Kris pointed to a set of mounds, which I belatedly recognized as crumbling olthoi shells, likely sniped down one by one by a foe they hadn’t seen. We walked over to investigate them more closely, just in case.
Kris heaved one of them over, a Servant by the color and size of it, her Tremblesense giving her a full view of the entire carcass. Her hands went to a hole in the back of its narrow skull. “Narrow blunt trauma entry wound, punched right through, nearly went out the other side.” She pointed out the hole, turned the skull, and tapped the far side in a particular place, which instantly crumbled to form a hole of similar size. “Those silly teardrop quarrels they had is my guess. One shot, one kill. Not a surprise, given the power of their crossbows against these things.”
She dropped the carcass and moved on to the next one.
Thorax shots. Leg joint shots, the equivalent of hitting the femoral artery. Precise, accurate, and lethal blunt impact wounds shattering the chitin of their carapaces and instigating the catastrophic cascade of rupturing acidic blood and killing them with their own internal chemistry running out of control.
“Pretty good shot for someone supposedly low Level,” I noted professionally, eyeing the dead olthoi. “That’s a Warrior, with three Servants and half a dozen Harvesters, in one cluster of olthoi,” I looked back at the olthoi remains sprawled over a hundred yards. “Pulled and killed professionally, coolly, probably at night. The olthoi could track the shooter once they caught a scent, so start upwind, or have something to neutralize your scent, while shooting at night to minimize their night vision.”
“I’m aware enough of the Isparian system that killing these things alone would get you above Level 9, and there’s no way a 9 is going to be that precise,” Kris agreed, rising to her feet, flicking her fingers to clean them off. “If she’s responsible, she upped her Level and her game significantly… or she was never that Level to begin with. The Mick did indicate she was Aluvian.”
Some of whom were very, very good at obfuscating information about themselves. The Mick, for instance, could either totally shut down routine attempts to Assay him, or make his Level appear anywhere from 1 to 275 on a whim. He could lie as naturally and easily as he breathed, and his ability to Feint in combat was unreal.
Naturally he loved the Shadow Stalking style of combat as soon as he was introduced to it, and his natural combination seemed to be Ocean/Shadow. His sword style was improving rapidly as he took the Ways and upped his game relentlessly.
“It could explain why the Hea never actually saw her fighting. If they did, they might have been designated enemies and wiped. If they just saw her as an NPC, she’s obviously not capable of being so dangerous.”
“Well, let’s see if she’s in the barn, and if she is, how she reacts to some of the stuff we’ve got with us.”
We headed towards the cluster of buildings that had been a village, only the two left fully intact at the moment, although signs of predators were small or absent. Either the Wards were still up, or something was killing them if they wandered this way.
That, or they didn’t like the smell of the dozens of olthoi remains we could pick out on the landscape in the area. And one had to wonder if the Bronze Statue of an attacking Hea tumerok up on its pedestal might not have something to do with things, too. It was in remarkably good shape compared to the others we’d seen...
“Huh. I’ve got one Isparian in the Barn ahead, and the spell is glitching and won’t give me any more,” I let Kris know as we got within a couple hundred yards of the place.
“That is not in any way suspicious,” Kris declared loftily.
“Not at all,” I agreed with serene and utterly non-believable smoothness. “Happens all the time.”
We strolled past the one house that had been kept up and repaired, even the lawn cut back around it, probably with a variant of War Magic, perhaps used through a Wand.
She was standing in the barn, and was turned to face us before we ever got in sight of her, as if she could sense we were coming.
Brown hair, blue eyes, trimly toned physique, basic working clothes, leather apron, absolutely nothing on her that would indicate any kind of lethality, and even her callused hands and good muscle tone could be attributed to farm work. The barn about her was in faultless shape, made for housing chickens and aurochs, it looked like, and there’d been a few clusters of both grazing in the immediate vicinity. There was even feed in the bins, despite who would possibly deliver such things to her here?
She looked to be in her thirties, and the Mick, now watching curiously from the distance, affirmed she looked like she always had, despite close to two decades having passed since he’d seen her.
She had the same relaxed and ready air about her that the Town Criers and Collectors had possessed, always ready to do their job cheerfully and without complaint, for whoever and whenever it was required. So, despite possibly having been here for hours, days, years… she didn’t look bored or apathetic at all.
An NPC, programmed to do a job, and that was that.
Programming we’d already proven could be broken, meaning that they were slaves to the System.
“Greetings!” she called out to us neutrally, looking us over and sizing us up as someone she’d never met before. “I collect Olthoi trophies. If you're willing to give yours up, I'll return part of it as a useful item. I can also craft nice helms from Olthoi Heads. If you're interested in proving your hunting prowess, I have some Olthoi I'd like you to hunt."
Kris stepped forward as if she had not spoken. “Hail and well met. I am Kristie Rantha, Swordmaster, and this is my companion Ryin, Magos. Who do we have the honor of speaking with?”
Pointedly, her Null was out and on top of the woman, whose rather vacant gaze faltered and refocused on her for a moment.
“I am… Shayla Vundanewall,” she got out hesitantly, as if dragging out her own name was a grim and laborious thing.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Of the Vundanewalls of Estor County?” Kris immediately asked sharply.
The Olthoi Hunter actually flinched at the remark, her jaw working before a strange, “Yes?” managed to wriggle its way out of her throat.
“The Vundanewalls have been the huntsmasters for the Counts of Estor for twenty generations,” Kris informed me, and I made an impressed face. “You come from a line of true hunters, Lady Vundanewall. Also, Queen Mother Elysa sends her regards, and wants to know if you’ve been keeping busy.”
There it was, a tight spark of anger igniting behind her eyes, and a quick reply, “There’s no queens hereabouts to kill, but you may tell Her Majesty that I’ve been keeping busy, indeed!”
“We were told that you might know the fate of the tribe of olthoi slayers that dwelt near the current location of the Paradox Hive. We visited the cave they were dwelling in just over the Lost Wish mountains, and it had been overrun by olthoi.” She turned as I brought in our mounds of olthoi trophies, including the Olthoibane Infusion, the assortment of broken and semi-intact Olthoi Slayer weapons, and of course the body parts of various dead olthoi and the nearly intact hide of the Paradox Sentinel.
She was quite distracted seeing our haul of stuff, her eyes zeroing in on the Baneskull I’d made from the Matron at Holtburg, which I handed to her immediately. She was a bit dazed as she answered, “The tribe has taken up residence in the Arwic Mines, chasing out the banderlings there. They help to keep the olthoi at bay and the creatures in the area down.”
By strengthening the local Wards just by being there, if absolutely nothing else. Kris and I shared a glance at realizing the tribe apparently was indeed real, and had the sense to run from the olthoi after the Fall, just not bothering to go any further than right here.
“What… is this?” she asked, holding up the enruned and shrunken head of the Matron. “This… does not look like any work of the tribe, but it is clearly antithetical to the olthoi!”
“It is a Baneskull to Olthoi, giving any Weapon or Implement it is attached to the Bane property against Olthoi and things which share their ecology, such as grievvers,” Kris informed her firmly.
Her eyes openly flared with light, and a ripple went through her as something ignited inside her. “Could such a thing be made of any Olthoi’s skull?” she asked quickly.
“They would have to be sufficiently powerful enough to bear the enchantment, but yes. I believe the head of a Noble or Mutilator is the minimum level, as well as the weakest of Matrons.”
Blue light suddenly ignited around her fingers, dancing on the runework encapsulating the skull. “Thank you for bringing this work to my attention. I will see to it that more are spread about to battle the bugs wherever they are!” she reported to us in an odd voice that didn’t quite match her movements, almost jerkily. It was like something was getting rewritten or… updating?
“You may keep that one to refer to for your work. Mount it right at the front of your crossbow, it will shrink and seal to it.”
She looked at Kris, paused as if warring over something, and then a dark black crossbow, clearly carved from olthoi chitin and limbs, popped into existence in her hand. It was nearly identical to a broken one laying upon my Disk, but the Runes on it did not include the Pierce Cleaving property that was burned through and out on the original, nor the Item Magic spells built into it that had operated off the mana reserve within all the devices that had exploded during the Fall.
She set the Baneskull on the fang-like tangs at the front of her crossbow, and the Baneskull shrank perfectly and slotted in to fit as if it belonged there. She snapped it to her shoulder in perfect Crossbow Stance, aiming out the door there and squeezing off a shot in but a breath.
-She’s got extradimensional storage,- Kris /noted, keeping her face unmoved at the revelation, which only made sense. She was a variant Collector, and had been able to sometimes pull out hundreds of items to compensate olthoi killers in very short periods of time, never running out.
She didn’t wear a pouch or a pack. Extradimensional storage was the only explanation, an order even higher than the absolutely ridiculous amounts of storage space that the backpacks Lord Mick had told us about could hold.
Her armor-piercing quarrel, tipped with what looked like the spikes from a grievver, drove precisely into the knot of a broken branch on an elm tree forty yards away, punching in deep.
She lowered the Olthoi Slayer Crossbow with approval. “It doesn’t throw off my shot at all! I will disseminate more of these to any who can bring me an appropriate skull!” she assured us both, almost robotically in words, but the emotion around the words was real, unlike the almost autonomic speech.
Kris reached over, pulled the Disk with the broken Olthoi Slayer Weapons forward to her. “If possible, we’d like to replace these, and are wondering if it might be possible to replicate the Slayer effect on more standard equipment, Lady Vundanewall.”
She staggered without moving, catching herself and not even noticing she did so. We watched in fascination as muscles ticced out her control all over her, something reaching out to do something to her from a distance, and not even Kris’ Null was interfering enough to stop it… but it WAS interfering enough for us to see it happening, and narrow our eyes.
“I can see to it that these Weapons are restored and repaired to usable condition, adventurers-”
“That would be Master Rantha and Magos Ryin,” she corrected sharply, making the woman twitch again. “Or, if it pleases Lady Vundanewall, you may call us Kris and Ryin.”
The glitches to her programmed state sent her face in three directions of control at the same time.
But something flickered deep in her eyes.
“Master Rantha,” she whispered, her blue eyes fixing first on Kris, then on me. “Magos Ryin. K-K-Kris a-and Ry-Ryin,” she repeated in sharp staccato, as if overwriting something on the fly.
“Yes, Lady Vundanewall?” Kris asked, as if nothing unusual was happening, while I simply inclined my head politely.
Her head jerked slightly. “Kris, Ryin,” she repeated, her voice rising a sharp octave for a moment, before continuing on, “But in the meantime, I can give you replacements for them, if that is fine with you?”
“Certainly, Lady Vundanewall.” I kept the Wand I’d taken earlier, as there was a second one among those on the Disk.
She picked up the broken Axe. “Made from the pedipalps of a Swarm Eviscerator!” broke out of her mouth in distressingly level tones, as if reciting words she would have to say dozens of times. “Repairing this will be quick and simple.”
Getting the corpses of Swarm Eviscerators was so easy? I was quite amused, even as I filed away the fact for the olthoi-slayers who would be coming to her after us.
Now that we could kill olthoi and rip them from the System that might have protected them, there were going to be more olthoi parts available than ever…
The broken Axe vanished from her grip, and an instant later a replacement Axe, similar in overall form, yet the Runes gleaming green upon it distinctly altered from the previous Axe, appeared in her grip. She presented it formally to Kris, who took it with a “Thank you, Lady Vandanewall,” and set it upon another waiting Disk without complaint.