EMERIC

Fire is a holy tool. The As’tiki dwellings burn as duskwraiths dart around; unsurprisingly adept at climbing. They tear through As’tiki, seeking their clutch; a rabid frenzy of claws and bites. The As’tiki rally together, but the duskwraiths are much larger — and shoved full with all the potions Emeric had left barring a few choice items. Namely, another vial of fire, a kinetic-pop, and a single bottle of poison strong enough to hinder the troll.

The concentration they’ve consumed is undoubtedly enough to kill them — but not before they have wreaked some truly indescribable damage.

He pops the lid on an orange-glass flask, giving it a quick whiff before simply dropping it. It falls down; lands on a wooden building; bursts into white-hot flame. He doesn’t have the time — nor the interest — to know what the place is.. For does it even matter? They have harboured a troll. They deserve no mercy.

His eyes catch something as it glints in the sunlight. Above, a metallic red thing swings along the strange monkey-bars that connect the island. Something about the way it moves sparks a memory in his head. Some fifteen years ago; just after he’d been adopted by his master — he’d seen something so similar. A large, clunking piece of armour, staring down at him with a featureless glass panel. It had reminded him so much of the face staring down at him — the wandering troll’s face.

It clicks. A Suit of Virika — but here of all places? Why would these creatures have that?

The why is unimportant… but the prize is sweet. If he could capture it and bring it back to his master, the Lord-Alchemist would surely know of a Material-connected Mage with the knowledge of refitting rituals. He puts a hand on his head. The possibilities spread through his mind.

Hunting trolls without having to resort to pathetic tactics — yes! That’s what he’s been missing all these years. If he could match a troll blow-for-blow… there is no end of the things he could do. Maybe…

Maybe he could even hunt the Wandering Troll.

Revenge could be at his fingertips!

He shoves his hand into his satchel; looking for something — anything — he could use. An aerosolized potion of sleeping, perhaps, or something that could make a nearly impossible to resist sticky agent. But he has nothing of the sort. Neither would work on a troll, after all.

His face shrivels; if only he had foresight. With such a thing; you could do anything!

Yet… he looks towards the Suit of Virika. What is it going to do? Perhaps there would be chance to… trap it? Or force the user to leave, somehow?

He traces back along the route the Suit took; up to the very top of the mountain. Up there. It’s a known fact that the highest in society always show that by separating themselves from the lowers. To control the Suit of Virikia; they must be very high indeed.

Do they live up there? Do they have children?

Emeric smiles.

—

The beautiful city of wood is slowly turning into a city of ash and embers.

“Those fires — they’re not natural.” Damien says, pointing to the silk anchors that now burn. “Your spidersilk… is flame-retardant, yes?”

Asritareen nods. “Normally.” She growls with a sharp annoyance in her voice. She turns to the rest of the As’tiki councilmen. “We must rally. Even if Damien is no longer honoured; I do not see any need to immediately remove him. The Sworn — and the trespassers — can wait.”

“Agreed.” Speaks the Arbiter, and the decision is made. The As’tiki councilmen jump from the ritual area; whistling in a barely-audible tone only to be caught by massive pitch-black spiders and rapidly transported across the traversal bars.

Jonas looks back. No As’tiki still dance. Instead, they rush to the different traversal bars; like a hive of wasps under attack. A burning feeling holds him; a desire to do something — yet without ability. Damien puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Jonas. There is something you should know.” He speaks, then sits down on an abandoned As’tiki drum. “I… am dying.”

A lance of pain stabs Jonas; and before he can even think of what to say, his mouth opens on its own. “What? What do you mean?”

“As you know, As’tiki medicine is some of the best. Good enough that most of them live to be elders, and for so long they thought that old age was simply the thing killing them. Until recently, relatively.”

Jonas grabs Damien’s hand. “Why? I don’t understand. They healed your wounds, didn’t they?”

“Oh yes.” He smiles. “Very well, in fact. But when they did, they found something else — the same thing that’s been killing them. Strange growths. I don’t know how it kills; but they assured me it was the same. In fact, they told me I was a record!”

He starts to laugh. “Oh, I just had to go and get one more lick in with the world. That’s just who I am.”

Jonas can’t bring himself to speak. What is there to say?

“I love you, Father.” He says. It feels like that’s all there is to say.

“I have a feeling, Jonas, that the only reason I’m alive is because of my title. Worldseeker Damien. It’s served me well so many times. I’ll tell you all I know about it when we leave here…”

Damien’s face hardens. “But we aren’t doing that without Grug. Save the mourning for now. We have a troll to save. To wit—”

He digs into his pocket and pulls out a strange stick — a long line with wooden nodules along it; bumps like abscesses on cow’s skin. Jonas looks at it for a second before a memory comes flooding back. A flash of inscribed runes on the rare metal; As’tiki golden-steel. A workshop, full of tools that he’d never ever seen before in the As’tiki settlement.

“I can see you remember. Gaem’a let you in, once, to his workshop.” He nods whilst speaking, then whispers under his breath. “I’m sorry, Gaem’a.”

“You stole it?” Jonas asks. “That’s…”

Damien sticks out his tongue; then grabs his walking stick and begins to walk off — faster than a voidorne who just declared he was dying should. Yet Jonas falls into pace; they weave their way through the As’tiki crowds — and march up the stairs to the first of the three buildings.

Inside is a wooden door, locked. Damien places the key — gently — into the lock and closes his eyes as he twists it. “These things are like… lockpicks. The door might look like wood, but if you bash it down, you’ll only get into a storage room. Open it with the key, however…”

It clicks; and a white line fades into the doorframe. A slight rush of wind; the smell of tools and rust; and the ever-so-slight hum of a spatial rift. Damien pushes the door open. It doesn’t look much different than the other As’tiki buildings — except for the metal.

Wooden panelling spreads across the walls, swirling designs that connect to golden-steel bolts that look to move along the wall in order to slot pieces of something together; only interrupted by the occasional rack holding mallets, chisels, woodcarving knives and screwdrivers.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Planes, with golden-steel teeth, sit on stomach-height golden-steel workshops. If he didn’t already know; he would assume this workshop belongs to a rich noble.

Though, not quite as spacious as a Koltor forgery, that’s for sure. Damien walks in, scanning the tables. Jonas looks up as a glint catches his eye.

A gauntlet?

Then something else, a shoulderpiece?

Jonas hadn’t known Gaem’a to be interested in armour, but it looks like good craftsmanship to be sure. A little big for an As’tiki though…

“Haha! Jonas!” Damien calls, and Jonas rips his attention away. Jonas smiles; looking down at the last table at the end of the long workshop.

There sits his flecher; his prototype worked upon by a master engineer; the coiled spring — once regular steel — now golden as near the rest of the room. The set is still normal, intended to run along the wrist, but the hold — two large clamps that constrict the bolt from moving even under tension — is reinforced.

Jonas picks it up; and something small hangs from it. A crank… but golden-steel — so the force required to reset the bolt won’t break it. It also folds up neatly against the spring, separated only by a small layer of steel.

“Well… that’s a better way of reloading than slamming it with a mallet.” Damien remarks. “Take note, kiddo — things can always be better!”

The wrist-straps feel different… and now he sees why. Before they were leather — rugged, old leather at that. Now, its replaced by a tough-weave of spidersilk that barely feels as though it exists. Damien hands him something, and it takes Jonas a second to realise that the modifications to his flecher aren’t just on the device itself. Now, the bolt has a small bulbous tip. Or should he say bolts.

“Ah, that Gaem’a.” Damien shakes his head, sounding almost grumpy. “Always has to go and change things.”

Something clicks; a pole drops down from the wall and sticks just before hitting Damien on the head. The tip crackles with something, humming like… a spatial rift?

Damien grabs it, smiling. “Oh that mad bastard. He did it. A spatial rift on a weapon?” he turns it over, as if reading something that Jonas cannot see. “Ah. That makes sense.”

“What?”

His head snaps up, as though he simply forgot Jonas is here. “Nothing!” he quickly blurts. “A secret between old men!”

Jonas turns, and grabs one of the mallets from the wall. It’s a stunted thing; made for As’tiki hands rather than human. Then, before his eyes, it grows until its a perfect fit. A Ritual — reshaping? Reforging?

Either way, with a longer length comes a strong swing.

“Are we doing this, Father?” he asks. “Is this the right course?”

Damien puts a hand on his shoulder. “Boy, there’s a time for perfection and there’s a time for ad-lib. Right now, its the latter. You’re too focused on consequences when its a simple equation. If you want to save Grug; we’ve got to piss off the As’tiki.”

Jonas grips the mallet. He’s right — as always. A tear drops from Jonas’ cheek, and he wipes it away before Damien sees. It’s not the time for that.

They leave the building. Most of the As’tiki have now filtered out — leaving the two guards stabbing Grug and a few small groups of As’tiki; mainly younglings that don’t know what to do, looking out over the fires… watching their homes burn.

Damien marches towards one of the As’tiki guards, and shouts up. “Intruder! Intruder in the ritual area!”

The guards immediately start to move, then stop, looking up at the sworn. They look at each other. They don’t move.

Damien sighs. “Alright; you forced my hand.”

Jonas thinks he’s about to attack them; but Damien speaks again. This time… there is a certain tone to his voice; an utterly convincing undercurrent that seems to draw him in.

“There’s an intruder; it is lighting a fire on the holy buildings; you if don’t investigate, you’ll get to watch them burn and hope the warmth is enough to save your from the Eldest’s wrath.”

The guards move, not even taking a second guess — and Jonas does as well, only broken out of the stupor by Damien’s hand pinching his side, small claws drawing blood. He scrunches up his eyes, like waking from a dream that held him in absolute rapture.

“What… what that be?”

Damien raises a scaled eyebrow. “You’re speaking troll, boy.” He smiles, but it quickly fades. “That was one of the powers granted to me by my Legend. Something I’ve not used so long as I knew I could do it.”

He points. “It looks like they didn’t have any particular way to raise Grug over the bowl, so they’ve just rigged it to a pulley system. If we release it now, Grug falls into the gold and dies. We need to swing him.”

“How the hell are we going to swing a 5m ball of fat and muscle?”

Damien nods to the rod he took from the workshop. “Simple. We’re going to hit him.”

“What? No! We can’t smack him, it’ll hurt like hell.”

“I’m not seeing another option. I hit him a few times with this; you cut the rope — the momentum swings him free.”

Jonas looks at the bowl. “We empty the bowl, drop the liquid gold to the ground.”

Damien shakes his head. “We’d still have to wait for the bowl to cool. Look, Grug can heal whatever we do to him, I know that much about troll physiology — but if drops in that gold; or otherwise gets more burnt, he might not make it. The As’tiki haven’t healed his wounds, as I’m sure you must be able to figure out.”

Something clicks in his mind. “I have an idea, but it requires wood. A decent amount of it, too.”

Damien takes a moment, but his eyes light up. “That’s my boy.”

—

Me hurty. Da shiny-stuff is hot-hurty. Me feel it. Me no wanna go in. It like river… only bad. River not bad. Me be in river now?

No. Grug no get river. All da little-thingys go do a little dance.

Me wanna do little dance too. But me no move. No even me grubbers.

Me can do see. So me see. It help the hurty… me think.

Me wish not-annoying-buzzy was here. Dey make hurty lots no bad.

What if me never left river? What if me never left cave?

Would me hurty bad then?

Stupid noggin. Me want hit it. Me no can.

Me… see jonas-thingy! It here! Not-snappy-jaw help me!

Den it gone. It not help?

Oh.

Den… all da little-thingys go-go, an’ dey speakin’, an’ me undastandin’. Little, no lots.

“…fire… defend… sworn? …hatred… invader… intruder… golden… safety.”

Dat all me understandin’, even doe dey’s speakin’ more. Dey’s… scared of me? Why? Me no hurty them, me no hurty them ever.

Me get hurty in me side again, den da side again. Me no get. Me no hurty them? Me no hurty weird-thingys, or not-snappy-jaw-thingys, or little-thingys, or not-annoying-buzzy thingys. Wat me done?

Me think… but den me stop. Noggin not help. Noggin hurty me. Me not hurty if me noggin no go lots. Doin’ dat thinkin’ thingy. Stupid noggin.

Oh. Me see jonas-thingy an’ damien-thingy! But dey go, an’ me no see them. Den me see dem!

Jonas-thingy see me. Me nod, but me no move. Make hurty go? Damien-thingy say it go. But it no go? When it go? Do it go? Why it not go? Me bad? Me bad troll?

Dey go. Me no see dem. Me is sad. Dey no freend?

Me… die now?

Oh. Me not wanna die.

“Grug!”

Dat be… jonas-thingy!

“Me give big-stick, you give carved-stick!” jonas-thingy make loud-mouth.

Why? Why he want carved-stick?

But jonas-thingy smart… an’ he freend. Me… trus’?

Da little-thingys dat make hurty… gone. Me… move? Jus’ a little?

Me feel somethin’… in me hand. Me… move grubbers… it… stick? Big-stick? Small big-stick?

Jonas-thingy say make carved-stick… den me do dat. Me make carved-stick! Me best carved-stick troll!

—

Jonas

A second after the wood touches Grug’s hand, the troll begins to make it into carved-sti— planks — to be precise, one long one. As it reaches down to him, he stunts it against a small rock, forcing the plank to expand from Grug’s hand. He rushes up, grabbing one of the long sticks that the guards had abandoned — too cumbersome to get over the traversal bars — and presses it to Grug’s skin. The blunt side, that is.

It probably hurts, but it means that the troll doesn’t disbalance too hard — until he does. Time for the second part. The plank acts as a fulcrum, diverting Grug’s momentum from straight-back to a more rounded arc — one that crosses over the gang-plank. Jonas jumps, grabbing onto Grug’s leg and desperately pulling himself up, digging in his claws if he needs to.

“Grug, stop.” He tells, and the troll does. “Hand no move, me go up.”

Jonas detects the slightest movement of the troll’s head. A nod?

Either way; he reaches his foot across the gap between the troll’s hip — where he clings on — and the troll’s tied-back hands. They swing in a spiral; above a guaranteed death for both of them. Yet Jonas has never felt so sure.

As soon as the momentum swings back towards rather than away; he goes for it. A foot lands. He grabs for the troll’s arm. He misses, the momentum kicking him back — he falls. He catches; on what?

Grug’s little finger is wrapped around his foot; not even fully. Jonas lurches upwards, begging his abdominal muscles to do the work they must do. A mix of adrenaline; sudden, imminent, painful death; and a drive to save a friend all hone in on his body, driving it up and around until he can grab onto a piece of sloughing troll-flesh. He’ll say sorry later.

He climbs his way up to the pulley, grabbing the rope and holding onto it — for it is by far the best grip he’ll have up here. The world dawns on him — the predicament of his situation. Fear creeps into his mind.

“Do it.” Says Father — in that same, softly spoken tone. He shoves the flecher out, and the bolt flies towards Damien, trailing a rope of silk. It lands; and begins to pull away as Grug’s momentum pulls it back. Damien catches it; then jumps behind a wooden pillar holding up the council-room. Ironic.

He darts around it with a speed Jonas has never seen before; and Jonas does the same, thanking his Father for forcing him to learn how to tie a knot in moments. The rope catches; held via leverage by Damien.

Jonas pulls as the momentum ebbs; increasing the speed of the swing. One… two… three!

Damien looses the pulley, then snaps his eyes to Grug. To Jonas.

—

Me is swingin’. Me no like. Me feel jonas-thingy on me shoulders, doin’ somethin’. Somethin’ smart. He smart.

Me is… fallin’?

Me no wanna fall! Fall hurty! Fall into hot-hurty.

Me is gonna die?

Me legs hot-hurty!

But den me hurty on ground. An’ jonas-thingy go bump on me belly.

Me… safe? Like river?

“No, Grug. No safe… jus’ no so no safe.”

Oh. What?