The world felt muted, muffled like a room drowned in thick fog. Weylan’s mind struggled against the oppressive spell, but every effort to resist felt like swimming through molasses. His body moved without his command, each step an unnatural marionette’s jerk forward.
The cobblestones of Mulnirsheim’s streets blurred beneath his feet as he trudged alongside the others, the woods looming closer with every moment. They had been seen by many peasants and he had even recognized a few of the craftsmen. With two, he was sure to have seen the spark of recognition. But the team wasn’t tied up and they still had their weapons. Everything seemed fine on the surface, and if he’d failed to react to a friendly greeting, it would only be attributed to his obvious tiredness.
Panic clawed at his thoughts. He tried to push back the fog, but it was no use. He could not break free.
OrcSlayer and his elites were right behind him, chatting comfortably. The sorceress named Shannara was mostly nodding along, since she had to hold up concentration on the mind-control spell. Twice she’d asked for a mana potion. As the Brotherhood probably bought the good stuff from the Mages Guild directly, she could take two or three more before potion toxicity set in.
There wasn’t much he could do. His body was no longer his own. But his mind… What could he do? Magic? Without gestures and verbal keys, it would be hard, but not impossible. But his magic was ephemeral, even more useless than illusions.
He looked at his status, searching for anything that could help. Skills, feats… feats? He still had some to choose. His master wouldn’t be pleased if he chose something under duress, that would only serve him for this single moment. But he had to live to face his master’s anger. He flicked through the list of possible feats. There were even more than he remembered from his last time looking at his options. He sorted by effect and looked for anything that helped against mind-control.
Shadowed Mind
Prerequisites: Level 6+ and access to Shadow Affinity Mana
(Surround your mind with shadow affinity mana to protect it against mental attacks. Active feat. Cost 1 Mana/ minute)
That sounded good on the surface, but as an active feat, it probably wouldn’t help him after already being affected. Also with his meager mana pool, he’d probably never use it. And as it was an active, mana using effect, there could be a spell that did the same, wasting a precious feat slot.
Iron Mind
Prerequisite: Level 6+ and Willpower of 12+
(Double Willpower above 10 when defending against magical mental effects. Up to am max. of 20.)
That would be useful if he had more than a 12 in Willpower. With 15 or even 14 he’d have a legendary resistance. But, alas, he had 12 which would be good, but he didn’t plan to increase Willpower. He needed other attributes like Dexterity or Strength more.
There was only one option left. He was almost too afraid to read the description, but there was no alternative.
Slippery Mind
Prerequisite: Level 6+, evolved Dodge skill and Willpower of 12+
(When subjected to a mind control effect, you can make an attempt to evade its influence. This attempt can be used once per day.)
He focused, using what little control he could muster to will the choice into being. The spell hadn’t broken yet, but he felt that he could. Weylan clenched his fists.
“I can escape,” he thought. But he needed the right moment. He glanced at his team. Ulmenglanz, Skorr, and even William marched on, their faces slack, eyes unfocused. If he fled now, he’d leave them behind. His stomach twisted. He couldn’t abandon them. Not like this.
The city’s outskirts came into view, the uneven cobblestones giving way to dirt paths and overgrown grass. A sliver of moonlight broke through the trees. Weylan scanned the horizon desperately, searching for anything, anyone, that could help. His mind raced, calculating escape routes, anything to turn the tide.
And then it came. A glimmer in the night. A dark, winged shape streaked across the sky, heading straight for them.
Selvara.
She dove low, and a sharp, icy breath escaped her beak. The cone of cold frost crystallized in the air, whirling shards of ice striking the sorceress Shannara square across her upper body, some also hitting OrcSlayer and the dog faced druid. The shards bit deep, and the woman cried out, her staff clattering to the ground as she clutched for her multiple wounds. The control spell snapped. Revenants all around cursed, cried out in alarm and drew their weapons, seeking their enemy.
Weylan turned and held up his left hand into the fading sunlight. Its shadow fell exactly at OrcSlayers chest who already drew his sword to cut him and the other prisoners down.
Weylan focused on the shadow that crossed the seams of the dark paladin’s plate armor. He caught OrcSlayers gaze with his own. The blade of his Assassin’s dagger seemed to suck in the dim light as Weylan thrust it into his own chest.
The revenant stared uncomprehending. When he opened his mouth to speak, blood burst forth in a torrent. Blood also seeped from beneath his armor as he collapsed to one knee, his eyes wide with pain and disbelief.
The assassin quickly remembered to pull the blade out of the shadow portal on his chest. That would have been embarrassing if he’d waited until the Shadow Gate spell faltered. Embarrassing and deadly.
Spell increased Shadow Gate (Apprentice II)
He couldn’t help but glance at the short description of the spell. Deceptively short for such a complex and powerful spell.
Shadow Gate (Level 3 Shadow Magic Exclusive)
Connect two shadows you can perceive to open a gate between them.
He had imagined much bigger portals, but the Imbuement Scroll had implanted a host of information into his mind, so he knew it would be a long time until he travelled himself.
Barely a second had passed since his attack when chaos erupted all around.
Trulda’s battle cry split the air, a guttural roar that sent a jolt of adrenaline through Weylan’s veins. She barreled into the fray, her lute-club swinging with ferocious precision.
Selvara circled above, diving again and again, her Frost Breath sowing confusion among the Brotherhood’s ranks.
And then the chimeras came.
A Shrill-Rat burst from the underbrush with a screech, its sonic attack reverberating through the night. The Defiler Druid’s incantation faltered as he clutched his ears, stunned by the piercing noise.
The Glowing Commanderfly darted in, four dragonfly wings scattering the light from its luminous body that lit up the battlefield. Its glow blinded several thieves lurking in the shadows, pulling them out of stealth and into the open. A zone of silence fell, making it harder for the Brotherhood scum to restore order.
The Besp-Queen struck next, her barbed stinger finding its mark in a guard’s thigh. The man screamed soundlessly as venom coursed through his veins, his weapon falling to the ground.
And then there was Fluffle.
The white-furred chimera bounded into the fray, a picture of innocent chaos. The thieves hesitated, momentarily distracted by the creature’s bizarre antics. Its innocent eyes staring up at them, begging them to pet it. It looked around, seemingly confused by all the chaos. A female thief revenant bowed down to pet her, digging her hands deep into the thick wool fur.
Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.
Even Weylan couldn’t help but blink in astonishment.
The ratpig charged into the rearguard group of Brotherhood thieves, snorting furiously. Its attack, while enthusiastic, lacked the precision or natural weapons to do much damage, but it served its purpose: sowing confusion and drawing their attention.
Weylan recovered his wits and used the chaos to his advantage, darting forward to snatch the sword OrcSlayer was trying to pick up again. The slender blades steel had a strange red hue.
As Weylan's hand wrapped around the hilt of Connoisseur, the cold, silken voice of the intelligent weapon slipped into his mind, dripping with disdain and a strange foreign accent.
The blade pulsed in his grip, its voice turning sharper, more curious.
The blade’s tone grew cold, menacing.
Before Weylan could react, Connoisseur twisted in his grip, driving him forward against his will. His arm jerked, swinging the blade toward Skorr. He could feel the hatred of the sword of all duskgnomes. Their ancient alchemy had always been the bane of all creatures of the night.
Weylan’s instincts kicked in. A deep breath steadied his mind, and he activated Slippery Mind, pushing against the sword's invasive will. He gritted his teeth, forcing his thoughts to slip free of its grip. His fingers gripping the blade’s hilt only long enough to pull it out of its trajectory at Skorr and instead hurl it with all his strength at the still stunned defiler druid. Not balanced for throwing and thrown without a skill for knife throwing, the blade turned uncontrolled in the air and would hit its target with its side.
Connoisseur’s mental voice screeched in indignation as it flew through the air.
Its tirade cut off as its thirst for blood overcame its outrage. In mid-air, the sword twisted with an elegant, almost sentient grace, angling itself to strike point-first.
The blade gleamed hungrily in the fading light as it drove three fingers deep into the back of the defiler druid. The zone of silence masked his surprised cry as well as the sound of the sword greedily sucking out his blood.
Weylan’s laugh was muted as well. He pulled out his sword-staff and ran. His blade flashed as he took down a thief aiming an arrow at Trulda. As he turned around, the sorceress finished an incantation. Her staff flashed once in brilliant light, dispelling the zone of silence.
Ulmenglanz’s snarl drowned out the sound of battle and the cries of the wounded. She swung her quarterstaff with both hands right at the skull of the defiler druid, who was busy trying to reach the sword in his back. The strike killed him instantly, his form disappearing into glowing motes of light. The sword dropped to the floor. Ulmenglanz’s fury rivaled even that of Trulda in her barbarian rage. The druid had dared to use his foul magic to control her body! Her staff whooshed around, hitting enemies left and right as she marched right into the thick of battle.
William tried to pull out a hidden knife, but the revenant next to him reacted faster and hit him in the stomach. As he doubled over, the thief knocked him out with the pommel of his sword. Before the revenant could turn his weapon around for a lethal strike at the downed investigator, the dryad arrived and started pummeling him with her staff.
Skorr had taken the longest to recover from the spell, but he now managed to ready his war-pick and raced at the sorceress. Two thieves blocked his path, both dual-wielding daggers. He ducked below the thrusts of one of them and struck the other with a sideways swing. The hammer side of his war-pick shattered his pelvis. The revenant instantly triggered his logout to stop the pain.
Skorr ignored the thrust of the other revenant into the chainmail on his back and raced for Shannara. The sorceress panicked and turned to run, which earned her the pointy end of the war-pick right into her spine. She too instantly triggered her logout.
OrcSlayer staggered back to his feet, his hand still pressed to his bleeding chest. “You think this is over?” he growled, his voice ragged with pain. “You’ll regret crossing the Brotherhood.”
Weylan leveled his sword-staff and pulled out the grip to full fighting length, his eyes cold. “I’m not the one bleeding out.”
The dark paladin snarled, raising his steel glad fist in defiance. But before he could act, Trulda’s lute-club came down in a bone-crushing swing, slamming into his helmet with a resounding crack. OrcSlayer crumpled to the ground, motionless. Then he dissolved.
The thieves hesitated, their leader’s fall shaking their resolve. Selvara seized the moment, her shrill caw echoing across the battlefield.
Weylan’s chest heaved as he looked around. The tide was turning, but they weren’t out of danger yet. They were still outnumbered three to one, with no cover near enough to run and the element of surprise starting to fade. If they just ran, they’d be cut down by arrows. “We need to finish this!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the din. “Drive them off or take them down!”
Trulda nodded, her eyes blazing with fury. “No mercy,” she growled, charging forward once more.
Fluffy had disappeared into hiding as soon as her enemies started drawing their bows. She was no fighter, but her timely appearance had confused and distracted enough of the revenants that she felt completely satisfied with her performance.
Four leather-clad fighters with spears had surrounded the ratpig, unsure what to do with their prey. The nameless monster made a disgusted “Nöff!” It had no natural weapons, claws or speed. It didn’t have the mass to tackle enemies, at least not if they saw it coming. But there was something it could do. Its herbivorous teeth drew up to a smile. Its creator could give each of his chimeras a magical ability. The one to create a zone of silence for the commanderfly, the stunning shriek of the shrill-rats, the chameleon skin of the lurkers. The dungeon heart had given him one as well. It had seemed more like a joke, at least according to Malvorik's snickering when he gave it the ability. The ratpig had never understood why that was supposed to be funny, but it was only a food animal. It wasn’t supposed to understand the humor of dungeon hearts. Smoke curled up from its mouth and faint sparks sprayed from its fur as it activated its ability. “Self-Immolation!” or as the ratpig called it by itself: “Bacon-Explosion!”
Warm bright light lit up the battlefield for an instant, then the smell of burned fur and fried bacon mingled. A flash of heat, splashes of molten fat and pieces of burning fur hit the four surprised revenants.
The battlefield was a cacophony of roars, shrieks, and cries of pain. Arrows zipped uselessly around, since the Brotherhood’s noob members where terrible archers and completely unable to hit anyone in the confusion.
Through it all, Weylan moved like a shadow, his blade striking with deadly precision. For the first time, he felt like a true assassin. Focused, lethal, unstoppable. The four revenants that stood dumbfounded around the scattered remains of a ratpig chimera he’d never seen before were easy targets. They fell before their shock could wear off.
The Brotherhood forces scattered; their moral broken. One by one, they fled into the night.
As the dust settled, Weylan turned to his teammates, relief washing over him. They were bruised and battered, but alive.
Selvara landed beside him, her feathers ruffled but her eyes sharp. “We did it,” she said, her voice filled with equal parts relief and exhaustion.
Weylan nodded, his grip on his dagger finally loosening. “Yeah. But this isn’t over. The Brotherhood won’t forget this. Now they know we are in the city.”
Trulda strode over, wiping blood from her lute-club. “Let them try,” she said, her voice hard as steel. “Next time, we’ll be ready.” She breathed deeply a few times and the last remnants of red in her eyes cleared. Her voice took on a more caring tone. “Is everyone alright?”
Most had taken a few wounds, but nothing life threatening. Weylan found a cut on his neck, where an arrow had nicked him without him even noticing.
Ulmenglanz supported William, who was still dazed from the blow to his skull. After making sure there was no one more seriously wounded, she started casting healing magic on William.
Weylan pointed at the burned ground that still smelled like bacon. “I don’t know what that was, but it was one brave monster.”
While he turned to leave, Trulda hurried to the spot the ratpig had died and started searching. Her hands sifted through the still-warm remains until she found what she’d been looking for. A coin with the dungeon’s symbol on one and the face of the ratpig on the other side. She picked it up and stored it safely in a pouch.
Fluffle nuzzled against Selvara’s leg, purring softly as if seeking approval.
The besp-queen landed on Weylan’s shoulder, while the shrill-rat dropped beside his feet. He bowed to lift it and carefully turned it around in his hand. He found only scratches, so he decided the chimera was just exhausted. “Do they have names?”
Selvara shook her head. “Not yet. But they sure deserve one. Let's start with the ratpig. Any suggestions?”
William smelled the air and grinned: “How about Bacontoasty?”
Trulda grinned and suggested “Sizzleheart”.
Selvara groaned. “Come on, he gave his life to save you.”
Weylan took on a more serious tone. “Hamvaliant”
Selvara nodded resigned. “Let’s go with Hamvaliant. I doubt you’ll find something better.”
The besp-queen on Weylans shoulder buzzed her wings. Weylan nodded. “Of course. You’re next. Would you like… Nectaria? Or Nectarina?”
The besp-queen extended her stinger. Weylan hurriedly continued under the chuckling of the rest of the team. “Honey? I heard that’s a common female name.”
Trulda groaned. “That’s a much too cute female pet name. Someone, please suggest something fiercer quick. She almost stung him this time.”
William had recovered his wit by now and the group was on the move. The investigator looked at the chimera. “She’s some kind of insect queen? I thought so, based on her size and regal bearing. How about Queen Vespa?”
The chimera bowed her head regally.
William looked around. “Can I ask where you got such strange companions and why a guild representative came to our rescue?”
Weylan just shook his head, grinning broadly. “You can ask, but I’d then have to tell some truly outrageous lies. So better not. I would appreciate it if you kept Trulda’s appearance to yourself.” When something bit into his trousers, he looked down and sighed as he saw the shrill rat. “You’ll be named Screechtail, there’s no better name. Bear it proudly.”
The chimera jumped away happily.
Together, they turned toward the city, ready to regroup and face whatever came next.