by Plum Pascal
“You may be willing to die for your pride, but I’m not,” I shoot back. “We won’t come out smelling like roses, but we’ll be alive, and we’ll likely maintain the element of surprise.”
“Not to mention that would mean we’d have to backtrack,” Sorren continues. “If you want us to enter through the backside of Grimm mountain, we’ll have to travel back the way we came into Grimm and circle around to enter through the rear forest.”
“Right,” I say.
“And that would also mean we’ll have to go even further into the depths of Grimm mountain,” Sorren adds.
“What do you mean?” Leith asks.
Sorren shrugs. “Discordia’s fortress is already underground,” he says. “And if the sewage system is further underground, we’ll be so far beneath the surface, who knows what that will mean.”
“It will mean we’re further underground,” I say.
Sorren looks at me and shakes his head. “There have been stories about creatures unknown to man—those who lurk in the deepest recesses of the mountains, creatures that have never seen the light of day.”
“I’m more scared of Discordia,” Kassidy responds.
“It’s not a bad plan necessarily,” Leith mutters, mostly to himself.
He casts a sideways glance at Kassidy. Two for, and one against—she’s our deciding vote. Though she looks almost as disgusted as Sorren by the prospect, Kassidy nods absently.
“They’re right, Sorren. It is our best bet at getting out alive. I think we have to try.”
Sorren blows out a breath, shaking his head. “Fine. But when I assumed I’d die up to my ears in shit, I didn’t think it was going to be literal.”
Kassidy actually lets out a wispy chuckle, and something around Sorren’s eyes softens. I can’t fucking believe what I’m seeing. He actually cares for her—in so much as he can, without a heart. It’s not the sex or the favor she’s doing for us, either. It’s her. It’s Kassidy.
Is it possible he loves her? I don’t know.
Is it possible I love her? I swallow hard.
I don’t know.
She turns her face away to confer with Leith, and she misses the sudden worry I can feel in my own face.
What if I do? What if I’ve fucking fallen in love with the little reprobate?
She’s quite a woman, our little thief.
Chosen or not, she’s a fucking hero.
Now I can only hope she doesn’t die like one.
NINETEEN
Sorren
My stomach contents make repeated attempts to escape my mouth as we approach the fortress on the back side of Grimm mountain. We’re still a ways off from the tunnel system Nash is sure is there, but the stench of the sewage is already permeating the air.
I’m not usually prone to nausea and can’t recall the last time I threw up. And it’s not as though I haven’t smelled shit before. I fought many battles with the Guild, spilled my share of blood on the battlefield. When they tell the stories of war, they never mention that people shit themselves at the end.
It’s not a pretty thing to consider, but it happens. From kings to churls, no one can escape the indignity of death. Men, women, and children—everyone does it. Everyone.
So the fetid smell shouldn’t make me react this way. But it does. I gag every few seconds, swallowing bile with every exhale. The malodorous tunnel is exactly where Nash thought it would be, hidden from the purely human eye by a thick copse of honey locusts at its entry point. The thorns are a nice touch, I have to admit, something I should consider adding to my traps. The branches score us as we shoulder our way through and emerge at the mouth of the tunnel. It won’t trouble Nash and Leith unduly, protected as they are by their thick fur.
Kassidy rides astride Nash’s back, holding onto a thick hank of fur to keep herself from being unseated as we move into the tunnel, leading into the bowels of Grimm, and Discordia’s fortress. She looks a little faint, as though the stink hits her like a physical blow. It doesn’t bode well for the success of this venture. Kassidy is scent blind, compared to the rest of us. Even in this limited human form, my sense of smell is keener. The stench must be torturous for Leith and Nash.
She retches once and then reaches into her bag, groping for something in the interior. The bag never leaves her side, day or night. It can hold an improbable number of objects. Someday, I want to get my hands on it and find out what extending charm has been added to it. The mage who created it must have been powerful.
After producing a small tin of something, she swabs her fingers through the gel inside and then slathers her nose in the sticky stuff. She tosses it to me when she’s through.
“It’s extract of pine wood. It’s strong; it should help.”
I raise the tin to my nose and sniff it experimentally. Immediately, the desire to vomit recedes. I let out the breath I’m holding, dipping a finger into the viscous interior, coming away with enough to coat my entire face. I do just that, spreading it across as much skin as I can, coating the inside of my nose, as well, until it feels like I’ve developed a head cold. Uncomfortable, but still better than disgorging the contents of my stomach again.
I nod once in thanks and pocket the stuff, in case I have need of it again. The pine scent is almost comforting, in a way. It reminds me of home, and the hunts my cousins and I used to take part in. Those easy times are a distant memory, but pleasant, all the same. If we succeed, perhaps we can revisit them.
We’ve continuously searched our surroundings and we can’t see any defenses. It’s not saying much, given the low visibility, but Kassidy assures us she can’t sense magic, either. With her newly unlocked powers, she’d be able to feel at least that much. But she can sense there’s something lurking nearby, and that we should keep moving.
The damned mist actually works to our advantage, covering our advance from purely human eyes. Kassidy has one hand resting lightly on her dagger, and I have a blade naked in my hand, ready to be plunged between ribs or shoved into the nearest eye socket.
The tunnel looms out of the dark, a gaping maw with nothing but fecund smells and a faint, ominous sound. I can’t put my finger on why the noise is familiar. My fingers clench around the handle of the dagger. This is a bad idea; I can feel that truth down to my marrow. We should have gone with the original plan. In the pitch dark, with unstable footing, we’re not going to be performing at our peak.
We pause just before the entrance and I suck in a deep breath. This is a very bad idea. Just because the smell is muted doesn’t mean I can’t taste the foul miasma. I retch once again.
Kassidy casts me a concerned look over her shoulder. “Are you all right, Sorren?”
“Fine,” I grumble. “Let’s get this damn mission over with.”
I step into the tunnel first, unwilling to be wedged behind my brothers if it comes to a fight. There’s barely enough room for their bear forms to stand shoulder to shoulder. Kassidy’s arm grazes the stone on one side. It’s dark in the tunnel, but I can see that it descends straight down, into further darkness. I can barely see. I’ll be useless in a fight.
I sink into the sludgy river up to the knee, grimacing as the stuff slides over the tops of my boots and soaks into my socks. The next step squelches and I curse this idea all over again. Stealth is impossible.
The sound continues, eerily familiar and yet, I can’t seem to place it. It’s a faint... crackle. Like someone stepping on underbrush. Or perhaps... the sound of wood shifting in a campfire. Yes. It’s definitely more akin to a fire.
I realize where I’ve heard it a second before the light begins to flicker ahead—the red-orange glow of flame. A shadowy mass of black fur looms before us. Flame crackles off its back and tail, and it begins to lope toward us with a feral snarl.
“Hellhound!” I bellow.
We attempt to backpedal, retreating the way we came as yet more hellhounds spill into the cavern, lighting the cramped space like sprinting, huffing torches. We can’t back up quickly enough. The bulk of my
cousins’ bear forms clog the tunnel, forming a sort of furry stopper to the pungent bottleneck we find ourselves in.
Shit, shit, shit.
I fucking knew this was a bad idea! Nothing is ever as simple as it seems.
I flip the knife to my off hand and draw the shortsword strapped to my waist. It’s not ideal. In order to strike at the hellhounds, I’ll have to be close—close enough to blister or burn should I make direct contact with their fur. But the shortsword is my best option after I lose my knives. A dagger might sink a hound into the muck but it won’t kill it, even if I hit it in the throat. Hellhounds are almost indestructible, if you’re not prepared. The only thing I relish fighting less is a dragon.
Behind me, Kassidy slides off Nash’s back and drops into the river of excrement with a soft splash and a disgusted groan. The stuff hits a high-water mark, sloshing around her knees. Poor, petite human. But she doesn’t pay attention to it for long. She palms her dagger and moves forward.
There’s a cacophony of pops as Nash and Leith resume human form. Wise choice. In this stooped tunnel, they can’t rear and bat the hellhounds back, the way they can in any other landscape. They take their weapons from Kassidy, who’s stowed them in her bag for safekeeping. As I watch, she returns her dagger to the leather thong wrapped around her thigh and reaches into the satchel, producing another crossbow.
“Guess you’re in unlimited supply?” I ask as I face her, remembering her last bow was snapped in two.
She shakes her head. “It’s the same one,” she answers, never taking her eyes off the hellhound in front of us. “The satchel also repairs things.”
I shake my head with a smile. Meanwhile, there’s no time for Leith and Nash to don the clothes from the satchel—they’ll be in the raw until the battle’s over, and I pity them for it. If one of them loses their cocks like this, I think Kassidy will probably kill every hellhound herself.
With that grim thought, the infernal hounds are on us, leaping the remaining distance to go for Kassidy’s throat. She’s the smallest of us, presumably the weakest.
The poor fucker doesn’t stand a chance.
Kassidy raises her bow in an instant, sights her target, and spears the smoldering canine right through one ember eye.
The hellhound goes down thrashing, falling short of our line, and the impact sends a wave of filth toward us. It splashes our fronts in a wet, smelly slap, and I groan. Life quite literally keeps throwing shit at me. I probably ought to expect as much by now.
The rest of the hounds jump back in surprise as their comrade disappears beneath the sludgy brown muck, his flames snuffed like a candle, guttering as his pelt is slicked with waste.
Nash hauls an arm back and looses a six-inch throwing dagger. It hits the nearest hellhound in the haunches, and the beast lets out a yowl of pain. It doesn’t crumple. If anything, the wound just further pisses it off.
The hellhound staggers upright and launches itself at Kassidy. She doesn’t have another arrow ready. I step in front of her, putting myself between her throat and the creature’s scything jaws.
Sharp, dagger-like teeth sink into my shoulder, ripping into muscle and sinew. It’s my left arm, thankfully. It’s not as though the left side can get much worse than it already is.
The hellhound’s jaw tightens like a vice, threatening to shatter my humerus in two and then grind the pieces like a mortar and pestle. With a furious cry, I seize the thing by the scruff, holding it in place so it can’t release the arm. The thick fur bristles and threatens to broil my hand clean off. I grit out another cry through my teeth as I drive my arm and the attached hellhound into the stone wall of the tunnel.
There’s a sickening sound of impact, like an egg on the side of a pan, and then the hellhound falls limp in my grip. I bash its head against the stone one more time, to be sure. This time, gray matter slurps out of the crack. The thing is dead, no doubt about it. I let it drop from my grasp to join one of its writhing fellows in the shit stream.
Blood chugs sluggishly from my bicep to pool in the crook of my elbow, and a quick examination shows there’s not much damage. It didn’t have a chance to savage the flesh or crush bone. The punctures are deep, but mendable. If we make it out alive, it’ll heal in a week or so.
I turn in time to shove my blade into the gut of another dog as it tries to arc over me toward Kassidy. I kill it as I breathe out a sigh of what I assume to be relief. Had the fucking thing succeeded, it would have bowled my little dove over and knocked her on her ass, giving the remaining hellhound a prime shot at Kassidy’s throat.
“Thanks,” she pants, then rounds on the last beast.
The thing hesitates for a fraction of a second too long, seemingly distressed by the death of its fellows. That hesitation gives Kassidy all the opportunity she needs. Lunging forward, she extends those dainty hands toward the creature. She seizes it by the throat with both hands, holding the thing in a chokehold. For anyone else, it would be a monumentally stupid and quite fatal move.
But Kassidy is hardly anyone else.
Her magic saps the hound’s energy at once. The flames crackling off its fur dim to sparks almost instantly, and the light continues to fade until she’s left holding a medium-sized dog in her lap. Without its aureole of light, the thing looks much smaller, like a stray mutt rather than a creature feared by all of Fantasia.
She pushes the thing’s head gingerly from her lap and it disappears beneath the sludge. A stream of lethargic bubbles pop on the surface and then... nothing.
We stand in a semi-circle of dead or dying hellhounds. Kassidy pushes to her feet, wiping the slime from herself as much as she can. I suspect she’s thinking what I am: If we get out of this alive, I’m staying in the bath for a fucking year.
“This won’t go unnoticed,” she says with a sigh as she glances around herself at all the carnage. “Come on. Let’s get out of the tunnel before more arrive.”
With no other choices, we trudge behind her, wading through shit as we follow our smelly savior toward the promise of cleaner destinations.
TWENTY
Kassidy
The first order of business is to find a water spigot.
I’ve never been so filthy in my life, and I’ve been tossed into a sty with an ogre’s pet pigs. Enormous, feral pigs that had done their level best to gut me. I’d been caked with mud by the time I escaped, a level of soiled I didn’t think I could top.
Fate has a funny way of challenging your assumptions.
I grimace at the trail of footprints and droplets we’re leaving in our wake. Yet another reason we need to find someplace to clean up. We’re going to end up stalking around Discordia’s castle completely naked, at this rate.
Well, at least we’ll match, I think wryly. The sight of Leith and Nash without their clothes would normally make my stomach flutter with nervous desire. But now? None of us looks or smells even remotely appealing.
Thankfully, there’s no one and nothing waiting at the exit of the tunnel, nor at the mouth of the stairs we sprint up. The halls of the fortress are eerily quiet and cloaked in shadow. I don’t see any torches in the brackets on the walls. There is, however, more mist.
An almost inaudible sigh escapes me, pluming in the air before my face. Things can never be easy, can they?
The air in the fortress is colder even than it was outside. Covered in semi-liquid and scantily clad, it isn’t long before my teeth begin to chatter. Sorren wisely claps a hand over my face to stop my wayward mouth from betraying our location to any guards. He hauls my soiled self to his filthy front, sharing what little heat he has with me. I’m grateful.
Together, we inch our way toward where I assume we should find a kitchen. I’ve been in a few castles over the course of my years, and think I know where I’m going. Original, stone masons are not. There’s a fairly predictable pattern to their craft, and that’s what I refer to now.
We emerge into a spacious room about ten minutes later. I do find myself having to eat a li
ttle crow, because the room we duck into isn’t a kitchen—it seems to be some sort of washroom. Enormous basins filled with sudsy water stand in the middle of the room. Thin cords crisscross the room, trailing drying clothing beneath them like white flags of surrender.
Oh, happy day!
Things are looking up, Kassidy. This must be a sign!
Or it’s simply a laundry room.
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth! You needed to clean up and look at the first place you arrived!
I guess that’s true.
I’ll feel sorry for the poor cleaning woman whose work I’m ruining later. Before any of the others can react, I strip off my sticky dress and leave it crumpled stiffly on the floor. Then I sling a leg over the side of the basin, sinking waist-deep into the lukewarm water. Sodden sheets swirl around my calves, as if scandalized to find themselves trampled beneath my squalid and shit-covered feet.
It’s no hot spring, but at this second, I can’t think of anything better than the tepid washing water. The lye in the tub feels like it’s scalding the boils that riot across my palms and stick like bulbous little tubers between my fingers. I don’t care. I’ll take it. I’ll take it a thousand times to escape the stink that clings to my skin.
The men follow suit, cleaning themselves in the various basins around the room, and I’m momentarily distracted by their nudity in a way I wasn’t before. In the heat of battle, it’s suicidal to focus on anything but your own survival. But now?
Now it’s cock appreciation time!
On that, we’re agreed.
It’s hard not to appreciate the way the water clings to their muscles, the way they dunk their heads and pull up out of the water, their hair slicked back and soaking. I haven’t seen any of them completely drenched before. It darkens the slate gray of Leith’s hair to a shade that’s almost black, and I can see the resemblance between Leith and Nash suddenly. Sorren’s brown hair darkens to an almost chocolate.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen three more beautiful men before. The dragon shifters come close, certainly, but even they aren’t my bears.