by J. T. Wright
Trent nodded, a little shyly. “I have Mana Manipulation and Channeling Skills as well.”
Orion’s eyebrows rose sharply, and Trent felt the stirrings of hope. Right now, his Fire Manipulation Skill was limited by its source, Spark, but if he could learn a more powerful Spell…
His hopeful stirrings were quashed as Orion again shook his head. “It is impressive to have such Skills, but you are underestimating the complexity of higher tiered spells. If you learned Spark that quickly, then, maybe, I could walk you through the visualization that building a tier 1 Spell requires in a week. Unfortunately, we only have hours at most.”
Tersa grumbled, but Trent ignored her. “Then, what can you cast from within your cell?”
Orion found himself smiling. This boy was interesting. He should be planning an escape, and yet, Trent obviously intended to try and help him. It had been years since Orion had met someone willing to help him unquestioningly, not since Clan Embra had sentenced him to his wanderings.
“I am only a Level 5 mage,” Orion said after some thought. “And many of my strongest spells are sealed. A consequence of my exile, else I would have dealt with the Undead that came to visit personally. But I can cast some light, water, and illusion spells that might be of some use. The best spells I can still cast require me to be within reach of my target. If you can lure the beasts next to my cell…”
Orion stood again and moved to stand next to the bars of the cell door. His face remained impassive, but there was excitement in his tone, as he and Trent discussed several ideas for making use of their various Skills.
Chapter 28
Tersa stood in the dark, attempting to turn her anxiety to anger. This was so stupid. Probably the stupidest thing she’d ever done, and that was saying something. She was once talked into trying to steal Lieutenant Ranchell’s underwear from the officer’s quarters. Then there was the time she’d gotten drunk and decided that singing and dancing on the wall above the keep’s gate was a marvelous idea. She had a fine voice, after all. That was her opinion, at least, but it wasn’t one Corporal Francis had shared.
All the other stupid escapades she’d been involved in had only resulted in punishment details. Digging holes, scrubbing pots, and running laps really weren’t that bad as punishments went. Compared to the beatings her father had given her for the lightest infractions as a child, the Guard disciplinarians practically had a soft touch.
While none of those prior incidents had come close to tempting death, this current one very possibly could. Why had she listened to Trent? Trent was stupid; he didn’t even know, well, lots of things. Easy things too, though a specific example escaped her. The idiot learned too damn fast.
She stood in the dark, grasping her mace in trembling hands, trying to breathe as soundlessly as possible. That was the stupidest part of this plan! They were supposed to be hiding from the Undead! Something everyone knew you couldn’t do. There! That was something Trent was stupid about. The idiot didn’t know you couldn’t hide from the Undead! And she had told him again and again.
“Fast learner, my ass,” she mumbled angrily. “More like fast…jerkface. Stupid jerkface Trent, trusting a murderer over his best friend!”
Orion had assured them that the Undead’s senses weren’t that sharp. This named monster would sense him, expected to sense him. It wouldn’t pick up on the relatively lesser presence of the two waiting in ambush.
It frustrated Tersa to no end that the prisoner seemed to be right. They had practiced this plan twice already. Two groups of three wandering Zombie Guards had come in to harass their boxed toy. Both times the ambush had gone off without a hitch. One other time the zombies who guarded the door had respawned, but they hardly counted. For some reason, the Levels of those two were still determined by her and Trent’s Levels. Easy pickings now!
The Experience from those fights had pushed Tersa dangerously close to Level 10. This was another reason to be frustrated. Recruits were generally promoted to Junior Guardsmen at Level 10, but only if their Skills had also reached the appropriate Level as well. Tersa’s had not.
Right now, she was what Sergeant Cullen called a paper-doll warrior, not that impressive to look at, but you might slice your fingers on the edges if you weren’t careful. She was stronger and faster, but she couldn’t rightly use that strength. Sergeant Cullen said you should keep the Level of your weapons’ Skills as close as possible to your personal Level, if not higher. If he knew she was at Level 9 while her Blunt Weapons Skill was still at 5…
It would be bad. Power leveling, artificially increasing your strength by relying on luck or the efforts of others, wasn’t just frowned upon in the Guard, it was a sin, a sin that brought the punishment of near-death by training.
Stop thinking about Sergeant Cullen, she thought angrily. Sergeant Cullen was stupid, and he wasn’t here. Why wasn’t he here? If that stupid jerkface of a Sergeant were here, he’d pry open the bars of the cell with one hand, slaughter zombies with the other, and all the while he’d be calling out a cadence for her to perform endless exercises to. The Sergeant was stupid, but he was dependable, much more dependable than Trent and Orion.
Just then, a rasping screech came from the hallway outside the room, the sound of metal on stone. Tersa’s breath caught in her throat.
“That’s him. Be ready,” Orion whispered hoarsely in the dark. The Tainted Terror’s entry was always preceded by that harsh, rasping sound.
**********
Warden Krip slowly stalked down the hall. It was his favorite time of day. If he could, he would sit in the room with the holding cells all the time, playing with his trapped Al’rashian, but that wouldn’t do. The prisoner tried to pretend the Warden’s presence wasn’t unnerving. He sat with his eyes shut, pretending the Tainted Terror didn’t exist, but that didn’t fool Krip. The Terror caught sight of the occasional tremble Orion tried to suppress. He saw and delighted in the man’s whitened knuckles and pale face. It was his greatest pleasure.
His only pleasure. Krip was not a typical Trial beast. He could remember a time before, a time of slaughter and torture, a time when he had earned his name and title. He remembered the fall of a nation, the final stand of the Al’rashian King and his violet-eyed elite troop, the Dusk Wraiths.
Krip shuddered as he dragged the tip of the knife in his right hand against the hallway’s stone wall. He shuddered with remembered pleasure, but there was the slightest fear as well. Krip was a Terror, but the King and his Wraiths had driven fear into him.
He recalled the campaign against the Al’rashian kingdom clearly. He had risen up in that war, evolved. He began his un-life as a ghoul, a creature of hunger and death. He had quickly become a Terror, and eventually a Tainted Terror, after months of butchering Al’rashians. He had even gained a name and a title during a night of victory and torture, the memory of which still sent thrills through his thin frame.
He had followed at the heels of the Dread Knight, Habmal the Devourer, part of a mixed army of Cursed Awakened, Infernal Beasts, and Undead Warriors. He had witnessed the wall falling at Windshire Stronghold. The King’s death was assured.
He did not know how it ended. His yellow teeth ground together and Krip snarled. He had killed Al’rashians and feasted on their flesh for the entirety of his existence. He should have continued to exist, an immortal, thriving in the ruins of a once-proud civilization! Then the wall fell.
The wall fell, and the King led his violet-eyed destroyers against them. Instead of patiently waiting for death, the lord and his wraiths had charged and returned the slaughter their people had suffered. It was a futile effort; they had already lost, but Krip never saw the end!
He had cringed in terror as a wave of the elite guard, the Dusk Wraiths, protectors and pride of a nation, swept down on him. Wraiths! That title should have been a joke! There were true Wraiths among the Undead horde, powerful beings of smoke and shadow that even Krip, with his name and title, had to kneel to. But the Undead Wraiths were no match
for their living adversaries.
In the end, the living numbered no more than five thousand. They could not win against the endless hoard they faced. They must have been pulled down and annihilated eventually, but Krip never saw it.
Krip touched his throat. There was no sign, no scar, or blemish on his neck, but Krip could still feel the blade that severed his head with a single blow. He slashed the wall angrily with his knife, drawing sparks. He had fallen in the first charge.
He had awakened in this Trial, this Land of the Undying Lord, trapped in an unending cycle of killing and being killed, with no glory and no way to satisfy his endless hunger. He wasn’t even granted a taste of the Adventurers he brought down. The bodies of Challengers were absorbed by the Trial as soon as the last one fell.
Sometimes he wondered about the end as he roamed the prison for which he was Warden. Had Habmal seen it? That mighty Dread Knight was here in the Trial as well, serving as the final Guardian. He was probably more infuriated by his circumstances than Krip was. Habmal was the final Guardian, but he was not the Undying Lord. Despite his power, he was but a pawn here.
Krip sneered as he approached the closed door to the holding cells. The Zombie Guards were gone, but Krip didn’t notice their absence. Drool escaped over thin bloodless lips, and he wiped it away with the back of a filthy, boney hand. At least, after centuries of waiting, he had one last Al’rashian to play with.
Honestly, Orion’s imprisonment was not something Krip could understand, but then, there was so little about being a Trial Beast that made sense. He was a minor Guardian of a hidden location; nothing was truly under his control. Even his Level wildly fluctuated when Adventurers entered his domain. Currently, he was a mere Level 15. 15! Not even a quarter, not an eighth, of his Level when he roamed the Infinite World!
When he had first sensed Orion’s presence some weeks ago, he had been ecstatic. Finally, prey, and Al’rashian prey at that! He had rushed to Orion’s location, abandoning his post at the prison’s exit, afraid one of his minions might beat him to the kill. He had suffered for that; his Level dropped from 35 to 15, the Trial’s way of penalizing his rebellion. But he didn’t care!
He didn’t know how Orion had entered the prison. Probably through one of the portals the Trial used to separate low leveled Adventurers from more powerful teammates. It didn’t matter to Krip. He had entered the room without pausing and found the man, the Al’rashian, unconscious in the middle cell. Unconscious! If he were quick, Krip had thought he might be able to disable the prisoner and eat the man alive!
He had rushed the cell, clawing at the door, prying at the bars. It was useless! The Trial denied him that pleasure. He was Warden, but the cell would not yield to his command to open. He had screamed in rage!
Now, weeks later, he still lingered near the second floor holding cells of the underground prison. Terrors were sensitive to the emotional state of their prey. Krip stayed close, enjoying the sensation of Orion’s fear and anxiety. The man attempted to suppress these emotions, but his struggles to do so made the taste of fear sweeter. One day he would break, and Krip would feast on the flood of hopelessness as the Al’rashian screamed and wept. The Terror could hardly wait.
Krip paused before the door. The emotions that came from within were particularly strong today. His tongue flicked out, testing the air. Nervousness, fear, anxiety… hope? That couldn’t be right, there was no hope in fear that strong. Krip's thin lips stretched and lifted as he stroked the wall with the flat of his blade. Perhaps today would be the day his plaything finally broke.
He slowly opened the door. It creaked as it swung in on rusty hinges. The darkness of the room was no hindrance to Krip’s sight. The chair and his favorite trinket were just how he had left them. Orion’s eyes were open today, and Krip grinned wider as he met the man’s stare. Would the Al’rashian yell in defiance before he broke? Krip would like that.
“Tell me,” Krip hissed in a strained whisper. He stepped into the room. The soles of his ragged boots slapped against the stone floor as he slowly moved to the chair and sat. “Do your people still talk of how your King died?” Krip set his knife on the table with a clunk. “Do they know the name of the one who pulled him to the ground and ripped the flesh from his face? Were his limbs and organs spread out, so many could enjoy the sweetness of his death?”
Krip stretched his hands wide and then clenched them. His knuckles popped. “Will your flesh be as sweet? Honeyed eyes and blood like wine, that is how I remember the last Al’rashian who fell beneath my blade. She was long in the dying.”
Krip wheezed out a sigh and ran his tongue across his stained teeth. “The blood must have thinned since then. Your fear smells stronger than hers. The stink of your sweat carries no courage.”
Orion was muttering in his cell. Krip strained to hear his words but couldn’t pick them up. Was he praying? Calling on some god or another to save him? Krip hoped so. The gods had no sway in the Trials. The Al’rashian would break soon if he had fallen to crying out for help already.
Orion’s muttering paused, and silver eyes closed briefly, not in prayer, just a momentary wish for luck. His eyes opened again, and his lips moved. He whispered the trigger to his Spell as he lifted a hand to point.
“Dawn Breaking.”
A flicker of light bolted from the point of his extended finger and rushed at the Terror. Krip only had time to chuckle in disbelief before the Spell reached him. Worthless! Connected as he was to the Trial, Krip didn’t have to use a Skill to see that the man’s weakest Class was Mage. This was a pointless struggle. Al’rashians seemed to enjoy those.
When Dawn Breaking reached the Undead and burst, light flooded the room, exposing every corner. Krip was stunned to realize his own sight was suddenly inhibited. He, who could see as well in the dark as in the light, was almost entirely blind. He leaned back in his chair, his head shaking from side to side. What was this supposed to accomplish?
Dawn Breaking was a tier one Spell. Its purpose was only to distract opponents while providing light for attackers. Against living foes, it caused brief disorientation while their eyes adjusted to the light. Its effect on the Undead was slightly stronger.
Sunlight weakened the Undead. While they could survive during the day, their true strength could only be brought forth at night. The Light Element Spell, Dawn Breaking, wasn’t strong enough to bind or hurt the Terror, but it did seal his sensory abilities almost completely. Krip would be nearly helpless for several minutes if his three ambushers were lucky.
Trent was the next to act. The plan he and Orion had conceived had one disadvantage. Tersa had no night-sight abilities and the sudden change in light left her as blind as Krip until her eyes adjusted. As Trent burst out of the cell on the right side of the room, she stood in the cell on the left, cursing and rubbing at stinging eyes.
When he heard Orion trigger Dawn Breaking, Trent had activated Dash and Dodge. With his speed and reflexes enhanced, he crossed the space between himself and the Tainted Terror in seconds. In his hands dangled two ropes of dim flame, each about four feet long. The tripwire he could make out of Spark might slow the Warden down, but it would also alert the intelligent Undead. Instead, he had fashioned two ropes, thicker than his usual strings, and waited.
Trent and Tersa knew that Dawn Breaking was effective from their past encounters with the Zombie Guards, but there was no certainty it would have a strong effect now. Those Zombie Guards were considerably weaker and less intelligent than Krip.
Krip couldn’t hear Tersa’s cursing or Trent’s footsteps under the Spell’s effect, but he started to stand anyway. He felt something was off. His hand reached for his knife on the table, but he wasn’t quite fast enough, disoriented as he was.
Trent reached the Undead Warden before he was halfway out of his chair. He whipped his prepared ropes at the Terror. The flames lashed against Krip, and he sat back down, astonished by the sudden pain. It wasn’t truly damaging him, but it hurt.
The Terro
r hissed as Trent convinced the flames to wrap around the Warden’s legs and torso, binding him to the wooden chair. It worked! At least for the moment, the Undead creature was mostly immobilized. Trent’s Mana flowed into the ropes, and they tightened and burned hotter.
The wooden chair burst into flames where the fire touched it, the aged wood quickly surrendering to the fire. In seconds, the entire chair was alight, and Krip was scorched by the natural fire. That did cause damage, and Krip screamed in rage and pain as he fell to the floor.
Ignoring the fire, which wasn’t strong enough to overcome his resistance, Trent bent to grab Krip’s feet and began to pull him towards the cell, where Orion knelt with his chest pushed against the bars of the door. The Al’rashian had his arms stretched through the gaps in the bars, and he was beckoning with his hands urgently. Unfortunately, with Krip thrashing and kicking, Trent was having trouble dragging him.
The Terror was thin, mostly skin and bones, animated and held together by hate, but he wasn’t weak. If the Undead’s body had been still, even Trent with his limited strength could have easily carried him. But he wasn’t still, and Trent had trouble keeping his grip on his legs.
Before Trent had crossed half the distance to the cell, the natural fire had died out, and the effects of Dawn Breaking faded. The room was still lit, but Krip was no longer blind. Trent’s ropes held, but the slight burning sensation they caused wasn’t enough to keep the Terror from taking stock of his situation.
His sight restored, all Krip’s attention went to the masked Adventurer tugging at his feet. A Level 1 Adventurer! On his worst day, Krip could casually slap this insect to death. He hissed and kicked out with his bound legs, forcing Trent to jump back. This was no mindless struggle but a calculated attack.
With the huge Level difference between Trent and the Undead, the young Summons couldn’t afford to take more than a couple of hits. Even one hit, a glancing blow could mean broken bones. If it wasn’t for his Secondary Attribute, Endurance, he suspected the Terror could snuff him out just by breathing hard in his direction.