Demonborn's Fjord

by Dante Sakurai

  A nerve in Rowan’s face tightened. Egg-flavored steam blew through nostrils. “Bad luck. We’ll cut the shack until they’re found.” Rapid ideas filtered through his head. Most were shit. “Can we have a greenhouse built? A small one, like ten by ten squares. Luthias, will you be able to make enough glass?”

  “It would take myself two to three weeks to forge glass of sufficient quality and strength. It would also require enchantments to survive an arctic winter.”

  “Then stick with your current projects.” Rowan cut Skylar a firm look. “I want you to do nothing apart from train your Forester skills. Understand?”

  “Um… Yeah, okay. But what about Vio—”

  “She will work on the crops. Viola, you’re the Farmer. Only work on the crops.”

  Viola mumbled, “Can I be the Forester instead?”

  Rowan’s eyes were on the verge of rolling. “Sure. Break’s over. Chop chop.”

  Luthias’ eyebrow arched. “Chop? Chop?”

  “It’s an expression meaning get back to work, please.”

  Without another comment, they obeyed without needing a tug to their slave bindings. Good on them. They knew well to not mess with their grouchy master, and he was grouchy for good reason. Every petty matter was an extra straw on his shoulders. Weight was quickly piling on. This was feeling less like a game by the hour, more like a full time job. Despite it all, he felt more alive than he had in years.

  Gabrielle rinsed the last of the dishes, dumped a bucket of murky water out the window. “You’re doing quite goodly managing things, you know?”

  “Sure.”

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing. Just stressed.”

  “I can see. Is it cus Viola lost the seeds?”

  “Partly. I just hope nothing huge happens on top of all the little things, like an earthquake or worse.”

  “Ah.” She walked behind him, and her palms gripped his shoulders. Her massage loosened knots well enough. “Want a moment to ourselves?” Her tone was dripping with implication.

  “Not really. There’s work to be done. Just give me a minute.”

  “Okay.” She patted his head. “Also, I’m pretty sure Viola left the seeds at the Troll’s place.”

  “Pretty sure?”

  “Yup. Pretty sure.”

  “Then we’ll check on our next hunting trip, and what about the channel? Can you upload yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Severs still under load?”

  “Yup. Have ya seen the pictures of the queues?”

  A smile stretched his cracked lips. “I can imagine.” He pushed to his feet, his knees creaking. “Alright, a minute’s over. Let’s help Liluth. The watch tower is crucial.”

  “Hmmm. Good thinking.” She patted his head again.

  “Pat me one more time like that and I will spank you.”

  “Hehehe. So ya are in the mood.”

  “We’ll see tonight.”

  “Kay.” Her forked tongue flapped about while they sauntered on compressed soil. Grass had been cleared in an effort to remove taint, but it was magical in nature. A grossness of sorts seeped into their soles through their sandals.

  In the grid overlay, the palisade covered a fifteen by fifteen area, three high. It was currently grayed out with a progress bar under its label slowly rising over eighty percent. Eighty one. Eighty one point three. Liluth was making astounding progress. A one girl construction crew.

  Rowan examined a line of touching pine trunks. Their tops had been shaped into points, and their bark hadn’t been stripped. This was rudimentary as it could get. Temporary. Good enough.

  He picked up a spade and began digging a hole while Liluth shaped the next trunk. Iron sank into soil like a sharpened spoon on a bread loaf. Digging hadn’t ever been so easy.

  However, Gabrielle was having a harder time thanks to her Lucky build. “Row, let’s swap shovels. I think mine is bro—” She yelped.

  “What?”

  The squeaks of a rat came out of a hole where she dug. The same rat from the first night. It was now massive, bigger than a pineapple with rigid, spiky fur. And it was fast, climbing the stick of her shovel. It was out for blood, for vengeance.

  Time slowed for Rowan.

  Mutated Arctic Rat (Level 12)

  Health: 100%

  He grabbed her arm.

  “Lord LeMort!” Liluth called, finally noticing.

  The rat jumped, somersaulted through the air, right for her face. Fangs of a viper extended.

  His heart skipped a beat. A primal reflex shoved her onto the ground. His right hand swatted the rat head-on, hellfire magic rushing down his arm.

  In rage black and crimson flames, the rat was erased from this world.

  But it had bit the back of his wrist. A different pain throbbed in two deep puncture marks. Veins blackened. Fingers numbing. And that god damned green icon was glowing above his health bar.

  Infection

  Severity: minor (progressing)

  -10% Constitution, Resistance, and Flow

  In seconds, his whole forearm was colder than ice while the rest of his body flushed with heat. A sweat broke out. Nausea swayed his balance, but he held onto a steadying arm from Gabrielle.

  “Ya okay?”

  “Get the honey,” he said in wheezing voice. The severity was already moderate. “Get the honey!” He pulled the first slave threads that came to his mind.

  Liluth ran off toward the storeroom. She was back in four seconds flat with a jar in hand. An empty jar. “None left.”

  “Get to the hive.” He pulled Skylar’s thread for assistance. “Liluth, you keep building.”

  “Yes, Lord LeMort.” A hint of concern was clear in her eyes.

  “How’s the Infection?” Gabrielle asked calmly, guiding him into the forest.

  “I hate rats.” He didn’t want to worry her.

  “Yeah, but how’s the infection. Hehehe. Spit it out.” She poked his rib.

  “Moderate. Progressing quickly.”

  “Could be worse.” There was a timid smile on the bottom half of her face.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Didn’t say it was.”

  “By that, I mean it is your fault. Your shit Luck build isn’t helping.”

  Her tongue clicked. “How about ya walk by yourself.”

  “Maybe I will—”

  Rumbles in the ground traveled up his legs. Cracks grew from a point in the soil next to a pine stump, and pink claws shredded unearthed roots. A long piggish snout and whiskers poked through. A mole. Its sickening high-pitched cry made Rowan’s hairs stand straight. Its tiny eyes were glowing red.

  This had to be a hallucination, but a health bar appeared along with a name and level.

  Giant Mole (Level 23, Enraged)

  Health: 100%

  It charged at Rowan.

  Ah, shit.

  He lazily outstretched his left arm and blasted it with a torrent of hellfire at maximum power. The Mole took it all head on. Dead. Erased.

  Except it wasn’t erased. A sheen of greenish-brown mana protected its fur and claws that were crossed in front of its snout—some sort of barrier skill.

  Rowan’s mana drained to zero. The flames vanished. His nausea worsened.

  A cheeky little bastard, the Mole’s claws dropped an inch. Its eyes widened as though surprised.

  Gabrielle’s Shroud activated, blossoming darkness. Her dagger was drawn. Her arm tightened around his chest.

  Skylar arrived on the scene. His jaw dropped. He reached for his bow.

  The Mole, someway able to sense Skylar, scampered back into its hole with comical haste. Gone.

  “What—” Skylar choked. “What was that?”

  “Giant Mole,” Gabrielle said nonchalantly. “Don’t have them back at Elvenhome?”

  Rumbles then shook Rowan’s ankles. There was a brown flash.

  He was suddenly flying high. Mountains and pines were revolving around him along with a beetle-si
zed dragon among the furtherest peaks. A branch caught him by the ribs. Boulders broke his fall, multiple bones cracking in his shoulder and ribs. The world turned black at the corners. His health bar approached zero.

  He pulled on every slave thread to Gabrielle’s aid before losing grip on life.

  * * *

  Gabrielle was playing whack-a-mole with a horse-sized mole. Giggling bubbly glee, she bounced on the balls of her feet, and jumped whenever blades of grass vibrated. Like right now. She hopped left and tucked into a beautifully graceful roll. Dirt and shredded roots exploded in her wake.

  Over there, behind the half-built palisade, Skylar fired a pretty arrow that trailed sparkling magic. His accuracy was praise-worthy, but, sadly, he didn’t hit the mark as the mole scurried back into the ground, and the ground was littered with holes. Like cheese. Disgusting brown cheese.

  And over there, by spiky rocks, a Demonborn named Rowan LeMort was on the brink of death again, bloodied and broken. Oh, her kitten was back—with claws out!

  Bad kitty!

  Belly quivering, Gabrielle once again tried sprinting for him.

  But the ground shook under he feet.

  She jumped, rolled, and peddled into a fumbling run, dodged another mud explosion. She was pretty good at rolling now. Thanks, mister mole!

  Behind, Luthias yelled, “Estrilda!” Taunt.

  Thanks, Luthias! This time, she made it to Row’s side. The smell of his blood was lame, and the kitten wasn’t around anymore, though it had left a claw mark, a shallow scratch, on his cheek. And only a scratch, most fortunately.

  Suddenly, Zaine came running through the trees. His boyish face was the definition of grouchy. “What is it?” he growled.

  Gabrielle thumbed over her shoulder. “Giant Mole! Get em for me, kay?”

  His sword was drawn. He stormed off into battle.

  “Be careful,” she called, “it’s got a magical shield and muddy blast.”

  Zaine grunted in understanding.

  Now, onto Row. She hoisted him by the armpit, glanced at his rat bite. The infection seemed… alright. She really couldn’t tell. “Row, ya awake?”

  His face remained at-peace. In the party list, his health was slowly crawling toward zero.

  Uh oh.

  She hurried toward her workshop, dragged his bigger body. His sandals were lost along the way; no biggie, because, on the bright side, his wounds were bleeding less by the yard. All that mud seemed to help, but maybe she was just hoping for the best. She couldn’t lose him to the Orcs now. Not ever. That terrible dream flashed before her eyes.

  She pinched the memory in the bud.

  Faenin neared with pickaxe in hand. “Lady LeMort, what—”

  “Clean water now. Go go go go.”

  He nodded, grabbed a pot, and ran off in his usual graceful run.

  She placed Rowan inside the renovated hovel, not wanting bloody her workshop. She palmed his forehead, which was pointless given his health bar. She mentally slapped herself straight, fetched bandages and cloths, then did best to clean his many wounds while Faenin dropped off big buckets of water one by one.

  “Thank you,” Gabrielle chirped. “Ya can go help the others.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Rowan didn’t wince or hiss a single time while she wiped away—out cold. Not a good sign.

  She soldiered on. She played priest as best as a Demonborn could without healing magic. Multitasking, she prayed, Some healing magic would help this moment, Drasear. How about another miracle? But her god would not, could not, do anything for her in this dire moment of need. What could a god of fire and smelly brimstone do here? Not much.

  Viola’s pretty silver-green eyes peeked into the door way. “I got some honey.”

  Wasn’t she a smart girl. “Thanks.” Gabrielle accepted the pot. “Done with the mole?”

  “They’re still fighting, but they’ve more or less got it. It’s lost a claw. Luthias is an amazing tank.”

  “Goodie.”

  Viola knelt on Rowan’s other side and helped with lacerations on his torso. “We don’t have a graveyard. Where will he go if he dies?”

  “Somewhere far, far away,” Gabrielle said flatly as another water bucket appeared at her side.

  “Where?”

  “Orc jail.”

  A lot of worry bulged Viola’s eyes. “I heard they’re even worse than the Trolls.”

  “Mmhm. They are.” Ample honey was poured onto Rowan’s infection.

  “I’m sure we’d be able to break him out.”

  That was a bit surprising. “We?”

  “Ye, of course. You two have helped Skylar and me, so I guess we owe you some. You broke us out of Troll jail. We’ve yet to return the favor.”

  “Ah, you’re a honorable pretty Elf girl.”

  “Yes, I am.” She blinked weirdly. She reached into a pocked in her rags. A loot gem glinted between her thumb and finger. “I found this by the palisade.”

  “Gimme” Gabrielle snatched it, and ordered it to magic up some antidote and healing potions. Bland magic spun on his palm as the gem glowed bright as the sun, forming a… silver chain.

  No, another onyx ring!

  Enchanted Onyx Silver Ring of Luck and Flow

  Type: Accessory (ring)

  Quality: 522 (Admirable)

  +12 Luck (Enchantment Quality: 621)

  +6 Flow (Enchantment Quality: 317)

  What were the odds? Too Lucky!

  “Wow,” Viola exclaimed.

  “Exactly what we need!” Gabrielle slipped it onto her right hand, the other active ring slot. She instantly was feeling luckier as the ring’s magic mixed with her own. With this, Rowan was absolutely going to make it through these bumps in the path!

  30

  Rowan woke to a stubborn groggy headache. His eyesight was blurry, the color balance of everything a few shades off. His left eye was greener. A diffuse ache clammed muscles in his shoulder and right.

  And then it all came rushing back, from Gabrielle tying a red string to that Giant Mole tunneling under his feet. And that damned rat. Why did it have to be rats and moles? Why not something more wholesome like rock golems?

  But he had survived. He was breathing. He was laying on his king sized next under a window of warped glass. Smeared patchwork clouds hung low. It was drizzling lightly. The room did not leak.

  He called, “Gab, are you there?” They were not in a party anymore. “Gab?!”

  Many seconds passed. No answer.

  He checked on the Elves, and their threads were missing. He reasoned he had passed them to Gabrielle, whose entry was also missing from his friend list. Panic gripped his throat as he hauled himself to his feet, pushed open the door, the heavier door with a creaking hinge. He stepped into waist-high grass.

  Their settlement was dilapidated.

  Wood was broken, cracked, mossy, and blackened at places. Much of the palisade had fallen over. The new storeroom was barely three walls. The workshop was missing entirely, simply gone as though it had never existed in the first place. How long had he been out? Days? Weeks?

  “Gab?!” he yelled. His voice echoed.

  He stood on the spot where the workshop had been. Not a trace of it remained, but memories of their few breakfasts, lunches, and dinners flashed by in his mind’s eyes and ears. All their conversations, planning. All their mirth. It was all gone.

  “Gab?!” he yelled again. “Where are you?!” His nosed clogged with salt. “Where—”

  There was a stained parchment in the grass. He plucked it and read a frisky handwriting. Gabrielle’s handwriting.

  Hey, Row. If you’re reading this, then I’m long gone. The Elves all died to a Troll raid, and I’m tired of starving. Sorry, I tried for you, I really did, but I can’t go on.

  Goodbye.

  “What? No. This can’t be right. How long was I out?” His fist scrunched the parchment. And where had she gotten parchment from?! “No! This isn’t real! Gab! If this is some s
ick joke, you—” His voice broke.

  Cackles sounded from behind.

  He spun around. Goosebumps itched on his wounds, for the ugly face of Jin’tal was in the ruined hovel’s door frame. His leg stepped backward. “What the hell?”

  “I was… waiting.”

  “I fucking killed you.”

  “You… are a slow one.”

  “You’re not real.” He extended his palm, and summoned hellfire, but his power was nowhere to be found. His chest was a hollow cavity. His heart wasn’t beating—no pulse. His health bar was empty.

  He was dead.

  Jin’tal kept on cackling, “Ah… hah hah hah.”

  The parchment dropped to the grass, and a gust of wind carried it away into the forest. Vertigo stretched trees and grass as it dawned on him. He was dead, and not just dead. He was a ghost. His fingers were a little transparent, more so when he held his hand in front of the sun.

  Jin’tal’s voice became high pitched, “Row. I’m here. I’m here.”

  And now this Troll’s spirit was mocking him.

  “Row, I’m here. Wake up!”

  A frown creased his brow. “What did you say?

  “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” Jin’tal exclaimed in perfect copy of Gabrielle’s voice.

  Something invisible slapped his cheek, then his other cheek.

  Everything went dark.

  He fell down a black hole. He hit the bottom. A jolt shook him to the bone as though hit by lightning, and he was once again laying on his king sized bed. His heart was racing, but quickly slowed to a beat a second. His linen garb was damp with cold sweat.

  Just a dream. A nightmare.

  He glanced at his health bar, which was amazingly stable at seventy-eight percent. The Infection debuff was gone. Six slave threads were leading this way and that.

  And Gabrielle was back at his side, her crimson cat eyes filled with concern. “Wake up!” Her hand moved, slapping.

  He caught her wrist. “My eyes are open.”

  “Hehehe. I know. Just wanted to slap ya for making a ruckus.” Cheerful as always.

  “How long have I been out for?” The system clock read 5:32 AM. The sky was dark blue. No drizzle.

  “Almost…” Her eyes strayed. “Twelve hours.”

  Shivering, he exhaled freezing air. “That’s a relief.”