El Diablo in living color flushed the small space between him and Tim. His face was Multicolor fire and a darkness that pulled you dangerously close. “You can’t stop us,” he hissed.
A weight on his chest startled him and he spun out of a hammock. Face-planted into herbs smelling of cooked bacon provided a nice wake-up call. Tim Foraging of the aura inside the sticky buds detected anti-inflammatory properties amidst the swirl of magic floating within, not to mention the protein from the bacon. Mmm. And the smell. Authentic, like the perfectly crispy kind their mom could make without batting an eye.
Tim ripped off a branch as long as his arm.
Frahnk smiled from the darkness, revealing his face to emphasize his pleasure. “Sleep well? The dark aura needs cleansing. I can smell it.”
Tim didn’t care to interrupt the delicious morsel of ganja bacon, as Chris had called it. They got along much better than he thought they would, yet it felt natural, like grasping to normalcy wherever you can. Nostalgia carries a long tail back to the good times.
Chris had been genuine. Tim kept up on his evening Danger Sense practice and permeated the area, enhancing the senses that catch betrayal. It doesn’t always work, which may be overuse or higher-tier opponents, but he still trusted what he felt last night was real. Chris meant well and believed he should be trusted.
Tim hadn’t brought up the vision, only saying, “I’ve seen a lot of death since you left.”
“As have I,” Chris said. Somber despite the jubilation in the din of party chatter and laughter.
Visions of Jerim Kosteen throwing orbs into the Dragon Heads distracted Tim even in the memory. The smoke helped him see how Jerim produced hardened aura into concentrate and then the spark that unleashed the Dragon Heads.
“What I’m saying is, like Joseph seeing his older brothers, seeing you alive gave me too much joy to turn around and hate you. Backstab me again and it’s gonna hurt. For now, I’m here to help you.”
That was the last meaningful conversation they had. Not three feet from where he walked through the morning hot jungle. His thick armor for Wachamia’s autumn chill made him sweat at the collar. Bugs hissed from bushes thick with purple berry stalks. Each sac like a marble of aura goodness, Tim Foraged up on his regen items, and accepting Chris’s strain name, Marble Madness, with a curious glance. “So, these are safe? Or…”
Chris shrugged and tossed one in his mouth. It cracked like thin glass and crunched like cereal until it was quickly swallowed. Chris smiled triumphantly. “I thought they looked like marbles, and every time I think Marble Madness, I remember us playing that original Nintendo version at Dr. Stabler’s house with his son.”
Tim nodded. He had enjoyed every visit to the lake house and missed that family. Dr. Stabler passed after their dad had. Tim remembered their father’s funeral and Dr. Stabler’s loving embrace. Tearful and warm. Weak, yet communal. That moment lifted a few feet from the mire of grief, before being set back down to wade in it even now.
“I used to love Goal and playing as Argentina.”
“Yeah, I think that was why I got into soccer.” Chris dropped a Marble Madness and ankle kicked it high enough to arc for Tim’s mouth.
Tim opened up and slid over to get in line.
Chris clicked his teeth and snapped his finger. The marble darted into the back of Tim’s throat, blasting open in a shivering dose of tart juice. It absorbed into the chasm of his aura storage and increased the bottom height by a good measure for one dose. “Marble Madness,” Tim choked out. “But no madness, right?”
“Nah, just aura boosting to help with recovery from your busy evening.
“What’s with the Wyatt Earp in a Marvel movie part at the end?” Tim asked.
“Sorcery enhanced by the fact I grew it. Same way I can ignite something I throw on command. I hope I wasn’t too harsh.”
“Right…”
The smile on Chris’s face said otherwise, in a brotherly love way of excuse.
Tim ate and Foraged his fill, then warmed up his mana channels with Aura Bow. He shot a few birds and Paiz gifted him with a wrap of sticks so he could craft them into arrows with the feathers.
Corki survived the night and Paiz needed to get back to helping with his bandages and breakfast.
Tim blessed his day and blew a kiss, not realizing how much he felt like the Pope on acid until he was halfway thru the gesture. Then he rolled with it and blew everyone kisses, even Murphy.
“You lost your mind?” Dryfu asked, floating up out of a barrel of something sweet. The stykiller packaged a tiny jar of yellow nectar into his pouch.
“I’m just feeling loving. Corki’s spirit is in me, and seeing his son have a father on the mend gives me great joy.”
“Not totally the weed then.’
“Not totally. I used Cleanse to clear some of the cobwebs. I did breakfast on ganja bacon and marble madness.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Dryfu flew off.
Frahnk and more than a dozen shadestrikers met them at the portal. A ring formed of villagers, troll, human and otherwise, troll warriors dressed in the same green and black worn by the upset chieftain. Zin and Bindy joined two other cannon stackers. The multi-unit artillery had their cannons lowered to the side and unhooked from the power chamber. Its jewel pack attached steadily on a back strap Zin and his fellow arsonists kept close by. Spirit Memories informed with distant explosions where Carriers were hit by an igniting spell while hooked to the power pack. The detonation could clear an acre and bottom out a bowl shape just as deep.
With every division confirmed ready, Tim finished his stretching. The burn of c-mana newly cycled into energy ready to spend strengthened his approach to Murphy and the portal doorway.
“Let us check the other side first,” Frahnk said disappearing into shadow. The pool shimmering in the portal rippled with his passing.
Tim sent Danger Sense into the pool but couldn’t read anything on the other side. Fearing the worst, he wasted no time and stepped through.
A stronger zap than he’d noticed before passing through this portal strung him so thoroughly, he bit his tongue. On the other side, his footfall passed unimpeded. He ran his buzzing tongue around his lips.
“What happens when the trolls go to war for Kehmoja,” the troll chieftain whispered to Chris. Tim saw it through his brother's eyes. Saw himself watching at the party last night.
“He’s not Childockia. He made—”
“Harpist saw you kill trolls to save him.”
“That never—”
“It will. But I know where you’ll be. So I’ll end you first. I ought to righ—”
The woman cursed and the vision ended.
Startled back to reality by his Danger Sense pinging back hidden threats, Tim narrowed on the trees twenty yards from the portal. Hidden by camouflage fatigues emitting a magical haze were soldiers wielding magi-guns.
At their center, the President of Wachamia kept Frahnk at gunpoint.
Princess Pearl, his weapon of choice. The Bastard.
Three dead shadestrikers lay in the woods. Holes burned through their armor to char organs into soup and gas. It stank like an outhouse swamped full of intestine soup.
Frahnk’s body bore enough holes to surprise Tim that he was still upright. His void shadow ability was gone, revealing how pale his skin and the gruesome damage from the magi-guns.
Tim pushed c-mana into Danger Sense and a better read on the President. While pushed by an outside force, the President had come for the reward of killing the jewel bearer and removing the threat from his front yard.
I’ll show you a threat. Tim slipped into S’Trace’s training for the vahkel and lined up his Peel.
The President flinched, catching Tim’s shift to equip his sword behind his leg.
Alley Cat Strike First. Tim launched Peel and swung his sword in an upward arc. Hot ozone wafted off the interference of his blade with a rapid punch of trees in his path. Violent vibrations shook his hold on the long handle. Burning leather from his gloved grip added to the sting in his eyes. He strained to line his trajectory, then cast Battleground at the President’s feet. Defensive resistance shot a reflective wave so hard it disrupted his sword grip. The Battleground blue spread far enough to cover Frahnk, and Tim cast Brother’s Keeper.
The president turned the gun on Tim.
Princess Pearl was laid on the altar of Tim’s attack.
No time to laugh. Only to watch his heartbreak.
Tim exited Peel in a desperate, across-the-body strike aimed at the thin space between chest and helmet armor.
The president’s camouflage mist transformed into a hardened rock jutting out like coral reef to shield them.
In his surge of velocity, Tim swung as hard as he could without breaking First Strike form. His blade inscriptions shone and burst with bright white at the shattering impact through the stone.
The President raised Princess Pearl. A round sparked white through the chamber rifts.
Tim’s leaned on S’Trace’s training to employ form and willpower to nudge orange Sniper Sight into yellow and hints of green.
The blade cut through Pearl’s nozzle and exploded. Battleground and Brother’s Keeper reinforced the shield Tim cast against the heat and erupting rock. The pain felt like he was an oven mitt tossed into a flame belching furnace. The rebound threw Tim into a backflip. Not melting his face would be the consolation prize to that stomach churner. He unequipped the sword, noting the XP transfer from a weapon and opponent strike, and equipped his dagger. Contorting midflight, he twisted to see a Greensight on Frahnk’s midline. He threw the blade, and prepped Brother’s Keeper with Dose, packing them in as soon as blade met Frahnk’s ribs.
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Tim hit the ground and tumbled into a tree. He cast Battleground and raised his shield against the magi-fire. Three quick booms pummeled his shield. Each a mountain thrown at a goat for good measure. The first smashed the back of his shield into his face, cracking his nose. Two and three concussed his forehead on both sides, he thought. Healing into the point of attack fought Mt. St. Helens with a box of peanuts.
The fourth never–
“Cease–”
Frahnk finished the President’s final speech with a stiletto spike dagger through his open mouth.
Vines snapped limbs and unequipped the rest of the Wachamia Guard. They hung in moaning agony.
A shrill cry stretched higher than the others. Tonda!
Tim’s glance at his shield confirmed the crack’s awkward twist. It barely hung together, and was ruined for battle until he could mend it. He dropped the shield into his inventory and ran for Tonda. The jexin lay at the bottom of a small ravine, coated in blood and litter. A long burn gash ran up her ribs to her hindquarters, shredding the armor he got her. Tim cast Healing as soon as he saw, and the spell barely caught her tail, his dizzied throw considered.
He staggered to her side and collapsed. Murphy joined them, Tim faintly recalled. Then, once her muscles healed enough, she rolled over onto his legs and stretched. Tim’s nose had straightened, but his head remained buried under the mountain. Tonda purred and licked a scratchy tongue across the tip of his sore nose. Tim brushed her off and wiped his face, chuckling. “Thanks, girl.” I’m getting there, too. He scratched a thin patch of hair atop her head, the rest was new skin and fragile.
Knowing he had an expiring clock on harvesting the president's soul, he patted her head and said “Stay here and rest. I’ll get you before we go.”
Tim labored up the hill and drew his sword. Revenge for a past assault increased his percentage chance of Drawing the Spirit as a wraith, Spirit Memories or just aura, if he had any. It looked like his defense was all item and Tim’s marksmanship and speed paid off.
Frahnk hadn’t left room for doubt about it they let him live, like his minions.
The President lay on a crumpled bush his blood pooling in the soil and cupped at his body, absorbing into his pants and dark blue sleeve.
Tim summoned Indi onto his sword blade.
“Whoa!” Indi balanced on the flat end like a surfer needing practice. “I guess you didn’t need me for the dirty work. Or did you?”
Tim grinned. “Magic Hunt for his soul. We’re hoping to turn him into a wraith under our banner and command.”
“Don’t we Dryfu?” Tim asked.
“It’s better than leaving him to rot. We need intel.”
“Spirit Memories risks a one-time exchange,” Tim added. “Casting you and Magic Hunt, I’m hoping you can tell me where to stab to raise his spirit.”
“Like a Takekuma?” Indi asked.
“Yeah. His armor is shielding his spirit. His essence is tied to it.”
“We could set him on fire,” Indi said. “Rinse the armor off in the river if it's that powerful.”
“We lose his aura in that case,” Tim said and checked back on the Wachamia Guard being untangled from vines and screaming offers. To reward for attacks on the President.
There were no sympathizers within far more than earshot.
“Take him back through the portal,” Zin said. “Whatever info they can get from him can be sent with the next division. We have to go.”
“Tim, can you cast protection on this to keep it better hidden?” Chris asked, thumbing at the portal.
Through the shimmering aura was a way to Corki and family. Tim cast a Danger Ping on long distance reach, thinning out the specifics but enough to catch another Guard on the approach.
With that, his AF was at 2 and his MP down to high teens.
Tim picked up the pieces of Princess Pearl. The sword cut through its armored silver exterior and cracked the barrel an inch from the revolver chamber. He held the two together as they’d fit and contemplated his next spell. “Indi, I didn’t cast you for your good looks and wit. Would you like to try and find the way to his soul while I.” He stopped, sensing a pulse from the chamber. Blood and aura from the President’s wound in his sword strike. The explosion had incinerated most. He collected hardened bits and sent c-mana at the problem. Casting Ward used fifteen MP to cut a fine line between Princess and Aura, guided by Battleground and Danger Sense enhancements.
It told him of a hip pointer injury that the President poured countless money into, and was how he got connected with the Cartel, for the pain killers. “Indi. Right hip,” Tim ordered.
The armor tightened at the belt and straps around the president’s shoulders and ribs.
Time was short with his plan and the cost on his regen to keep Indi around. Which was to say he had almost none coming back into MP and he needed
He plucked a handful of Chris’s berries and swallowed a grape juice utopia. The MP and Aura kicked in. Tim kick shoved the President onto his other hip and held him there with his heel. “Frahnk, may I?” He opened his palm for his gotr dagger.
The shadestriker, brimming with deep pitch and a barely contained powerhouse of energy gracefully removed the dagger from his stomach and turned it over to give Tim.
Void absorbed blood into Frahnk’s aura with renewed reinforcement to the wall of strength coursing over him.
He readied in time with Indi trudging into the aura to raise the President’s soul.
“Tim!” Chris shouted.
A red flare soared on a tracer line at Tim’s waist. Aura splashed over the presidents back, sizzling and sucking the air into its heat. Tim covered his face and cast Protection.
The body shriveled and liquified into oily brown sludge seeping into the soil.
Vines chased the retreating soldier into the maze of trees, losing the race.
Zin fired a booming cannon shot that sawed through a tree and missed the retreating shadow.
Tim’s sense searched for his familiar and failed to lock on, flaring in grief at how that must have hurt. The incineration evaporated his aura and Indi’s. Only the armor and pieces of Princess Pearl remained, the ground sagging under the tar pit stench of oozing magic residue.
Tim’s Danger Sense confirmed the armor was deactivated, so he put that into the saddlebags of holding the Trolls equipped onto Murphy for the trip. He didn’t expect to be filling pockets so soon. “Looks like the President knew the cost of face to face and paid for an exit strategy,” Tim said.
“I don’t plan to wait around for any more surprises,” Zin said, and pointed at the broken grin in Tim’s hands. “I’m not sure that’s worth trying to repair, even with the mostly clean cut.”
Tim thought of his Oil and Water class and how he might manipulate the aura to fill the void and reinforce the barrel. “I’d like to try,” Tim said, and climbed onto Murphy.
The poor donkey gave under Tim’s weight. Tim hopped off and steadied Murphy before he fell over. “Easy. I’m sorry.”
Murphy shook his head and brayed. He staggered his steps and stopped. “Sorry. I got hit too.”
The donkey had a bullet wound through a front leg that cut through where he stores his mana. The creature’s eyes sagged with weakness.
“It’s okay,” Tim said, and cast Cleanse. The last of his MP surged into the beam of light.
Murphy filled with strength and stature. “Thank you.”
Dryfu landed on Tim’s shoulder. “How’d you do that?”
“He’s an aura generator,” Tim said. “I cleaned the scar tissue that formed around the bullet trail to free his generator to pump new healing tissue into the problem.
Tim tried walking but Murphy kept nudging him. Zin and another Cannon stacker carried Tonda on a vine coated stretcher.
“Fine,” Tim said and hitched a ride after all. His Cleanse skill had worked wonders and Murphy kept him going.
The sudden appearance and death of the president, along with what it all meant pressed Tim into contemplative silence. His aches hung on well into the ride, Murphy chips on auto refill and everything. Those magi-guns sucked him dry. His regen was dust. The chips fell down a hole in his leg or something.
“Aura fatigue,” Dryfu said.
Tim guessed that was better than a HUD alert. It broke the silence, reminding him he was glad to have his friend. “Why do you think he was so reckless?” Tim asked. He’d tossed that word around for minutes on end. It didn’t make sense.
Jipas, the grenadier walked away from the prisoners. “He says the Highlord sent the President.”
“The Highlord who gave Rooster’s great grandfather the tomb?” Tim asked.
“Yep,” Dryfu said.
“We knew nobody wanted us in the dungeon,” Tim said. “Am I missing something? Are you surprised?”
“You know who else the Highlord is friends with?” Dryfu asked.
“The cartel?” Tim asked. “I—"
“Besides them.”
“And the Dutchy,” Jipas added.
“Okay.” Tim stalled, letting his attention take in the small tree farm growing in rows along rolling hills leading outside the city. They had been much taller last time he’d visited Padstoligan, and didn’t need farms to grow. The city had changed since his vision. Back then, Kari warned him of the nivelador massacre shutting the gateways down. What other mischief were they up to? “I don’t know.”
Jipas backed off, raising his hands and all seven fingers between them. “I could be wrong, too. I just–”
“Wrong about what?” Tim asked.
“The Highlord isn’t an official title anymore,” Jipas explained. “But he still holds sway among the royalists in Wachamia. They’ve succumbed to the switch to a Republic since Pilk’s days; Maybe the Highlord wanted the President dead to restore his title in a coup.”
“You think he knew we’d kill him?” Tim asked.
“If not, he could handle that later in an accident involving your transport,” Dryfu offered.
“The president was a proud soldier,” Jipas started, then faltered in thought, speaking to himself, “he only left his palace for matters of State.”
“So this could have had a benefit he saw,” Tim said, “other than a switch to the government the royalists wanted?”
Jipas nodded.
Tim had made up his mind, and guided Murphy toward the prisoners walking by vine influence and Chris’s active staff.
“Howdy brotha.” Chris lassoed his staff to form a green oval of tracer glow.
“You a cowboy now?” Tim asked, indicating the lasso and howdy do. “We need more information about the Highlord and his friends,” Tim said, and cast his best detective’s Analyze across their prisoners.
Two glanced his way with heavy, defeated expressions. The third pretended Tim wasn’t there. He was the one Tim decided to prod for answers. The vines were already sapping their strength. Tim fit into their Interrogation teamwork and his skill to whittle the resistance down to:
“The cartel is switching support to the royalists,” the Guard soldier said.
“Which means the Dutchy has taken over as unofficial rule in the Pillar,” Dryfu said. “Royalists have been waiting a long time to regain their control.”
Jipas bobbed in agreement. “The President would have been hunted like a dog if he failed. They see you as a gatekeeper problem, first,” he told Tim. “With the President’s failure likely known, it won’t be long before they send the next threat.”
“Because of what’s in the dungeon?”
Jipas agreed. “They fear Gatekeepers sent you here to open the route to the Mist and our next era of prosperity.”
“And they already had plans for this one,” Tim said, “and whatever weapons they gain from the tomb to ensure their control stays as well.”
“Exactly. Your plans are mine.” Jipas tapped the pin on one of his belt grenades. They were bigger than goblin grenades, with a black shielding like a turtle shell and a pop top to seal the magic explosive inside. “If that means I get a turn in the dungeon to shed some blood and reap XP, I’m your man.”
“Jipas, you already are.”
Their group approached a road leading to the city center and paused before a path potholed in destruction. What were decently laid cobblestone paths was now cratered out by erupted mine remains. Houses caved into the ravines, spilling memories and honored pieces of home like this week’s garbage.
Frahnk’s unit wove through seamlessly, and Murphy helped flatten a path for the artillery behind them.
“Don’t worry, Tim,” Chris said. “Once we get into the dungeon, I can show you the pyroherbs to grow in dark places.”
“What’s with the vision?” Tim whispered.
“What vision?”
“You…” he’d assumed Chris sent the troll conversation as a coded message. He told Chris the vision while they walked past villagers picking up heirlooms from the dirt and debris.
“Nope. Wasn’t me,” Chris said. “But that is what happened.” His tone and essence revealed bewilderment.
“What’s going on?” Tim asked. “Childockia has what to do with their island? And or first off, what does that have to do with him being angry enough to break a table during a wake?”
“Because of you and Jil,” Chris said. “And what he thinks Childockia plans to do. In Troll culture, the husband always loses to the wife’s will.”
“Wife?” The word hit Tim in the chest with a startling power. Of course, he assumed that was the direction he and Jil were on, two nerds in a pod excited for leveling and grand adventure. He just didn’t put so much sight on the wedding part of that adventure. For now, he was sowing his wild oats.
Chris chuckled with immense pleasure. “Boy, if you didn’t–”
“I know. I know. What about her will makes the chieftain upset? What does Childockia…” Tim searched back to a conversation with Jil and how the language splits. Adiba, the language of his and Jil’s allies, is a secondary language in Wachamia from back when the Childockian throne split the nation into Childockia and Wachamia. If Royalists support the Highlord, who’s giving the President marching orders… “The chieftain is upset because he thinks Childockia and Wachamia will merge again?”
Chris sighed. “Close enough. And when they try, he thinks you’ll side with Childockia, which would make you his enemy.”
“Doesn’t he know—
“We’re both here to share the blessings of the Mist, the unCharted and the endless sea?” Chris finished.
Tim gave him a look like, what are you a Christmas elf?
“The Gate we came to tend has plenty of descriptions,” Chris said. “My point is, if we can open that to the Mist, it would go a long way to convincing the chief you’re a worthy ally. And that the Childockians will have to listen to us about their native island.”
“You know I’m a fixer,” Tim said.
Chris snorted and kept on smiling as he led the way toward town. “That’s why I brought you.”
Chris shifted his stride to leave Tim in his rearview, and as he looked away, Tim caught a flicker of mistruth. The kind one uses to hide the real issue. Tim being some kind of fixer was a joke because most of what he touched died a merciless death.
Tim had to figure out what Chris really needed Tim to fix, because that’s why he really brought him here. Whatever it was made the war between the Trolls and Childockia seem like a game of marbles in the sand.
Do you think the Chieftain is going to wait and find out?
No, Tim thought back to Dryfu. No, I don’t. I don’t think he’ll kill us either, at least until he knows he has no other choice. Whatever meets us at the tomb, I anticipate a lot of company before we arrive.