“If the gods aren’t around to help you, magic is the next best thing.” Marteel, soldier of Tiberea (819 B. F. E.-760 B. F. E).

Garassk could scarcely believe it. They’d come all this way, only for the king to be dead already?

“So… now what?” he asked, struggling to control his words. “We’re on our own now. What’s the plan?”

“Right,” Flint said, struggling to regain his composure. “There’s an alchemy room in the castle. Perhaps we can whip something up.”

“You know magic?” Garassk asked, tilting his head.

“Not really. But I used to hang out with the court mage before I became a guard, and he showed me how to brew up some potions in my youth. If we can find his book, we can make something.”

“Good enough for me.”

“Which way?” Rathorn asked. Flint just started walking and made a quick motion for everyone to follow him, which they did. The room itself was right next to the throne room, but the size of the rooms themselves made it feel like they’d journeyed from one end of the kingdom to the next to get there.

The mage's room was another world all on its own, and none of the rules seemed to apply there. Garassk staggered once he set foot in the room itself. The walls and ceiling gave off the impression of a night sky, and wind seemed to blow through the room, despite a complete lack of windows. Bright spherical objects hovered in the air. He wasn’t sure if they were solid, or just balls of light. He also felt like he was floating. He looked down to confirm that he was, in fact, standing on solid ground.

“Welcome to the Wizard’s Tower,” Flint said. “It's a bit of a doozy when you first set foot in it.”

Garassk finally realized at that moment that he’d been swaying the entire time.

“Is every mage’s room like this?” he asked.

“Wouldn’t know,” Flint replied. “I’ve only been in this one."

“Right. Of course,” Garassk said, shaking his head to ease some dizziness.

“You’ll get used to it,” Flint said before turning to the rest of them. “Now then, shall we make some potions?”

“Where’s the book?” Diama asked.

“Right there,” Rathorn said, limping forward and holding it out. “Now let’s get this over with.”

Flint scurried about finding various ingredients and headed for the cauldron.

“You all keep watch,” he ordered. “If anything gets in here, you need to fight back.”

Garassk stood near the door and held his sword close. He didn’t know the first thing about making potions, and he didn’t want to be anywhere near the process.

“So what exactly are you making?” he asked.

“Exploding potions,” Flint said. “It’s a fairly simple one to make, and I suspect that they’ll come in handy.”

A crack of thunder interrupted the conversation for a moment. Garassk jerked his head around until he saw Flint standing over a smoking cauldron.

“Did you do that?” he asked.

“Yes,” Flint sighed. “Potion making is almost never quiet Especially if you’re working with unstable ingredients. Which is usually the case.”

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

A few more sparks and crackles sprang forth as the dwarf worked. Garassk decided to alternate between watching the brewing and the door. He never saw a single bug, but the cauldron was and endless supply of nerve-wracking antics. Sparks, explosions, fire, and even a light snowstorm burst forth as Flint worked.

“What is all of that?” he finally asked, unable to stay quiet about the strange experience any longer.

“This is a weird art,” Flint replied. “I’m not sure if even the actual mage could explain how any of this works.”

Little else was said for a time as the dwarf continued his work. The “starry” sky started to move about, seizing Garassk’s attention for a time. A “moon” starting creeping over the sky. What is all of this? Garassk thought. How does anyone work in a place as strange as this?

“Good news!” Flint shouted. “We’re done!”

Garassk snapped back to attention and went over to the cauldron.

“So what have we got?” he asked.

“Several exploding potions, as promised,” Flint started, holding up several vials of orange liquid. “This one brings out a blizzard, and then there’s this one.”

The potion he held up was mostly purple, but the exact color shifted with the liquid in the vial.

“What does that one do?” Diama asked.

“Something with fire, I think.”

“You… think?” Garassk asked.

“I saw the page on the book, had the ingredients, and saw a picture of a wildfire next to the instructions,” Flint explained. “But there’s no explanation for what it is. We’ll just have to find out later.”

“Sounds risky,” Garassk said.

“Given what we’re up against, risky is the best we have.”

“Right then,” Garassk said, taking a few vials, and turning toward the door. “Where do we go from here?”

“To the other side of the cave,” Flint answered, pocketing a few more. “It’s possible that some survivors are over there, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.”

“And if they’re not?”

“Then we’ll still need to go there to escape. Unless you can think of another way?”

“I’ve got nothing. Get us out of here.”

Flint spun around and walked out the door. Garassk followed behind him, as did the others. They didn’t get far before they heard buzzing and snarls coming from the next room.

“Dammit, they’re here already,” Flint muttered. “Get ready. We’re in for the fight of our lives!”

Everyone drew their weapons and made their way to the throne room. A massive swarm of bugs flew above them, with more coming in from a hole that had somehow been blasted from the ceiling. They flew around the room in a circle, screaming endlessly.

“They’re not coming down,” Garassk said. “What are they doing?”

“It looks like some sort of ritual,” Rathorn snarled. “They’re waiting for someone else to come down and fight?”

“Waiting? For who?”

As if in answer to Diama’s question, a shadow fell across the room. The hole collapsed as an even bigger shape crashed into it and hit the ground, causing everyone to back up to avoid getting crushed by it.

It had the same body shape as the others, but was roughly the size of an elephant. Jagged spikes atop the head gave the impression of a crown, and the creature let out a bellow that shook the room.

“That’s what they’re waiting for,” Rathorn growled. “The queen.”