Split the Party

by Drew Hayes

  Gabrielle took a step back, shifting her body weight and preparing to dodge whatever attack he threw next. The priest made a gesture with his right hand and that damned wand appeared in it once more. He raised his skeletal left arm, pointing the palm toward her, and tilted the wand slightly off to the side. The bastard was planning to box her in. Licking her lips, Gabrielle raised her axe, doing all she could to appear menacing. If his attention wavered off her, even for an instant, it could be disastrous.

  “Truly, Kalzidar has rewarded me for my loyalty. I was hoping you’d be the one to find me. There is so very much I cannot wait to do to you.” The priest took aim and prepared to strike, but just as energy gathered on his left palm, a noise came from behind him. He tried to spin around, which turned Eric’s deadly strike at the heart into a stab through the priest’s right shoulder. It was still enough to earn a scream of pain as the blessed short sword carved out a chunk of gray-garbed flesh.

  “What is it with you people and arms?”

  Even as Gabrielle tried to rush forward, hoping to capitalize on the window Eric had opened with his attack, she could already see that things wouldn’t go that smoothly for them. Raising his left hand overhead, the priest made a fist and slammed it to the ground, sending a shockwave of dark magic blasting outward. Despite her charge, Gabrielle was still far enough from the center that it did little more than push her back.

  Eric, being right next to the source, was not so lucky. He was sent sailing back in the air, a short-lived flight stopped suddenly when he slammed into the nearby wall. His short sword clattered to the ground as he slid down the stone and landed in a crumpled heap. Not so much as a stir of movement could be seen from his limp form.

  “See what happens when you try to—” The priest’s words cut off in mid-taunt when he managed to pull himself up and get a good view of Gabrielle; what he saw stilled his tongue and left him seriously questioning many of his life’s choices leading him to that point.

  Gabrielle’s anger, the thing she’d been slowly trying to learn how to coax and control, tore through her at the sight of her oldest friend in the world lying motionless on the ground. Not since the night she saw her goblin tribe being slaughtered had her rage been so intense or so focused. Her body, moments ago singing with pain and soreness, felt as light as a dagger and ten times as deadly. The axe, still burning her palms, felt as if it were thrumming full of energy, begging her for the sweet taste of blood on its blade. All of this made for quite a terrifying sight, but it was not what had caused the priest to go silent. His quiet came from a fact of which even Gabrielle herself was unaware.

  As fury took hold of her, coursing through every inch of her body, Gabrielle’s golden locks had turned pitch black, and the axe in her hand had started to glow. Though the priest didn’t know what these things meant, he’d been around magic enough to know they certainly weren’t good signs. Given time, he might have been able to formulate a hypothesis on which magics were in effect, but time, like a normal left arm, were items not afforded to him that day.

  With a scream that would make the very specter of death shrink back, Gabrielle raised her axe and charged.

  * * *

  “Last piece.” Thistle stepped carefully around the table’s edge, rechecking his work to make certain everything lined up. As dangerous as it was to try and complete a puzzle like this in an irregular fashion, trying and failing would likely have even worse consequences than success. “Be ready for anything, I suppose.”

  “Always am.” Grumph smiled a toothy, half-orc grin as he carefully pulled his blade free of its sheath and brought a spell into his mind.

  Thistle finished walking the length of the table, then, as carefully as he could manage from his bent over position, he slid a finger over the last tile out of position and pushed it into place. As soon as it went in, an audible click rang through the air, and the table began to shake beneath Thistle’s feet. He leapt back and was snatched out of midair by Grumph, who immediately started walking backwards.

  Before their eyes, the table Thistle had been standing on slid to the left, revealing a stairwell descending steeply into the unknown. After a few moments, the table stopped shaking and went silent, only its new position proof that a change had happened at all.

  “Gold under the floorboards,” Grumph said, recalling Thistle’s earlier analogy.

  “Seems someone else agreed with my way of thinking.” Thistle started forward, and then paused to see if Grumph was following. The half-orc took a shortened step, not to overtake Thistle, but to show that he was committed to seeing things through to the end.

  The two went down the stairs, more of the stone torches bursting into blue flame as they went. It was a short trip; unlike the tunnels above, this was not meant to be a winding excursion. They’d moved beyond the part of the dungeon meant for show and into the section only the designers were intended to see.

  After just a few moments, the stairs came to an end, and the duo found themselves in a small room with a single altar in the center. Glowing runes encircled the stone, weaving around it before splitting off and going under the walls, presumably to other parts of the dungeon. Power hung heavy in the air, so tangible that Thistle almost felt as though he’d be bowled over by it. Instead, the gnome steeled his resolve and continued forward.

  Resting on top of the altar, beating softly, was a dried-up heart. If one peered very closely, they would notice the slight tear in its center, like it had been pierced by a blade. As they watched, both noticed that, with every beat of the ancient organ, the runes around it pulsed slightly. Thistle tossed one of his daggers across the circle, half expecting to see it turn to dust or explode into pieces. Instead, it landed with a dull clatter on the floor. Thistle called it back, using the same high-pitched whistle as always, but found that the dagger stayed just where it was, resting on the ground.

  “Interesting. Either things in the circle can’t be taken out by magic, or once something is in there, it can’t escape. Suppose we’d best see which it is.”

  Before Grumph could stop him, Thistle hurried forward, passing over the runes just as his dagger had and remaining wholly intact. He scooped up the weapon and returned it to its sheath. He readied himself to try and escape, but then realized how much louder the heart’s beating was now that he was in the circle. It was entrancing. Without meaning to, the small paladin turned his head upward to where the heart lay. Every contraction and expansion seemed to pull him deeper, each motion of the magically animated organ drowning out the logic trying to tell him that this didn’t seem exactly right.

  Thistle hadn’t even realized he was reaching for the heart until his hands entered his field of vision. Even as he understood what his arms were doing, there was no stopping it. Working without his approval, his hand wrapped around the heart and lifted it from the altar.

  The room around him seemed to explode in light, and Thistle felt the entire world fall away from under his feet. He didn’t know where he was anymore, but it damned sure wasn’t the dungeon.

  Chapter 35

  Using magic was, in many ways, like riding a horse. Mastering it took skill, practice, and effort, all in the hopes of slowly getting better a bit at a time. That said, no one had ever become so good at directing a horse that they understood exactly what the animal beneath them was thinking; nor could they predict every technique being developed by other riders in the world. So it was with magic. Knowing what magic could do, and how one could use it when it submitted to their power, was not the same as understanding everything it was capable of. Magic was like a wild animal, able to be bent to the will of a firm hand, but truly a servant of no one.

  The priest, as an experienced practitioner and student of the arcane arts, knew this fact well, which was why he tried to scramble out of the way of Gabrielle’s axe as she came screeching at him, murder blazing in her eyes. Defensive spells sprang to mind, but he had no idea what the magic she was wielding might be capable of. Worse, he deeply suspected she
didn’t have the slightest idea herself, and that made what she was doing downright insanity.

  Unfortunately, all the rational thought in the world didn’t change the fact that Gabrielle had been training herself for—and had gained crucial experience in—melee battles, while the priest usually hid behind enchantments and lackeys. He backpedaled as quickly as he could, weaving between the machines as the furious barbarian swung that sizable axe like it weighed no more than a sentiment, tearing huge chunks out of the stone wherever she struck. Ducking under one of the limb-severing mechanisms, he took the brief respite to let his wand dissolve and grab some folded creations from the depths of his bag.

  Rolling around the other side, he hurled the parchment in the air, spat a command, and watched as the creatures expanded into large forms directly between himself and Gabrielle, who’d rounded the machine and was prepared for another charge. Hopping up to his feet and assuming a carefree demeanor as best he was able, the priest turned to face Gabrielle, now that he had some defenses in place.

  “It was a . . . cute effort, but now I think—”

  For the second time in so many minutes, the priest was unable to finish his taunting. This time, however, it was not based on groundless uncertainty, but on a sudden need to focus on running away. Gabrielle, seeming to scarcely notice the giant paper spider and paper snake on their respective sides of her, had plowed forward, hacking away at the enchanted obstacles with no regard for her own safety. She cleaved the snake in two with a single blow, ripping its head from its body and sending both pieces fluttering to the ground. The spider managed to tear at her armor with a mandible before the axe sliced into its belly, rending it in half.

  As his creations died, the priest re-summoned his wand and scampered to put some distance between himself and the crazed barbarian screaming for his blood. Clearly, the paper servants weren’t going to be very effective unless he overwhelmed her with them, and even he could only animate so many at a time. Casting was his only shot, but after all the healing and getting past the blades, his mana was running low. With no other option left, the priest decided to take a gambit he’d have never tried under ordinary circumstances.

  Gabrielle rounded the corner of a machine just as he flipped his wand into the air; this time, he did not let it dissolve, but caught it with the skeletal fingers on his left hand. Instantly, the wand began to glow and crackle, as it could barely contain all the magical energy pouring through it. Whipping the magical implement forward, the priest spat out a quick arrangement of syllables, casting a spell that, in truth, should have required more mana than he had left in him.

  Rather than fail, the spell exploded outward, shaping a massive, hulking humanoid creature made of twisted magic and shadow that came to rest only feet from Gabrielle. She slammed her axe into it, but the beast bellowed back and lodged its fist in her stomach, sending her stumbling backward. That it hadn’t blown her across the room was a testament to her determination, but at last the priest felt his familiar sense of confidence starting to return.

  With his skeleton arm to power the wand, this fight was as good as won.

  * * *

  Eric awoke to a sharp pain in his face, one that somehow cut through the myriad of protests coming from the rest of his bones and organs. His eyes shot open to find Fritz’s staring back at him with gorgeous, honey-colored irises that he might have appreciated more if not for the fact that her mouth was on his nose, teeth visibly breaking the skin.

  “GHRMM!” Eric tried to yelp in surprise, but the elf had her hand stuck firmly over his mouth. As the sounds of nearby battle reached him, Eric understood why she was muffling the noise and gave a slight nod to show he wouldn’t scream.

  Moving slowly, as if she didn’t quite trust him, Fritz pulled away her hand and opened her mouth, releasing Eric from both of her grips.

  “Why did you bite me?” Eric quickly rubbed his nose even as he whispered fiercely at her.

  “Oh, you know, heard it was the newest dwarven kink, and I just had to see for myself. Why do you think I did it? Gabrielle is fighting for all she’s worth, and you’re over here napping like the dead.”

  Eric could only imagine how bad things were; the priest had taken him out of the battle with a single shot. True, he wasn’t the toughest member of the party, but it was still an impressive display. Taking a quick inventory of himself, Eric was a bit surprised to find that, amidst all the bruises and pains, nothing seemed to be broken. Had he caught sight of the empty glass vial tucked inside Fritz’s sleeve, the mystery would have been easily solved; however, Eric did not catch the telltale twinkling, and as such, remained unaware of his rescue.

  Scurrying to his feet, he picked up his short sword and nearly rushed toward the sounds of battle before thinking better of it. He was of limited use in a head-to-head fight, but his previous attempt had shown that the priest could be caught off guard. Charging to Gabrielle’s side would provide little help; it might even make things harder for her. Better to trust in her to take care of herself and try to work his way through the room, hiding behind the strange, arcane devices to see if he could get another shot at the priest’s back. This time, he wouldn’t miss.

  It was a good plan, and as Eric slunk through the room, he knew it was the right one. Still, it was hard to keep that in mind as he heard Gabrielle’s fearsome screams and saw the shadow creature bobbing into view, so tall its horned head popped over even the tops of the oversized machines.

  * * *

  Talcia and Timuscor (and Mr. Peppers) found no priest with a skeletal arm, nor puzzle with a dark secret tucked away in its hidden solution. Instead, they came upon a room stuffed with various weapons, gems, and jewelry on display. Many boasted black bones in the center of their workings, but some merely appeared to be enchanted, at least as far as Talcia could discern. In the center of the room, written in runes that seemed to shift and mimic whatever language the reader was familiar with, was a single warning:

  “On Penalty of Death: Take only what is needed.”

  “I get the feeling that we’re not supposed to touch any of this, are we?” Timuscor said. Some of the swords carved from the dark bones drew his eye, tempting him to try his luck. Timuscor resisted, since he rather felt that any tomb with this much magical security was unlikely to cheap out on the room of cursed treasure.

  Talcia made a quick motion with his hand, causing his eyes to glow, and looked around. “It’s a pretty standard ward, though I’ve never seen one this powerful. Basically, if we were in actual danger and needed a weapon to defend ourselves or others, the curse would let us take anything required. But if we’re here just stealing . . . well, the results depend on the mage who sets the trap, though it’s generally never a good thing. I could probably disarm it, given enough time to study the room’s layouts and enchantments. We’d be talking days, if not weeks, though, so we’re probably better off just letting things be.”

  “I suppose we can at least stand guard here, lest that priest find this place and manage to arm himself.” Timuscor turned back to the doorway, just in time to notice the boar rooting around in a small pile of jewelry. “Mr. Peppers! Leave that alone before you get yourself killed.”

  The boar immediately yanked its head out of the pile and trotted obediently over to Timuscor. Talcia watched the display with detached curiosity. He’d summoned many a creature before, and while they were made to be obedient by the magic, this was the first time he’d seen one take a shine to someone other than the summoner. It turned and stood next to Timuscor, coming up past the knight’s knees, tusks pointed back toward the tunnel entrance. By Talcia’s count, the spell should unwind itself soon. After seeing Mr. Peppers, though, he decided that perhaps he might do well to study summoned creatures more once he was back at the mages’ guild.

  Neither Timuscor nor Talcia, for the attention they paid Mr. Peppers, noticed that he’d left the pile with a small silver ring wedged firmly onto one of his many crooked teeth.

  * * *


  Thistle was drifting through a world made of light, all direction and sense of feeling suddenly meaningless. It was impossible to tell how long he spent there with nothing around him; time had faded back into the illusion it had always been. Thistle only knew that he was there for some while, and then he heard the voice.

  “I never thought I’d meet another.”

  The light, formless and featureless and peaceful, began to fill with new colors, a world taking shape beneath Thistle’s feet. Land came first, gray-and-brown dirt filling up with the sharp green of grass. It stretched out before him, turning dark as it climbed upward, becoming hills and then mountains. Above his head, a bright blue sky nearly blinded him, but then his eyes adjusted and Thistle understood where he was standing. He’d only seen it in paintings and heard of it through the mouths of travelers, but the craggy peaks of Baltmur were hard to mistake for any other kingdom.

  A rattle filled Thistle’s ears, but before he could turn to see the source, it stepped up next to him. The man from his visions, whom he’d seen only a few nights ago, stood by Thistle, staring at Baltmur with a curious expression—almost like pride and regret stoppered in a bottle and shaken until there was no telling where one ended and the other began.

  “So, Grumble finally roped another one into taking up the mantle.” He stared down at Thistle, a twinkle in his dark eyes and a surprisingly charming smile tucked into one corner of his mouth.

  “What? Can’t a gnome just decide that armor is the right look for him?” Thistle glanced down at himself, only to realize he still had the shriveled heart in his hand. It was somewhat embarrassing, though for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out exactly why.

  “It’s possible, I suppose. But I know because you’re here, holding that. So much of my body, nearly all of it really, was pillaged after my death, the hungry and ambitious trying to turn what I was into something they could wield. It took the minions who worshipped Grumble centuries to steal all of the pieces back. They built an entire tomb in secret, filling it with traps and seals to keep the curious away, even laying my cursed skull outside the entrance to sicken any non-worshippers who came too close. That, however, was never lost. It always remained in the hands of the loyal, until one came who could destroy it. Only a fellow paladin of Grumble could have met me here, could have held my heart without being burned by it.”