Chapter Fifty-Nine: Mischief
Tom's thoughts tumbled in freefall. He had to return to Corin’s Grove immediately. Wayrest had to be warned. This was too important. They still thought they had months to prepare.
The orcs had been moving at speed, had an Idealist in each pack. They had already run into two parties. How many more had they missed in the massive scale of the Deep?
They were aiming straight for Wayrest. This was the crest of the first wave.
And yet he couldn’t go anywhere. Not with Val unconscious, and with Sesame injured.
Tom downed a potion from his inventory and felt his wounds begin to knit back together. He felt his ribs grinding as they straightened. His shoulder popped, and sensation returned to the outer edges of his left arm.
Scorn dropped lightly onto the ground nearby Val. He looked at Tom with a quizzical expression. Smitten came running out of the woods a few moments after. She began snuffing at her unconscious summoner, whined for a minute, and then snuffed again. Tom could sense her agitation.
Smitten repeated the process a few more times and then stopped. She made her way over to Sesame and began alternately licking at his wounds and whining. Tom felt relief trickle through his bond. She was healing him, slowly but surely.
He tried to think as he waited for his own body to heal. He needed to go, but he couldn’t. Smitten obviously couldn’t cleanse poison from a body with her skills, only counteract any damage it did. In this case, the poison seemed to merely knock a person out, and so there was no damage to heal. Her canine ministrations had already sealed the wound in Val’s shoulder. There didn’t seem to be much more she could do apart from that.
Tom was at an impasse. He knew of one or two herbs that had cleansing properties, but had none on him. He tried to remember whether any of the terrain they’d passed through was likely to have any growing in it, and weighing it against how long Val was likely to be out, and the risk of leaving her with only the familiars to guard her.
He would have to just sub Sesame and carry her. The question was, where to? They were closer to the forge now than Wayrest. Did he return, warn them of the incoming orcs and potentially doom Scriber? Or did he head to the forge, and potentially leave Scriber without backup?
He’d already warned Wayrest, and yet the orcs had moved faster than they were counting on. He could potentially save many lives by returning now. But Scriber had been a stalwart ally to him, a friend, and he couldn’t just leave them. He was deep within the calculus of the equation when a nearby rustling caught his attention.
The rustling was rhythmic. Like careful footsteps. Someone was trying to sneak up on them.
Tom listened more closely, devoting his full attention to the task. Two pairs of footsteps… or was that three? Not immediately close, but coming closer. His mind went to thoughts of the orcs with their shadowy skills. He looked around surreptitiously. He couldn’t see anything.
The footsteps came on. Slowly, cautiously. They were very faint. He tried to put himself in the shoes of this attacker. They would only be able to see a humanoid shape, kneeling next to a prone form. Sesame too, perhaps, but he was still and silent, having picked up on Tom’s feelings through the bond. With any luck, they’d think the bear was just a large boulder. Sere flitted about overhead, but she could not see anything more than he could.
He couldn’t wait for these orcs to get any closer. They could be Idealists that were trailing after the main pack for some reason or another, or they could be part of another pack entirely. If it was the latter, he needed to dispose of them before the rest caught up and carry Val away himself, as far and fast as he could.
Tom waited until the footsteps were just within range of Agony. Far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to close with him in melee, close enough so that he could hopefully engage them when he turned their element of surprise back on them.
Tom sprang to his feet, twisting his spear in front of him, and cast. A shimmering elliptical shape appeared, hazy, with Agony’s pink lightning crackling across its surface.
Shit! He thought. Defensive skill! He readied himself to follow up with Misery and Wild Eagle Strike, and then stopped cold as the shield dropped, frantically wrangling the mana as it flowed down his skill pathways.
“Tom!?”
It was Scriber, the shield over him fading away to reveal the man beneath. Cub materialised from beneath another shield a few paces away.
“Good Goddess, man, we thought you were an orc! What’s happened? Where’s V-”
Scriber gasped, seeing Val’s prone form, and hurried over.
“Scriber! Thank Goddess! She’s just unconscious. Poisoned.”
Scriber dropped to his knees beside Tom, and pulled a thin, bronze rod etched with fine enchantments from a spatial storage. He began waving it slowly over Val’s body.
“Cleansing rod,” he said, by way of explanation. “She should come to in a few minutes. What happened here?”
Tom recounted their battle. He thought it sounded plain, dull, almost, when he told it, but Cub listened with wide eyes.
“What are you two doing here?” he asked, then something else clicked in his mind. “You came from the south too? How did you find us? We were making for the forge.”
Just then Val blinked and came awake. “Scriber..? What?”
“It’s alright, friend,” he told her. “You got knocked out. The orcs are dead.”
Val drew a sharp inhale, dragging herself upright. She looked about, tense, and then finally relaxed when her mind caught up with the sight in front of her. Smitten and Scorn both immediately went to her side.
“How? What are you two doing here?” Val asked, echoing Tom’s own question.
Scriber glanced at Cub. The big, gentle-looking giant spoke. “We were attacked at my forge. The Hag came for us in the night.” Tom grimaced. He couldn’t imagine a worse wake up call.
“We drove her off, but I don’t think we killed her. It was obvious the Lord had decided to clean house. We went looking for Jace and Moth…” he trailed off.
“They’re dead,” Scriber said quietly. “They didn’t make it anywhere near the orcs. Might’ve been the Hag, or maybe one of the Lord’s other cronies. We knew you and Tom would be on his list, so we tried to find you.”
“We started running into orcs, in numbers too,” Cub continued. He glanced at the bodies spread about them. “We couldn’t get any closer to the camp, and we’d been so long at the forge we thought it more likely you’d have scouted what needed scouting anyway. So we went to your oak, and it turns out we were right. We picked up your trail, and followed it.”
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Val sat up properly, seemingly okay, but digesting the information. She seemed about to speak, but Tom cut her off.
“Scriber, please, do you have anything for Sesame? He’s injured.”
Scriber rushed to the bear’s side, swiftly scanning him over, noting injuries. He pulled a wooden mouse from storage, and offered it to him.
“Bite this,” he said, and Sesame took it delicately from his hand and bit. Light flashed, and relief and vigour tumbled through Tom’s connection to him. He quickly checked Smitten and Scorn too, before turning back.
“Sorry, Tom. I was distracted. Please accept my apology.” Scriber was truly contrite. He looked ashamed.
“It’s okay. He wasn’t on death’s door, just battered. Thank you for healing him.”
“Familiars are a part of us. The best part. I would be distraught if my little ones were so injured.” A few mice peeked from his collar, another from a pocket in the breast of Scriber’s coat.
“Truly, it’s okay. Thank you.”
Scriber nodded, satisfied. Cub came to sit beside them, arranging his bulk carefully as he folded onto the ground.
“We were attacked too. Honeyfield took a run at us, as we were coming back from the orc encampment.”
Scriber hissed, and Cub swore under his breath.
“We killed him. It’s done,” Val said, trying to mollify the pair.
“The orcs!” Tom cut in again, remembering his deduction after this happy diversion. “They’re raiding, not scouting. They’re too well equipped. The parties are too large. We have to go back!”
The three others took in the orcs around them, and shared a meaningful look.
“Fuck me,” Cub whispered. “It’s starting.”
Scriber’s head jerked to the side, his attention caught by something, but he relaxed again.
“Well, what do we have here?” he said, just as a little sparrow swooped through the air near them. “Find your swarm essence did you?”
Tom grinned and beckoned Sere closer. The little flock careened about, a few landing on Scriber and Cub. Cub gently held one that had landed on his arm up for inspection. Scriber’s glasses glowed slightly as he watched them dance through the air.
“Beautiful…” the enchanter said. Tom would have thought the man would be more interested in the utility of the birds, not that he disagreed with the sentiment. Tom gave them a mental nudge, and sent them out in an expanding spiral. They were still at the scene of a decent battle, after all. They watched them go.
“Truly a joy,” Scriber breathed. Val sighed next to him. She had always been a fan of the pretty little birds.
“So fucking cool,” said Cub. They sat a moment in silence, watching the birds flit off into the trees.
“How did your scouting go?”
“Good, but no good news, I’m afraid. There’s tens of thousands of orcs out there,” Val answered.
“We knew we didn’t have much time, but these raiding parties have confirmed it. They’re moving.”
“We should go then. We’ve got no time to waste.” Scriber suited his actions to his words, standing and dusting his knees. The others followed. Sesame lumbered upright.
They all looked around, ensuring there was nothing they needed to take. A Hunter’s habit, to check kills for utility. With nothing found, they started to move off. Tom stiffened.
“Fuck!” The others froze.
“Two parties, north and west! Twenty strong each; five minutes away! They must’ve heard the battle! They’ve got Idealists!”
Sere was bombarding him with images. Two different orc raiding parties, both screaming towards them, converging. One had a lithe orc that was wrapping strings of shadows about nearby trees and catapulting themselves forward with them. The other party had a huge male, clad in motes of red light, thundering along in the middle of its pack.
Scriber was the first to react. He began pulling handfuls of objects out of his storage spaces, dropping them to the ground all around him. Tiny balls and rods, handfuls of glass beads, spools of thread, and what looked like little polished bones.
Mice flowed out of his clothes. More than Tom would have thought possible. There must have been a hundred of them. More popped out of the undergrowth. He could see even more had been sitting in nearby trees. They moved as one, as a tide, a current.
The mice from his clothes took items from the ground as they moved away from him, and scurried away into the woods. Their quick, darting movements and sheer numbers made any individual impossible to keep track of.
A susurrus rose in the trees. Tom could see mice climbing trunks, etching bark with tiny enchanting tools. Others secured string, then swung on one end to another tree, secured the other end, and then to another. It was a grand and furious industry on a minuscule scale.
The four of them stood together. There was no time to hide. Val readied her bow, and Tom his borrowed spear. Cub summoned a hammer from a tattoo on his hand. It was an enormous contrivance of matte grey steel. It looked workmanlike, and incredibly heavy. Tom doubted he could wield it comfortably with two hands. Cub casually hefted it in one. A tower shield appeared on his left arm. There was no tattoo there, but it could have been drawn from a spatial storage, instead of a ritual tattoo. He placed himself in front of the group. Scriber withdrew a wooden ball in each hand.
Howls sounded through the deep. The thunder of abused foliage assaulted them. They waited.
Two orc parties resolved from the trees, both approaching from ahead on two different angles, both in angry, savage waves. Tom shivered. His mana was not recovered from their earlier fight. His wounds had only just healed fully. He was tired. He worried for Val. And they had forty, furious orcs bearing down on them.
Sprinting orc feet raised a frightening tattoo. They roared as they ran full tilt at them. There would be no careful manoeuvring here, no testing of reach, no encirclement. They had the numbers. There were ten times as many orcs as them. They would roll over them and drag them down in a screaming pile.
Tom breathed out, readying himself. He cast Misery on a leading orc. He saw another stumble and fall as Val used Love you to Death.
There’s too many, Tom thought. Fuuuuck…
Then there was a flash of light, and a running orc became pieces of a running orc. And the orcs beside and behind it did too. Orcs from the second pack, a moment behind the first, began to fall into pieces as well.
Enchanted strings, barely visible, flashed over and over as orcs ran straight into them. Then they overloaded and broke, and they came on. Explosions began to sound, small ones, but explosions nonetheless, and orcs began to fall again. Some flipped through the air, pushed upwards, without lower legs. Other crumpled downwards, horrific chunks removed from heads and necks. The inside of orc chests saw daylight. Spines were disconnected in the middle.
It was utter chaos. The orcs began to mill about, no longer interested in a headlong charge, some blinded by bright lights, wanting to get away, or just not knowing where they were going. The confusion multiplied.
A huge roar sounded, and the massive male clad in red light barrelled through his confused underlings. Tom swore he felt the ground shake as it ran.
He cast Hush. The motes winked out. A perfectly timed arrow slid through its left eye. It ran several more steps then fell like a log, its corpse sliding towards them completely straight along the ground.
A feral sound like a hunting cat ripped through forest, and the other Idealist orc revealed itself. It was slingshotting itself through the air on cables of shadow. It would land directly in the centre of the four of them and break their cohesion.
It never got the chance. A wooden ball sailed through the air, and detonated with a barely visible distortion. The cables shuddered and snapped, and a graceful leap became a careening tumble.
Green beams of light flashed. Pieces of Idealist orc rained down among them.
Flashes of light and explosions sounded periodically, spasmodically. Pained yips and yells made a back drop.
The remaining orcs broke, fleeing back into the Deep.
Tom surveyed the carnage, still a little shaky. Forty orcs had been reduced to a mere handful in a bare few minutes.
Didn’t even get to use my roar, Sesame sent him, a little disappointed.
Goddess above, Tom thought. Scriber is fucking scary.