Briefly, she contemplated calling upon Iyra. Not yet, she decided. Not until I have confirmed a threat. Without pausing to draw the commander’s attention to her, Sara scrambled up the rope ladder to join him on top of the fortifications.
She cast her eyes outwards, over the city ruins enclosing their camp. Empty. No undead were in sight. To be sure, she swept her gaze from left to right and rechecked the surroundings with divine sense. Nothing.
Her shoulders loosened, and her tense, erect posture eased. “The undead are gone,” she murmured, her gaze still turned searchingly outwards.
“So, it seems, milady.”
She turned to face the commander. “What now?”
“The company is assembling and preparing to set out.” He hesitated, then added. “The more prudent course would be to sit back in our fortifications and wait to see if this is some ploy by the undead to draw us out. But as time is of the essence, we must shoulder the risk of an ambush while on the move.” He met her eyes. “Do you concur, Champion?”
“I agree, Commander,” said Sara firmly. “Let’s leave at once.”
✽✽✽
The trip out of the city was made in a tense and wary silence, but the undead did not attack. Sara, watchful, and with her divine senses unfurled for the entire time, sagged in relief when they left the city bounds. “Well,” she breathed in relief.
The commander, riding beside her, nodded in understanding. “So, they let us go. I wonder why,” he ruminated.
Sara shrugged. “I don’t know, but we are finally free to continue our mission.” She pulled out the tracking crystal.
It was a simple, penny-sized disc, marked with the points of a compass along its edges. Like it had been for some time now, the light within the tracking crystal’s translucent structure pulsed in the direction marked south.
So wherever the free agent is, he is still south of us, she mused. How far did they have to travel? A long way, if the light’s weak pulsing was any indication.
Over the last few days, she had intently studied the amulet and observed that its pulsing had strengthened, but only imperceptibly so. The First had assured her that as she drew closer to her quarry, the crystal’s resonance would increase.
From the crystal’s brightening, she could only assume Kyran travelled north, in her direction, for which she was grateful. Finally, it seemed something on this mission was going right.
“Our course remains unchanged, milady?” asked the commander, peering at the amulet.
“Yes,” replied Sara. “We head south.”
Game Data
Ability: Commander’s gift
Skill: Commander.
Description: This spell provides the commander’s vassals with a long-lasting but minor buff to their body attributes.
Rank: Apprentice.
Cost: 80 will.
Execution time: 2 minutes.
Buff: Increases the target’s body attributes by 0.2% x skill.
Area of effect: Vassals, companions, and minions (cannot be cast upon self).
Range: Up to the player’s direct line of sight.
Duration: 1 hour x skill.
Ability: Magister’s gift
Skill: Mage lord.
Description: This spell provides the magister’s vassals with a long-lasting but minor buff to their essence regeneration.
Rank: Apprentice.
Cost: 80 essence.
Execution time: 2 minutes.
Buff: Increases the target’s essence regeneration rate by 0.2% x skill.
Area of effect: Vassals, companions, and minions (cannot be cast upon self).
Range: Up to the player’s direct line of sight.
Duration: 1 hour x skill.
Ability: Teleport rings
Skill: Travelling.
Description: Allows the player to create a teleport ring by inscribing a location with a unique magical signature. As long as the pattern remains undisturbed, the player can travel from one to another teleport ring near-instantly. Warning: only 2 teleport rings can exist at one time, older rings are destroyed when inscribing further rings. Warning: this ability can only be used in conjunction with the travel spell.
Rank: Apprentice.
Cost: 80 essence.
Execution time: 5 minutes.
Buff: When standing on a teleport ring, the caster’s execution time for the travel spell to another teleport ring is reduced to 5 seconds.
Range: Maximum distance between teleport rings of 100m x skill.
Chapter 23
23 Octu 2603 AB
Amongst the domains, it is not the champions, or even the divines, that we should fear most, but the hordes of norms that serve their purpose. And of all the shadowy organisations of the gods, none is more deadly to our cause than Iyra’s Hounds. Secret police, assassins, spies, witch-hunters, all this and more are Iyra’s dogs. Yet their most frightening trait is their damnable efficiency. Nothing stays hidden from the Hounds for long. —Elasien, Brotherhood leader.
Limeira threw the leather ball and sent the worg pup scampering after it, his short legs pumping and tail wagging vigorously. The pup did not take up the ball and return it to Limeira, as she had been trying to teach him all morning, though.
No, vicious predator that he thought he was, the pup pounced upon the unfortunate ball and proceeded to strangle it into submission. “Bad pup. Bad Gnot!” said the young ogress, placing her hands on her hips and glaring at the miscreant.
The unrepentant pup spared her only a single glance before turning back to growl at the ball.
Limeira sighed.
A laugh rang out from behind her. “Limeira, I fear you are losing your touch!”
Limeira scowled at her grandfather. “The pup is insolent.” She turned another glare on the worg. “But he will learn,” she vowed.
Wynak’s laughter faded. “How is the pack doing?”
Limeira glanced at her grandfather. His face had grown more riddled with lines; the tribe’s plight kept him awake most nights. Despite her insistence that he keep his strength up, Wynak ate less than anyone else, and his once proud frame had grown bent, the skin hanging loosely off his bones. “Not good, I fear. They need more food.” She shrugged; they all did. “We will have to cut their numbers again and soon.”
Wynak’s face fell, his momentary humour forgotten. Guiltily, Limeira hung her head. She shouldn’t have reminded her grandfather of their plight. He had more than enough troubles to occupy him as it was. The tribe was dying, and by winter’s end they would be no more. Everyone knew it, but it weighed more heavily on her grandfather than most.
“Well, it was to be expected,” said Wynak sadly. Turning around, he limped away, calling over his shoulder as he did. “Make sure you don’t miss the midday bell for lunch.”
Limeira opened her mouth to reply—she couldn’t let him go, not when he looked so forlorn—but she was distracted by the Gnot’s sudden yelps. Glancing back, she saw the pup crouched before a heap of boulders, tail thumping the floor as he barked excitedly.
“Stop that, Gnot,” she shouted and strode forward to haul away the unruly creature. She stopped short when a dark form emerged from behind the rocks.
It was a worg.
But none that she had seen before. It was neither part of the pack that had left with Wynak’s people nor the one that had stayed behind with Gnarok. She was sure of it. She knew every one of the tribe’s worgs as well as she knew the members of the tribe themselves.
She licked her lips nervously. Was it a wild worg? They could be dangerous. She scanned the surrounding slopes. But no, the beast appeared to be alone and made no move to attack, displaying none of famed aggressiveness of the wild packs.
The unfamiliar worg stared at her, almost as if waiting to see what she would do. If it was not a wild worg, then it had to belong to another tribe. She wondered if Xetil had sent his ogre warbands into the mountain already.
Fear rippled through her. But that, too, made little se
nse. It was only one worg, and he’d made no move to attack.
“Come here, boy,” she said. The worg, his eyes locked on her own, padded cautiously forward. The beast appeared slightly smaller than an average male, yet he displayed none of their pack’s leanness. This creature was well-muscled, his fur dark and lustrous. A well-fed beast.
“Who do you belong to, boy?” she murmured.
The worg cocked his head to the side and, opening his mouth in lupine grin, almost seemed to laugh at her. Odd beast, she thought.
Just then, the midday bell rang. Limeira lifted her head. Time to eat, she thought. She scooped up Gnot, ignoring his struggles, and looked thoughtfully at the strange worg. Wherever he’d come from, the pack could do with new blood.
“Come with me, boy and let’s go see what the cooks have for us today.” She chuckled, a tad grimly. “It won’t be much, I promise you.”
✽✽✽
The worg followed her to lunch and everywhere else for the rest of the day, poking his head into tents and listening inquisitively to her conversations, almost as if he understood the words.
The other worgs in the pack regarded him strangely, most stilling in his presence, some growling softly, others baring their necks submissively, but one and all, the pack shied away from the strange worg. Gnot, on the other hand, seemed taken with the new beast, and gambolled fearlessly around him.
Limeira did not quite know what to make of him herself. Nonetheless, she let him trot on her heels as she went about her day’s business, ignoring or deflecting the questions from other ogres on the strange worg, mostly because she had no answers to give them.
None questioned her too closely though. All in the tribe knew the worg pack was under her care and considered everything worg to be her business.
The only one whose questions she would not be able to deflect were her grandfather’s, and him she avoided. She knew she should inform Wynak of the strange worg, but did her best to delay the inevitable moment when she had to report to him, fully expecting her grandfather to order her to kill the beast.
But as the sun began to set, her luck ran out. “Limeira!”
Briefly, she considered pretending she hadn’t heard, but knew she wouldn’t be able to avoid her grandfather much longer. Sighing, she whispered to the worg, “Sorry, boy, it looks like your time has come.”
The strange beast sat down on his haunches and bobbed his head gravely at her.
Her grandfather limped up to her. “Granddaughter, I wanted to ask you about—” His words ground to a halt as he took a good look at the worg at her side. He blinked.
She knew her too-perceptive grandfather wouldn’t take long to notice the strangeness of the new worg.
“Limeira,” he asked, a frown creasing his face, “where did this worg come from?”
“I don’t know,” she replied, deciding honesty was her best defence.
Wynak’s brows lifted. “What?”
“He walked into the camp from the mountains,” she said, careful to make no mention of when that had occurred. Honesty was all well and good, but she didn’t have to tell her grandfather everything.
“And you didn’t tell me?” asked Wynak, his voice stern.
Limeira lowered her eyes to avoid her grandfather’s glare. “He was alone and didn’t seem dangerous—”
“Didn’t seem dangerous!” thundered Wynak. Passing ogres stopped and turned to stare at the pair. “Limeira, what is wrong with you! You know very well that an unknown worg is cause for concern. He could be from one of Xetil’s other warbands.”
At the mention of Xetil’s name, the worg’s ears perked up, and he glanced inquisitively from Limeira to Wynak.
The worg’s reaction did not go unnoticed by Wynak. “Granddaughter, the beast recognises the god’s name. You have doomed us all!”
“What does it matter!” she shouted fiercely. “We have been doomed since the day Gnarok stole away half the tribe!”
Wynak’s anger dissipated in the face of his granddaughter’s fury. “Limeira—” he began, but she cut him short.
“Grandfather, nothing you say will alter our fate. We are lost already. Xetil will have his revenge upon us. This one worg will not change matters. And I will not let you harm him,” she said, raising her chin defiantly.
Wynak looked from his granddaughter to the crowd that had gathered around them. They were all listening intently. Choosing his words with care, Wynak said, “There is always hope, Limeira. We must—”
He broke off again. Eyes widening, he turned to stare at the worg. Limeira followed his gaze, and her own mouth dropped open in shock.
The worg was changing.
✽✽✽
Kyran has shifted to elven-form.
Kyran rose from his crouch, eyes locked onto Wynak’s. The crowd of ogres stumbled back, many of them setting hands fearfully to weapons.
Wynak, who Kyran had gathered from the many overheard conversations was the tribe’s chief, had his own warhammer in his hands. With both fear and rage warring on his face, the chieftain stepped forward, hands tightening on the haft.
Backpedalling, Kyran flung up his hands. “I mean you no harm, Wynak. I only want to talk!”
At his words, the old ogre paused, scrutinising Kyran. He did not lower his hammer, though. Into the silence, an ogre from the crowd called, “Who is it, Wynak? Is it one of Xetil’s champions?”
An uneasy rumble followed this bit of speculation, and many in the crowd inched forward, raising their own weapons to strike him down before it was too late.
Kyran shoved back the fear coiling within him. The ogres loomed larger in their anger. He hoped he hadn’t erred in his judgement. Through the bond, he felt Aiken tense, but he bid the bear to wait. “I am not one of Xetil’s,” he shouted.
“Lies!” someone screamed, causing the crowd to surge forward.
Damnit, thought Kyran. He readied himself to abandon his ploy and teleport away.
Wynak raised his hand. “No,” said the old ogre, drawing the words out. “Xetil does not favour the elves. And this one does not bear the look of one of the goblin-god’s lackeys.”
The crowd stilled at the chieftain’s words, and Kyran let the weaves of his spell drop in relief. The respect Wynak commanded from his people was impressive.
“Who is he then?” demanded a voice from beside Kyran.
He turned his head and spared Limeira an apologetic look for the deception he had practiced on her. “I am Kyran,” he said with a small bow. “The one that Xetil hunts.” He looked up to find the old chief, his face returned to an impassive mask, watching him intently.
“You claim to be the elf Xetil searches for?” asked Wynak.
“I do,” Kyran said. “I have escaped Gnarok’s clutches a few times already.”
“He lies!” shouted another heckler. “He would not be still alive if he had faced Gnarok!”
Wynak raised his hand again, calling for silence. “My people are right. For all his faults, Gnarok is a mighty warrior and you”—he gestured up and down Kyran’s small form with his hammer—“are only one small elf. How did you survive Gnarok’s wrath?”
“Magic,” Kyran answered. He hesitated before going on. There was no love lost between Wynak’s and Gnarok’s people, he knew. Yet they were still ogres of the same tribe.
How would they react to news of what he had done? But lying would not serve his purpose either. “My party has killed over a dozen of Gnarok’s men and slaughtered all his worgs.”
Limeira gasped. “You lie,” she whispered.
Kyran turned to the young ogre. He had come to know her surprisingly well during the course of the day. “I am sorry, Limeira,” he said sorrowfully. “I had no choice. The packs were hunting us.” She scowled at him, her disbelief clear.
Wynak’s gaze flitted briefly to his granddaughter before returning to Kyran. Surprisingly, the chieftain did not question the veracity of Kyran’s assertion as he had expected.
“Who are you
that Xetil wants you dead?” asked Wynak.
Kyran shifted, debating how much truth would serve. “I am a player in the Game,” he said, finally, deciding to answer fully and honestly. “But one without allegiance to any god. I am a free agent.”
✽✽✽
“Impossible,” said Wynak curtly, dismissing the ridiculous claim.
“But true nonetheless.”
Wynak frowned and fingered his hammer as he studied Kyran’s face. He found no signs of falsehood there. The elf had to be lying. But he could find no sign of deceit in the stranger. “Why have you come here?” he asked, hiding his confusion.
The stranger measured him with his gaze. “Gnarok has made me his enemy.” He looked at Wynak squarely. “But you and I need not be foes. We can be allies.”
Laughter rippled through the watching ogres. His people were amused by the idea of their tribe—weakened as it was—allying with a puny elf. But Wynak was not so sure.
He rubbed at his chin. The elf was a strange one. He was clearly a shapeshifter of some sort, and considering the expensive armour he wore, one of no little means. Where most would have cringed standing amidst a hundred angry ogres, he showed little fear.
And the tales he spouted…tales that Wynak would have dismissed as fanciful nonsense—except that he already knew Gnarok had lost his worgs. It was not information he had cared to share with his granddaughter, knowing how well she loved the four-footed beasts. But it gave credence to the elf’s tale.
The two scouts he had spying on Gnarok’s camp had confirmed that the young chief had suffered numerous losses, but they had not been able to determine why.
And now, here was this strange elf, claiming to be that source. “You would not be here unless you needed something,” he said finally. “What is it that you want?”
The elf smiled ruefully. “Gnarok stole something from my party. A length of rope which we need to scale the escarpment and escape Xetil’s reach. I want your help to get it back.”
Limeira snorted in derision. “Grandfather, this is ridiculous! He is obviously a liar that can’t be trusted. Look at how he deceived his way into our camp. Why are—”
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