Bernt slowly made his way down from the Upper District, sore and exhausted from a late afternoon sparring session with Therion. The other mage claimed he was getting better, but Bernt wasn’t sure that was true — not judging by the beating he took every time.
He was trying to think of new and creative ways to apply cantrips in a fight when he saw a massive plume of fire rise in the distance.
It came from the crafter’s district, and that just couldn’t be a good sign. He couldn’t be entirely sure, of course, but he knew this city well. Picking up his pace, Bernt hurried down the street, weaving around slow-moving pedestrians and the occasional cart. After reaching the internal gate that took him into the Lower District, he took a left. That would take him through the Temple District, which he’d been avoiding for several weeks now.
The Temple District was populated mostly by priests, paladins, and their families. While not all of them knew or cared about him personally, very few of the gods had a neutral policy toward demons or warlocks, and none had anything like a friendly outlook. He had to be careful. The gods themselves, fortunately, would likely know that he wasn’t a real warlock, so he probably wouldn’t have to fear a direct smiting for stepping too close to the wrong temple. But being recognized could cause some problems —it might slow him down.
Right now, though, it was worth the risk.
He hurried down the street, which opened up into a wide open plaza. It was ringed with temples, shrines, and even a tiny sacred grove. People bustled about, often dressed in the colors of specific deities, or in the brilliant white of unchosen acolytes. The temple of Garrus, where he’d repaired a drainpipe just before his first dungeon delve, was located just around the corner from here. Relatively minor agricultural deities didn’t rate placement directly on the main plaza.
Taking care not to draw attention to himself, Bernt hurried across the plaza to the far side, which would take him directly into the Crafters’ District. Everyone else seemed to either be looking toward the Crafters’ District themselves, likely concerned about what was going on there, or completely ignoring the situation as if what went on outside their own temples was of no consequence to them.
He almost made it across without incident, but then heard a familiar voice call his name.
“Hey, Bernt!” Syrah called out. “Where are you off to so quick?”
He looked back to see the cleric waving and hurrying toward him.
“Did you see the fire?” Bernt asked, letting her catch up before picking up the pace again. “I think it was over by the breach. I kind of doubt it was an accidental alchemical explosion.”
“Yes, true enough.” Syrah said, frowning. “Something isn't right in that direction. Your demon friend, or one of her ilk.”
Bernt narrowed his eyes a little, but didn’t bother to argue. He wasn’t going to change her mind.
“I’m going to help. Are you coming?”
She snorted and sped up, forcing Bernt into a trot to keep up.
–-------
Bernt wasn’t sure what exactly he was expecting to find when they arrived. Maybe the entire street in flames, the new gate collapsed, or a horde of duergar spilling out of the old breach.
What he wasn’t expecting to find was Jori dueling with a single, mad, hellfire-slinging dwarf. He could see the fight from her perspective in disorienting detail well before they reached the plaza in front of the Undercity Gates.
The imp clung to the back of the dwarf’s head and shoulders and poured fire down onto his face. At the same time, the dwarf blindly threw fire back at her over his shoulder and danced in a little circle, screaming incoherently. Both demonic combatants burned and howled in pain, but neither were consumed in the flames that ate into the cobbles beneath their feet. Jori jumped off the dwarf and flew back, landing hard on her back.
He could feel the phantom sensation of a wing breaking as it was awkwardly bent underneath her. The green underkeeper guard who’d been stationed at the new Undercity Gate stood a few steps away, clutching haplessly at his spear as if unsure what to do. Regular city guards were arriving as well, but they kept their distance as well. They were understandably not eager to throw themselves into a hellfire-fight. One passed his spear to another guard and ran off again, presumably to get help from someone who could deal with this.
They would take too long, Bernt was sure.
Further away, he glimpsed people watching from windows and around corners, but nobody moved to help. Considering what was happening, he couldn't really blame them.
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Horrific burn wounds closed almost immediately on both combantants. Pebbled scar tissue grew over them in seconds, and then faded and smoothed into new skin. Bernt wasn’t sure how demons normally fought, but seeing that, he doubted he was going to get anywhere with his usual fire spells.
“Can you fight demons?” Bernt gasped out at Syrah, out of breath as they raced toward the fight. “It’s some kind of demonic warlock – he’s fighting Jori.”
The dwarf shook her head. “Do I look like a paladin to you?” She didn’t slow down though, to her credit.
Jori was back in the fight now, raking her claws down the back of the warlock dwarf’s leg as it tried to keep moving into the city. Apparently it was more interested in getting somewhere than it was in winning the fight. That implied a specific target, beyond just getting up into the city and making a big mess.
Concentrating, he brought up his wand and began tracing a spell in the air. It was a guess, but he figured it was a pretty good one, considering where he’d found the spell. Even if it didn’t, it would at least distract the monstrous duergar long enough for Jori to do something. He hoped.
Cold fire, when he’d finally gotten around to casting it at an old, rotting log down by the river the other day, didn’t really do very much to physical objects. The wood had blackened and bubbled oddly, but nothing more.
Casting it correctly would take him a moment, and he’d need the time until they reached the fight up around the next corner. Thanks to his familiar bond with Jori, Bernt knew exactly where the dwarf was when he rounded the corner, facing mostly away from him. He slung bits of hellfire back at Jori as he limped off toward the far side of the small plaza, where several of the nervous city guards were waiting. They didn’t want to fight the warlock, but they weren’t going to let it run wild in the city, either.
Bernt sprinted toward the warlock. He hadn’t had time to modify the spell – it was still just a loose cone of fire, not a fireball or anything that would cross the distance to the dwarf without also striking Jori or just diffusing into the air short of the target. He needed to close in quickly.
When the dwarf noticed him and turned, Bernt was within just a few strides of him. It was close enough. With a snarl, he unleashed the spell.
He was too slow.
The warlock flung a hand toward him and lobbed what looked like a liquid gobbet of fire directly at him. The two attacks met in the air. Only then did Bernt realize that he’d completely forgotten to remove the effects of his investiture from the spell. Rather than the plume of gray fire he expected, a broad stream of flickering, burning silver sprayed out against the dwarf’s head and shoulders and splashed down onto his legs and feet.
The ball of hellfire barely cut through the silver flames, coming out as little more than a translucent wisp of flame. Still, it flew true and struck Bernt’s right arm with a sizzling hiss. Bernt gasped and shook his arm, as if trying to shake the fire off, but it was already out. Still, it hurt, radiating bone-deep pain all the way up to his shoulder.
The screech that tore from the warlock’s throat was too loud and high-pitched to come from a dwarf. It was inhuman agony tearing from a mortal throat. He flailed for a second, then dropped to his knees in shuddering silence. When the fire went out – it couldn’t have been more than two or three seconds – the dwarf looked ruined. His skin was cracked and peeling off, charred black where it had curled away from the body.
Unlike before, no hellfire gushed out of the wounds to close or regenerate his wounds.
A soft hiss of pain escaped his lips, followed by a single ragged inhale, then Jori was on him. She sprang at him and tore out his throat with her long, clawed fingers. Hellfire gushed out, and Jori hissed in pain, but she reached in with her other hand and tore again as the flesh threatened to grow back.
The enemy warlock died messily.
Bernt groaned, cradling his wounded arm. He wiggled his fingers to make sure they still worked and breathed a sigh of relief when they did.
Then Syrah was there, pulling up his sleeve to get a better look at the injury. A part of his lower arm was colored an angry red, with skin sloughing off the top in parts. At the center, the skin was burned clear through in a rough oval shape, and he could see burned flesh beneath. The robe hadn’t been damaged, somehow. It must have slid down his arm when he was casting.
She eyed the wound critically before laying her hand over it and muttering something under her breath. Then she took a small bottle from her belt and poured water out over the wound.
The pain lessened almost immediately, as if he’d plunged the arm down into a barrel of icy-cold water. He breathed a sigh of relief and sat down on the ground. Syrah bent down to follow the motion and kept murmuring her prayer.
Bernt wasn’t sure how long he sat there, but soon other people began to arrive. The city guards arrived first, several going to watch the gate, while one who looked like he might be in charge asked if anyone else had been hurt and if anyone had seen what caused the big explosion earlier.
“I saw it. I think it was some kind of alchemical device.” explained the gray-clad underkeeper guard, who’d finally decided to join them. “These two dwarves came running up out of the tunnel – this one had a kind of strange-shaped bottle. It wasn’t very big. When the imp came up after them and started throwing fire at them. I thought the demon was attacking our people at first. But then the weird dwarf’s eyes glowed and he started throwing fire right back. The bottle got hit and you saw what happened then. I thought the fight was over. The other dwarf disappeared – ran off or got blown up, I don’t really know. This one was fine, though, barely a scratch.”
The guards turned to look over at Jori, who was trying to wipe her claws off on the dead duergar warlock’s shirt. While the dwarf was badly scorched, his clothes had taken relatively minor damage – an effect of the cold fire, Bernt suspected. It interacted harshly with hellfire, and it prevented the demon from healing. If he was right, he’d stumbled on something specifically designed to fight demons. He’d have to see how it did against enemies that weren’t suffused with infernal power.
A challenge sounded from the Undercity Gate, and was met with an angry retort. A moment later, a small group of gray-uniformed underkeepers poured out onto the plaza, led by Fiora. A few looked injured, and Bernt wondered what exactly had happened down there. Had the uneasy peace finally broken?
Josie ran out ahead and waved to Jori. “Did you get them?”
Jori shook her head, and Bernt felt regret echo through their familiar bond.
“Just the one.” she told the Solicitor. “The other one got away.”