Thomas had wrested all of the alcohol in the room away and glared at Rait until he stopped bringing more. While he could have just told Silora not to drink, he was trying not to force her to do anything. Unfortunately, the situation called for it. “I just lost Lograve. Gods and Hand above. Did you get to Rasalia?”
The Fate was shaking slightly. “Oh. Oh gods. It’s happening, isn’t it? We’re all dead.”
“Silora!”
“No. I think, maybe for a few seconds. But no.”
Thomas cursed and ran to a window. The Shroud was keeping the sandstorm back, although the city below and the Eye itself were less fortunate. “A Geomancer? Lograve said something about a Geomancer. That’s, like, at least a level 3 Arcanist right?”
Rait joined him. “Someone like that, could they do this?”
“No idea. You and Silora deal with the uppers a lot. Ever hear about anyone like this coming to the city recently?”
“No. There’s the Ironrush Ravager. Beyond her, Silora, that Builder, and the city’s Artificer there’s no one close to this level. She would see it in the log, monster or mortal.”
“Mark,” Silora groaned from her throne, putting Rait on edge.
“You told me he left the city.”
“He said he was going to leave,” she whined. “Who knows if he did. I bet the storm is him. He’s coming to kill me. You.” She eyed Thomas. “You’ll protect me?”
“My friends are out there fighting whatever this is, and you want me to stay here!?” he asked angrily before his shoulders slumped. “That’s probably, yeah, that’s all I’ll be good for. Maybe I could help people but.” He shook his head. “Keep trying to get in touch with someone. Anyone. It sounded like Lograve was trying to get them all to come here. Rait, do you know how to get in touch with Silver Eye?”
For some reason, that question made the manservant jump. “Me? Why?”
“Of the two Council members in power, he’s the one I’d trust more in a time like this. We need to get everyone we can into the Spires. They were made for something like this. Go find him and make that happen, if he already hasn’t started.”
“But, but I should stay with the Fate. He’s probably in the Wing Spire.” He looked pleadingly at Silora who didn’t meet his eyes. Sighing, Rait took off for the door. He knew exactly where Aucrest was. Ever since he’d learned his daughter had been taken he was waiting nearby, and his orders were to tell him as soon as Silora found her. Rait hoped he wouldn’t take the bad news too poorly.
….
They didn’t like the looks of these streets. Aughal had a poor reputation, even among their kind, but this? Huddled masses, fear, discontent. Something here called to them. Well, two things. And like the instinct they’d gained in the last region, Ashier could only loosely grasp what this one meant. What gave them hope was the sense that, among all these people, they’d surely find one that would become their next Proxy.
The attempts in outlying villages hadn’t gone as well. At best their approach had been mistaken as a dream since the temporary communication Vassalize allowed mimicked telepathy. Approaching those at night had seemed like a good idea, but it turned out people took interruptions to their sleep poorly.
Ashier could have tried using Rorshawd to force people into agreeing but detested that option for several reasons. The dragon was unruly and kept in Cloudborn Sanctuary at all times unless they needed him for transportation. It took patience, but Ashier had an entire city of desperate people and only needed one to make the right choice. They wanted willing servants, especially after enduring Rorshawd’s resistance for so long.
Now, how to do it? They’d certainly need to find shelter before the storm fully arrived. With Rorshawd’s stolen endurance and Tyrant’s Bearing, they could survive out in the blustering winds that would have put other air gestalt into the ground hours ago for fear of being scattered. They had enough time to find a suitable target. Ideally, they’d find someone isolated. Living alone and down on their luck. Judging such things in what was effectively an alien society was difficult, made more so as the people of the day finished making their way to their homes.
The Tyrant was reduced to watching one of the poorer streets of the city, far from the Spires, and counting heads as they entered doors. The doors that let in only one person for long enough were her potential targets. If this didn’t work, well, Rorshawd would keep well and good for however long it took. This city had tens of thousands of potential targets, maybe hundreds. They just needed one.
There was also the Divine Quarter to consider. Ashier, for all their class was despised by the people here, adhered to the faith. The Hammer had given them this gift, surely the closest of his followers would be their allies. Though, Ashier reflected, if they went that route they probably shouldn’t mention the dragon. If they could communicate at all.
Ashier was starting to hate their inability to just talk to people. You’d think a class as powerful as Tyrant would just bypass that limitation with a straightforward power. No luck. They really should have expected as much. By now, it was clear the powers the Tyrant class gave were as dependent on having followers as having the class. With Rorshawd in tow they could do many things, even boost themself entirely to level 5 attribute-wise. What they couldn’t do alone was lead.
It was becoming hard to see. It wasn’t so much the sand but the turbulence in the air. Ashier could manifest eyes when they weren’t trying to remain stealthy, though their primary sense depended on the movement of air around them. Similar to how fire gestalt sensed heat and earth gestalt had a form of tremor sense. The erratic weather was getting worse. Ashier moved through the shutters of a window and into a room they knew was empty. Mostly out of caution. As time went on Ashier was getting a sense that they could survive in the full storm, with Rorshawd’s help, but it would tax them. Keeping themselves concealed would be another matter since they would have to nullify the movement of sand and wind within themselves.
Ashier would remain there, watching the street and wondering if they should press their luck on the occupants of the building, right up until the screams started.
…
She looked at him from across the table in the surprisingly modest home. You’d think someone like her would be living in the Spires, but no. He’d heard her mention that being closer to family was important, a detail most men in his position would have glossed over. Then again, most men wouldn’t still be here. Crest, they’d never have gotten past the front door.
Let it be said that Gadriel Cross had a high opinion of himself. Yes, he was humble, and aware he had things to be humble about. Whereas not everyone in the group had gotten their wish that night, others had gotten more. “You don’t perform tonight?” he asked, seeing the dark sky outside. The first signs of a sandstorm brewing were visible as a slight haze to the north.
“One must have their moments to relax. You provided quite the opportunity.” Belonna wore a casual dress, far below the glowing standard she wore on stage. The songbird had a clear, formal way of speaking that belied a history of vocal training. A regal manner too. Gadriel still wasn’t sure if the way she extended a hand imploring towards him was in jest, or if she always acted like she was on a stage. “It’s a pleasure to walk the streets in guise with another. You know, it never occurs to my fans that they don’t see me anywhere but the stage.”
The songbird gave him a knowing smile. The woman was a testament to those who gained a combat class and yet turned away from the Hunter’s Guild. Her powers had developed along those lines. Or, had she always been meant for this, and her powers predetermined? There were many theories. “I was, of course, honored to accompany you. I find being in your presence both exhilarating and nostalgic.”
“For someone speaking as if they were in Threst’s courts, I’d imagine you would. Have you given any thought to returning? I came here on the wing of opportunity, though if you are missing home there should be plenty for a man such as yourself there.” She took a sip of the juice both were having, the glasses both long and deep enough to fit her beak. They would have been awkward for Gadriel to drink from were he not used to their make.
The question troubled him more. Being here troubled him, but in another sense, it was helping him let go of a weight he’d carried for so long. It was not the time to burden the songbird with that, and so he simply said, “I fear my return would be in question.” He took a breath but didn’t shy from the admission. “During my days there, in foolishness, I received unearned exile. In the years since I served the Octyrrum’s purpose in the Thormundz seeking absolution, though with how that ended, that is uncertain.”
“I see.” He waited, half expecting to be thrown out, but she fixed him with a raised eye. “You know, popular wisdom would suggest our classes would make us detest each other.”
“I have had ample opportunity to overcome that reaction,” Gadriel said slowly and did not add that she was beautiful enough for that to never matter.
“As have I. Still, it is interesting how our classes can shape us.”
“My history doesn’t concern you?” Gadriel asked, surprised she’d just let that go.
“No. The court and their flights can be ever critical of those in their rarified air. And your reputation since then has been nothing but sterling. Tyrant slayer.” She raised a glass and laughed as his eyes widened. “What? Do you think you are immune to gossip? Between you and the flying ringcat the Thormundz has at least given us much to talk about these past few weeks.”
The silence that followed carried the weight of what else there was to discuss. Incidentally, the two had just finished an evening meal which so far had refused to end. “My home is open, should you wish to stay the night again. I couldn’t turn you out in the middle of a storm.”
Gadriel felt conflict where most would have readily accepted. He was reasonably sure no powers were at play here, and that their charisma was relatively equal. Bard and Hero, classes with as many similarities as differences. For better or worse, the songbird did remind him of both the Thormundz and home. “I-”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
The sword was in his hand in moments. Gadriel was Never Disarmed. Belonna did react to this, backing away in her chair as the Hero circled the table before she saw his eyes focused behind her. “Sir, you are intruding. Take your leave.” His grip was two-handed, not having summoned his shield to him. An earnest blow from the Hero, like that, could rend a normal man in two.
By all appearances, the dusker that had walked into the room was just that. Strangely, no emotion was betrayed on his face at the leveled sword. The intruder only had eyes for her. The songbird felt no fear in this moment, even without Gadriel she was a Bard of the third level. She had her tricks.
The intruder took a step forward. “Desist. One more and I will strike.”
Where did he come from? Belonna wondered. Her door was locked. There were the windows and the door to the roof, but someone would have seen him climb to either. Desperate fans had done similar in the past, though to sneak up on her-
The Hero cut the man across the chest as he jerked towards her. Belonna had a hand to her throat, half in surprise at the suddenness. “I apologize for spilling blood here. It is a shallow cut and their kind are hardy. Summon the guard and he will live to regret his actions.”
“There’s no blood on your sword,” Belonna observed, still with a cadence in her voice though it was diminished. With a distrusting suspicion, she stood and backed away from the man crumpled on her floor. No blood was spilled there either. “Did you cut him?”
Gadriel tilted his sword. “I was sure of it. I struck him, pulling the blow yes, but I pierced the carapace. Sir, remove yourself before I resort to further unpleasantness. You have been fortunate to avoid injury. Please, forgo any further risk. You are not wanted here.”
At that point the songbird would have taken offense at Gadriel going too far in her name, but the man stood up. There was an almost perfectly diagonal, shallow cut in his chest from his right breast to left hip forming a ravine in the compressed armored plates. That would have imperiled any normal man but given them a very fair chance to survive. No blood seeped into the shirt he wore.
Gadriel cut off a hand as he reached out for Belonna, leaving another wound that refused to bleed. He kicked the man against a far wall causing a mounted flower vase to fall. “What are you?”
“Gadriel!”
“I, I apologize for my haste but-”
“Gadriel, there are more!”
…
Lograve’s teleport had gone off without any warning. Hunter had been backing away slowly from the roughly man-shaped collection of sand that had formed out of the ground, cloaked by tan robes. It had no scent, not even a monster’s, and he’d almost broken a tooth on the sand pillar that had attacked the Arcanist.
Now he was somewhere dark. His armor was giving off faint, faint light, which only gave his Night Eyes enough to hazily make out a short hallway. Where are we? No one responded. Tak? There was someone with him, though it took a moment for his nose to work. Along with the mixed scents of duskers, fear, and waste coming from one of the doorways, was a familiar scent. Arpan? He has Daniel!
Nudging the man with a paw did nothing. Biting was considered, but Hunter’s precision with his jaws strayed towards vital blows. Not that he had to use the large canines that ended just above his jawline, but neither was Hunter going to nibble. He had claws! And Arpan had Daniel.
The Artificer was wearing armor of a sort. It covered his chest well enough, although on the sides and along the limbs it was more decorative than functional. Oddly similar to Hunter’s, the ringcat realized, as his own did little to cover his limbs. Hunter extended the claws on one of his paws and made to lightly scratch part of an uncovered arm.
Something stopped him. Hunter’s claw skated off an invisible barrier a few centimeters from the man’s skin. He tried again, carefully, though with more pressure as he went. The third time he wound up a slash, leading to his paw bouncing and knocking him off balance. Hunter growled. He tried to stand on Arpan to put his weight on him and began sliding off. Stupid armor. He had to wake him up, if only to move and find the others. If shouting and claws were out, Hunter didn’t have another option. Daniel might have been able to lend him an attack that would work. Hunter paused to consider why that useless thought would occur to him and shook his head.
There was one thing that could work, although that ability was difficult to use. Also, he needed something to hit and there was nothing here. Right?
A minute later, Hunter had ineffectually ‘attacked’ Arpan enough for his fur to stand on end and begin glowing slightly. The charge had built up far slower than when he’d fought against Gtoll, but in the end he had enough for a small discharge. Hunter stopped, waited a few seconds, and then brought his paw towards Arpan’s face. For good measure he thought of only the most innocent thoughts, like lazing about in the sun. The master of stalking bypassed whatever defense the armor had, making contact too late for it to realize the trick.
A howl filled the air. A human one. The mild setting of a level 2 attack power still delivered a sizable punch. Enough to wake Arpan and then some. He scrambled back, one hand reaching for the gem in the center of the breastplate. A confused expression crossed Arpan’s face when the defensive ward only took a fraction of the mana to refill before he realized who he was sharing the space with. Considering said being was the only major light source in the area, Hunter wasn’t hard to see. “You? What’s going on? Where did they, hoh, hold on, nice kitty.”
Hunter stopped walking and gave the Artificer a look of pure insult and disgust which, thanks to a certain feature, was readable. “Druid,” Hunter repeated the old lie and watched Arpan’s face change from horror, to confusion, to understanding. Oh. He didn’t know.
“You’re a Druid? Oh, of course! That makes so much more sense. Wait.” A sharp, yet detached light lit Arpan’s eyes. “Armor for Druid battle forms? Why didn’t I think of that? Sure, there’s the issue of variability in body shape, but an enchantment to accommodate for that has to exist. Or I could just enchant leather armors to be more flexible, I know just the thing. How many Druids are in this city anyway? Dril, we-”
The situation caught back up to him as Hunter continued to move forward, a low growl in his voice. “Let Daniel go.”
“What do you mean? Oh. Gods.” Arpan collapsed against a wall. “All this time they were just going to kill me. Both of them. But now, more than my class? I, I can’t let them go. They really would kill me.”
“I will kill you.”
Arpan smiled somewhat smugly. “Doubtful. You barely put a dent in Dril’s Defense Field. Did you know there’s a trick with enchanted armor Foci?” He looked like he was about to explain it and then decided otherwise. “Well, you are friends with an Artificer, I suppose you do. There’s a reason I made Dril the way I did. Only someone my level or higher can get past my defenses before help arrives.”
Hunter considered this. He was mostly a stranger to society at large and had been ‘awake’ for mere months. Grand political gestures and crafty bargaining were beyond him. Threats, though? “I’ll tell them you ran. Then they’ll kill you anyways.”
A flash of light illuminated the space as a beam singed the fur on Hunter’s flank. The shot had been cast over his head and into the ceiling, though the ringcat still felt the magic within the blow as it sent out a pulse. Arpan stood back up, gaining a kind of confidence in his voice. “Rather low mana cost for a level 4 ability, and it would make quick work of you. Not that I want to hurt you,” Arpan added apologetically. “But that’s not the kind of thing you say to someone who can silence you themselves.”
Hunter was unmoved. “I have killed a dragon. He is my friend.”
“That Assassin is worse than a dragon, my boy. Look at it this way. Something terrible is about to happen to this city. I know I’m not on the right side of things but I had no choice! By following what they say I survive, and by extension your friend does too. He’s in one of the safest places in the city right now. Safer than the Spires, I’d warrant.”
“Let him out.”
One of Arpan’s fingers began glowing as he channeled but did not release an ability. The light was concentrated on the parts of the armor that extended along the back of the hands and ended with a very small gem placed on each fingertip. All green, of course. “For my own conscience’s sake, I don’t want to kill you, but I will stop you from following me. I need to get back to, hm.” He shook his head with his other hand, looking around. “Where are we? Now that I think about it, how did we get here? The last thing I remember was the Assassin knocking me out.”
“Lograve.” Hunter was glancing at the walls and doors as well, ears occasionally flicking.
“Sending me to some random spot underground with a murderous Druid? Sounds like Lograve.”
“Underground?” That tracked with the earth tones in the air but contrasted with the surroundings Hunter had come to associate with large mortal buildings.
“These are dusker quarters. Normal, uhm, that is, day people seldom see these places. It’s not morning already, is it? It’s so quiet.”
“Not quiet.” Hunter’s ears flicked again.
“What do you mean?” Arpan held his weaponized hand up to his ear, blinking away from the glare and cursing. “I can hear something. Distantly. But if it’s night they should all be awake. Damnation, the city should be, well, fighting or something. I never did know what they were planning, only that they needed those daggers, and they only had three.” Arpan frowned. “No. No, I was the only one that could make them. They couldn’t have possibly made so many more of those creatures.”
Hunter ignored that. His mind was still on Daniel, although something had just become more pressing. “Bad things coming. Enemies.”
“What?”
“I see red.”
“What does that mean?” Arpan didn’t get an answer, since it should have been obvious. “If this is some ploy to get me to release your friend, it isn’t going to work. If I let him go, I’m signing my own death sentence.”
“We need to leave. Go.” Hunter’s head turned. Arpan didn’t see fear there, but what he did see was not reassuring. The two eyes, narrow pupils reflecting the light, moved from point to point in the tunnel behind Arpan.
“My friend, I think you take too well to that body.” He sighed. “There are access points every so often, but only so many. Limit the amount of ways people can accidentally stumble out into the sun and all of that.” The sound at the edge of Hunter’s hearing grew louder. “Have they released a monster into the undercity?”
“They look like duskers. But red outlines. Running towards us.”
“That sounds like a tracking ability. Red? What does that mean?”
“Bad. They have no names.” The way Hunter said that chilled Arpan and he paled. “We need to go. Follow.”
The Artificer was more than happy to cooperate when it didn’t involve opening his Mirror Space. “You can probably run faster than I can,” he observed, struggling to keep pace. “These halls are tall enough, I could ride-”
“No. Keep the light on.”
Arpan looked at the walls and noticed the extinguished braziers where guiding flames were normally lit. Duskers feared the sun, but not light itself. Tending to these would have been something the entire community was involved in. ‘They have no names.’ Arpan thought about what the Druid had said again and gulped.
He knew whatever the Mirage had been planning would be bad, but he’d assumed it would be some kind of power play to eliminate the city leadership. Attacking the Hunter’s Guild and the Commander, though? They might have stayed neutral if the fighting had kept clear of the public, so what did the Mirage targeting them first mean?
“Where is the way up?”
“I don’t know!” Arpan whispered urgently. The thought to try one of the doors and ask someone entered then quickly left his mind. Hunter’s head was swinging left and right now, keeping track of things in three directions. It became clear why as they entered a communal dining area, rows of tables without chairs with four hallways leading into it. Hunter stopped. “What are you doing!?”
“Too close. Need to fight. Here is better. Let Daniel go.”
Arpan was, in a word, spooked. That was all. He was level 5. Even with some level disparity, more in strength than ideal perhaps, he had Dril. These weren’t those unholy abominations the daggers created, these were just, just, well, he didn’t know. Rage-maddened duskers? Even one of the most naturally formidable races in existence could do little in the face of his power. The hardest thing he’d have to do is make sure the Druid survived, if only to make up for keeping his friend hostage. “I’m sorry, no. Stay by me. Dril and I should be enough to cut them down. As regrettable as that may be, I have a feeling we’re not going to talk our way out of this.”
The Druid growled, really playing into his battle form. Arpan could also hear them now. Heavy footsteps on the compacted sand from all four directions, though the corridor they’d come from sounded the closest. No voices, and no light. Duskers had better night vision, but running in pitch darkness at speed? One of them should have stumbled. Run up against a wall. Anything.
The first became visible and Arpan grew less confident. Coming out of the mouth of the corridor was a dusker, fully extended and bare of any weapons, armor, or clothing. Even fully extended there was nothing to offend the sensibilities of the more mammalian races. That was of little concern. What made Arpan freeze, until Hunter headbutted him, was the hole between plates in the chest where a heart should have been.