by Demi Harper
One of the medics had handed her a waterskin, and she washed the blood from her fur, revealing her injuries in full. The raptor’s talons had scored three deep parallel gashes down the right side of her face, from the base of her ear to her jawbone. The one in the middle was deepest; it had carved right through the center of her eye, gouging out the eyeball and leaving her with an empty socket.
Her salamander-esque regeneration had already healed the injuries’ shallower edges into pink-white scars, and the deeper parts of the wounds were scabbing over even as I watched. However, it took me several moments to realize her eye was not growing back.
She’d healed cuts, bruises, burns, everything from broken nails to broken bones. Every wound left a scar, but it always healed. Until now.
“Even salamander regeneration has its limits,” said Ket regretfully.
“But they can regenerate entire lost limbs!” I objected. “How difficult is it to make a new eye?”
“Well, it is one of the most complex organs in the entire body,” Bekkit pointed out unhelpfully.
“Ris’kin knew and accepted the danger of what she did,” said Ket, cutting straight to what she—as always—knew was the real source of my frustration. “It’s not your fault, so don’t feel bad.”
I did feel guilty—how could I not? My avatar was maimed—permanently, and in a way that could well affect her performance in crucial ways.
First Longshank’s leg, now Ris’kin’s eye—how many other body parts were my people going to lose while under my ‘protection’?
Not wanting to spiral into despair, I said, “Well, at least she looks even more badass now.”
Ket hummed in agreement. “Perhaps the clothiers will make her an eyepatch.”
I smiled at the thought.
It was close to midnight, and most of the gnomes had long since crawled into their tents for some well-deserved shuteye. However, the procession of owl-bearing scouts and excitable children was causing quite the stir. More and more gnomes were being roused from sleep by the commotion, and soon the baby owls were being passed from gnome to gnome, each one cradling their ugly burden and gazing down upon it as though it were just as precious as their own children. The latter still milled around, reaching out to reverently touch the owls and repeating “Hoot-hoot” over and over again.
“That’s definitely not going to get annoying,” I muttered. I received nothing but amusement from both Ket and Ris’kin.
I couldn’t be truly annoyed though. At least not right now. I no longer had access to whatever had allowed my denizens’ Faith or mana auras to manifest, but it was obvious that the gnomes’ morale had received a huge boost this night. At first I attributed it to the successful defense of the camp followed by the rescue of the kidnapped girl, but then I recalled that something similar had happened when the badgers first appeared in the Grotto. New animal residents—young ones at that, whom the gnomes could protect and raise alongside their own—seemed to really boost the entire tribe’s morale.
Whether that would last beyond the owls growing large enough to swallow their rescuers whole remained to be seen. But there was plenty of distance to cover before now and then.
Assuming we all survive that long.
Movement at the edge of the camp drew my eye, but it was just Coll. The big warrior crawled from his tent, yawning. He rubbed his eyes. “What did I miss?”
Thirty-Three
The Librarinth
Tiri
She’d come to think of it as the ‘Librarinth.’
She’d been here for hours, and even Tiri’s cartographer skills couldn’t determine a pattern to its layout. There must be magic involved; she’d tried retracing her steps to no avail, simply finding herself in yet another unfamiliar row of towering shelves.
After following the passage from the pyromancer’s office for maybe an hour, Tiri was forced to admit she was lost.
That was, for most cartographers, the very definition of failure. But given the nature of this particular maze, Tiri found she didn’t mind as much as she probably should.
The corridors were defined by rows and rows of bookshelves taller than she was. And there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to how it was all organized. Passages branched off into dead ends, while others somehow circled round and back to where they began.
It pained her no end when she realized none of the shelves’ contents followed any established system of categorization. Forget the complex number system used by the Academy’s librarians; these books weren’t even arranged logically, not by title, author, subject or—philosophers forbid—color.
Not that the latter would have helped much. Many of the books looked identical, ponderous tomes bound in brown leather and embossed with faded golden titling. In short, it looked exactly like you might expect a long-forgotten library to look.
Though ‘long-forgotten’ is probably a bit of an understatement.
Among the regiments of dull brown spines were other more mismatched pieces, texts that spanned centuries as well as civilizations judging by the languages in which they’d been written. They ranged from old to unthinkably ancient.
Rolled-up scrolls of skin-thin papyrus lay in piles atop cracked clay tablets. Rods of gold engraved with delicate symbols glinted when the light from Tiri’s chemsphere washed over them, forcing back the shadows of the painted vases behind which they were half-hidden. She even glimpsed what she suspected to be the lost Stones of Mosalis arrayed on a shelf near the floor, but an ominous hissing rattle from beneath the shelf discouraged her from examining them more closely.
This is incredible.
Though she was lost, she also couldn’t help being awestruck. This was a treasure trove of lost knowledge, a stash of forgotten history. Its cultural and intellectual worth was incalculable. It was almost impossible to believe it had existed beneath the very feet of the Adventurers’ Guild since… well, probably since before it was even built.
And I’m the only one to have experienced its wonders.
She turned a corner and halted.
Well, maybe not the only one.
A finger-width of dust had coated the floor and shelves of everything she’d seen so far, clinging also to the ragged spiderwebs that adorned every corner like lacy drapes. But the dust before her now had been disturbed. Clearly this place was not entirely forgotten.
Her head jerked up at an unexpected sound.
Is that… voices?
She glanced around, wondering whether to extinguish her chemsphere. It was giving out the dimmest amount of light possible, but even that was beginning to make her eyes sting, and her head throb after being immersed for so long in the oppressive dark. But without it she’d be blind—an academic’s worst fear.
Ready to extinguish the light at a moment’s notice, she worked her way through the maze in the direction of the sound, hoping she hadn’t imagined it. Losing one’s mind was, after all, an academic’s second-worst fear.
No longer distracted by the wonders of this lost treasure trove, she realized her eyes were dry, gritty, irritated. Inhaling the dust and stale air for so long had left her chest tight and her breath uncomfortably wheezy, and her nose was sore from how many times she’d itched it. Her throat hurt when she swallowed. When was the last time she’d eaten or drunk anything?
She recalled the waterskin in her satchel. I’ll just check out these voices, then I’ll take a sip.
Turning sideways, she squeezed herself through an improbably narrow gap between two towering bookshelves. It was barely passable, and Tiri found herself thanking all the philosophers that the bulky, heavily armored Coll wasn’t with her. Or Benin, for that matter. He’d probably have gotten claustrophobic and burned the entire place down hours ago.
Thinking of Benin reminded her of Professor Knox’s slumped corpse. It lurked at the back of her mind, a macabre reminder that her friend was in danger.
She froze again. She’d definitely heard voices that time.
With a thought, she
extinguished her chemsphere. The darkness seemed to physically press against her eyes as the light went out.
She realized she could still pick out the shapes of the shelves, and even the outline of the pale spiderwebs in the corner above her. There was still light, but it was coming from somewhere else.
And that means there’s a way out.
A few more twists and turns and she’d found it. A staircase, leading up. Wall-mounted chemspheres glowed every few steps. They were the automated kind; like those in the hallways above, they reacted to living presences, which meant—
Yes, there was someone here. Two someones, in fact. Tiri hadn’t imagined those voices earlier.
Between her and the exit was an open square. Enclosed on all other sides by yet more shelves, it was around fifteen feet across. The area was dotted with stools, though they were mostly buried beneath stacks of books, which overflowed onto the floor so that there was barely space to place one’s feet. In the center of the square was a large wooden table. Unlike every other nearby surface, this was relatively clear, with just a few neat piles of books and a scattering of feather quills and ink bottles.
The entire area was more or less free of dust. Someone uses this place frequently. She felt a surge of anger at the thought, and at the thought of the thousands of neglected tomes she’d passed on her way here. What a waste. Who on earth would hoard such a library for themselves?
She got her answer almost immediately.
“Why in the hells have they gone that way? That wasn’t the plan!”
The voice she’d heard earlier was close; in fact, it was right on the other side of the bookshelf she’d been about to step out from behind. She backtracked as quietly as she could, holding her breath so she could better hear the speaker.
It was Guildmaster Varnell. Who else would it be? she thought bitterly.
“But why?” he was saying now. “It makes no sense. The Core’s history… he should have gone underground. We were perfectly placed to ambush them!”
The strain in the Guildmaster’s voice was unexpected. Tiri had only spoken to the man on two occasions, but both times he’d come across as someone very much in control.
There was a bang, as though he’d just punched something, followed by the sound of books tumbling to the floor. “Ow,” she heard him mutter.
Then the second voice spoke.
“Regrettable, sire. But you know what they say about best-laid plans.”
“What do they say?”
“Well, that they often go awry. Because of mice. Or something.”
“Mice?”
“Indeed.”
“And who says that?”
“Well… them. You know. People.”
There was a pause, and Tiri pictured the Guildmaster shaking his head. “Sublime wisdom, Gardos, as always,” he said dryly.
“You’re welcome. What will you do now?”
“I still need to pin down his location. I’m so close!”
“The Core’s?”
“Well, yes. But I was referring to you-know-who.”
“Ah. Him. You do know that speaking his name doesn’t actually summon him? Well, probably.”
“I prefer not to risk it. Hard enough to hide my true nature without my thrice-damned patron popping up unexpectedly.”
Patron? Varnell is a warlock?!
“So the Core is headed north,” the second voice mused. “Does it know something we don’t?”
“I can only assume.”
“How rude of it.”
“Yes. But more alarming is that it’s heading in the direction I suspect he may be lairing.”
“Oh. Oh dear.”
“Yes.”
“You think he’s calling the Core? Do they have a prior connection?”
“Unsure,” replied Varnell. “I’ll need to contact Grimrock again to see what he knows. In the meantime, continue to observe the human. I’ll pass this new information to my agent in the field. For that, at least, the scrying mirror still serves.”
“That whole ‘Guild bond’ is truly a pesky thing, isn’t it, sire?”
“Indeed. It’s fortunate you can still track the human without it. Whatever magic the Core invoked made it impossible for Limpit to follow.”
Limpit?
She’d never heard that name before, nor those of ‘Grimrock’ or this ‘Gardos’ with whom Varnell was speaking. In fact, the entire conversation was making her mind whirl.
The good thing was that it sounded as though Coll had successfully conveyed Tiri’s warning to the gnome Core, who had since fled in the direction she’d suggested.
The slightly less-good thing was that it also seemed she’d unintentionally sent it straight into danger. Somewhere to the north there apparently dwelt a being—this “patron” of Varnell’s—whom even the Guildmaster was afraid of.
But the north is a big area. Surely the chances of them encountering one another are minimal…
She heard dwindling footsteps, and braved another peek around the bookshelf in time to see the Guildmaster striding toward the stairs, the bottom of his robes sweeping the book-strewn floor with a soft rustling sound.
Tiri’s eyes widened at the sight of the creature scurrying in his wake. It was small and insect-like; its hide was an odd combination of scales and fur, and its sinuous body was segmented and adorned with several pairs of jointed legs. It looked arthropodic but also vaguely saurian—a little like the giant millipede-axolotl hybrid they’d seen down in the tunnels of the gnome Core, though this one more resembled a furry blue-gray centipede.
Varnell paused at the foot of the stairs to allow the creature to catch up. It snaked up his robes, hundreds of spiky little legs working in tandem, and settled atop his shoulders.
The Guildmaster murmured something to the creature, which Tiri assumed to be his familiar. Limpit, perhaps? It clacked its mandibles in response. Then the pair of them ascended the stairs and out of sight.
Somewhere above, a door thudded closed, and a key turned in a lock with heavy finality.
The excitement she’d felt at the sight of a brand-new species was immediately replaced by unease. Not only had Varnell locked her in—he’d locked her in with whomever he’d just been conversing with.
But why? Is this ‘Gardos’ a prisoner?
If that were the case, perhaps she could convince him to help her.
But when the minutes ticked by without even the slightest sound, she frowned. Still, she waited a few more minutes to be sure she was alone. Then she crept forward into the open square.
There was nobody there.
Where she guessed Varnell to have been standing was a plinth. Looking around again to make sure she was alone, Tiri moved closer.
Atop the plinth was a statue; a man’s head, cast in bronze. Unlike the busts that adorned the entrance halls of both the Academy and the Guild, this one did not look like a former member of the adventuring faculty. A pair of twisted horns spiraled up from its temples; it had two slits in place of a nose, and its mouth was set in a snarl that displayed several rows of pointed teeth like those of a shark.
It had the same blank-eyed stare she’d seen on similar pieces, except this one seemed to be staring straight at her. She couldn’t explain it, and her rational mind railed against the very idea, but she couldn’t deny it. There was something there—a presence, making the hairs on the back of her neck prickle uncomfortably.
For a moment she almost convinced herself that this was what Varnell had been conversing with. Then she shook off the idea, feeling ridiculous for giving credence to it for even a second.
He must have been talking to his familiar, she thought, somewhat doubtfully. She tried to picture the second voice she’d heard coming out of the many-legged thing that had coiled around the Guildmaster’s neck. Though I don’t think I’ve ever heard of a familiar that can talk back.
Whatever the explanation, she was clearly alone down here. The chemspheres on the wall began to dim as she stood still, r
egarding the stairwell and the door beyond.
She’d heard the key turn; it was a heavy door with a heavy lock. She might be able to eventually pick it, but not quietly. For all she knew, the door opened directly into Varnell’s personal privy, and she didn’t fancy the idea of bursting out and finding herself face to face with the man in that scenario or any other.
But she’d already seen that he left the door open when he came down here—she’d heard it close but not open. It would be safer to wait until the next time Varnell came down here—which, from the lack of dust in the study area, was fairly often—and then somehow sneak past him up the stairs to freedom.
Her time would come. Soon.
Well. She gazed around at the vast wealth of reading material that surrounded her, less despairingly than she probably should have. At least I won’t be bored while I wait.
Thirty-Four
Hoot-Hoots
Corey
“The little crapbags shat on my ark. Again.”
All five of the owlets cooed in chorus as though I’d just paid them a compliment.
Ket tsked. “They’re part of the tribe now, Corey. You should call them by their proper name.”
“Hellbirds? Mite factories?”
“No. And no.”
“Well then, what?”
“Hoot-hoots, of course!”
I glared at my sprite.
My denizens had driven me to distraction with their near-constant mimicking of the sounds made by the baby owls. For the last few days, all I’d heard was, “Hoot-hoot! Hoot-hoot! Hoot-hoot!” Naturally, Ket found it equally endearing and hilarious.
Gneil, being the animal magnet that he was, had taken charge of them. Apparently his reduced duties in priesting (and Hoppit’s increased responsibilities as a group leader) left him plenty of time for extra-curricular activities, and he and the acolytes seemed to be taking great delight in playing nursemaid to the little horrors.