Chapter Twenty Eight: New Spell, Who Dis?

Basho Bal was his name, and he didn’t have time for this. His patience was at an all-time low, and he was very tempted to sweep the men and boys aside and just enter the tavern. He needed to talk to the woman who owned this place, but he did not want to have to control the locals in order to do it.

The problem with merely entering the establishment was, he would have to take the pitchfork and the wood axes away from the Humans blocking his path. If one of them tried to menace Goha Za, it would mean instant bloodshed. Judging by their size, some of these Humans were quite young, and therefore even more likely to make a mistake that got them all killed.

“Okay, we get it. You don’t serve Orcs. Even though it's raining, and we have coin. Will you just tell the woman who owns this place that we need to talk to her?” The men looked at each other without moving. Basho felt his frustration mount a little higher.

“Basho.” Salla had eyes left, so Basho looked to the left. Dammit.

Some sort of a Human, in steel armor and glowing like a true believer. And there was his Priest, who was also half a Human. Basho folded his arms and waited, certain that he would see a full party before they were through. The High Elf was no surprise, but the Driole surely was. Why would a varmint be all the way in Peyd?

If the Driole was a surprise, the last member of their party absolutely shocked Basho.

Bringing up the rear, wearing blue and green robes and weilding a runestick, was a Troll. Basho looked over at Gor Thenz, who gave him an alarmed look and subtly held up three fingers. So he was either Mag Endoz or, if they were incredibly stupid, Mad Morlz. Either way they didn’t have much of a chance. Already mohaz gamza? The entire party likely couldn’t kill him. And if he was Mad Morlz, they’d be lucky to get out of this alive. What was he doing with these Humans? Was the foolish Elf woman teaching him?

“That’s about enough of that.” The Human declared pompously in Common. Basho ignored him, addressing the Troll in Goad.

“Little Brother, where did you find such a ridiculous group? I know some hearty young adventurers who would be honored to have a fearsome magician like you in their party. There’s no need to humiliate yourself in this fashion.” The Troll stepped forward, and Basho saw that he was younger than he had first thought. He was tall, his lowers proclaiming him Lowlands tribe. His claws looked stiff and sharp but unused. He held the quarterstaff like he knew how to wield it. His gear was clip, as the kids liked to say. What was he doing with Humans? Did they know he was magus? Probably. Humans were reckless.

“You don’t like my friends? You just haven’t taken the time to get to know them. What are you doing here, if I may ask?” His accent was crisp and smooth, pure Peyd. Wherever he had met these allies of his though, it certainly wasn’t around here.

Basho was even more certain that they were inside a Walking Dream. Instance, the Humans called it. The Drow referred to it as an Enchanter’s Dungeon, which Basho had always thought was the most accurate. Most adventurers thought that such magical questing dungeons were singular events, never realizing that the only reason they didn’t see a party of the opposite faction was timing. The enchantment would even go out of its way to compress or stretch time in an effort to get two groups to run concurrent parties. In the past, the most arduous quests and the rarest rewards were all made with competition and cooperation strategies in mind.

“The same as you. We are here on a quest to defeat The Tar Witch and free the Stanish Manor and bloodline from the curse. How else could we be inside this enchantment with you?”

“So it is an Instance.” The Driole sounded self-satisfied, as though he had just won a debate in his mind. He looked around suspiciously, as though he could discern the truth or illusion of things simply by looking hard enough. Basho was fairly certain that the varmint was an Illusionist, which meant that he probably had an idea how it was made, if not why. Gor Thenz held up four fingers when he glanced over. They were all so green.

“All I wish is to consult with the woman who owns this establishment. Then I will be on my way.” He spoke slowly, in Common, even though he knew perfectly well that they understood his Goad.

The Human, who Basho judged was very likely a competent fighter, replied just as deliberately in Goad, “You will not have the gronnibox, Orc. You are too late.” He was a head shorter than Basho was, and weighed significantly less, but he radiated confidence. It was an admirable act.

“Keep your spirits, Human. She has knowledge that we seek, that is all. Then we can leave you to it.”

The Human turned to one of the peasants who worked in the yard. “See if Mistress Jentrugh will come to the door. I promise that she will be safe from harm. They are not liars, or agents of Chaos.” He hadn’t looked closely enough at their Cleric.

The oldest of the Humans took the opportunity to dash up the stairs and through the door, pressing his wood axe into the hands of the adolescent standing on the stairs behind him. Basho watched him speak to a woman in fancy, colorful clothing, who had been peering out one of the nearest windows, most likely listening to every word. Hopefully, she would deign to speak to them.

He thought that a little courtesy of his own might go a long way, at this point. He turned back, his mouth opened to say thank you. He had intended to say it to the Human, since he was still standing directly in front of him. Except as he turned, he was just in time to see the tall, young Troll become engulfed in flames. He exploded in a Fireball.

**********

Zuglah was surprised, to say the least.

First, he was bathed in flames. Then the Fireball exploded. He exploded.

This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

He didn’t know what was more frightening, and which was more painful. The explosion of flames was accompanied by a clap of thunder that rattled his brain from the inside out. He felt like a giant had slapped his skin from head to toe, or his entire body had been stung by venomous wasps. Of the friendly people around him, it appeared as though only Denton was still on his feet. Warwick was quickest to rise, raising his hammer to his lips and whispering. Zuglah felt the stinging on his skin abate immediately.

Pliesson and Chayah were both up, circling around to put the fighters between them and trouble. They both looked a bit shaken, but the Healing had done its job.

The Orcs had fared a little better. None of them appeared to have been knocked down, or at least they had regained their feet before Zuglah could spare them any attention. The peasants on the stairs, however, were all down and refused or were unable to get up. Denton and Warwick began hauling them inside the doors as quickly as they could.

Zuglah became aware of the screaming of horses. He spun around in time to see that all five of the Orc’s mounts were rearing and kicking, bucking and running. There was a small, slow crowd of what could only be zombies surrounding them, and Zuglah was glad now of the Orcish habit of dropping their reins instead of tying them. The horses seemed to escape virtually unharmed.

Zuglah was not so sure that the rest of them would be saying the same thing. Everywhere he looked, there were pockets of zombies, perhaps six strong. And every single one of them had an accompanying creature. There appeared to be Ghouls, and Wights, Spectres and Banshee. There were Sketal swordsmen flanked by archers and spearmen, shield bearers and pikemen.

They came as a slow moving army, coming down the same hill that they themselves had come down, but following no path. They came out of the woods on one side, or down the hill through the tall corn field on the other. And, glowing an icy, cold white-blue aura that seemed too bright in the evening darkness, came the Lich.

She had a screech that probably frightened even the Banshee, with sickly, green miasma seeping from her scalp and down through her thin, cobweb hair. The poison mist surrounded her. Her crown was tangled into that mess, resting atop the grinning skeleton face and imbuing her with Eldritch power. She floated along like a Spectre, but was neither Undead nor strictly speaking alive.

To either side of her were two ponderous, clay and stone Gargoyles. They moved in jerks and fits, incredible bursts of energy required to shift each arm, or flap a wing. The only time they became animated and smooth was in battle. Their anger allowed them to function at frightening speeds and efficiency. To reign in a pair of them at once would require either an iron will or their devoted loyalty. Either way it did not bode well.

A brilliant bolt of lightning came from above and lit the Lich from the inside, spreading across the ground and jumping to both of the Gargoyles. Zuglah was sure that had been Chayah, he had seen her use that same Heavy Lightning spell against the feral hogs.

Zuglah himself didn’t have anything that could reach that far, but he agreed that the Lich was their most dangerous opponent. It was most likely who had hit him with the Fireball. He really wanted it to come within range.

He sent a barrage of Dancing Mana towards the zombies that had attacked the horses. They were the closest, and had managed to batter their way through the front gate. Even upgraded, the barrage of five bullets failed to drop the first of the zombies. When he hit it with The Ice Blade, it stubbornly refused to go down. The whole group of them slowed right down to a crawl, but they kept coming. A chill wind tickled his hair, his ears, the back of his neck. It turned to ice, and he began to feel fearful. It was all he could do not to run. Warwick shouted something he couldn’t hear, then dispelled his fear. He turned back to Denton without a word.

An aura began glowing in front of Zuglah. It was sickly at first, then shot through with veins of silver. The ardent color swiftly overtook the greenish, swampy gaseousness and turned it to mist. In the form of a woman.

Zuglah could see a glistening, dewey face. She was even young, and pretty for a Human. She smiled, and whispered secrets that he absolutely had to hear. He leaned in, thinking that perhaps she wouldn’t mind just one quick kiss… after all, they were in love, weren’t they?

Blessed Light bathed them both. His new Beloved looked confused, then hurt. Swiftly that turned to fury and she screamed in Zuglah’s face as she caught fire. A white, Holy fire that stripped away her beauty and youth, turning her from an effervescent being of mist and delicate light to a dark, ancient malevolence that was inches away from pulling his soul out of his body through his puckered lips.

With a cry of alarm and perhaps a little disgust, he leapt backwards and sprayed her with a Blast of Frost. As she slowed, he was able to pull back until Denton and Warwick were holding him upright and bracing him. “Zuglah c’mon, man. Twice? Have you never met a Ghost before?” He had, but Warwick didn’t wait for a reply. He just shoved the much taller Troll behind himself so he could focus on keeping his Fighter hale.

Zuglah was too embarrassed to look over at Chayah, so he cast his single Bolt towards the group of zombies that had been with the Ghost. He pushed mana through the Bolt until it had jumped to the entire squad, then threw another. On his third one, the whole group was decimated. They were burned, barely alive or moving, and Denton was able to kill them all in seconds.

But it had taken way too long. These zombies were just one group, and there were dozens of groups. The huge Orc was shoulder to shoulder with Denton, and the two of them moved out into the yard. They squeezed and contained the zombies between them with their shields, while silver chains wrapped the Wight that accompanied them. It gibbered, and then shuddered as it was enveloped in a strangling darkness.

It was an effective tactic, but the problem was that an entire other group of zombies was falling upon Denton from behind, led by a floating Spectre. The Orcish Champion was being flanked in a similar way, but his two sibling bodyguards had jumped in to intercept that squad. Zuglah could see no other choice. He blinked.

Upon landing, Zuglah snarled as loudly as he could. Not because he hoped to intimidate a bunch of zombies; they were dead, after all. But his Push spell depended upon how much inner will he could muster. He Pushed.

He most likely could have flung any one zombie pretty far, because they were brainless. But the sheer weight of trying to shove six zombies and a Spectre was insurmountable. He had thought that because the Spectre was floating it would be an easy target, and if he had used his body that might have been true.

But he had been trying to throw the Spectre with his mind, and unlike its feet, the Spectre’s mind had all the traction it could ever need. Add in six almost weightless, but not quite, zombies, and the result was Zuglah flinging himself backwards to crash into Denton.

The pair of them went down in a heap. Zuglah had to physically crawl off of his friend, then haul him to his feet amid a group of slowly snarling brain munchers. This time, Zuglah Pushed each zombie in rapid succession, but focused on spelling them away one at a time. They flew a satisfying distance, but it was not quick.

“Sorry. It’s a new spell.” He grinned at Denton, who shot him a quick laugh.

“Zuglah, you’ve done in two weeks what takes most new Wizards as much as two years. It’s nothing to be sorry for.” He grinned back, which made him look youthful and boyish. “But still, let’s stop embarrassing ourselves in front of the Orcs, okay?”

Zuglah agreed that sounded like a good plan. The Lich did not.

They both looked up at the bone-rattling screech from directly above them. The two gargoyles had flown, pushing the floating Lich along, until she was a hundred feet directly above them.

As she rained down sleet and ice and lightning all around them, the two stone monsters simply folded in their vast, bat-like wings and became siege-engine sized boulders, falling on them from the skies.