Moka slid out of the shadow and into the pool of light. She stuck to the leftmost corner, where the boulder met the dirt wall. Taking a deep breath through her nose, she tried to catch the scent of nearby orcs. Finding none, she took a second to examine the challenge in front of her. She glanced up, once, fearing the reflection of the light off her eyes. The wall was roughly twenty feet high. Climbing up the dirt would be too difficult, and going up the sheer boulder would be tedious and slow. She could use her claws to find handholds, but she would prefer not to risk breaking one.
Breaking a claw was one of the most irritating injuries Moka could think of. If it affected the nail bed, it would send lancing pains up her arms every time she bumped her finger. When she had to give flesh to break bone, she would. She would rather not, though, if there was another option.
Moka’s mind flipped through her available resources and the ways they could get her through or over the wall, respectively, regarding and dismissing ideas with a single thought. Her trail of thought flashed to Granon. If he was here, it would be as simple as him lifting her up and placing her on the top. Moka smothered an ugly laugh. Nowhere to be found when you needed him. Signature Granon.
Without the giantkin to assist, Moka’s list of avenues was small. She tried the easiest one first. Until she knew the limits of [Deconstruction], she may as well assume it would work until it didn’t.
Crouching down, with her duffel bag and [Bolt-Thrower] hanging in front of her chest, Moka did her best impression of a weird lump. Her long coat hung down to her ankles as she pressed against the sloped dirt, a loose handful sliding around her, sticking in her hair. Weird lumps were not to be confused with suspicious lumps. Every goblin knew that a lump in the dark with limbs was suspicious, other lumps were weird and could probably wait. Moka huddled close to the boulder, her cheek pressing against it. She kept her arms tucked tight to her chest.
Readying herself, Moka double checked that no part of her was directly beneath the boulder. If the whole thing collapsed into bricks, it would crush anything in the way. The split-second before she activated her Skill, Moka had a thought. Bricks were not helpful. It was something she thought of in the spur of the moment. However, if she could guide how the Skill worked, then she knew what she needed. Moka closed her eyes, feeling the stone against her skin. She pictured what she wanted with all her might and activated [Deconstruction].
White light flashed beneath Moka’s palm, its intensity shielded from prying eyes by her body. Gravel fell away beneath her hand. It spread out in a circle from where she was touching, a hollow forming in the boulder as the stone broke to pieces without a sound. Where the outside of the boulder was coated in a thin sheen of dust, inside, Moka could see veins of minerals stretching into the boulder like a kaleidoscope. Moka paid the stunning sight no mind, too wrapped up in watching how the Skill ate away at the solid stone. Her breath hitched as she saw the gravel. It was not what she needed.
Moka considered what went wrong. She came up with two options. Either she had not manipulated the Skill right, or she had less control than she thought. Both answers sat ill with her. She did not have time to experiment, especially if it could be ultimately fruitless.
The circle stopped spreading, and Moka’s stomach clenched. There was no way she could collapse the entire boulder with her Skill. [Deconstruction] had only cleared out a hollow big enough for her to curl up into. Considering how shallow the hole was, and the unknown width of the boulder, using [Deconstruction] to tunnel through seemed like a dangerous waste of time.
Under normal circumstances, Moka thought the Skill would impress her. The volume of material deconstructed was significant. However, Moka was currently raiding a heavily guarded processing center, by herself, with a handful of poorly understood Skills and a bag of tools. A quarter of an hour ago, she had received a vision from her god that rocked her mind. The threshold for what she considered impressive was quite high.
Moka grumbled to herself. Was a proper weapon too much to ask for? Tevzaga had a magic gun.
A wyvern swung by, high overhead. Moka caught it out of the corner of her eye and leaned into the hollow with a jolt. Memories of a passing phoenix pushed in her mind, called forth by the winged silhouette. Moka swallowed her resentment, burying it under thoughts of her new life of servitude.
With two lazy beats of its wings, the wyvern rose out of sight. Watching it go, Moka saw a lone cloud drifting high overhead. Higher than she believed possible, if it was what she thought it was. If the wyverns and their riders saw it, they must believe it was a real cloud.
Glancing away and toward the task at hand, a shape caught Moka’s eye. When she saw it, a weight lifted off her shoulders. She unburied it from the gravel and hefted it in her hand. The smooth stone sphere fit well in her palm. It was solid, polished smooth with veins that reminded Moka of Orestilla’s skin. The dense orb would be lethal if flung from her [Bolt-Thrower]. She tucked the ball into a coat pocket, then used both hands to rummage through the gravel, keeping an ear out for approaching guards. With the rock dust around from [Deconstruction], she did not dare smell for them, fearing a sneezing fit. When she found the seventh ball, she gave up looking. Time was on her mind. Tevzaga would not wait forever.
Moka unslung her shoes from her neck and stuffed them into the hollow. The stones in her pocket made her feel unbalanced as she shifted, the weight pulling her as she leaned, the pockets of the long coat drifting from her center of mass. She buttoned the coat up. It helped, a little.
[Deconstruction] felt tender in her soul, but it was still her best option. She mentally grumbled to herself and prepared to endure some pain. It was time to stop sneaking around. She was there to cause a distraction. An intruder in the compound would hopefully take eyes off the sky.
Taking a couple deep breaths, paired with heavy exhales, Moka double checked to make sure her bag and [Bolt-Thrower] were secure. She angled her hand-crafted weapon to stay pointed up, keeping the sharpened bolts from slipping out. Moka scowled at it. The imperfection irritated her. If she had more time, she could have made a proper firing chamber. Probably. It would have taken her days before Azarus claimed her. Her god-given abilities continued to surprise her. May as well push them to their limit.
Moka stood up from her crouched position and shook out her shoulders. She cleared her thoughts, finding her focus. Mentally clarifying her task—climb the wall and create a commotion—she clung to it. The anger faded, waiting for when she next called. She could do this. She had to.
Moka touched the boulder as far up as she could reach. She plucked at the string leading to [Deconstruction] in her soul. Her touch was tentative, well aware of the Skill’s soreness. Her soul ached as the thread anchoring the Skill to her soul thrummed. It was as if Skill resented being used so soon after working at full capacity. The pain was bearable. That was all that mattered to Moka. Stone crumbled away and fell to the dirt beneath her fingertips, leaving a small handhold. Moka grinned, a sudden lightness filling her limbs.
She pulled herself up with one hand, bracing her feet against the edges of the hollow to help support her weight. Reaching as high as she could with her other hand, Moka plucked at [Deconstruction] like she was playing a lute with a single string. A burst of white light flared from her hand. Gravel clattered down the side of the boulder as a new handhold formed. She pushed on the first handhold and pulled on the second, a smile tugging at her lips. Deliberately inching her feet up the boulder without losing constant contact, she leveraged herself up high enough to stick her toes in the first handhold. From there, it was as easy as creating handholds and climbing up the side of the boulder like it was a ladder. It took her several seconds to reach the top.
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Moka flung herself over the ledge, rolling over the lip on her back, with her [Bolt-Thrower] in hand. Alarm bells were ringing in her mind. She came up in a crouch, her finger on the trigger.
She was on a pathway, built into the top of the wall, with enough space for two orcs to pass by, shoulder to shoulder. She looked both directions, her head on a swivel, and found nothing immediate. There were short, squat buildings set on the wall that hid her from the other sections. The compound itself was deep-set, reminding her of the giantkin homes. The dirt pushed outward from the center to form the walls. Part of her deflated. She had expected to be dodging crossbow bolts by now. There were no orcs in sight. No alarms rang. Now what?
Looking over the wall and into the compound, Moka saw several large buildings centered on a foundry. They were all built out of the same material as the stakes. Smoke rose from the foundry, the likely cause of the local smog. Moka was no expert, but she felt it was safe to assume the buildings were for necessities such as housing, eating, and administration. Bureaucracy was an inescapable fact of life. Even in her village, the elders had an entire house dedicated to their endless squabbles.
Moka decided against trying to find and target the leadership, cutting the head off the troll, so to speak. The factory, sheltered away in the middle of the outpost, was the juiciest target. Fire got everyone’s attention. Decision made, Moka looked around the edges of the walls, leaning over to peer inward. She found the nearest set of stairs a hundred feet away, through some of the small buildings built on the wall. Turning to go find it, the sound of an opening door behind her entered her long ears. They twitched, her earrings jingling. The scent of orcs, iron, and oil filled her nostrils.
Moka turned on her heel, sinking into a crouch. The door of one of the short, squat buildings opened a dozen feet away. A pair of chuckling guards ducked out of the building and onto the walkway. They wore iron scale mail and carried stout crossbows. The crossbows had steel bows, the rest cut from the odd material. One held his crossbow loose, almost careless with it. He looked at his companion, eyes bright and mouth half-opened like he was about to tell a joke as he closed the door behind him. The other had a firm grip on his weapon, his eyes going straight over the wall, scanning the sky, and turning to sweep the landscape. His metal cap cast his features into shadow as he turned from the moonlight. Moka knew his eyes would land on her in a matter of heartbeats. She did not question how she knew. It was a fact waiting to happen.
Her mouth felt dry. She pulled her [Bolt-thrower] to her shoulder, wedging it against her cheek. The muscles in her forearm jumped, causing her fingers to twitch. She let out a slow, shuddering breath. There was no time to double check the mechanism or to make sure the bolts were still in place. Now was the time to act. If she did not pull the trigger, she would never know if her creation worked.
Steeling her resolve, Moka pulled the crude lever she had crafted to act as a trigger. As she felt the latch holding the slide in place release, she wiggled her front hand, which held the up the end of the weapon. The bolts came out in a spray, going left to right with the motion of her arm. Two bolts hit the distracted orc, taking him in the thigh and shoulder. The last bolt took the second orc in the throat, just as his eyes fell on her.
Moka shrugged her duffel bag and [Bolt-thrower] off her shoulder and onto the ground near her feet. They would only weigh her down. If she won, she could retrieve them. She did not plan to lose. Her first thought went to her chisel. She could rush him and finish the remaining orc before he could shake the shock. Taking a step forward, she felt something shift in her pocket. The stone spheres. She shifted her chisel to her offhand. With her next step, she dipped into her pocket for a sphere. Hitting from range was always the best choice.
The surviving orc bore a certain look, like the pain of the bolts had yet to register. He looked over to see his companion gurgling out his last words, his shock turning to horror. Moka took a third step, propelling herself forward with all her might, hand held high. The orc caught sight of her and the horror turned to rage. With the smooth motions that came with heavy training, treating the bolt sticking from his shoulder as if it did not exist, the orc lifted his crossbow to fire at the intruder.
Moka whipped her arm forward, her whole body bending with the throw. She thought she felt [Good Enough] thrum in her soul like a plucked string. If it did, the sensation was overshadowed. The throw wrenched her shoulder in its socket; the stone proving itself too heavy to hurl overhand without repercussions. Moka gritted her teeth through the effort, completing the arc. The smooth ball of stone rolling off her fingertips with a whisper.
The ball made a lazy arc through the air, landing on the orc’s armored brow with an almost comical thud. The metal dented as it absorbed the stone’s fall. There was a deep crack, and the orc tumbled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, blood leaking from under his metal cap.
Moka pumped her fist and immediately regretted it. Her shoulder twinged. She might have torn something. Letting out a breath, she used her other hand to brace the front of her chest near her shoulder and attempted to roll it through its full range of motion. When it hitched, she hissed in pain, but powered through. It would slow, but not stop her. That was good enough.
Retrieving her belongings, the goblin scampered over to check the bodies. Moving fast, wary of an alarm that should sound any moment, she looted them. There was not much she wanted. Coins did her little good, and her chisel was as good as any dagger. She ended up taking two quivers of bolts, stuffing them into her bag, and tucking the dagger into her belt, anyway. The bag was heavy, but she did not dare leave it behind. An [Architect] needed tools.
Stuffing the dented stone ball back into her pocket, Moka examined the bolts stuck in the guards. She gave one an experimental tug, frowning when she saw it crack. It looked like they were single use only. Despite her alternative options, it was a shame. She was facing an entire outpost, she could use all the ammunition she could get.
Abandoning the spent bolts, Moka ran her hand down the front of the guard’s scale mail. She considered taking it, but in the end she decided not to. It would take too long to get off. She set off toward the stairs, waiting to hear the rush of boots chasing her, or the cry of a swooping wyvern. Going as fast as she could, Moka fumbled with her [Bolt-thrower]. She pumped the stock, moving the tense rope back a notch at a time. Taking a guard’s crossbow crossed her mind, but she dismissed it. Her [Bolt-thrower] was as good as any crossbow. Better, even. Maybe.
Reaching the opposite door from where the guards came, Moka stepped to the side, huddling down where someone walking through would look last. She groaned as she tried to click the next notch into place with the pump-action, her shoulder screaming white-hot agony. With a grunt, she brought the [Bolt-thrower] down on her upraised knee. The stock found the last notch and clicked into place, ready to shoot. Moka bent over to catch her breath, nursing her shoulder.
She was not quite ready when she stuffed the dented stone orb into her [Bolt-thrower] and opened the door with her foot. Her shoulder ached as she pressed the stock of her weapon into it, her shoulder blade pinching as she cradled the trigger. When she took in too deep of a breath, it felt like a burning needle was jabbing at her shoulder socket. She kept her breathing shallow. There was no time to waste. A little pain would not stop her. It had not on the worst day of her life, and it would not now.
Moka barged into the room and found a couple of chairs and a kettle to make tea. That and a ballista aimed over the wall. The ballista rested on a base designed to let it rotate up and down, and slide from side to side, staying pointed out a slit in the wall no matter which way it moved. Moka checked the stacked bolts piled next to the weapon, meant for anti-airship use if she had to guess. The bolts were too big for her [Bolt-thrower]. For a moment, Moka considered taking a few as spears, but decided against it, already feeling unwieldy under her current burdens. She wasted no time going through the door on the other side. It opened up to another empty stretch of wall with a door at the end.
Moka could hear a bell ringing down in the compound. It did not sound like an alarm. She cocked one ear toward it, trying to decipher its message. It was welcoming, almost eager, and friendly. Something clicked. Tevzaga wanted to raid at the dinner shift change.
Cursing under her breath, Moka broke into a run. Her duffel bag swung behind her, throwing off her balance and forcing her into an awkward gait. Each swing made her shoulder ache a little more. She compensated the best she could, refusing to slow down. There was no doubt in her mind she would have a massive bruise and bum shoulder to contend with if she made it out of this alive. It did not matter. She had made it over the wall, tested [Deconstruction] and [Bolt-thrower], and now all she had to do was cause a distraction. Tevzaga was counting on her. Azarus expected it.
Moka felt her vision narrow, darkness pressing in. She could do it. Her shallow breaths sounded panicked in her ears. She had to do it. Failure was not an option. The sound of her racing footsteps was a steady beat compared to the drumming of her heart pounding in her head. She would not fail again. Not in front of a giant monster, and not now.