Chapter Thirty Nine: It’s Raining, Men!
The relationship between a Fighter and his Healer was a delicate balance. Of course there were buffs and healing, but there was also a certain rhythm, a pace to the give and take. When two well-matched Warriors met in combat, often the victory went to the one who could impose their own rhythm upon their opponents, force them to defend or spend heals in ways they hadn’t budgeted for.
Gooth Gahan was no ordinary Fighter, however. He was highly skilled and wildly aggressive, raining blows from both sabers almost nonstop as he pushed Denton around the hard dirt of the arena floor. More than once he landed flush with a front kick that he delivered low onto Denton’s breastplate, sending him staggering backwards. For his part, Denton managed to employ both sword and shield in his efforts to block or deflect the savage attacks. He did not try to retaliate, simply stayed within range and waited for an opportunity. It was a strategy that required some nerve.
Especially considering that the Tauren Shaman had charged forward and engaged with Warwick directly. If anything went wrong, he might be on his own to deal with it.
The large, heaving Shaman swung his iron-shod cudgel with both hands, forcing Warwick to put the head of his Great Maul in its path. The weight of the hammer took care of the rest. But the Tauren was surprisingly fast, making Warwick block with the shaft of the hammer as well. This was when the horned bastard would twist his swing, trying time and again to smash Warwick’s fingers.
Almost a separate battle, Zuglah found himself put forward as a representative of The Cowardly Casters’ Guild, his congregation standing dutifully behind him, and a little to the side. He found himself squaring off against the Orc, holding a longsword in one hand and a familiar looking dagger in the other. Briarthorn.
Before Zuglah could so much as shout a warning, a thick, hard tangling of vines grew up around his ankles, quickly reaching his hips and twisting around them like a belt. When they reached their full height, the thorns stopped growing. The vines stopped moving, and Zuglah could hear the frustrated swearing of his Human companion. When he glanced over his shoulder, he was just able to glimpse Pliesson down on all fours, scampering out of the affected area with ease. Zuglah blinked, putting himself alongside Pliesson, behind the hedges. A half moment after he moved, a thick, black arrow streaked through the place where he had been standing.
At the same time, a bitter wind arose from nowhere, driving ice crystals and stinging rain before it. This wasn’t the biting cold Sleet spell that he and Randall knew, this was different. He could smell the mana on the wind, but Zuglah knew that there was more to this storm. He was seeing the beginnings of a Sorcerer's Maelstrom.
Zuglah tossed out a Splendid Wall, hoping to cover Randall long enough to fight his way free of the thorns. There was no helping it; the price of his freedom was going to be paid in pain. He was going to emerge from there bloody or burnt.
Randall surprised him by choosing neither. He grabbed a pair of the thorned branches and began channeling Lightning. Instantly, the thorns turned black, then the vines. It was already dying. Huh.
Peals of thunder began to rumble in the distance, making the hairs stand up on the back of Zuglah’s arms. The huge Tauren archer came around the nearest side of the wall, sword drawn, and came straight for Zuglah.
On the other side, the heavy Orc appeared and made for Randall. He had a big, Orcish grin on his face that made Zuglah’s blood run cold, even with the Tauren bearing down on him. He could not understand why Orcs affected him so much. He was holding an odd hammer, long handled and ornate but with a head that was almost delicate. It radiated an uncomfortable ochre coloured light that somehow made the hammer more difficult to see.
Randall immediately let out a screech of alarm upon seeing the Orc, and fell back on his favorite spell, the Lightning. Randall and the Orc were instantly connected by a blinding incandescent bar of electricity. They stayed like that for a few long seconds, and after a moment Zuglah was able to discern through the blaze of light that the bolt was following the Orc’s other hand as it moved in front of him. His hooked knife was absorbing, or perhaps redirecting, the Lightning.
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Redda Mo did not like to be dropped. This was a fact that Zuglah’s runestick had explained to him ad nauseum. If Redda Mo ever started a sentence with “Remember that time…?” Zuglah was positive that he was referring to the time he had accidentally dropped him while getting his arm broken. Therefore Zuglah always tried to keep as firm a grip as possible on his iron-shod friend.
So when Redda Mo suddenly attempted to pull his arm out of its socket, he knew to tighten his grip before the staff could spin out of it. As he turned back, Zuglah could see that the tall, bovine warrior had been expecting an easy kill. He had seen his opponent distracted and sought to strike before he could recover. Had it not been for Redda Mo, it would have worked, too.
When fighting a skilled opponent, one had to maintain the strictest focus. The smallest lapse in concentration, such as trying to squeeze off a cantrip, could spell disaster. But Redda Mo’s defense was immaculate. He had never once let a blade touch Zuglah, much less cut him, and it seemed like he wasn’t about to start now. The Tauren Ranger was huffing mightily, a sign of growing anger or frustration among his people. Zuglah never liked Taurens very much, finding them a brutish and uncharitable people by nature.
Zuglah didn’t try to close with the beast, or get a thrust in with his dagger, because he didn’t want to lose a hand. But aiming almost from his hip, he cast an Ice Blade dead center at the Tauren’s body. The Ice Blade vanished, with no more visible effect than Randall’s Lightning had had. What the hell, are they immune to all the elements?
He didn’t have time for this. If he waited another second, he somehow felt that his friends weren’t going to last. “I’ve seen stiffer horns on a goat. Redda Mo, see if you can knock one off.” Zuglah spoke in Goad, and the Tauren’s beady red eyes widened in rage. He reared his head, roaring as he charged. Zuglah cast Brambles upon them both.
The way these vines grew, the spell was designed to hamper movement, or stop it completely. So anyone who was unlucky enough to get caught in them, was instantly snared. As a result, any combatants with too much momentum, for example a charging bull on two legs, would fall face first. Into the rapidly growing thorn bushes.
As the large, leather-bound archer thrashed and growled in anger, Zuglah gave the situation on the other side a glance. The big Shaman was putting all his weight onto one foot, the other dragging behind him and almost useless. It looked at first as though Warwick had landed a mighty blow with his maul. But Zuglah noticed that the blood running down the thigh of Gooth Gahan was hardly affecting his mobility at all. The Shaman was housing damage for his Champion. Warwick and Denton both looked battered.
Over to his right, Zuglah saw an astonishing sight. Pliesson had reared up to his full height, and his normally rotund body now looked long and lean, more reminiscent of an otter or some kind of a weasel. His body was turned sideways in a classic fencer’s stance, and he was wielding Phantom as though he was giving free lessons.
The sheer elegance of the blade, the economy of motion itself, was a revelation. Zuglah was instantly struck by the stark beauty of the dance and he understood. The Phantom Blade appeared to be too light, too fragile. How could one hope to use it in real combat? But simply put, no sword or even hammer was fast enough, or precise enough, to meet this sword blade to blade. It only had a half foot of serrated cutting edge, more than enough to get in and maim a wrist or open an artery, and a tip that made a surgeon’s needle appear blunt. Phantom was not an impenetrable wall, like Redda Mo was, but rather it was a swarm of iron bees. The Orc was already bleeding in several spots.
As he was about to turn and look for the Troll, Zuglah was struck by an impossibly painful bolt of Lightning. His mind went blank, and he didn’t know if he screamed or not, but he assumed so. It seemed to go on forever. When he came back to his senses, he was on fire.
He had tried to take a second to determine which of his friends needed the most help, but it turned out to be him. His brambles were in tatters, and the huge Tauren Ranger once again reared above him. His robes were literally burning, as were the thorns and vines, and the Tauren too. But he was already swinging.
Zuglah reeled. His legs were burning, but his head hurt worse from the Lightning. His Splendid Wall had burst, and the Troll Sorcerer was grinning at him wickedly. “You don’t know what you’re doing, do you? This isn’t even going to be fun. You are an embarrassment.” Zuglah silently agreed, grateful that the ruthless bastard had spoken in Troll. Maybe nobody else would know what he had said.
Denton and Warwick were both ragged looking, and both operating on raw instinct. Warwick was awash in white Light, and it looked to Zuglah like he had basically lit his mana on fire, trying to keep him and his Fighter alive. Randall was on his hands and knees, shaking his head but also trying to cast something. Pliesson was still on his feet, gallantly fighting the Orc despite his smoking fur. The Troll had struck them all.
And he was absolutely going to do it again.