by Drew Hayes
Now that drew Grumph’s attention, turning him away from his leaves for the first time since Jolia had burst through the door. “Wouldn’t a being of such power stand out in the world?”
“Most of us would. Some keep a low profile, though, even during their adventuring days, and can move with a touch more impunity. As for our trader, she took a different approach. That’s all I can say for now. If you want the rest of the story, you’ll have to get it from her.”
* * *
Kieran and his guest were situated in a room beneath Kieran’s own home. His was a sprawling farmhouse close to town, although he’d never had much luck sowing a crop into the surrounding fields. Killing had always been Kieran’s gift, and it seemed that skill applied to plants as much as people. Most of the house was designed simply, using architecture that reminded Kieran of his childhood village before it was razed, but this room was an exception. It was a basement, lined with a special type of off-white stone and covered in various runes and wards. Every caster in Notch had been through here, giving it the once-over and checking for weaknesses. True privacy was virtually impossible, between the gods and the magic at play in their world; however, this was probably the closest any mortal could achieve.
“—and since then, we’ve functionally been in a holding pattern. We’re training the adventurers on the basics while we wait for the next move. Leaving on their own is obviously too dangerous, and whoever is doing this has enough magic to shield themselves from all attempts at magical scrying we’ve tried so far. Jolia wants to start using some of the various items and artifacts we have stashed to punch through their protection, but Simone and I agreed that it was too risky. Someone might be fishing, trying to figure out what this village is, and the less we give them to work off of, the better.”
“Especially if your enemy is strong enough to withstand Jolia’s spells,” the trader added. She’d yet to lower the hood of her cloak, a hood that shouldn’t be capable of concealing her face from so many angles, yet managed to do so. Even when she put the glass of whiskey to her lips—a favorite vintage of hers that Kieran kept on hand for any such visits—her features remained hidden. “Adds credence to the idea that a god is involved. Kalzidar makes sense, too. He’s smart enough to know that charging into this village won’t work, and petty enough that he won’t care so long as it means annoying, or potentially hurting, someone he wants to get revenge on.”
Kieran nodded, leaving his own glass of water untouched. “But why would Kalzidar wait until now to strike at those adventurers? They’ve brought us up to speed on what’s happened. I can see why Kalzidar would want revenge, yet was this truly the best time to reach for it? Surely there was a better opportunity previously, one where they weren’t protected by a village of former adventurers.”
“You’re forgetting, it’s not a single player moving the pawns around the board.” Reaching over, the trader picked up Kieran’s glass of water and set it down next to her whiskey. “From what you’ve told me, we have two gods in play at the moment. Grumble and Kalzidar.” As she said their names, she touched the glasses—the water first, for Grumble, and then the whiskey, for Kalzidar. “We can’t see all the moves, only the ones that are made around us, but even that’s something.”
Her hand rested on the whiskey, pushing it slightly forward. “Kalzidar is a bastard who lives for vengeance, which means that the moment a piece of his divinity was destroyed, he launched plans for payback. What those were, we don’t yet know, but hiding from other gods is a harder trick than hiding from mortals.” On cue, she moved the water forward, so it was once more even with the whiskey. “Grumble sees something coming, so he puts his paladin on a path toward one of the few nearby places where it might be possible to survive the wrath of a vengeful god.”
She was moving faster now, pushing the glasses forward in rapid alternation. “Kalzidar counters by somehow blocking direct communication, forcing Grumble to make the armor stick on Thistle. Kalzidar responds by sending in a group of raiders, and so on. Here’s the important part to remember, though: they are acting and reacting, so it’s possible that one doesn’t know what the other is thinking. Maybe Kalzidar has no idea what this town is; he only worked off the idea that Grumble thought the adventurers would be safe within its walls. The thing that you should be keeping in mind about all of this is that the odds of Notch being the true target are extremely low. If you send the visitors out, there’s a good chance your problems go with them.”
“We also have knowledge that’s proven quite useful to them, too useful for me to trust it as coincidence,” Kieran added. “And they, in turn, have been of some help on a few minor projects. My guess is that Grumble always planned on leading them here, he just didn’t expect it to become a siege. Hence why Thistle didn’t have the loud, windy dreams until he arrived.”
The trader picked up the whiskey once more and moments later set back down an empty glass. “I guess the real question is: what you plan to do with them? Not your fight, after all. You wouldn’t be the first town to oust adventurers who brought trouble on their heels.”
“Maybe not, but we won’t add to that number. They’re good folks who’ve given more than they had to. Besides, I told them it was time to trust one another. I’m not going to dishonor Notch by betraying that sentiment.” Kieran paused, looking away from the cloak of the trader. “Even if such weren’t the case, we’d probably still help. I don’t want a piece of that artifact staying in this town, and if they take it with them right now, I might very well be handing it over to Kalzidar.”
“You could let me have it,” the trader suggested, a splash of eagerness livening up her voice. “I’m prepared to pay them well for the sale.”
Kieran looked back to the hood as he shook his head. “No, I think not. Professional courtesy and budding friendship aside, you’ve been chasing these for a long while, and I know how successful you tend to be. I won’t say that putting too many pieces into one set of hands is the same as turning it over to Kalzidar, but it’s needlessly dangerous just the same. Anyway, I don’t see that lot letting go of their piece. They’re unexpectedly stubborn.”
“Trust me, I’m well aware,” the trader replied. She leaned forward and tapped her glass. “And I’ll explain that statement, if you’ll top me off.”
“Are you staying long enough for another? Since you kept your hood up, I assumed you were just passing through for our visit, eager to get to selling.” Kieran hadn’t actually thought this, but he was getting tired of looking at a featureless void where a face should be.
With a softly muttered curse, she reached up and yanked down on her hood, revealing the lovely features of an elven woman with short brown hair. “Honestly, I leave the thing up so much during my travels that I forget I’m wearing it. Cost me a hefty purse of gold during my last stop in Camnarael, but it’s made traveling incognito much, much easier. No offense meant, Kieran. You know I have nothing to hide in Notch.”
Kieran stood, walking over to a shelf by a rune-covered wall, where he picked up the waiting bottle of whiskey. He opened it carefully, filling her empty glass halfway before setting the bottle down on the table. “I know, Fritz. And we’re always glad to see you. But I’d appreciate it if you could explain that last comment soon. I’m getting tired of not knowing what’s happening around me.”
“Happy to do so.” Fritz reached forward and scooped up her glass before settling deeper into the luxurious chair where she was resting. “Not a thrilling story, by our standards, but something of a lengthy one, so get comfortable. It started when I was on my way to Cadence Hollow, and a blonde woman holding an axe came bursting into my hideout...”
29.
It was still dark out when the opening of a door stirred Timuscor from his sleep. At the foot of his bed, a telltale snort indicated that Mr. Peppers had heard the intruder as well. Hand moving seemingly on its own, Timuscor’s fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword just before a lumbering shadow cut off the light from the do
orway.
“You won’t be fast enough to hit me, and you should save your strength, anyway.”
Timuscor’s grip loosened as he recognized Brock’s voice. The behemoth looking down at him wasn’t wearing the usual patchwork ensemble of a working bartender. His chest was bare, revealing several tattoos winding around his body, and he’d traded working slacks for pants of a material that appeared thick, yet shifted like silk. The boots on his feet were light, with what looked like metal coverings on the toes and heels. While Timuscor had never seen this precise outfit before, he knew at a glance what it was meant for. This was what Brock wore when he went into battle.
“What’s happening?” Timuscor asked.
“Not sure. Something entered our forest boundary less than an hour ago. Slipped right through the wards, but Agramor smelled them and sent us word. She was going to devour the intruders until Kieran told her to let them pass.”
“Because this Agramor person is a surprise we can only spring once, right?” Timuscor could respect the desire to keep such an asset secret—it more or less lined up with how they’d been dealing with each new threat, giving away as little information about their resources as possible. “But the same is true for you, Brock, so why are you clad in attire clearly meant for combat?”
There was pain in Brock’s smile as he looked down at his garb, yet not only pain was there. “Maybe these are my sleeping clothes, ever consider that?”
In reply, Timuscor pulled back his covers and began the process of donning his own armor. Eventually, Brock’s gave up on waiting for a laugh.
“Fine, not my best joke. Give me a little leeway, you’re not the only sleepy one here. Anyway, I’m wearing this for a few reasons. Firstly, because we’ve decided it’s not right to let you all put your lives on the line while we stay hidden. We’re going to keep concealing our more unique cards, but there’s not much more to discover about me. I’m pure combat. Someone realizing that I hit hard isn’t going to give away much, and it will make sure you’ve all got some backup on the battlefield.”
For a fleeting moment, Timuscor wanted to object, to tell Brock that they could handle this and he should hide. That was pride talking, though, not strategy or caution, and Timuscor recognized the trickster almost immediately. Timuscor’s party had barely made it through that last fight, surviving only because of the unseen help Notch’s protectors had given. He and his friends were already leaning on them to help. This way just put it out in the open.
“Then your aid is appreciated,” Timuscor said. “Yet you said there was more than one reason, so I cannot help wondering what the others might be.”
Even in the dim light of the room, Timuscor noticed the severe look that darted across Brock’s face. “Word has been coming in from throughout Notch. As of last night, we had two more people get divine dreams where they couldn’t hear their god speaking. Magic to look beyond the borders of Notch is failing as well. Whatever is happening, it’s gotten more serious.”
That was indeed a significant development. No wonder Brock was readied for battle. “Any idea what’s approaching?”
“Not yet. Jolia is trying to see how they beat the wards. All we know for now is what Agramor told us: there’s a few of them, moving fast, and they stink of undeath.”
That meant Simone was well-suited in dealing with the threat, if she could covertly cast from the sidelines. No, even that was assuming too much. Whoever was coming seemed prepared for the challenges that came with breaking into Notch. Best to work from the assumption that they’d be prepared for a necromancer as well.
“How long do we have?” Timuscor didn’t slow as he added more pieces of his armor, going as fast as possible while still making sure the job was done properly.
“The winding paths of the forest will buy us enough time for everyone to be awake and ready. Get your armor and weapon, and meet us downstairs.”
With that, Brock was out the door, although his footsteps didn’t travel far before they entered the next room—Eric’s. Timuscor paid them no more mind. His focus was entirely on his armor. On the ground, Mr. Peppers bumped over a small pile of armor with his snout.
“Sorry, with all the training, I haven’t had a chance to get you a new set,” Timuscor apologized. “Hang back for today, and we’ll deal with it whenever this next attack ends.”
The promise gained him a snort that seemed to accept the orders, albeit not very happily.
* * *
From a distance, they were visible. Once, they had been fearsome creatures, powerful and unyielding. Now, they were mere imitations of what they had been: saldramirs, lizards roughly the size of a horse and a half, native to desert climates and known for their nasty bite. A curious choice for a force of invading undead. Some undead held on to their forms, even their sentience, but not all; these offered brute force, certainly, but little else. Few of those gathered in Notch’s town square had ever seen one in person, and none would count this as doing so. What was coming down at them were not real saldramirs, only the remains of what had once been.
Their scales were flaking off with every movement; some had chunks of skin missing, which exposed the half-decayed muscles moving them along the ground. Only one of the three had both eyes, and all were missing toes and teeth. Atop the saldramir in the center was a figure wrapped in heavy clothes, concealing all its features.
Three undead beasts on the verge of falling apart, and a single rider. By Thistle’s calculations, that seemed more like an envoy than an attack, but it would depend on just who that rider was. If the people of Notch had demonstrated nothing else, they’d reminded him that one person easily could be powerful enough to present a threat on their own. Diplomacy was a pleasant hope—just not an option Thistle could afford to put too much faith in.
“They’re barely holding together. Whoever made them didn’t plan on keeping their new pets around for long. Even if we do nothing, they’ll fall apart within a day or so. Disposable, each and every one.” The words were whispered in everyone’s ears, Simone’s voice reaching them despite her being hidden.
Communication was being given more importance this time around, with Jolia taking the time to weave a spell of whispering between all those who would be present for the confrontation, both on display and hidden. No more running around haphazardly; this time, they would coordinate properly.
As the saldramirs drew near, everyone tensed. The smell had already begun to reach them, and with every lumbering step of the approaching source, the situation worsened. The stink was bad enough, but their proximity also allowed everyone to pick out more horrifying details about the beasts. Thistle wondered if attacks would even land, or if they’d merely plunge right through the exposed flesh.
Mercifully, roughly a hundred feet from where they stood, the rider held up a hand and stopped the saldramirs. Moving with visible caution, the rider dismounted heavily, landing so hard there were small cracks in the road, before walking the rest of the way over.
“People of Notch, there is no need to hide. I do not come to deliver harm to you. I am here only for the ones gathered before me, and not even all of those.”
The voice was off. Humanoid-sounding, yet the speech patterns didn’t feel quite right, like it was a thing impersonating the way regular people talked.
It was some form of discussion, at least. Thistle took that as a good sign. If they were willing to talk, then they might be willing to listen. It would be nice if, just once, diplomacy could solve the problem better than force.
“I take it that means you have come for us.” Thistle stepped forward as he spoke. Experience taught him that staying in a crowd would only make it harder for his audience to notice who was talking. “And something tells me your desire is not to hire us for our services.”
Still concealed by the abundant clothes—far too many for weather this pleasant—the rider nodded. “Correct. I have come to slay you. The sins you have committed cannot go unpunished. Meet your fate, here and now. Justice sha
ll be served, all debts paid. Or, if you would prefer time to say goodbye, you may depart Notch before nightfall. Failure to do so will result in a full assault, one that will encompass this town and its surrounding areas. Do not make others die for your sins.”
“Aye, that would hardly be the paladin way,” Thistle agreed. “But nor would it be right to die purely on someone’s request. You talk of sins, so tell us what trespasses we are supposed to have committed. Only then can you make the case that death is warranted.”
There was no reply for several seconds. They weren’t even sure the rider had heard Thistle speak. Perhaps it was getting orders from elsewhere and had to convey the words back, or simply took a while to process the argument. Eventually, words flowed once more, although they were still stilted.
“You have committed the greatest sin of all, to do harm to a divine being. By your actions, a part of Kalzidar’s divinity was destroyed. Death is potentially too light of a sentence.”
“Then I’m afraid we are at an impasse. I’ve done things, too many things, in my life that I feel guilt for, but that act will never be one of them. If you want our lives, then you’ll have to claim them the old-fashioned way.” To illustrate the point, Thistle drew two of his daggers and gave each a quick spin.
From behind, gentle footsteps betrayed Brock’s re-positioning. “That’s right, and don’t count on us to toss them out. I’m getting pretty sick of you thinking this is a place you can come waltzing in and out of whenever you damn well please. You’ve disrespected our town, our home, and now you demand the lives of our visitors. We’ve been going lightly thus far, playing your game half out of prudence and half out of boredom, but if you keep pushing, we’re bound to get angry. When that happens, we can shed an ocean of blood.”