Priestess of War (The Bowl of Souls Book 10), page 24
He sighed and came to one knee. He took a quick glance towards the pass and saw that the clay golem had collapsed down into a ball. Good for Lyramoor and Qenzic.
He returned his attention to the rock golem. Evidently, direct attack wasn’t working against this thing. Fist sent threads of water and earth magic into the ground underneath the golem and began to break the rock apart, mixing it with a liquid sludge. Hopefully the thing would continue to stand there for just a few seconds longer until he could collapse the ground beneath it. If he could bog it down and trap it, they would have a better chance.
Mog pushed up from his knees, managing to stand despite his crushed foot. He began limping away from the golem. “’Nuff of this!”
Charz stirred, shaking his head as he regained consciousness. His eyes took in the triumphant golem and his fleeing friend. He struggled to his knees. “Hey! Mog! Where you goin’?”
“I’m hurt. I’m done,” the netherhulk replied with a dismissive wave and continued to limp away, headed towards the Big Cave.
The rock golem saw Mog’s attempt at escape and started towards him, stepping away from the section of rock Fist was working his magic on. Fist scowled and came to his feet, knowing that he needed to rush to the netherhulk’s aid.
He wasn’t fast enough.
Mog heard its approach and turned to face the rock golem just as it thrust out with its left arm. The jagged shard stump that remained of its forearm pierced his chest. Mog clutched its arm in shock. Grimacing, he spat an acidic wad into the golem’s shattered face.
Fist swung his mace in an overhand strike that connected with the side of the golem’s head. Half of its rocky skull sheared away and fell to the ground. The golem let Mog slide off of the end of its arm and turned to look at Fist with its one remaining eye. It didn’t seem hurt by the blow or by the acid that was dissolving the remnants of its face. It seemed to be laughing.
I was too slow, Fist thought, his mind in shock.
“Mog!” Charz cried and rushed towards them, his face a rictus of rage.
Move out the way! came Rufus’ voice through the bond.
Understanding, Fist turned and leapt at Charz, knocking the rock giant to the ground as Maryanne finally released her magicked arrow.
The arrow pierced the air with a hiss, its head a molten red, its shaft glowing white hot. It penetrated deep into the golem’s back before collapsing, its molten mass melting the rock of the golem’s torso as it continued on through.
The front of the golem’s chest exploded outward in a shower of molten rock, spattering the ground next to Fist’s legs. The remnants of the arrow continued to burn and the golem collapsed, slowly melting.
The heat of its destruction was so intense that Fist had to get up and walk some distance away to avoid being scalded. Charz ran around the burning thing and reached Mog’s side. He grabbed the netherhulk’s arm and dragged him away from the heat.
“Fist!” the giant shouted.
Swallowing, Fist ran over to joined him and sent his energies into the netherhulk’s body. It didn’t take long. His hands fell slowly. “I’m sorry, Charz. It tore his heart open.”
“Blast it!” the giant shouted and let out a pained roar. “Mog’s dead and look at me.” He slammed his fist against his chest. “Look at me!”
Most of the giant’s wounds were already healed. His jaw was whole. His nose was straightening itself while Fist watched.
“It’s not your fault you heal,” Fist said numbly.
Charz growled and stormed over to the golem’s still burning remains, walking closer than anyone else could have dared. The ground beneath it had turned molten, a trail of red rock flowing down the hill, only blackening around the edges.
The giant bent and picked up something red hot from the ground beside it. It was the handle of his trident. Or what remained of it. The prongs were gone completely. The end of the handle drooped sadly and the giant’s shoulders slumped. “My weapon, too?”
The dead are leaving, Squirrel sent. He was somewhere near the entrance to the pass. The little beast was bursting with pride. I scared them away.
Fist looked over at the pass and saw that the infested were streaming away. The clay golem was gone as well, which meant that it had either fled with the rest of the army or Qenzic and Lyramoor had destroyed it.
Fist sighed. He needed to have a long talk with Squirrel but this wasn’t the time. I’m glad, Squirrel. You did good.
Rufus trotted over to them, Locksher and Maryanne on his back. “Oooh,” the rogue horse said.
Locksher took in the scene of the destruction and saw the angry look on Charz’ face. The wizard grimaced. “I overdid it again, didn’t I? I, uh . . . Weaponizing items is not exactly my forte.”
Charz’s trousers had begun to smoke and blacken from the heat. He scowled before tossing the handle into the rest of the burning pile and stepping away. He patted at his pants, his rocky skin steaming in the cool air as he walked towards Locksher.
“You owe me a weapon.” He pointed back to the white hot pile. “If you can make me one that does that, we’re even.”
“I . . . don’t know how useful that would be,” Locksher said, taking the giant literally.
Fist, Squirrel said again. Fist could sense that he was standing on the shoulder of an unconscious ogre. Peoples are hurt down here. Crag is sleeping.
“We’ve got injuries,” Fist said and trotted back down to the entrance of the pass to check on the ogres that had been caught in the golems’ attack.
He found the tribe members hard at work, the burners doing their duty clearing the dead as usual. Ogress healers were already there, looking over the wounded. The situation was grim. There were seven dead and many more badly hurt. Fist approached the cluster of them around their fallen chieftain.
The ogresses were crouched beside Crag, putting poultices of leaves on his head. Fist pushed his way through them and sent magic into his father’s body. His skull was fractured. Signs of a concussion. He also had cracked ribs and a multitude of bruises.
Fist set to work. When he was done with his father, he stayed to heal any others whose injuries were serious. Squirrel climbed to his shoulder and watched him work silently.
When Fist returned to his friends, he found them standing close together, not far from the remains of the golem, now mostly cool. Locksher was turning a piece of blackened rock over in his hands, but he was looking at Qenzic.
Fist trotted up to them. “Crag almost didn’t make it. His skull was fractured, but I was able to heal him up. Rub, though . . . when I got there it was already too late,” Fist said sadly.
Rub was Old Falog’s son and one of the ogres that had been with the group when they traveled from the Mage School. He had been nowhere near as crafty as his father, but he had a good smile and as rough as he was, Fist knew he had seen some kindness in him.
Fist shook his head and spoke to Locksher. “Come, Master. There are a lot more ogres that need healing.”
Locksher hesitated and Maryanne grasped Fist’s arm, giving him a concerned look.
“It’s Lyramoor,” she said.
“What?” Fist asked.
“He’s gone,” said Qenzic softly. The warrior was looking down at a pendant in his hand. “That clay golem took him. It swallowed him up. I tried to stop it, but it rolled into the pass and there were just too many of those infested in the way.”
“Swallowed? Then he’s . . .” Fist placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
“He’s not dead, though,” Qenzic said, looking up at him. “That thing swallowed him up, but it didn’t kill him.” He lifted the pendant, showing it to Fist. It was a quartz crystal, surrounded by a frame of silver wire. “It’s a life stone. My father had it and Lyramoor gave it to me just in case something like this should ever happen. He told me that if he should ever die, the crystal will shatter.”
Locksher looked at the pendant and nodded. “So . . . The fact that he lives means that the Priestess of War has taken him prisoner. She’ll torture him to discover everything she can. Soon enough, she’ll know our weaknesses and our plans.”
Fist swallowed, feeling horrible for Lyramoor, but also grateful that the elf hadn’t known everything. Maybe Valtrek’s demand for secrecy wasn’t quite so crazy as it had seemed.
“Then what are we waiting for? We’ll rescue him!” Maryanne declared. “If we leave right away, we might be able to reach the thing before it gets back to the Black Lake.”
“Let’s go,” said Charz, his jaw fixed in determination. “I’m ready to tussle with that thing. I’d like to see it try and swallow me.”
“That is a very risky plan,” Locksher cautioned, his face lined with worry. “You wish to rush into the heart of the enemy army for this rescue attempt?”
“They’re just fodder,” Charz harrumphed.
“Fighting the dead isn’t so easy when surrounded on all sides,” Locksher reminded them. “You should also consider that this is what she wants. There could be a trap just waiting for us to flounce into it. You could run into Cassandra herself. She might be tied to the Black Lake, but we don’t know how far that limitation extends. She could be anywhere between here and there.”
“What are you saying?” Fist said, dumbfounded. “We just sit? He is our friend. We can’t just leave him to be tortured in the hands of a vampire!”
“Ooh! Ooh!” Rufus agreed. “I take you!”
“No!” said Qenzic. The warrior was gripping the pendant tightly. “Locksher’s right. We can’t go after him.”
“Why not?” Maryanne said.
“Lyramoor’s not like the rest of us. He has prepared for this day ever since my father rescued him. If there’s a way to escape, he’ll find it.”
“You’re sayin’ we don’t even try?” Charz said.
“He made me promise that if he should ever be captured, I wouldn’t go after him,” Qenzic said. “He told me that if I was there, he might not be able to do the things necessary to escape. He meant it, too. But even if he can’t escape, she’ll never get a word out of him.”
“That’s just bluster!” Charz said. “The elf was always spoutin’ tough talk like that, but it doesn’t mean we have to listen.”
Qenzic shook his head. “You don’t know Lyramoor like I do.” He shivered and looked down at the pendant again. “You have no idea the lengths he has gone to prepare for this situation. Heaven help the Priestess of War if she thinks she can hold him.”
Chapter Sixteen
Justan looked around the imposing walls of the large room again. They were made up of a dark gray mist and the room was lit by a constant barrage of lightning flashes. At first glance, it seemed as if he was sitting in the middle of a cloud during a thunderstorm.
Only, that wasn’t quite true. The dry heat in the room suggested that the mist surrounding him was smoke rather than cloud. There was also an almost sulfuric smell to the air, like there was an odious fire burning somewhere far below them. It also helped that he knew that this place was Theodore’s mental creation. The imp’s magical ability with fire and air didn’t bring a thunderstorm to mind.
“Thanks again for agreeing to do this, Sir Edge,” Willum said. The young Academy graduate was sitting across the table from Justan, his cards clutched tightly in his left hand.
“Sure. I have to admit I was curious to see what Theodore’s world was like,” Justan replied. Besides, the journey to bonding wizard Stolz’s home had been a long and uneventful one and Jhonate had been in a mood the whole time. This seemed like a pleasant enough distraction.
Xedrion had decided that it was time to call Stolz back to Roo-tan’lan. The looming threat of the Troll Mother and this new race of trollkin meant that someone with an intimate knowledge of their foe was sorely needed. Jhonate had been in charge of putting the mission together and since her father wouldn’t approve of her taking Justan alone, she had also chosen Willum, Poz, and Qurl.
Everything had seemed fine until Vannya had been added to the group. Justan wasn’t sure how the mage had convinced Jhonate to let her come along, but one thing that was certainly evident was that it had been a mistake. Vannya and Jhonate had never gotten along.
Justan had hoped that the budding relationship between Vannya and Willum would help. After all, there was no reason for the two women to be rivals any longer. Unfortunately, Jhonate focused in on Vannya’s new romance, watching over the mage and warrior like a hawk. She had not been happy with Justan when he had suggested that she not try to hold them to her own cultural standards of propriety.
Justan looked down at the remaining cards in his hand. At least the card game was going well. He was confident he could make his bid. Hopefully, Willum’s cards were as strong. They were far ahead of their opponents, but unlike the game of Elements, Unity was a team game and this was the first time Justan had played with the warrior.
Justan threw a card into the center of the table. “I think this place is impressive, Theodore. You have put a lot of detail into it.”
“Ho! This is but a staging area,” Theodore replied, chewing his lip as he tossed out a card of his own. He was dressed in an odd parody of the Roo-Tan warrior style, with a hide breastplate that bulged out to make room for his ample belly. His sparse hair was pulled to the side and woven into a single braid interlaced with a sickly yellow ribbon. “There is so much more I can do when I put focus into it. Right, Willy?”
“It can get detailed, yeah,” Willum said with a sigh. “Wait until you’ve sat through one of his puppet plays.”
“Ho-Ho! Yes! You must! I make them riveting. Absolutely riveting!”
“I’ll think about that,” Justan said, noting the wide-eyed shake of Willum’s head. “The method of getting here is a little awkward, though.”
Theodore had explained that in order for the two humans to enter his world together, they must be in close physical proximity. Thus their bodies were currently lying inside Willum’s tent side-by-side, each of them with a hand on the handle of the axe. Jhonate and Vannya had found the arrangement quite amusing. Especially Vannya, who had wondered if this was the way two strong male warriors “held hands”.
Justan eyed the imp suspiciously. “Was that part exactly necessary, though? Or was it just another of your attempts at amusing yourself?”
“Ho! I never ‘attempt’ to amuse myself, Sir Edge,” Theodore replied, arching a thin eyebrow. “I either succeed and therefore enjoy myself immensely, or I die a ridiculously slow death caused by boredom. Ho-ho! If I had truly wanted to amuse myself, I would have suggested that the two of you had to be nude in order for the connection to work.”
Justan couldn’t help but chuckle at the ridiculous nature of the idea.
Willum just shook his head. “We would never have agreed to that.”
The imp inclined his head. “Yes, Willy. Which is why I didn’t ‘attempt’ it. Ho! In fact, I would be currently dying that slow death I mentioned if not for the delightful company of my partner, here.”
“Delightful company, am I?” asked Artemus dully, throwing his card onto the table. His card was too low to win the trick, but he didn’t seem to care. He just pushed the pile in front of Justan.
The old wizard hadn’t particularly wanted to join the game this night. In the beginning, Theodore hadn’t been too keen on the idea either, but Justan had insisted, making Artemus’ attendance one of the qualifications of the game.
Justan had hoped that this game would distract the wizard. Artemus had grown despondent ever since Fist had told them that Porthos, Sarine’s second husband was still alive. Justan had assured him that the old master was in no shape to be a rival for Sarine’s heart, but Artemus had responded that the status of being alive certainly gave the wizard a leg up in the race.
The imp grinned, exposing his yellowed teeth. “Oh yes. Ho! Master Artemus, you are a fantastic Unity player. Much better than the imbeciles my own mind conjures.” He jerked his thumb towards Willum. “Or Willy here.”
“I’m not going to disagree,” Willum said with a smile. “But Sir Edge and I are destroying you.”
“So you are,” said Artemus, glancing at the score sheet. “But that can happen when one hasn’t played a game for two hundred years.”
“Ho! Good point, frost wizard,” said the imp. “But we haven’t lost yet. There is still time to turn this game around.”
Justan kept an eye on his great grandfather. The old wizard seemed to be keeping control of himself. None of the Scralag’s aspects were taking over his image yet, but he worried that if Artemus grew too depressed he might just stop fighting the elemental.
He tried to think of a way to get Artemus more involved. “Theodore, I am starting to be suspicious. How can Willum and I be certain that you don’t know what’s on our cards?”
“Maybe because you’re winning?” The imp’s eyes narrowed, his lips pursed together. “Ho! I find the insinuation insulting. I never stoop to cheating! What point is there in playing a game when the rules are not adhered to?”
“I wasn’t referring to your scruples or lack thereof,” Justan replied. “I’m just talking about the logistics of this game. We are here in your world. The cards in our hands were created by your mind. How do you determine what order the cards are going to appear in? Are the faces of the cards determined when the deck appears or after they are dealt? No matter how it’s done, you must know what’s on them.”
“Ho-ho!” scoffed the imp. “True. I could know if I wished. But what fun would there be in that? The answer, Sir Edge, is that I choose not to know.”
Justan snorted. “Is that even possible, Artemus?”
“It can be done,” Artemus said. “I have known great wizards who spend so much time alone that they have developed a way to compartmentalize their thoughts, allowing them to play both sides of a chess game and remain intrigued.”
“I’ve done that before, too,” said the imp. “Ho! But I stopped because I kept being distracted by how good looking my opponent was!”
