Split the Party

by Drew Hayes

  Thistle looked the man up and down, noting his strong jaw and powerful features. “Sure we’re talking about the same Grumble? Kobold, about eye-level with me, rules over the minions and henchmen of the world?”

  “And slaves,” the man added, meeting Thistle’s gaze. “One need not be a gnome or goblin to be captured and sold as a child.”

  “Aye, I suppose they don’t.” Thistle turned away from him, eyes back on the outline of Baltmur, the kingdom in the mountains. “Seems to me you had a bit more magic than a mere paladin, though. From what I saw, anyway.”

  “Showed you that, did he? Bet he didn’t even tell you what’s really going on here. I remember having to work on nothing but visions; damn near drove me crazy more than once.” The man pointed up to the tips of the mountains, where supposedly, there was a steep path that was the only way into Baltmur’s depths. “Is this kingdom still home to many of the ‘uncivilized’ species of our world? Do the travelers tell of going there in hushed tones, like they’re speaking of the dead, with grand stories of trolls, ogres, and other monsters running amok on the roads?”

  “It’s not exactly a favorite travel destination, no,” Thistle admitted. “Shall I take the curiosity to mean that you have some sort of history there?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” He lowered his hand, but kept his eyes trained on the mountains. “I founded it. Carved through the mountains myself. It was meant to be a kingdom dedicated to Grumble, a place where the trod-upon of our world could be safe, free to live as they saw fit, not as the powerful forced them to.”

  Thistle tilted his head back and absorbed the information. He’d certainly heard many terrifying, fearful rumors about Baltmur, but in retrospect, that was always from travelers and adventurers. Never had Thistle ventured there to see it with his own two eyes. Perhaps what the stories told wasn’t of a place that was openly hostile, merely one where different creatures were in power.

  “Hold on; did you say you carved mountains? As in, whittled them as I would a piece of oak?”

  “I thought you saw the fight,” the man replied.

  He had Thistle there; from the battle he’d witnessed, it was no small feat to believe that someone with so much power could form mountains to his liking. Still, none of it made sense—first and foremost being how he’d managed all this. Paladin powers were nothing to sneeze at, but the scale he was describing was far beyond what even the greatest paladin was capable of. Really, it was beyond anything a mortal should be able to do.

  “Were . . . were you a god?”

  “Not technically, no,” the man admitted. “But I did manage to steal a piece of divinity from one. And boy was he pissed when he couldn’t get it back, even after I died. Though the magic spread out to all parts of my body, the core of it, the part that would let him reclaim his power, was tucked away, somewhere neither he nor his cronies could ever touch. A place only someone I could trust would find it.”

  Perhaps on cue, the heart in Thistle’s hands beat, reminding him it was still there.

  “I see. Glossing over how you stole a piece of divinity from a god—though I’d very much like to get back to that later—I must assume that since only paladins of Grumble can touch your heart, he’s not the one you stole it from.”

  “Of course not. I’ve been loyal to Grumble all my life. It’s why he protected my heart, and no doubt why he led you here to put me to rest.” The man touched his chest where his heart should have been and gazed at the organ in Thistle’s hands. “As for who I stole it from, I’d have thought that was obvious. Or didn’t you wonder why I hadn’t introduced myself yet? No name to give.”

  Thistle’s breath caught in his throat as the game board he was standing on became suddenly clear. This was why a priest of the god of shadows had been sent as soon as the skull was found. This was why he’d been ordered to break open the door, no matter how long it took. This was why he was desperate to accomplish the mission, no doubt under threat of lifetimes of torture should he fail. It was all, every bit of it, to get at the pulsing heart sitting in Thistle’s hands.

  “Kalzidar. You stole a piece of Kalzidar’s divinity.”

  Chapter 36

  “How is that even possible?”

  “The thing about wicked gods—and people in general—is that they always tend to assume the worst of people.” The man slowly lowered himself to the ground, resting cross-legged as he stared at the mountains. This had the interesting effect of putting him and Thistle almost at eye-level. “When someone starts amassing lots of creatures generally used for evil, assumptions are made about what he plans to do with his supposed army. Back when this happened, Grumble was a fairly new god and not getting much respect from the rest of the pantheon. I guess Kalzidar thought he could make me a better offer. After a little discussion with Grumble, he gave me the go ahead to try my hand at a bit of deception.”

  Thistle stared at the nameless man, who, he was just now realizing, possibly might have been the very first paladin Grumble ever had. “While I do find that fascinating, I think we both know that’s not what I was asking.”

  “I know, but some secrets must follow me to the afterlife. Look at what they did to me. Turned my body into cursed artifacts, buried the history of my existence, denied me even the right of peaceful rest, of ascending to be with my god. Do you truly want to know how to steal divinity, my fellow paladin? Knowledge and temptation go hand in hand, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

  The curiosity burning in Thistle’s chest demanded he press the issue, but decades of experience cooled the fire with memory and logic. How many would-be tyrants had he seen destroy themselves, and countless others, in the pursuit of a grand idea of power? How many people, filled with good intentions, had reached that goal only to have it turn them into something hideous? Perhaps there were exceptions, but Thistle’s ego was not so grand that he assumed he’d be one of them. He’d witnessed his darker parts emerge far too often to deny their existence.

  “I suppose you make a good point,” Thistle relented at last.

  The man nodded appreciatively, as if he’d been waiting for this answer. “Seems Grumble has gotten smarter about choosing his paladins since I wore the mantle. Were I in your shoes, I doubt I’d have been able to resist trying to uncover such a secret.”

  “Aye, I’m the living physical incarnation of self-restraint and prudence. Or perhaps I simply wanted to skip to the issue at hand. You said I was here to do something with this.” Thistle lightly jiggled the beating heart still clutched carefully in his hands.

  “If you would be so kind, I’d like to ask you to destroy it.” The man bowed his head, tilting his eyes until they were completely obscured by his brow and dangling dark hair. “Free my soul, let this pain come to an end, and—most importantly—annihilate the divinity residing in my body so that Kalzidar can never reclaim it and will be forever weakened.”

  “Something tells me this is going to require some sort of massive quest fraught with peril and constant danger,” Thistle said.

  “It did when it was begun, but you have come at the end of the journey. All I have been waiting for is a paladin of Grumble to take up the heart and bring it from the shadows into the sunlight. A simple task, if not for the fact that our kind are seen so rarely and that Kalzidar has hidden all rumor of this tomb’s existence to keep others from questing for it, even as he himself desperately scoured the lands to find it. Only Grumble’s will could have brought you here, so close to fulfilling the ritual and setting me free.”

  “He is a wily one indeed.” Despite knowing he had been manipulated, Thistle found his own heart softening toward the kobold god. If this had all been about some pissing match, Thistle might have had harsh words the next time they met, as well as firm instructions as to where Grumble could shove the paladinhood if he thought Thistle would be a willing pawn. But . . . to rescue one’s servant, a man who needed help and had only his god to turn to, that was something Thistle could forgive. It was, after all, pa
rt and parcel with what he’d known would come with being a paladin: help the helpless, defend the defenseless, and fight for the common good no matter the personal cost. This, he supposed, fell within those parameters.

  “So then, are there any special instructions I need to know when I get this into the sun?”

  “A minor incantation, but most of the magic lies in the act of a brother paladin bringing it from the shadows into the light,” the man said, raising his head and meeting Thistle’s eyes. “But you need to be aware of another issue: my heart is what powers and supports this entire structure. The moment you take it out of the circle, everything will begin to collapse. You must make haste to leave this place as soon as possible, lest you be caught in the destruction.”

  Thistle let out a long, exasperated sigh. “That could be a problem. You see, I have friends in other parts of the catacombs. I won’t leave them to die.”

  “Nor would I ask you to.” The man creased his brow and visibly bit the inside of his cheek as he pondered the issue. “As the power source, my heart has some inherent connection to the rest of the catacombs. I believe I can teach you a few tricks to help your friends evacuate as well, if you’re willing to learn them.”

  “Learning is quite possibly the only thing I do exceptionally well.” Thistle dropped down into the grass, making sure to hold the heart out directly between him and its former owner. “Please, if it will help the others, I beg you to teach me.”

  The man reached his own hands out. Mimicking the grip Thistle had on the heart, he mimed as if he were holding one himself. Only when his hands were a perfect mirror did he begin, making a forceful pressing motion with his right thumb.

  “First, you need to push the outermost valve like so . . .”

  * * *

  Rage was failing her. Furious as Gabrielle was, she was still unable to do more than tear off a few measly chunks of shadowy flesh from the malformed monster attacking her. It certainly didn’t help that the priest would alternate between blasting at her with shots of that black lightning and healing his summoned warrior using some other sort of dark magic. In fact, it was only the creature’s substantial bulk that shielded her from most of the priest’s ranged attacks, as the hulking creature made shooting past it nearly impossible. While the priest no doubt could have reoriented himself, doing so might have let Gabrielle close the gap and attack him, and he seemed wisely set against such a possibility.

  She swung hard, tearing away a slice of the monster’s dark flesh, which fell to the ground and pooled like spilled ink, only to evaporate seconds later. It responded by charging, swing a meaty fist directly at her. Gabrielle managed to block with the hilt of the axe, but the blow still shoved her backward. By the time she recovered, her hard-won wound was healed, no doubt thanks to the priest standing behind the creature’s back.

  It was infuriating, yet fury seemed to do her no good. All of her anger was allowing her to survive against this thing, but beating it seemed impossible. As things stood, it was only a matter of time before she ran out of strength or the creature landed a lucky blow. She was going to lose. She was going to fail her friends. She wasn’t strong enough to get the job done.

  —I can make you stronger.—

  Gabrielle was shocked by the voice in her head; however, she didn’t betray it outwardly as she circled her opponent, searching for a weak spot. She had, after all, known this was a cursed axe when she bought it. Sudden voices hadn’t been part of the selling pitch, but one had to expect these sorts of things when dealing with unknown magic.

  “How?” She spat the word, no doubt making the priest think she was losing her mind and talking to herself. He could think her crazy as a town drunk for all she cared; all that mattered to her was whether or not the voice could keep its promise.

  —Magic. My magic. There is a toll, of course.—

  “Out with it, already.” Gabrielle took a few steps back, preparing to charge. If this thing could really give her the strength she needed, then she was going to make use of it as soon as possible. If not, well, she still had to attack anyway. Might as well get into position.

  —Pain. Blood. Life. The only things worth taking.—

  Not exactly what she’d expected, but well within the lines. This was the axe that hurt to touch, after all. And there was no denying it had power. She’d cleaved through a magical shield with it already; perhaps it would be able to even the odds and let her take the bastard priest down for good.

  “Give me every fucking thing you’ve got, and take whatever you want in return.” With that, Gabrielle burst forward, heading right for the shadow creature’s chest. In her hands, the axe went from merely burning to feeling as though she were gripping a blade fresh from the forge. It took everything she had to hang on, to refuse to let the pain overwhelm her fury. As she neared the creature, Gabrielle raised the torturous weapon and readied a strike. One blow would determine whether the axe really could make a difference. One blow would determine whether she was still in the fight.

  Her axe made a harsh, sizzling whistle as it tore through the air, cleaving through the arm the dark creature had tried to guard with as if it were true shadow. The weapon continued, burying itself in and passing through the creature’s chest without so much as slowing down. For a moment, Gabrielle’s momentum carried her so far forward that she slammed into its torso, nearly losing grip of her axe as it carved its way through the magical monster. Then, just when she’d feared it was a failure, that damned axe proved its worth.

  The beast exploded in all directions, coating the room in the ink-like substance that quickly began evaporating almost as soon as it hit. A wave of it splashed across the priest, whose confident sneer vanished as quickly as his monster. He stared in unmasked terror as Gabrielle pulled herself up from the ground where she’d been knocked in the blast and set her murderous gaze directly on him. It was a moment she would have relished, if not for the fact that she took one step forward and nearly collapsed.

  Blood was dripping from her arms and back, jagged slices taken from her flesh like she’d been worked over with a knife. The pain cut through her rage-cloaked mind, sending her staggering and nearly toppling to the ground. So, this was the toll her axe took for its power: agony given to others meant agony for her as well. Digging deep into her mind, Gabrielle tried to wall off everything around her. The injuries, the fear, the uncertainty, even the self-doubt . . . she sent it all away to be contemplated later. All that existed for her was the priest. Her target. The man who’d murdered her best friend and was trying to kill her too. She found the strength to right herself and finally turned her attention back to the man she wanted dead.

  Unfortunately, in the time that Gabrielle had spent regaining control of her body, the priest had recovered his composure as well. He raised the wand, still gripped in his skeletal, magical arm, and smiled as he prepared to unleash whatever dark spell had entered his mind. All it would take was a few motions and a couple of words, and that would be the end of Gabrielle the barbarian. She was too far away to make the charge, and even standing was taking everything she had. Blocking or dodging were completely out of the question. Still, she refused to close her eyes as he began his incantation. Gabrielle would at least meet her death head-on like the warrior she was.

  It was this determination that allowed her to see the silent figure slip out from behind one of the mechanisms still scattered throughout the room and steal up behind the priest. He might have noticed were he a touch less concerned with the dual actions of casting and gloating, but in his hurry to seize victory, he ignored the single telltale sound of a sword whistling through the air.

  The priest was unable to ignore the next sound that filled the room, as it was of the skeletal arm, still clutching his wand, clattering onto the ground, a bit of his shoulder going along with it. Before the priest could react, before he even had the chance to feel the pain and scream, a boot appeared from behind him and kicked the arm across the stone floor, over to where Gabrielle was
still processing the fact that she wasn’t about to die.

  A horrible, anguished scream hit her ears just as she was wrapping her head around the situation. The priest was staring death at Eric, who’d slipped back a few feet and had his short sword in a defensive position. Blood was spurting from the fresh wound, which was not closing up quite so easily as before.

  “Again!” The priest stared at Eric in furious disbelief, as if he were unable to comprehend what had just happened. “You cut off my fucking arm again!”

  “Technically, I don’t think that one belonged to you,” Eric shot back. From the corner of his eye, he winked at Gabrielle, and just like that, she understood the plan.

  When the priest turned to deal with the taunting rogue, he momentarily made the mistake of forgetting about the barbarian to his back. Mustering every last bit of strength she had, Gabrielle hoisted the axe in her hands and charged. The hellish burning, like much of her rage, had died down at the appearance of Eric, but it still stung as she ran toward the distracted priest. That was fine by her. If the axe had popped into her head and told her it was demanding a leg for the next attack, she likely would have agreed to the cost. This man had killed an entire town full of people, nearly murdered Eric, and would have happily tortured her friends to death if given the chance. His time ended now.

  As Gabrielle swung, the priest realized his mistake and began to turn, but unlike Eric, she wasn’t merely stabbing him with a short sword. His movement this time only meant that her axe came bursting out of the left side of his stomach rather than the right, where she’d been aiming. His whole body shuddered in an involuntary spasm, and the nameless priest slid forward, landing limply on the ground.