnants of a rusted metal gate hung from the top of the entryway like stalactites, all that remained of the gate after Zabaj had kicked his way through it, freeing the enslaved fighters.
“What’s the matter?” Komir asked.
“Gan isn’t in the office. And one of the fighters said he saw Drahar walking around with a soldier.”
“Crap.”
“Yeah, crap. We’ve got our ‘investment’ from Hamanu, we just needed Feena to distract the psionists so we can get Rol and get out of town. That’s gonna be a lot harder with the chamberlain here.”
With a sigh, Komir said, “Yeah. C’mon, let’s see what Drahar’s doing here—maybe we can use it to our advantage.”
“I don’t know, Komir.” Karalith sounded hesitant, something Komir had never experienced in his sister before.
“What’s wrong?”
“We’ve already taken a lot of risks here. I mean, we’ve gamed the King of the World.”
Komir glared at her. “How else were we supposed to get Rol out? If we didn’t game the king, we’d have had to try to figure out a way to break him out of the dungeons in Destiny’s Kingdom—something we’re utterly ill-equipped to do. Gaming the king is a bit more within our means. Besides, what happened to all that nonsense about not caring who the victim is, just running the game the same no matter what?”
Karalith stared at him. “I was trying to reassure Gan. But he’s right, this is a little crazy, and if we try to game Drahar again, we’ll be pushing our luck all the way over the edge. We need to cut and run.”
“Fine, then,” Komir said, “let’s do that.”
“Good.” She sounded relieved. “We’ll get the coins out of the office, get Feena, Gan, and Zabaj, and get the frip out of here.”
“What about Rol?”
Karalith threw up her hands, causing her bracelets to rattle up and down her forearms. “What about Rol? Have you seen what he’s been turned into? I’m not sure he wouldn’t be better off with the psionists.”
“Uhm, okay,” Komir said slowly, “but you get to explain that one to Gan and Feena.”
“I will. Don’t worry about it. Let’s just go.”
Komir wasn’t at all confident that there would be nothing to worry about—but she was also right that they needed to finish this and get the hell out of Urik. They’d rescued Gan, at least, and they were about to make off with almost three thousand gold. It was a helluva big score, one that would have Komir dancing in the streets normally, especially given who they took the gold from.
But Gan wasn’t going to like them leaving Rol.
However, he saw the same thing Karalith saw: whatever that creature was, it could no longer truly be considered to be Rol Mandred.
Komir wondered if that meant that Gan was going to want to stay with the emporium. Komir certainly didn’t mind—he’d always enjoyed Gan’s company, even if he did talk a little too much—and Feena would naturally be all for it.
The others, though, might take some convincing.
As he followed Karalith down into the catacombs, he reminded himself to worry about one thing at a time. They had to get out of there alive, first, a notion complicated immensely by the presence of the chamberlain.
Zabaj was walking down one of the corridors when they got down there, and Karalith walked up to him.
“Can you retrieve the coins from the office and bring them to the carriage?”
The mul raised both eyebrows. “We’re leaving?”
Karalith nodded.
“About time.”
Komir snorted. “Yeah.”
“Just hold back enough silver so we can pay the fighters,” Karalith said. “Oh, and when you get to the stable, have Mother and Father get the carriage ready to bug out. We’re going to have to get out of Urik pretty much the instant we all get into the carriage, and since they’re back there guarding the merchandise anyway, we might as well have them make the getaway as smooth as possible.”
Zabaj turned to carry out that instruction. Komir allowed himself a small smile. Nobody got their crodlus moving faster than Mother.
As soon as he turned the corner, the malformed body of what had once been Rol Mandred came crashing through the stone wall, pulverizing it as if it were made of sand.
Komir looked at his sister. “There’s just no way that that’s a good thing.”
An eldritch glow that Komir recognized as the residue of powerful magic covered Rol, followed by Drahar floating through, surrounded by a similar glow.
Then he saw that the chamberlain’s nose was gushing blood onto his upper lip. That was less impressive—he knew from Feena that such only happened to practitioners of the Way who were overstepping their abilities.
Beyond that wall were the cubicles that held the fighters. Peeking out from his arms, Komir saw that at least one of them was dead, one was buried under rubble and might have been dead too, and several others were injured.
“What the frip is that?”
“Volmar’s dead.”
“Hell with this—I’ll get three silver somewhere else.”
As the fighters scattered like mice, Komir saw one of the dwarves—a bald fellow with a thick mustache—trying to help the one who was buried.
“What are you doing?” some idiot asked. To Komir’s shock, he realized that he was the idiot—confirmed by his feet moving, somewhat against his better judgment, toward the dwarf to aid him.
The dwarf—whose name, Komir recalled, was Barglin—said, “Gan’s under here.”
Komir felt his stomach drop. “What was he doing in here?”
Barglin was grabbing rocks and throwing them to one side, trying to clear Gan’s body. “He got knocked in here by that thing with the three mouths that used to be Mandred. Now you wanna help me, or not? He might live if we get him out.”
“If we don’t get out of here, we might not live.” Even as Komir said the words, he kneeled down and, like the dwarf, started tossing stones aside. He wasn’t about to leave Gan behind on top of everything else.
Drahar was losing.
In truth, he had lost before he started. Whatever the Voidharrow creature was, he was considerably more powerful than Drahar. The chamberlain feared he might be more powerful than Hamanu.
Drahar had to put everything he had and more into his fight. To spare anything, even to summon the king to aid him, would be suicidal.
Too late, he realized his own arrogance, his own blindness. All he’d thought about was how he and Tharson could use the creature to curry favor with the king by providing him with a way to raise an army that would enable him to truly become the King of the World.
Instead, he’d let himself be fooled by charalatans—he wasn’t sure how or why, but he knew now that Wrena and Dalon were frauds—and now he was about to die at the hands of an otherworldly creature he couldn’t hope to understand.
But he for damn sure wouldn’t go down without a fight.
On the Astral Plane, the Voidharrow punched him repeatedly in the stomach. A sad irony that their magical battle would translate in the ether to the very fisticuffs that Drahar so abhorred.
This ends now, minion, the dreadnaught boasted as he slammed Drahar with a misshapen fist.
“No, it doesn’t,” said another voice.
A blonde with curly hair was standing behind him. Drahar hadn’t the first clue who she was, but his trained mind instantly detected that she had a powerful talent—albeit raw and unfocused.
“I will aid you, Lord Chamberlain,” she said, touching his shoulder. He could feel her power flowing into him. “Together, we will make this thing pay for what it did to Rol.”
The chamberlain grabbed onto the woman’s power, and for a moment it nearly overwhelmed him. She was obviously untrained—which, if nothing else, proved she was not born and raised in Urik. Hamanu’s templars tested every child born under his rule and placed them appropriately. A child of her ability would have been fast-tracked to the King’s Academy just as Drahar had been—but where his placement was due to his station, hers would’ve been entirely due to ability.
But Drahar was in no position to dwell on the waste of letting her potential lay fallow. Right now what he needed was the strength of this woman—whose name, he now knew, was Feena Storvis, the sister to the one with the eye patch—to stop the Voidharrow.
Perhaps now he might not lose. At the very worst, he’d put up a better fight.
Karalith was making sure that everyone who was still upright got out safely.
One half-giant grabbed her and asked, “When do we get our money?”
“Go to the Three Brothers Stable by the City of the Dead and wait for us there, you’ll get paid. Tell the thri-kreen that I sent you, and say the word ‘geresche.’ ” It was a codeword that was meant to sound like elven, but it truly meant nothing. But it signaled to Tricht’tha that the fighters had truly been sent by someone from the emporium.
Once they all got out, she found Zabaj, holding a large metal box filled with their profits from the increasingly dangerous job. “What’s going on?”
Karalith blew out a breath. “Everything’s going to hell is what’s going on. Whatever Rol’s turned into, it’s powerful enough to take on the chamberlain. Feena’s gone to help him.”
“What?”
As soon as she’d said it, Karalith realized she should have kept her mouth shut.
Zabaj immediately dropped the box onto the stone floor. It hit with a rattling thunk and Zabaj ran back the way Karalith had come.
With a sigh, she hauled the box of ceramic coins and made her way to the exit. She wasn’t sure where Komir was, but she trusted her brother to take care of himself. She needed to get the hell out of there before the chamberlain and the monster conspired to destroy the entire arena.
Zabaj ran through the catacombs of the arena and what he saw chilled him to his very bones.
Intellectually, the mul knew that Feena was a mind-mage. Not a trained one, and she mostly only used her skills to help fool victims in the game, and to occasionally block the emporium members’ thoughts from other mind-mages.
So it was easy for him to forget how powerful she was.
There she stood, side-by-side with Drahar, magic coursing through them both, lattices of energy that were intertwined and being thrown at the monster that Rol had been changed into.
For all his life—both in the arena and with the emporium—Zabaj had solved most problems with his might. Either he’d punch things or lift heavy things or do something else that required his prodigious strength.
This, however, was a fight where he wasn’t sure what good his physical abilities would do.
But Feena was fighting for her life, and she was the woman Zabaj loved. He was still angry at her for making him go back on his word and become a part of this foul place, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t lay down his life for her if necessary.
So he charged the creature, slamming it into the wall.
Feena felt a surge of joy as Zabaj’s bulk sent the Voidharrow smashing into a wall. So focused was the otherworldly monster on the magical end that it had lost track of the physical.
Drahar, with Feena’s help, took advantage of the distraction to strike as hard as possible.
In truth, the actual spellcasting was all Drahar. Feena’s lack of training in the Way prevented her from being an active participant, instead being relegated to being a power source. She was simply the water that flowed through the pumps—Drahar was the well that did the work to bring it out.
Zabaj’s arrival, however, weakened the creature enough that Feena was able to split her focus briefly. Drahar could handle things for a bit.
Instead, Feena turned her attention to the corner of the Astral Plane where she saw Rol curled up into a ball.
But she sensed nothing. Rol’s presence was gone from this mindscape.
Still, she reached out mentally, tried to find a spark, a presence—something that might have remained of Rol within.
Rol—it’s Feena. Please tell me there’s something here. Tell me that some part of you is hanging on.
“… go away …”
The voice was small, faint—Feena barely heard it. It was cloaked in agony and despair and loss.
But it was definitely Rol.
Listen to me, Rol, I can help you.
“I’m beyond help. Just let me die in peace.”
In truth, he was very close to that. His last spark of consciousness was flickering and dying. A few more moments an
d it would be too late.
And even the tiniest spark could be fanned into a flame.
We’re here fighting for you, Rol. Me and Komir and Karalith—Zabaj is fighting the creature you’ve turned into. And Gan’s been here all along trying to save you.
“I can’t be saved, Feena. There is no Rol Mandred anymore, there’s just the Voidharrow.” The voice grew louder, but the despair thickened.
So you’re just going to give up?
“What choice do I have?”
Feena was suddenly furious. I guess you’re right—there is no Rol Mandred. Because the Rol I know, the Rol that my brother pledged his lifelong friendship to, would never give up without a fight.
“How can I fight myself?” A glimmer of hope started to shine through.
You can take back control of your own body. I can help you.
“It’s no use, Feena. It’s not even my body anymore.” The hope started to weaken, and the voice grew faint again.
You can at least try to stop it from causing further harm. Zabaj and Gan and I are trying to fight it. You can help us.
“Gan’s here?” The hope came through more clearly then. “He’s still alive?”
Yes, and fighting for you.
A pause.
“What do you need me to do?”
Feena thought for a moment. I can give you a mental boost—it might be enough to give you physical control of at least a small part of the creature.
“All right.”
Determination pierced through the veil of despair, fanning the flames of Rol’s consciousness. Feena diverted some of her power into Rol, hoping that what she took from Drahar could be spared.
She felt Rol concentrate on his right arm, thinking about all the things he did with it: punching people, holding knives, putting it around pretty women, eating fine food, eating bad food, eating that fantastic jerky, drinking far too much ale, and throwing open doors to make dramatic entrances.
Feena found herself learning a bit more about Rol than she expected just from that …
Rol flexed his fingers—and the fingers of the creature moved.
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