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—DRAMATIS PERSONAE—
Cortland Finiron, Hammer Master of the 12th Renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, hot-tempered
Arris Stonetender, a fire elementalist of no renown, Kingdom of Infinzel, exploding
Carina Goldstone, Henry Blacksalve, and Vitt Secondson-Salvado, champions of Infinzel, cooked to various degrees
Issa Firstdot-Tuarez and Walton Tendersword, well done
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23 Harvesend, 61 AW
The Underneath
217 days until the next Granting
The only times Cortland ever visited the ocean were during his yearly trips to Armistice. The island did not grant the champions many opportunities to enjoy the scenery, but there had been one occasion that stuck with him. His second Granting. Infinzel had finished their killing ahead of schedule, they had no grudges left to be settled, no enemies lurking in that year’s maze of palms, and had set themselves up with a beach camp. With Ben Tuarez next to him, Cortland had stripped down and waded out into the ocean to wash off the blood. The waves had buffeted them roughly, and sent both men stumbling. Ben had braced Cortland’s shoulders, but Cortland remembered shrugging him off and pushing out further, determined to see how far he could go.
It wasn’t far. Cortland wasn’t a strong swimmer and, even if he had been, the tides would have flung him backward. Cortland wondered if that was the firm hand of the gods in those waters, pushing him back to the island and its violence. No one got to leave early.
Cortland acquired [Immovable] that year. He never liked being pushed around.
The wall of fire that rushed through the tunnel reminded Cortland of those waves. There was no escape. He raised his buckler and used [Greater Shield] and [Immovable] just as the inferno broke over him. The fire parted around his invisible shield but he could still feel the heat—he needed to squeeze his eyes shut to keep them from blistering. Cortland held his breath so as not to gulp in any of the fire. He felt someone collapse against his back, using him as a bulwark. A [Force Shield] joined with Cortland’s own—smaller and deployed late but still some relief—and he knew that it must have been Henry huddled with him.
The flames washed over them, passed into the room where the Ink had been hidden, and then swirled into nothing with the sound of sucking oxygen. Cortland's eyes snapped open and immediately started to water. The air hurt to breathe—hot, yes, but also acrid with a chemical stench, some gas floating through the cracks in the caverns that burned dirty.
Next to him, Issa coughed desperately. She had hunkered down behind her own shield and been spared most of the flames, but the heated metal had peeled the skin off her cheek and forearm. These injuries seemed forgotten as she desperately struggled to get in some clean air.
At Issa's side, Walton Tendersword laid flat on his back, his hands still held up before him, his fingers charred curls. His broadsword had gone flying somewhere behind him. The boy's skin was all blackened meat and dark crimson gulfs, and there were still fires burning in the gaps of his armor. Carina crouched over him, trying to pat out these lingering flames with hands encased in a layer of magical shielding. She looked completely untouched by the blast. Of course, it had been a good time to select [Force Armor]. A bit of luck for the logician, or careful planning? Now was not the time to dwell on that suspicion.
Henry still had his hands on Cortland's shoulders, holding himself up as he coughed spasmodically. A blackish-red coated Henry's lips—some mixture of soot and blood—and his face and hands were pocked with bubbling blisters. His ward-weave cloak had spared him most of the damage, the smoldering garment now pooled on the ground behind Henry.
“Heal yourself,” Cortland barked at him, his lips cracking as they opened. “Then do what you can for the boy.”
Henry waved at Cortland’s arm, trying to speak through his coughs. “Fire.”
“Yeah, no shi—oh.” Cortland realized that his hammering arm was on fire. He slapped out the flames, barely feeling the burns. His [Recovery+] was already smoothing his skin back to normal.
Behind them all, Vitt laid in a quivering heap. He had tried to outrun the fire and it had climbed up his back, eaten through his leather armor, and left a repulsive layer of burns from the back of his head to his ass. The hunter's beautiful hair had mostly burned away. He was very much alive, though, and quaking with what Cortland realized was a frothing rage, both of his hands pressed against the cavern floor as he tried to push through the pain and press himself up. He screamed as the mess on his back split and bled thickly. Vitt sank back down against the stone.
An orb of soothing white energy appeared next to Cortland and he felt an immediate rush of strength. Henry had used [Empowering Beacon]. Everyone within its range would find themselves more powerful and tolerant of pain. It might be enough to at least stabilize the injured until Henry could get to them.
Carina fumbled with a heated plate of armor on Walton’s chest and the soldier let out a cry as his skin peeled up with it. “Henry!” Carina yelped, shrinking back wide-eyed. “Quickly!”
As Henry staggered to Walton, Cortland squinted down the tunnel. He did not understand what had happened. Another trap set by that talkative gargoyle? The caverns were now lit by scattered fires and, peering through the hanging smoke, Cortland saw that the creature that called itself the Firstson had retreated back into the depths, leaving behind a lifeless wall of gargoyles and some burning patches of scrounger skin. No, this calamity wasn't the creature's handiwork. The fire had come from the other direction, back the way they’d come. Seconds before the blaze, Vitt had said that something killed his summoned nightstalker...
Gripping his hammer, the leather-wrapped handle warm in his hand, Cortland stepped in front of the others to peer down the curving corridor.
“It was supposed to be my Ink,” said a voice that sounded like a snapping campfire.
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Cortland's fist tightened. “Arris Stonetender! What have you done?”
Every year, Infinzel celebrated the coldest day of Trollove by burning a towering effigy of King Mudt of Orvesis. Gazing upon Arris now, Cortland couldn't help but be reminded of that swaying figure of wood and straw, fire gobbling away at it from within. The elementalist stood nude before him, although the charred patches of flesh and cooked skin made for its own kind of macabre clothing. Arris was wreathed in fire and smoke, tendrils of heat curling away from her like snakes. A piece of her abdomen had caved in—or been hollowed out—Cortland couldn't decide which. A glowing white heat emanated from that hole in her body like a furnace.
“It was supposed to be mine,” Arris said. Her words carried on the smoke, felt almost like a part of them. “I sacrificed so much. The Ink was meant for me!”
“By the gods,” Henry said, his voice breaking.
Cortland snapped a look over his shoulder. The healer crouched over Walton but his eyes were fixed on the elementalist. “Do your work, Henry!”
His shaking hands aglow, Henry turned his attention back to the burned soldier. Carina, meanwhile, came to stand a step behind Cortland. Her body still glowed faintly with her [Force Armor] but Cortland doubted it would withstand much more.
“Her,” Arris said, pointing at Carina. Her finger was baked yellow bone, no meat at all left on that hand, fire licking at the joints in the same way ice ran through a gargoyle's body. She had given herself over completely to some old magic. “She stole what was meant for me.”
Cortland took a step forward, but Carina put a hand on his arm. “She doesn't know what she's saying. She needs help.”
Help? There weren't enough healers in all of Infinzel to fix what Arris had done to herself. Cortland shook off Carina's hand and made another step forward, putting his squat bulk between Arris and the others.
“Every year passed over by that bastard Ben!” Arris screamed. Steam rose from the cave walls as the temperature climbed again. “Passed over for you, Cortland, then for Henry, then for Vitt. He saw the sacrifices I made, but he never chose me. He needed to go…”
Cortland dropped his chin as he took another step forward. “What are you saying, Arris?”
“He deserved what he got.” Arris twitched, the skin on her neck crinkling and breaking, like the words pained her. “I knew you would be different, Cortland. And you were! You picked me! The Ink would have fixed me but then she… she…”
The ball of flame at the elementalist’s midsection flared white hot. New gouts of fire blossomed from her body, filling the chamber around her. Arris held out her arms, flesh dripping and crisping, as if only her skeletal frame restrained the growing blaze.
“Back! Everyone back!” Cortland was vaguely aware of Carina shouting as she fled.
Cortland did not retreat. He had known Arris for years. They had come up together through the Garrison. But he did not recognize her now. These bitter words, twisted with heat and desperation. The hunger for the Ink—something she had kept hidden for so long. Burning herself up.
“Mercy,” Cortland said.
“Yes,” Arris rasped. “For you, of course. We need only be rid of the girl and then we can set things as they should be.”
“No,” Cortland said. “What I do now is mercy.”
“Wh--?”
Cortland used [Bull Rush]. In the space of a heartbeat, he stood directly in front of Arris. At this distance, he could see how her eyes had melted into twisted pits, almost as if she now saw through the flames themselves. Her mouth hung open—tongue and cheek eaten away by fire—her words crackling. In what was left of her face, Cortland thought he saw confusion.
“I couldn’t stop thinking…”
The rest of her words were lost as Cortland brought his hammer down on her head—through her head—her skull shattering like brittle tinder, the blow crashing downward with enough force that when Cortland yanked his hammer back it was from the quickly dimming recess in the elementalist’s abdomen.
As during the winter celebration, the effigy toppled. The flames lost their inertia—dissipated against the stone, flickered, and whooshed away.
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1 Brittlest, 61 AW
The Training Pit, inside the pyramidal city of Infinzel
210 days until the next Granting
Cortland watched from the balcony as Vitt and a couple Garrison commanders put another group of prospects through a series of exercises that would leave all of them gasping and puking. The recruits came from the manufactory, or the outer districts, or were otherwise young and as yet unassigned. Infinzel maintained strict quotas throughout their workforce and it was rare for there to be so many opening in the Garrison all at once. But Arris Stonetender was dead, as were the six veterans who had been charged with watching the Underneath’s gate with her, the lot of them burned alive when they tried to stop her from following the champions down. Plus, Walton Tendersword had received compassionate reassignment. Eight openings meant eight chances to improve one’s station.
Perhaps, one day, a recruit down there would replace Cortland as champion. He had been like them once. Eager to earn, eager to fight. And now, he stood in the very spot where Ben Tuarez had once made decisions that would shape Cortland’s life.
Although he would be expected to weigh in on the selections, the hammer master only half paid attention. Vitt would be a good enough judge of talent as far as recruits were concerned. Cortland had to force himself not to smirk whenever he saw Vitt—they had the same haircut these days. Vitt’s black hair was just starting to come back in and wasn’t yet long enough for his precious red streaks. The man had lost something of his predatory elegance. Perhaps that was why he’d cut back on the whoring.
In the last week, at least, the hunter had been more cognizant of his responsibilities. He’d even volunteered to accompany another group to the Underneath, watching over soldiers and masons as they reattached sconces to the walls. There had been no sign of the gargoyle Firstson. No more traps, no more tampering with Infinzel’s constructions. Perhaps the creature had died during the inferno. Wishful thinking, Cortland suspected.
As to a dedicated hunt for the Firstson, and the strange boy painted on the cavern wall, those matters were under consideration by King Cizco. He had reached out to the Magelab for a consultation, and apparently one of their champions was on her way. A candle, too, the one the archmages trusted to settle disputes.
Cortland caught himself turning the angle over in his hand again. The triangle coin of Infinzel, forged and shaped on the tier above him now, the currency of the northern continent. Nothing so special, and yet, he couldn’t let this one go. The corners dug into his palm as he squeezed it.
Soldiers had found the coin when clearing out Arris Stonetender’s possessions. Written upon it—in blood—was the name ‘Carina Goldstone.’
“Maybe you saved my life,” Carina had told him when she heard about the coin. “When you sank the wishing well at Guydemion’s.”
Cortland wondered. He supposed that it added up. Overlooked for years, dying from her addiction to her own magic, Arris had turned to the Brokerage of Blades to get rid of Ben Tuarez. Her request had been accepted, the killing done, but the result had not gotten Arris the reward she expected. In her madness, the woman had basically admitted as much.
Except, she hadn’t. Not exactly. And so, Cortland wondered.
“Uncle? You wanted to see me?”
Cortland slipped the angle away as Issa emerged onto the balcony behind him. She came to stand next to him—taller than him, her handsome features reminding Cortland so much of her father.
He grunted. “How you feeling?”
Issa shrugged. “Blacksalve’s healing did the trick, far as I can figure it. Still flinching when I pass by an open flame, but that will pass. I hope.”
Cortland nodded. He rested a hand on his hammer, drumming his fingers on the stone. “What do you think of Carina?”
She raised an eyebrow at his bluntness. “How do you mean?”
“Your honest impressions.”
Issa hesitated, not sure what to say. “Bit of a bitch, if I’m being truthful,” she began eventually. “But more than competent, it seems. A good fit for your crew. I could see myself getting to like her.”
Cortland nodded. He felt the same. He liked Carina, and wanted to trust her, to protect her—even after the ambush she’d laid for him. That felt, now, like the rebellion of an unruly daughter. But there was still that feeling. That lingering edge that made him want to reach for his hammer. He’d felt it on the day he met her, and he felt it now still.
“You should get tight with her,” Cortland said. “And tell me what you learn.”
Issa surprised him by laughing. “Uncle, are you asking me to be your spy?”
“That’ll be all,” Cortland replied.
He turned his attention back to the recruits scrabbling across the sand below. Issa started to say something more, but then pressed her lips together, and left as ordered. Cortland knew what Ben had always said about him—that he was a man with a hammer and he didn’t have the head for anything more. Maybe that was true. He had started down there, just like those doubled-over recruits, sweating and bleeding.
But now, he was up here.
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