The air parted before Talia as she ran toward the alcove that held their salvation. Grif trudged a half-step behind her, weighed down by their two unconscious comrades. Talia left them behind, trusting the rest to hold off the approaching slayers.
Or at least, buy her some time.
Her hands didn’t shake, fear did not cloud her thoughts, strained as they were.
There was only the task.
Over the years, the doorway into the spiderways looked to have been turned into a public art piece of some sort. Petrified woody vines played host to a cluster of softly luminescing fungi, mold, and lichen. The bust of an old dwarf, the wrinkles of her face worn away by age, took up the centre of the alcove, with a plaque too rusted over to read below her neck.
Talia drew her cleaver-falchion and cut through it all.
Stone and hardened wood fell away in dusty shambles. The ancient silverite door beneath found itself exposed to open air for the first time in gods knew how long.
That’s not ideal.
Rune-rot.
Enchantments, as a rule, did not really catch fire. They shattered the material that held them, imploded, exploded, and did a number of unpleasant things if messed with or damaged, sure. But they did not burst into flames. Unless they were rune-rotten.
Rune-rotten enchantments, when activated, burned. Not with the flames of a hearth or of a torch, but with the heat of a smelter, powerful enough to turn even mithril to slag.
I could just activate it, let it turn the door to scrap, and then…let the urvai follow us down at their leisure. Damnit.
The procedure for removing rune-rot was simple as could be. It just took time. The one resource they were running low on.
Talia heard Grif’s laboured breath as he rounded the corner.
Talia answered tersely.
The arcano-torch will have to do. We're good as long as I don’t warp away the channels.
The runework was small. Delicate. Silverite took heat well, but too much applied to one area could ruin everything. For a moment, Talia considered testing her luck with her prosthesis.
No. All it takes is two channels connecting the wrong way and woosh. Nice big puddle of searing hot silverite.
Stuffing a hand in her pack, Talia came up with an old, stained shirt —one of the few she had left— and her arcano-torch. She cursed herself for not bringing any strong bases with her.
Woulds, coulds and shoulds won’t help me. Time to get on with it.
She tore the shirt to shreds, passing a few long strips to Grif.
Without checking if he’d followed her instructions, Talia flicked the torch to life, setting it to its broadest, least powerful setting. Hopefully just enough to burn away the rune-rot without damaging the ancient enchantments.
Precious seconds passed by. Grif grunted and huffed as he dragged the dead weight out of the alcove. Rune-rot squealed as it reached its boiling point. Never before in her life had she yearned so for large quantities of industrial cleaners.
A tiny amount of mana began trickling from her prosthetic arm’s storage runes as she fed one of the enchantments inscribed into the metal limb. The bubble of wind tickled her nose and filled her ears with a wooshing sound as acrid smoke began to billow up from the doorway. The channel in her arm twinged oddly, but Talia pushed the strange sensation from her mind. Now was not the time to figure out what was happening to her.
Even through the wind-bubble enchantment, the smell clung to Talia’s nose and filled her mouth. Melted lead and seared flesh and rotten eggs.
Talia rolled her eyes and focused on her task.
She shook her head.
Which, of course, was when Calisto’s voice rang in their heads.
Talia said coldly.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
Running the variables, Talia cursed. Reaching back with her left hand, she grabs the torn remains of her shirt and tossed them at Grif.
The sound of rustling cloth was the only indication that he’d complied.
The veteran delver obeyed, nearly knocking her over as he fumbled blindly into the thick smoke. The old man bent and retched, gulping thickly. Talia handed him the torch.
Pulling from her prosthesis’ internal mana storage, Talia expanded the bubble of wind so they would have clear vision.
Grif nodded, his expression hidden by his cowl.
Reaching with her left arm to her right, Talia detached the prosthetic limb from its socket. Ignoring his shocked look, she made sure to point out the runes that would allow him to do the same.
Grif nodded.
Talia’s arm slotted back into place with a loud click. She deactivated the wind bubble as soon as she was out of the acrid cloud, leaving Grif with his crucial task. Her metal arm twisted unnaturally to grasp at the hilt of her massive sword. And then she was off.
----------------------------------------
<…Why not?> was all Talia could manage.
I don’t think I’ve ever heard anything so stupid in my whole life.
Fighting off the thought that perhaps not everyone fighting the retreat deserved to live, Talia snaked a hand to her pouch of caltrops. The metal spikes cut into the flesh of her left hand as she scooped the pouch’s entire contents tightly into her palm.
A wordless snarl of rage echoed across the link.
The hissing and clacking of giant insects grew louder as the slayer gave chase. Dim, primitive, hungry minds, hurrying after their prey.
Talia skidded to stop, counting the seconds.
Cassidy was the first past her, pulling up a few steps behind her and drawing her bow. Calisto came quickly on her heels, followed by Colum and Lored’s kinsman. Yasida. Silversweep. Finally, Bruce hulked around the corner, clapping Talia on the shoulder right as the first of the warriors crested around the street.
Wait for it…wait for it. Now!
Lobbing an overhand, Talia tossed the fistful of charged iron caltrops into the scrabbling group of slayers. Her shield-bracer was up in an instant. Hopefully, the field of force would be enough to ward off errant shards of metal.
Talia winced as her Core pulsed angrily, empty for the first time in nearly a month. Manaburn did not agree with her. Phantom pain echoed down her right arm. Pinpricks coursed up her spine. The ache in her chest grew insistent.
BANG! CLINK-clink-clang
Stone carapaces cracked and chitin tore as a few hundred grams of metal shattered. Right under the slayers’ spiked feet. Up into their soft underbellies. The force shield rippled like a tarp caught in a gas eruption. Bits of shrapnel pinged off it back toward the hunkered bugs.
Beyond, the city boomed as the kartzwyrm expended its fury on another block of buildings. The ground shook. Clouds of dust filled the air. Shorn metal scattered across the plateau like giant’s dice.
Dammit.
Even wounded, leaking hemolymph like water from a leaky bucket, the slayers still pressed the attack. Their small minds could comprehend nothing less. Pheromones and instinctive impulses. That was all they were.
Talia scanned the furious urvai warriors, taking stock of their injuries.
Calisto was playing it safe.
A few missing armour plates, some missing scythe blades and a couple of arrow wounds. That was it. Other than the shredded undersides, three of the five warriors were in full fighting form.
Talia growled. Exhaustion seeped away into the ground at her feet. A restless, desperate energy coursed through her veins.
When the slayer in the middle of the pack collapsed from its wounds, sinking into a spreading puddle of amber hemolymph, she sprung forward.
Talia’s Core screamed at her. A burst of telekinesis flung her up. She flew. A twitch of psionic power had her target freeze. One split second. Then her blade fell like the condemnation of a god. Purple runes flared beneath adamite scales.
She became the whirlwind.
The acid wash of manaburn was pushed to the side.
Once her comrades recovered from their shock, arrows began to fly over her shoulders, finding gaps where they could. Shattering into woody smithereens where they missed.
Crushing scythe blades skittered off Talia’s armour, bruising her ribs. A pulse of psionics stopped an overhead blow from pasting her. Her cleaver crashed into a recessed head, splitting it in twain. Gore and pressurized hemolymph rained over her.
Time slipped the bounds of Talia’s reality.
Small, efficient movements. Tight, controlled spells. To conserve energy and mana both.
Bruce and Calisto joined her, the woosh of maces joining her steps. A deadly dance of kinetic force.
Grif’s words jolted her out of the moment.
Exoskeleton met her blade and cracked. More from the blunt force than from any cutting edge.
A sigh of relief bubbled up from Talia’s lips. She cackled, her thoughts fuzzy. Her body ached. Like knives honed against exposed nerves.
A set of sweeping scythes stopped just short of Talia’s chest. She growled, spiking the beast's pain centers. A hammer blow with her sword cracked all but one into splintered nubs.
In the heat of battle, wracked with manaburn, her mindsense tight around her like a billowing cloak, Talia was just short of a god.
Then the migraine hit.
She stumbled, catching one of the two remaining slayers’ bulk as it smashed into her. Her shield blunted the blow—but she was airborne once more.
A nudge of telekinesis righted her, at the cost of another tearing sensation in her head. Talia caught herself with her metal limb, her sword clanging to the ground beside her. Sparks flew as she scrapped across the stone of the road.
Casting her thoughts backward as the slayers advanced, Talia wreaked havoc on their minds as she felt hands tug at her armour. Black closed in on the edges of her vision.
The link between them snapped with a ripping feeling that tore a scream from Talia’s lips. She heaved a laugh.
I think I’ve gone and done it now.
She felt herself lifted up onto someone’s shoulder. The world shook again, making her porter stumble.
Suddenly, her nostrils eschewed the coppery tang of blood for the more acrid scent of burnt lead and melted flesh.
“Talia,” someone whispered, “Talia, we need you to open the door.”
“She said somethin’ bout her prosthetic,” another voice rumbled.
Someone grabbed Talia’s left palm, pressing it against slightly warm metal.
“Talia, please,” the voice begged.
“They’re here!” someone else shrieked.
Right. The door. Have to open the door.
Her Core ground against her ribs as she pressed it for more mana. A spike rammed through her brain.
Where was I? Oh. Right. Sleep.
“…go! Go! Go!”
“Close it!”
Thud—clank.