As Tarn entered the next chamber, a sense of familiarity and even comfort came over him. The walls were still constructed of the same stone and mortar all the other rooms had been, but three large bonfires lit in the center of the chamber added a warmth and ambience that called back to his childhood. Large holes had been carved into the ceiling, and a steady stream of smoke ventilated out of the space, off to some unseen chimney far above.
The Sword Dungeon had offered them memories, entire scenes of forests or cities or even other worlds. But after the journey through the frozen winds of the bridge and the somber stones of the Axe, just the smell of burning wood and the crackle of the fire was enough.
The trio of fires were burning steadily, each about ten feet across and stacks of wood as high as Tarn’s shoulders. The heat should have been overwhelming, but he found the room’s temperature to be quite comfortable. Before each fire was a pair of small boxes, one filled with white kindling, and one filled with green.
His tension lowered immediately, and he could sense the same in the others. Bog’s shoulders seem to unclench, the worry left Aryo’s eyes, and Urthin even began to hum softly. Though still staggered from her injuries in the last fight, Isca pulled up her goggles and inhaled the air with a contented sigh.
The only two unaffected seemed to be Lash and Narsol. The gremlin was no happier than normal, as he scampered back and forth between the trio of roaring fires, looking at the massive logs placed there to burn by some magic of the dungeon.
Narsol glowered, his arms folded. His head seemed on a swivel, looking at Tarn in one moment and then staring at the doors that led out of the chamber in the next. He was the picture of impatience, but Tarn understood. For the rest of them, even Bog, this was a mission. A journey to a destination, with goals and combat to be sure. But they were not returning home.
Tarn approached the orc as he stood before the three fires. Everything about Narsol’s expression screamed ‘get on with it’, so he supposed they should do just that.
“Okay Narsol.” He contemplated slapping the orc on the shoulder, and thought better of it. “Why don’t you tell me how these work.”
For a moment, the orc simply stared at the fire before him. Tarn wondered if he was thinking of his family, or even his people trapped back with humans in the realm. After looking at the anger in his eyes though, he was certain that wasn’t it.
Narsol had lost comrades here, in this very dungeon. And these fires, or rather the decisions that had been made with them, had played a role somehow.
“They are quite basic.” When he spoke, his voice was strained as if he had to force the words from his mouth. “Each fire offers one of us healing or a raising of level, but not both.”
What did you choose, Narsol? He didn’t ask, but the twitching muscles in the orc’s jaw reminded him of the severity of the choice. Given the unknown layout of the Axe, this opportunity might not come again.
“It uses the kindling, I’m guessing?” Tarn nodded at the boxes of sticks before each fire. Based on his own time living in the forest, he recognized the greener wood as maple, while the white-covered sticks were obviously birch.
“Yes.” Narsol nodded, his arms still folded. “Carry one maple into the fire to level up, or a birch for healing.”
“I’m sorry – carry them into the fire?” Tarn looked back at the orc in surprise. “I can feel the heat from here!”
“You will not be injured. This is why I am here, is it not? To explain my experiences? I have done so – every moment you wait allows your opponent more time to take advantage.”
“Fine, fine.” Tarn shook his head, taking a step closer to the center blaze. The heat from the flames did not increase, but it was still enough to give him pause. “Okay, thoughts people? We only have three choices here.”
“Two choices.” Urthin’s voice was as flat as stone. “You must heal, Tarn. The Axe requires you to be in every fight.”
“You just want me to go in first to see if it hurts,” Tarn said, winking back at the Monk. He was right though, being down to 40 AP he really couldn’t wait any longer.
Kneeling to take birch branch, he took a deep breath and looked at the roaring blaze just inches away. It sure felt real, but the dungeons had shown a great ability to play games with their senses. Gripping the branch tightly, he closed his eyes and stepped forward.
The flame engulfed him, twisting and bending around him in a maelstrom of heat and light. The pain danced up and down his skin like a thousand insects biting and stinging. Tarn opened his eyes in shock, barely able to see the rest of the room through the yellow and orange curtain that danced before him.
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Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the flames winked out. Tarn could still feel the radiating heat upon his skin, smell the diminishing smoke, and taste the ash in his mouth. But he was alive, and his interface showed a completely restored AP total.
“You didn’t say it would hurt!” He shot an annoyed look at Narsol. The pain had not been overwhelming, but it had been a surprise.
“I said you would not be injured.” The orc’s face was as stoic as any monk. “You are healed, and at the cost of only a moment of suffering.”
Tarn shook his head and turned back to the assembled group. Most of them looked back at him wide-eyed, no doubt still shocked by the conflagration he had just stepped out of. Lash, predictably, was disinterested and already poking around the pair of doors at the far end of the room.
“It sounded like you heal here through pain.” Bog pounded one fist into her other hand. “I am starting to appreciate this Axe Dungeon.”
Tarn looked back at the pair of fires still burning in the center of the room. Narsol was right, the longer they took to make this decision, the more time they were giving to Yarex to catch up with them. Yet there was no way of knowing if another campfire option would present itself on the path ahead. This might be their only chance.
Several of the team were hurt, but none egregiously so. Of them likely Isca needed healing the most, but she was also the nimblest at avoiding attacks, and was rarely targeted. On a similar note, several of them were close to levelling up, Tarn included.
Narsol watched him, arms still folded. This was Tarn’s call, and he supposed to the orc it was confusion why this would even be debated. But that was the kind of leader Tarn wanted to be, no matter what Narsol or anyone else might think.
He’d make the call in the end, but his people deserved for their voices to be heard.
“So, of our two remaining choices – I think at least one should be a level up.” He looked across the group of them. “Given that some of us are already higher level-“
“Level up the kid.” Jental stepped forward out of group, hooking a thumb at a shocked Aryo. “If we only have two picks, he should be one of them.”
Tarn opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The rest of the group seemed just as stunned, none more than Aryo who gaped back at the Lone Wolf.
“Look, I’m as surprised as you all.” A bit of color came to Jental’s cheeks. “Turns out junior is borderline useful. I’d hate to see him die just as he’s getting interesting.”
Bog roared with approving laughter at this, slapping Jental on the back and knocking her forward a few steps.
“I agree,” Tarn said with a smile, nodding at Aryo. “You’ve done great with us Aryo, and I think we’re all understanding how to best use you in a fight. Go hit the fires, kid!”
His face an expression of confusion and fear, Aryo began to walk toward the left-most of the large bonfires.
“Keep your eyes closed and hold your breath,” Tarn whispered as the nervous Zephyr walked past him. “No one’s judging you here.”
To Tarn’s surprise, Aryo suddenly took off in a full run. He grabbed one of the maple branches as he ran by, and leapt into the fire still moving at full speed.
Eyes suddenly wide with shock, Aryo let out a yelp as the fire sank into him. He then clamped his mouth shut and clenched his fists, while the embers of the mystical campfire sank into his skin. After a moment that Tarn was sure felt like hours to Aryo, it was over.
As the details of Aryo’s new abilities scrolled across his mind, Tarn looked over at Jental. She met his gaze for a moment, and then to his surprise she held it. A subtle smile worked across her face, and her lips silently mouthed a single word.
Thanks.
He smiled back at her. In his mind, he could almost hear old Rykin laughing with proud approval. Once it had been the old guard teaching him how to let go of his anger and guilt, turning them outward into more useful applications. Now he knew what it felt to be on the other side of that board, and he had to admit it felt pretty damn good.
That left one single fire remaining. There were level up opportunities for Urthin, Lash, or himself. Or they could top off Isca’s health, bringing the whole team mostly back to full strength. A new ability or increased health from a level up could mean the difference between completing their mission, yet his promise to the Kithikin weighed heavily on her mind.
I’ll get you home, he had told her. That’s a promise. She had helped deliver the Realm back from Arch Mage Lurim after all.
“My thought is the final fire is for Isca.” He looked at the right-most conflagration, still burning while the other two were now smoldering piles of wood and ash. “But I’m open to hearing alternative ideas.”
“You choose with your heart.” Narsol had moved to the far wall of the room, next to the pair of doors as if he could not wait to leave. “I have seen how you look at her, and she at you. Do you place her safety over your goal?”
“My first goal is to bring everyone on my team home.”
“Big green wrong.” Lash stepped out in front of the group, looking across the room at the orc. “Lash like you, but wrong. Wing girl more important than any new ability.”
“Thank you, Lash.” Isca beamed, leaning down and ruffling the gremlin’s ears. “Sometimes you are almost not annoying.”
“And sometimes you almost smart, for a bug.”
“Okay, so we all agree!” Bog cast a sideways glance at Narsol. “Lets get you in that fire, Iskie. We need to get a move on.”
Isca walked calmly towards the remaining flame, holding the white birch branch before her like a talisman. Disappearing into the conflagration, Tarn heard her sharp intake of breath as the pain ran through her. With satisfaction he watched her AP total return to full, and as she stepped back out of the fire, she did have a smile on her face, albeit through gritted teeth.
“An …. Interesting experience.” She said as she returned, smelling lightly of smoke. “Each new horizon is its own reward, as they say.”
“It would seem we have two paths before us.” Urthin nodded towards the pair of doors. “Armed with the new information you have acquired, which will you choose?”
Tarn opened his mouth to speak, and then stopped. There were two paths left between the redemption chamber and the arena. One presented an elite combat, whereas the other offered a standard fight. Each represented the opportunity for more power, more opportunities to improve their chances in the last conflict.
The dungeon would have him only choose one. But as he looked at the scowling, somewhat conflicted face of their unwilling orc companion, he suddenly had a new idea.
“We’re not going to one of them.” Tarn smiled at Narsol. “We’re going to both.”