Tad

Riding Keg back through the entrance, Tad had to maneuver around chunks of brick and smoldering roofing left after the elf’s assault. Just past the doorway, Palical and the others were gathered. Drawing nearer, Tad saw Gint was laid against one of the troll’s boulders. His chest was swathed in a blood-soaked bandage. “Oh no,” he gasped at the sight.

“I don’t think I can help him,” Henri said.

Tad brought the boar to a stop just past the door, still on the structure’s stoop. “Keep quiet,” he hissed at the sprite. “They don’t want to hear from a sprite right now.” He dismounted Keg and shoved the sprite’s stick into his harness. The boar spun about, trying to lap at the prisoner, but Tad smacked his snout and ordered him not to eat the sprite. He walked up to Palical, his drawn face telling Tad that Gint’s end was near. Where did a goblin of the North Country go in death? Did also toil endlessly in the Spirited Works?

“Tad?” Gint lifted up his left hand. His fingers spasmed. Tad gripped it, the blood making their palms stick. “Had to try to and take on a sprite myself … like you …”

His eyes glistened with tears. “A warrior to the end,” Tad’s voice trembled. Was it his fault that Gint was about to die?

“Warrior?” Gint let off a rasping laugh. “Toss that in the outhouse! Mind if I get a drink a little early, boss?”

An orc offered Palical a stout blue bottle flask with silver inlays. Palical indicated Tad with a nod and so the orc handed it to him instead. Tad took the container and plucked out its stopper, a silver bulb. The goblin gagged after barely a whiff of the bottle’s contents burnt his nostrils. A laugh rippled across the soldiers so Tad paused a moment, waiting for it to subside. However it seemed somehow better for there to be a moment of levity among so much death.

Kneeling beside Gint, Tad tipped the mouth of the flask to his lips and let the liquid, mostly clear with a hint of blue ribboned by the telltale sparkle of Moonberry, pour into Gint’s mouth. Although the injured goblin worked his lips slightly to pull in the drink, much of it spilled out, dribbling down his chin and into his wounds. Gint hissed in pain and shut his eyes tight.

Tad withdrew the bottle. “Sorry,” he said, followed by a whimpered laugh.

“It’s alright. It was just what …” Gint rolled his head from side-to-side, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. “Needed. Just one last …” He fell silent. Although his eyes were open, they no longer stared, not even at nothing.

Hesitantly, Tad reached up and touched Gint’s cheek. “Gint?” When no response came he pulled back his hand and covered his own face, hiding his tears as they came out with pained gulps for air. The container dropped to the ground and its alcohol began spilling out.

“Now, now, we’ll have none of that.” Palical patted Tad on the right shoulder, needing only his fingertip to do so. “We’ve still much work to do.” He addressed his assembled squad. “Gather up his belongings and set them aside. I’ll see to it that his wife gets them.”

“Wife?” Tad dragged the back of his arm across his face to dry his tears.

“Right,” Palical started, a befuddled smirk on his face. “You lot are a little different. Just think of her as Gint’s boss … not like me. A special boss.”

Another round of laughter broke out among the soldiers, a little more muffled.

“Make sure she gets the bow. She’s a hunter,” Palical said to the scouts who gathered up Gint’s belongings. He grabbed the flask from the ground, pinching it between two fingers, and presented it to Tad. “However, I think you ought to have this. It’s a handsome bottle for our special reserve.”

Tad gathered the flask and stopper. “To remind me of how terrible I am at this?” The container reminded him of a canteen he had slung to Keg. Although it was a standard issue from the Machines Works, it suffered from a slow leak, so Tad had to keep it wrapped in cloth to stem the flow. Glum had gifted it to him, a relic of his sting with the Logistics Corps, before Tad headed off to Terror Fields. He hefted the fancy flask in his hand. “I’m sorry, that was … I’m being …”

“Honest,” Palical concluded for him. “No shame in that. I’ll be honest with you too, Tad; it is to remind you of your failings at this.” Palical tapped a pouch on his belt. “I have a friend’s tooth here. He died long ago, during our very first battle. I was terrible at keeping my comrade alive. As I’ve risen through the ranks and taken on responsibility I’ll never forget how terrible I could be and I’ll always do my best to be better than I was that day.” He poked Tad’s chest with his index finger, making the goblin gasp. “And you, too, must always strive to be better. But don’t lose sight of the fact that death is inevitable, Tad. In war, you can’t ensure everyone’s life is spared. I know this is your first time in command, and it’s not the sort of life you Machine Works fellows fall into often, so this canteen is to remind you of that fact … death will come and in battle it can be especially horrible, but come it must.”

With a hesitant smile, Tad clutched the canteen to his chest. “Thank you,” he said, meek. He watched at Gint’s body was dragged away.

“He was proud of you, you know. We may be a little by ourselves up in the North Country, and you lot from the domain of Withering Sorrows can be especially, but goblins don’t get a lot of respect in any of the Dread Lords’ domains. Then you go and do the unthinkable and actually capture an invader from the World of Light! Gint was starting to think that Withering Sorrows’ domain might be one we’d be proud of being a part of.” Palical stood up and wandered across the floor of the dilapidated building. He looked up at the sky through the torn, partially collapsed second floor and roof above that.

Still hugging the canteen to himself, Tad followed the troll. “Well, then I hope he can sing the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows’ praises to the Makers.”

“Sing the … ?” Palical shot a quizzical glance at Tad. “Ah, spending the rest of eternity telling the Makers how great a Dread Lord was doesn’t sound like fun to me. Not without an occasional drink.”

Now that he mentioned it, Tad couldn’t believe the warriors would bother to cheer without a drink in hand. “There’s a moonberry orchard beyond death?”

Palical’s laughter was explosive. “If there was no cider, we’d all be immortal like the wraiths! Yes, there’s a moonberry orchard there. It’s always plucking season. The mornings cool, the afternoons warm, and every night is a harvest festival! Me and my old drinking buddies will discuss brewing, dance with pretty trolls, and fall asleep laden by drink.” He gave Tad a sidelong smile. “Gint better save a space for me!”

Tad looked away to hide his tears. That sounded much nicer than toiling in the Spirited Works. Except for the dancing with trolls thing. He’d be too worried about getting crushed underfoot.

The smell wafting up from the canteen stung, and he told himself that was why he was crying anew. Rubbing his eyes, Tad held the canteen out to Palical. “Speaking of cider, with this special reserve?”

“That would be our Special Reserve. It has considerably more kick than our usual ciders. It disinfects wounds, starts fires, and dulls the senses. Very handy in the field.”

“It’s potent enough to burn?” Tad looked around the building. Somewhere hidden on the remnants of a second floor was the elf and sprite. Palical’s communicator could take care of Henri’s sister. As for the elf, seemed to favor being cautious and striking from afar, if this drink was flammable he could force her into acting recklessly. “Hey, Palical, get me all your soldiers’ Special Reserve.” Gint’s place in the afterlife would be impressive indeed once he could boast about being a part of the team that captured not just one, but three invaders from the World of Light!

Ayara

Hunched over in the corner of a roofless room, Ayara twisted the jeweler’s screwdriver, rolling its handle between the thumb and index finger in her exposed right hand. She struggled to breathe slowly so as not to disrupt her minute work, but it was a losing battle as the screwdriver dropped from between her fingers and rolled along the floor to disappear beneath shattered tiles. With a groan Ayara set down her glove and crawled along the floor, her knees and calves scraping broken flooring, as she sought the tool.

Erratic shadows from frames and exposed beams crossed the ground, making it hard for the elf to focus. She paused, hearing footsteps in the distance, and decided it better to be armed with faulty gear than caught unawares. She rose and snatched up the glove to pull it over her right hand. As she flexed her fingers a mild jolt made her teeth chatter.

Squatting, she waddled to Renaut, who peered into the hall below through a hole in the floor big enough for Ayara to descend. Through the entryway they could see the monsters were still gathered, but fewer of them.

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“They’re up to something,” Renaut commented. She pointed below. “The leaders like that big troll with the boulders and Tad? They left. But this group has been standing around the entrance there. Nobody’s ventured into the building to look for us. I did hear lots of feet above. They’re probably scouring the roof to find us.”

“Assume they did. That would mean goblins gathered around the opening above us, either waiting for the order to attack or to prepared to ambush us when we emerge.” She glanced up, seeing only the uneven hole in the roofing and a gloomy grey blue sky above. Even without a cloud in the sky it always looked like it was about to rain in this dreadful place.

“They probably think our priority is rejoining our allies rather than rescuing my brother. I doubt these brutes would understand.”

“But if Tad left with Henri, don’t we want to escape? Why stay in this temple?” She then realized why this stretched vestibule was two tiered; what was the ornate floor below was meant to be enjoyed by visitors from the World of Light while the one above was meant for monsters.

Renaut gasped and flashed Ayara a scowl. “New plan, then: we go down and through the front door or maybe find a break in the walls somewhere down the hall.”

The lower level was constructed from stone while this one was built atop it with timber, which was why it hadn’t survived nearly so well. There wouldn’t be so many opportunities to escape. “We need to go through the roof!” When Ayara looked up she saw goblin faces lining the opening above. They smiled with hideous little yellow teeth and orange tusks showing as they tossed down sopping rags and glass bottles which smashed on the floor. The reek of potent alcohol stung Ayara’s nose. “Fire,” she cried out as she ran to snatch Renaut.

Above them, stones clacked together to send sparks raining down. The floor erupted into flame, the heat striking Ayara’s back as she dove through the hole onto the floor below. As they landed, Renaut reeled in spiderwebs, frowning as the leaves at the end burnt away.

“Losing too many!” Renaut slipped from Ayara’s hands, using her remaining leaves to propel her toward the orcs waiting outside. As she emerged into the sunlight she began slicing the orc beside the door.

A goblin dropped into the open doorway. He raised up his left hand, which held a bottle holding a flaming rag in its mouth, and tossed it down the hall toward Ayara. The floor and walls were immediately doused in flames while orcs threw in kindling to exasperate the fire. Behind the wall of flames, two of the orcs fighting Renaut held up black metal slabs to her. A moment later she dropped to the ground.

The orcs seemed prepared to combat Ayara if she emerged to face them. With her shield spells she could charge through the flames, but with the lenses misaligned she might not make it. Had Tad surmised her gloves weren’t working? Perhaps he had plans for either going through the door or being flushed down the hall.

One of the orcs picked up Renaut, pinching the back of her robe to left her, keeping her at arm’s length. Another orc held out an opened bag so Renaut could be dropped in. She was captured; she was safe.

“Okay, Tad, we’ll play it your way,” Ayara said as she turned about and ran toward the temple.

The floorboards and roof above rattled as goblins and orcs gave chase, following her run through the vestibule. Occasionally, she saw the shadows of attackers above slant against the floor. To stave off their attacks she blasted at them. Each barrage landed more wildly than the last as pain mounted in her arms. Eventually there were no more openings above, and Ayara realized that the hall had become a tunnel, as the temple it lead to was underground.

The hall widened, eventually ending at an expansive antechamber for grand, bright blue doors with hearths on either side. The walls bore murals depicting of the Rebirth of Primarch, the gruesome myth of rebellion and dismemberment which brought about the eight races of the world. The paint was bright and its lines crisp, indicating the disuse which had befallen the rest of the prison hadn’t occurred here. She strolled up to the doors, which parted upon her approach.

On the other side, the boulder-wielding troll waited. As he belted out a battle cry he lifted his stone gloves into the air. When they banged against the vaulted ceiling the chandelier hanging behind him shook, making its chains of red crystals wave about with an enchanting ringing as the shadows danced dizzyingly around the altar below.

His lips warbled around his outstretched mouth as he continued his roar and Ayara realized it was mere distraction. Ayara threw her hands at her sides to squeeze off blasts. Orcs on both sides of the door grunted in pain. As dropped weapons struck the floor she stepped back. The troll charged her and flailed with her fists of stone. Ayara blasted at his face, forcing him to falter a blow as he raised up his left hand to prevent his eyes from being seared out.

“Dirty play,” he grumbled.

Ayara slipped past him and into the altar room. To keep the troll out of the fray she turned and shot above the entryway to crash down the wall. One of the doors flopped onto the pile. An injured orc coughed as stone and dust buried him. Other orcs, armed, raced toward Ayara as the troll began sweeping debris out of the doorway with swipes of his massive arms.

This lot was much better trained than the ones she killed last night. Battle hardened orcs, she endured the shock to her arms to deflect their blows with her shield with one hand while squeezing off blasts with the other. The blade spell would likely hurt too much, and make her lose consciousness. A bolt from one of the goblin’s crossbows zipped past her shield and nicked her leg. Ayara dropped to one knee. This was it, then. They’d kill her.

The orcs descended on her. Her arms were held and gloves pulled from her hands while another orc gripped the back of her neck. Her scarf was knocked off, showing her bright blue hair. Turned to the altar, Ayara saw her opponent, the goblin mastermind named Tad. He sat in the symbol of Primarch, the central figure of any such church; two arcs curved towards each other, symbolizing the the tear where the two sides of the ocean spilled into the unknown depths beneath The Map. This space was reserved for the Clinician, but instead the diminutive goblin rested at the edge of the seat, holding up both captive sprites. However, rather than sit there gloating over his victory, he appeared worried. His face was drawn, his lips pursed, his brows tilted up. With his chubby cheeks and big yellow eyes he was far more babe than boss. Yet these orcs were clearly answering to him.

“Henri said your name is Ayara.” He glanced at the sprite who was clumsily tied to a stick with too much twine. His head hung limp.

Ayara’s boot tips scraped the floor as orcs pushed her forward. She twisted in their grips just enough to seem unwilling to be brought nearer this monstrous mastermind. It seemed even he was silly enough to think her unarmed. “Did you torture that information from him?”

Biting his lower lip, the goblin seemed almost wounded by the accusation. “No! We were just talking!” He looked away. “He was nice enough … once he stopped killing my friends.”

“Friends?”

“I mean, I just met them but,” he looked about. As though receiving instruction from elsewhere he changed his demeanor, stiffening his back and setting his jaw as he looked up at her from behind furrowed brows. He cleared his throat with pomp. “Never mind that! You need to surrender or else we’ll … roast you alive,” he threatened with a ridiculously deepened voice, his face blushing from the effort.

“And eat me?” Ayara rolled her eyes at his rote threat.

“Yes! Why else would we roast you?”

As she flexed her right pinky, Ayara let off a haughty snort. “Kid, this is probably the most of me you’d be able to chomp down.”

The orcs around her laughed. The two holding her loosened their grips as they joined in. Tad looked up, his eyes wide, perhaps even watery. It was the troll who shouted for the orcs to be quiet, reminding them that Tad was a representative of War Master Hohza. That was the fearsome orc she’d seen battling Bonnelle; if that brute set his mind to it he could make a feast of Kornin. How could this fresh faced boy come into his employ, Ayara wondered.

“You’d have done better to remind me that you’re literally holding Henri and Renaut in your hands and could kill them if I refused surrender.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“I could.”

“Could what?”

“Kill your friends.”

“I’ve known them for years and I’m not entirely sure I’d call them ‘friends.’”

The boy glanced at Henri, who still hanged limp against his bonds. “So … you don’t care?”

“Of course I care! They’re comrades; I’ve a duty to them.” She moved forward, holding out her hands to the boy as she pleaded for his understanding. She was a full two steps away from the orcs before she realized they’d failed to hold her. It was now or never. She reached to her waist and drew two small curved knives from them. She vaulted over the altar to land silently, crouching on the seat behind the goblin. Before he could scream out she had one arm wrapped around his neck to lay the edge of the knife against his throat. “Which means I’ll kill to protect them,” she growled into his right ear. Being so near, she realized how foul these things smelled. Even though he looked like a little boy, despite the big ears and sharp jutting tusks, he reeked of being a monster; blood, stale sweat, and … fear. “Now about me surrending.”

“Don’t,” he cried out, gasping. He clutched Henri and Renaut to his chest, as though they could offer protection. Henri shook along with Tad’s arms.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t keep killing! I just want this to stop!”

“You mean you want to win?”

“I just want everyone to stop hurting each other!”

It was the simple plea of a child, and not a hardened warrior. Centuries ago, she’d fought children who came at her and her comrades by wielding magic which burnt their bodies. Brainwashed by their cult leader, they were loyal to their deaths … at Ayara’s hands. If even one of them had at least pretended to care about themselves more than their master she might have spared them, sacrificing herself to their ruse with the satisfaction that there was some glimmer of innocence left.

The orcs crowded toward her. The troll looked on, seeming concerned for the boy’s safety, his mouth hanging open as though he wanted to speak.

They’re here to die, Bonnelle had assured Ayara. They serve their Dread Lord and will die for them and, if they didn’t, they’d surely stop at nothing to kill her in the dread Lord’s name. But Tad said he just wanted everyone to stop hurting each other. He didn’t even want to hurt anyone; that was why the sprites had been captured instead of killed.

Ayara locked eyes with the troll and felt the goblin trembling against her.

“Do you serve your Dread Lord, Tad?” Please say you do, Ayara thought to herself. Then I can cut your throat, shout the spell to detonate my gloves, then in the chaos retrieve my comrades and escape.

“I guess? Yeah.” He shrugged in her grip.

What kind of answer was that? “If you gave up your life of warring for the Dread Lord would it rob you of meaning?” She pulled the knife in, pressing the blade against his bristly green skin.

Between his quivering arms and rapid, heavy heaves of his chest, Henri blinked awake. “Ayara,” the sprite asked.

Tad breathed rapidly, nostrils flaring. “No! No! I want to go back to working in the Machines Works with Glum! If I survive this I don’t think I’ll stay in Hohza’s War Party!”

“Who is Glum?!” Ayara took the knife in so close it broke the skin. Dark blood streamed across the edge and down her palm.

“He’s my boss! He’s been my boss my whole life!”

His whole life? That sounds more like … Ayara glanced the troll. The warm smile on his face told her more than his nod. Henri’s pleading eyes confirmed that she wasn’t alone in this course of action. Ayara flung away the blade at Tad’s neck and dropped the other. She raised up her bare, empty hands. “I surrender,” she said as she sobbed.